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storiesforallfandoms · 1 year

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accidental drunk confessions ~ matthew lillard

word count: 2971

request?: yes!

@shinichirosanos

“Can you do a Matthew Lillard x female actress reader imagine where everyone kinda assumes they're dating and maybe they're at the Scream 1996 premiere and during interviews they constantly get questions about what their relationship is, but they deny it all the time and then later that night one of them finally confesses their feelings? 💛”

description: after being questioned about their relationship all the time, one of them lets it slip that they want more than friendship while drunk

pairing: matthew lillard x female!reader

warnings: swearing, alcohol usage

masterlist (one, two, three)

I sighed and splashed a handful of col water on my burning face, not caring about if it ruined my makeup. I knew the night of the premiere was going to be rough, but I really didn’t expect for it to be this rough just from the red carpet.

I was lucky to have gotten cast in my first big film while still very new into my acting career. It was a comedy-horror called Scream, directed by Nightmare on Elm Street director Wes Craven, so it was a pretty big deal. I had auditioned with very little expectations on getting the role since I was a new actress and all. So no one was more surprised than I was when Wes himself called me to tell me I got the role.

It was a dream come true and everyone in the cast was so kind that we became a big friend group very fast.

And then there was Matthew. Sweet, goofy Matthew who always made everyone laugh on set, and who managed to steal my heart from the very first moment I met him.

But dating your co-workers is a big no-no in any profession. Even if the movie ended with Stu seemingly being killed and my character being one of the five survivors, who knew where a potential sequel could lead us? Not to mention the fact that I wasn’t about to mess up my first big gig by risking an awkward work environment after dating - or being rejected by - a co-worker.

All those words to say I was too afraid to ask him out.

The night of the premiere had come before we knew it and I was beyond giddy with excitement...until I got to my first interview of the night and the third question was about Matthew.

“Some have said that you and your co-star, Matthew Lillard, have been very close behind the scenes. Anything going on there between you two?”

The question took me by surprise, but I managed to stumble through an answer confirming that we were just friends and move on to the next interview...

...who asked me the same thing.

As did the next one.

And the next one.

Until I had to make the decision to completely bypass the rest of the red carpet and escape into the venue. That’s how I found myself alone in the bathroom, trying to cool myself down.

A knock came at the locked door. “Occupied!”

“It’s me.”

I unlocked the door and opened it just a crack so I could peer out at Neve. When I saw it was just her, I let her in and quickly locked the door again.

“Are you okay?” she asked. “I saw you basically running off the red carpet.”

“Yeah, I’m fine. Just overwhelmed,” I said, which wasn’t a total lie.

“Does it have to do with the interviewers asking about you and Matthew?”

I looked at her in disbelief, which caused Neve to chuckle. “I went after you and was asked about it, too. Apparently your potential relationship is a big scoop.”

I groaned and rolled my eyes. “Why? I’m a nobody. This is my first big acting job.”

“On set romance would be huge for them I guess.” She reached for some paper towels and ran some water over them. “You have mascara running down your face.”

She wiped the black smudges from my cheeks and under my eyes. I mumbled a soft, “Thank you.”

“We gotta get to the premiere. It’s starting soon,” she reminded me

I sighed. “I can’t face Matthew. They definitely asked him the same questions. It’s gonna be awkward.”

“You only have to see him in the movie. Sit between me and Rose, and then hang out with us at the after party. You’ll be fine.”

I smiled and hugged Neve. “You’re such a good friend. “Thank you, Neve.”

It was hard not to glance at Matthew as we entered for the premiere. I kept my eyes trained on the movie screen the entire time, but I was still very aware of his presence. He had sat just behind us with Skeet and Jamie. It took everything in my power not to turn around and look at him or ask him what the interviewers had said to him.

I was glad when the time came around for the after party. I didn’t want to go at first, but now I definitely needed a couple drinks in hopes of forgetting this entire night.

The after party was at Wes’ mansion, which was big enough to hold basically everyone who worked on Scream. Food and drinks were provided and Wes was even offering to let anyone who was drinking stay the night. The party was already in full swing when I arrived. All of the cast were there already and the crew were slowly trickling in. When I walked into the house of course the first person I saw was Matthew.

He had a drink in his hand and was laughing at something one of the crew members had said. Hearing his laugh caused my heart to flip in my chest. I didn’t realize I was just stood in the doorway, staring like a creep, until someone entering basically shoved me out of the way. I stumbled forward, stopping myself from face planting onto the ground. When I managed to stabilize myself, I looked up to see Matthew was now looking at me. My heart started pounding as he turned to approach me.

“Hey,” he said. “What happened to you on the red carpet? I was hoping to see you when I got there.”

“I got a little overwhelmed during the interviews and stuff,” I responded.

Is he going to talk about the interviews? Is he going to bring up what people are apparently saying about us?

“That makes sense. The first red carpet can be hard, especially for a big movie like this.” He threw his arm over my shoulder and pulled my against him. “Just stick with me, kid. I’ll help you through it.”

I found myself speechless, so I just nodded. I let Matthew lead me towards the kitchen for a drink. I let Matthew lead me towards the kitchen for a drink. My original plan of avoiding him the whole night was effectively down the drain the moment he put a drink in my hand. However, my plan to get drunk to forget the night was still very much in play as I made sure my cup stayed full.

I was incredibly drunk when Neve and Rose finally found me lounging on one of Wes’ couches, my legs draped over Matthew’s lap while Skeet was sat opposite of us in a chair.

“There you are,” Neve said. “I thought you were hanging out with us tonight.”

“Matt found me first,” I slurred. I giggled and added, “Isn’t that ironic?”

Rose and Neve shared a look before Rose said, “Maybe we get you some water and get you home.”

“You guys don’t have to rush off,” Skeet said. “I mean, (Y/N) definitely needs some water, but we can all hang out.”

“I don’t want water,” I whined. “I like being drunk. No feelings when you’re drunk. No thoughts or worries or anything.”

“I’m fourth on you getting water,” Matthew said. “It’ll decrease the intensity of your hangover.”

I looked over at him and sheepishly smiled. I reached out and cupped his face with one hand. “You’re so sweet, looking out for me and shit. No wonder I like you so much.”

Even through my drunken haze I could feel a sense of panic go through the room from everyone besides Matthew. My rush on him was probably the worst kept secret of all time. I had told Rose and Neve about it early on since I viewed them as such close friends, but Skeet and Jamie figured it out on their own. Somehow, Matthew was the only one who was oblivious to my feelings for him.

“Hey (Y/N), maybe it is time to go,” Skeet said.

Matthew was chuckling at what I had said, either ignoring Skeet or not hearing him speak. “I like you too, (Y/N).”

“Yeah but you only like me. I like you. Like, romantically.”

I was pulled off of the couch the second the words were out of my mouth. I drunkenly giggled and waved goodbye to Matthew and Skeet as Neve and Rose quickly carried me towards the exit. My head was swimming from the alcohol so much that not even the fresh air helped to sober me up.

Neve helped me into the backseat of her car, laying me on my side in case I got sick. She and Rose got into the front, rolled down the windows so I had some fresh air blowing in on me, and started up the car.

“She’s gonna regret that in the morning,” was the last thing I remembered hearing before I passed out.

~~~~~~

And I certainly did regret everything the next morning when I woke up and felt like a million nails had been poured into my head and were shaken up. I tried to open my eyes but still the dull sunlight coming though the curtains caused the headache to be much worse.

I dragged myself out of bed eventually so I could get some water, only to find a half empty glass on my bedside table. I finished the contents of it and continued my pain filled journey to the kitchen, which I knew would also have Aspirin there to take.

When I stepped into my living room, I let out a yelp upon seeing someone asleep on my couch. My outburst caused them to wake with a start.

“What are you doing here?” I asked.

“I wanted to be here when you woke up in case you needed some help with the hangover,” Matthew responded as he groggily sat up.

“Okay, better question: how did you get here? I may not remember a lot about last night, but I do remember that Neve and Rose were the ones who brought me home.”

“When you guys left, I followed because I was worried for you,” he explained. “I caught up before Neve drove away and practically begged her to let me come with you guys.”

I cringed as cloudy memories including Matthew came rushing back. It should’ve been a good sign that I hadn’t weirded him out so much that he didn’t want to be around me, but I knew what came next here. We were going to have “the talk” where he would reject me and I would have to act like I was okay with that as not to ruin our friendship.

I went to the kitchen to get what I had come for before returning to the living room. I popped an Aspirin into my mouth and downed a mouthful of water, then sat down next to Matthew on the couch.

“Alright,” I sighed. “Let’s talk about the elephant in the room then.”

He looked at me in confusion for a moment before realization crossed his face. “Oh...so you do remember...that?”

“Admitting that I have a crush on you? Yeah, I unfortunately remember,” I said. “I did it in the heat of the moment while drunk. I never meant for you to find out about it. I’m sorry if it made you uncomfortable, or if it weirds you out. We can both just forget about it and move past the whole ordeal.”

“Is that what you want?” he asked.

I wanted to scream Of course not! I want you to like me back. I want you to kiss me, to hold me, to put your hands on me and call me yours! But I knew that was a bad idea. I had already embarrassed myself enough for one lifetime.

“It’s what’s best for us,” I said. “I don’t want to ruin this friendship.”

“Ruin it how?” he asked.

“By having things be awkward between us because I like you and I know you don’t like me back.”

Matthew looked at me for a moment, looking like he was trying to fight back a smile, before he said, “Can you let me talk before we make this decision?”

I looked at him, curiously, and nodded for him to proceed.

“(Y/N), I’ve had a big, fat crush on you since the moment you walked into the first table read for the movie. You were so timid and shy, but you were also extremely beautiful and when you were reading your lines, I could see you had this confidence in that was so strong for someone who claims to be such a newbie. I don’t know what it was, but all of those things combined just drew me to you. The more I got to know you, the more those feelings I had grew.”

It felt like his words had shut off my brain completely. I had no idea how to respond. I just looked at him, blankly, like a complete idiot. I could see him watching me, waiting for some sort of reaction.

“Really?” I finally asked, but then immediately cringed at my own stupid question.

He chuckled, though. He reached for one of my hands and gave it a small squeeze. “Really.”

“But you never said anything,” I said.

“I was afraid you wouldn’t feel the same way.”

I scoffed. “You afraid? You’re like...the opposite of afraid. You were always so confident and fearless both on set and off.”

“Yeah, but not when it came to admitting how I felt about you. No one knew because I was afraid of it getting back to you. I kept it to myself the entire time, which was the hardest thing I ever had to do because whenever I saw you I just wanted to admit everything.”

I let his words soak in for a moment before burying my face in my hands. I couldn’t help but start laughing at the situation, which earned me another confused look from Matthew.

“I got super duper drunk last night because I wanted to forget the interviewers who were asking me if we were in a relationship,” I admitted to him. “I started freaking out because I thought that you were going to feel awkward around me because of what they were saying, so I intended to get drunk, hang out with Neve and Rose, and then make a quick escape home before seeing you.”

“They were asking me about you, too. That’s why I got worried when you left the red carpet and it felt like you were avoiding me. I thought you were avoiding me.”

“I was, but I was doing it because I thought it was going to make things awkward between us!”

We both looked at each other and burst out into laughter realizing how twisted we had the entire situation. All of it could’ve been resolved if we had both just been courageous enough to actually talk about our feelings, but we were both absolutely chickens.

We both leaned back onto the couch as a silence took over. The next question was “where do we go from here?”, but I think we both knew the answer to that without even explicitly asking. I looked over at Matthew and finally gave myself a moment to take him in - while sober anyways. Everything about him was so perfect; perfect skin, perfect blue eyes, perfect messy brown hair, perfect lips that always turned up into a perfect smile.

Perfect lips that I really wanted to kiss.

So, I decided to go for it. No more chickening out, no more excuses. Now that everything was out on the table, I decided to make the first move.

I leaned forward. When Matthew turned to look at me, I quickly attached my lips to his before I could let myself get too scared to do so. It was awkward at first due to how roughly I managed to smash our lips together. But Matthew pulled away and cupped my face in his hands, then leaned forward to kiss me properly.

Just like everything else about him, the kiss was perfect.

I could’ve stayed like that all day. I definitely wanted to. I just wanted to lay on the couch with him and feel his lips on mine and his hands on my face. I’d even be so bold as to take him back to my bedroom if he wanted to come, and we’d never have to leave my bed again if we didn’t want to.

Matthew pulled away first, a big, goofy grin on his face. “That was nice.”

I giggled and buried my head in the crook of his neck. I had managed to forget the pain in my head and the nauseous churning in my stomach for a while, but now it was starting to come back to me and my giggled quickly turned to a groan.

“You poor thing,” Matthew said, putting an arm around me and rubbing my back, soothingly. “Let’s get you back to bed with some water and something very bland so that you can eat but don’t actually throw up.”

“I don’t even think I could eat anything bland,” I admitted. “But I appreciate that you’d want to help me.”

“Of course I want to help you. Can’t let my girl go through this hangover alone.”

Hearing him say the words “my girl” definitely helped me to forget the agony I was in, even if it was just for a quick second.

At least there was one good thing that came out of this whole drunken ordeal, I thought as Matthew helped me to a stand and led me back to my bed.

#matthew lillard #matthew lillard imagine #matthew lillard x reader #imagine #one shot #request #fanfiction #fanfic #fandom

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cregan-starks · 11 months

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Flames of Deceit

Summary: Aemond and Visenya reunite amidst the Dance of the Dragons.

Words: 13,005

Pairings: Aemond Targaryen x OC, Cregan Stark x OC, Alyn Velaryon x OC

Warnings: canon-typical incest (Aemond and Visenya are cousins, as well as uncle and niece), book and show spoilers, Westerosi geopolitics, mentions of imperialism and slavery, canon-typical violence, war, blood and gore, fire and burning, mass death, mention of amputation, mentions of torture and captivity, mentions and threats of execution and physical harm, mentions of poverty and starvation, parental neglect, food and eating, alcohol and drinking, sexism, victim blaming, slut-shaming, ableist language, explicit language, nudity, smut (vaginal sex in flashbacks), unresolved sexual tension, grief/mourning, trauma, angst, hurt/comfort, survivor guilt, mutual pining, emotional/psychological abuse, verbal abuse, mentions of pregnancy, childbirth, miscarriage, and death in childbirth, mentions of child/infant death, mentions of infidelity. If I missed any warnings, please let me know! Under no circumstances can you copy, plagiarize, steal my work, or post it somewhere else!

Notes: This totally didn’t take me almost 7 months to write. Cregan Stark is the protagonist of Fire & Blood. Rise, Cregan nation. My OC Visenya is Rhaenyra’s and Daemon’s daughter, and Jace’s older twin. Superfecundation, baby. Visenya and Jace are born in 111 AC, not 114 AC. The Battle in the Gullet still occurs in 130 AC, soon after the events of this one-shot. Reblogs and comments are encouraged and immensely appreciated. If this does well, I’ll post a reader version.

Credits: Huge thank you to my betas @maharani-radha-writes 💛 @aereth 💖 and @revolution-starter 🩶, and to @haystack-boy @lavendertales @buttercup--bee @agirllovespancakes and @oloreaa for their constant patience and support. It means a lot, and I’m immensely grateful. Apart from my OC Visenya, all characters belong to George R.R. Martin. Gif by @aemondtargaryensource (x)

Ao3 | Masterlist

EARLY 130 AC

HARRENHAL, THE RIVERLANDS

The sheer immensity of Harrenhal had provoked dizziness in Visenya. She had heard the story innumerable times. For four decades, King Harren Hoare had built greedily and obsessively, sacrificing thousands of slaves, and beggaring the riverlands and the Iron Islands. The indestructible construction had been no match for Balerion, whose fire had consumed the tyrant and his sons inside it, ending their line. Most Westerosi believed that the phantoms of the Hoares wandered the castle halls. The fortress is costly to maintain, and it devours its possessors. Qoherys, Harroway, Towers… All extinct. Whether cursed or not, Harrenhal remained a strategic location – the largest castle in the Seven Kingdoms.

The current castellan – and Larys Clubfoot’s great-uncle – Ser Simon Strong had recently surrendered Harrenhal to Daemon Targaryen. The presence of Caraxes might have contributed to his hasty decision. Following the victory at the Burning Mill and the subsequent submission of Stone Hedge – terminating Green strength in the riverlands – Queen Rhaenyra’s allies had commenced their gathering at Harrenhal, in accordance with the Prince Consort’s stratagem.

Visenya had departed Dragonstone on the same night that Daemon had summoned her, having been granted safe passage by the Velaryon ships patrolling the Gullet. At the outbreak of the war, the Sea Snake’s fleet had closed off Blackwater Bay, choking trade to and from the capital.

As soon as she had dismounted her dragon in the castle yard, she had sensed the eerie ambience that had haunted Harrenhal’s colossal curtain walls and fissured, melted towers. Formidable and dreadful. Harren’s monument and tomb. Blackwing had responded to Caraxes’ fervent shriek with her own, flapping her wings at him. Happy to be reunited.

Her father had offered her a warm welcome and a tight embrace, had even insisted that she sit on his war council, wherein she had befriended Alysanne Blackwood, whom she had grown quite fond of.

At last, Visenya had thought, on the morning that Daemon had sent for her. Though she loved him dearly, her father hadn’t invited her there because he had missed his daughter. Visenya had met with Daemon alone, in the Hall of the Hundred Hearths – she had counted thirty-five – grander than the throne room in King’s Landing, the discolored ceiling looming loftily above them. Her father had donned his chain mail over his crimson tunic.

Does he sleep in that? Or am I the threat?

‘Ser Crispin and the Kinslayer are marching on Harrenhal,’ Daemon had informed her, instead of “good morrow”, pressing a rolled parchment into her palm, ‘They mean to join forces with the Lannisters’, at Stoney Sept.’

Her heart had jolted at the mere mention of his title. Aemond… At the Usurper’s farce of a coronation that the Hightowers had compelled her to attend – dressed in green – Visenya had kissed him farewell, forsaking any glimmer of hope for a future with him. I have demonstrated where my loyalties lie. I have chosen my family.

Her lilac eyes had skimmed over the scrawled message on the sheepskin, the wax sigil foreign to her. The White Worm?

‘You are strangely poised,’ Visenya had observed, suspicious, studying her father’s amused expression.

‘I’ve been waiting for this,’ he had confirmed, smirking wickedly, curling his hand around the hilt of sheathed Dark Sister. Another one of his traps… and he’s pulling me into it. Daemon had gently cradled her cheek, purring, ‘I have a mission for you, sweetling.’

EARLY 130 AC

STONEY SEPT, THE RIVERLANDS

Her host had encamped half a day’s ride from the town, with sufficient provisions for a fortnight. The arduous advance and the muddy soil had wearied men and horses alike, so Visenya had relied on the Greens’ tardiness to provide the respite that they had needed.

Her dragon had brazenly exploited that ploy – napping during the day and hunting at night, increasing the risk of being discovered. Surpassed by Vhagar in age and size, Blackwing had never been ridden before a seven-year-old Visenya had claimed her. They shared a temper, a wildness, and a fierce devotion to each other. My twin in dragon flesh, Jace would jest.

‘You have become too spoiled,’ she had reproved, affectionately, tapping Blackwing’s dark scales, heated to the touch.

The beast had objected, idly, releasing a guttural noise, smoke rising from its nostrils.

For five days, her scouts had reported nothing of enemy activity. Her anxieties had continued to fester and to gnaw at her. What if I fail? What if I die? I would condemn my people in vain. And Aemond… What am I to do about him?

On the sixth day, they had burst into her tent, blurting that the Greens had arrived at Stoney Sept. The maester had quickly dispatched a raven to Prince Daemon, at Harrenhal.

‘We attack at dawn,’ Visenya had declared, resolute.

I’ll do my best, father.

The fray had been gruesome, stretching for hours upon hours. A thick mist had settled over the Blackwater Rush, impairing visibility. Visenya had been the surprise element, concealing herself to deceive her foes, and striking unexpectedly, in the midst of battle. She had flown on her daunting Blackwing, laying waste to men and reserves indiscriminately, amongst the sounds of steel clashing with steel, shields splintering, arrows whistling, and soldiers screaming as they fought, suffered wounds, and perished. Hundreds of Greens had been engulfed in her dragon’s flames.

Aemond had been slow to deter the princess. Afraid to face me? Visenya and Blackwing had used the fog to their advantage, climbing higher and higher into the sky – the Kinslayer chasing after them on hoary Vhagar.

‘Dracarys!’, she had ordered, and Blackwing had descended on Vhagar, unleashing a cloud of fire that had only incensed the latter.

The dragons had spun, locked in a vicious struggle of claws and fangs, wings thrashing, until Aemond had suddenly swiveled Vhagar, slamming her into Blackwing. Their deafening roars had pierced the air. The collision had knocked Visenya from her saddle – the searing flames licking at her arm – and had sent her plummeting towards the Blackwater below. Having crashed into the Rush, she had surfaced seconds later, her hefty armor and the river’s currents hindering her endeavors to stay afloat. Visenya had looked up, able to distinguish a faint form lunging at another – the beasts’ screeches reverberating far above.

Blackwing will not be coming to my rescue.

Her tribulations hadn’t stopped there. A glimpse at the golden dragon banner of the Pretender, and she had realised that the currents had pushed her in the wrong direction… too late. She had already been spotted by the scouts on the shore, who had alerted their captain. They had aimed their crossbows at her, waiting for the Blackwater to present her to them on a silver platter. I think not.

Visenya had bitten into the hand of the man who had dragged her out of the water, then she had tossed him into the Rush.

‘Cunt!’, the next attacker had bellowed, charging at her.

Slowed down by her injuries, her movements had been clumsy. Visenya had ducked under his first blow, stumbling to retain her balance. She had unsheathed her sword to parry his second blow, and had driven her blade through his breastplate. She had slashed a guard’s belly, his entrails spilling out. A soldier’s glove had caught her weapon, yanking it from her grasp. Disoriented by a swift welt to the side of her head, Visenya had been tackled to the ground – the impact rendering her breathless. Two fists had savagely pummeled her face, again and again and again – a massive weight crushing her. She had desperately fumbled for her scabbard, had withdrawn her dagger, and had slit her aggressor’s throat. Hot blood had spurted out, blinding her. She had been hoisted to her feet, her dirk wrenched away. Howling with rage and frustration, Visenya had scratched at the man’s eyes with her nails, had kneed another in the groin, and had torn off an archer’s ear with her teeth.

Alas, she had been one enfeebled person against all of the odds… and a dozen Greens. Her apprehension had been inevitable.

The capture of the commander had prompted the capitulation of her army. Visenya had been delivered to Ser Crispin in chains, covered in blood, dirt, and grass, braids disheveled, dragonscale armor soaked, body aching, left arm throbbing. I will not quail. Those traitors will receive no such satisfaction from me.

Attired in the white garments of the Kingsguard, Ser Crispin had been the living depiction of virtue and chivalry. Lickspittle. He had immediately discarded courtesy, referring to her as a “bitch in dragon’s clothing.” In retaliation, Visenya had dubbed him a “sheep in sheep’s clothing”, earning herself a cuff across the face from his steeled gauntlet. Blood had flooded her mouth, her cheek stinging sharply.

Ser Crispin had further commented that her men had been rather committed to her, alluding that she had fucked them to obtain their service. Every woman is an image of the Mother, to be spoken of with reverence.

‘It’s not as high of an honor as warming the Dowager Queen’s bed,’ Visenya had admitted, slyly, and had spat on his boots, ‘Hand of the Usurper. Does he wipe his ass with you?’

Crispin would have hit her again, had the Prince Regent not intervened. Wary, she had surveyed her surroundings for Vhagar – not in evidence. I might wind up her supper.

‘Enough, Cole,’ Aemond had interrupted, solemn, causing Visenya to tense, drawing their attention to where he had been standing, imposing, smeared with ashes and smoke, ‘She may be our prisoner, but she is still a princess, and shall be treated as befits her station.’

Any shred of scorn had abandoned her, ousted by fear and uncertainty. Her father had foreseen this. If you bend, you will break. Remember who you are. She had inhaled deeply, striving to even her respiration. I am the blood of the dragon, daughter of Queen Rhaenyra and Prince Daemon, and heir to the Iron Throne. I will not cringe for them.

Aemond had instructed the maids to prepare her a bath and a warm meal, and to fetch her dry clothes. Visenya had grinned, baring her bloody teeth at Ser Crispin, as the guards had led her away. She had been escorted along the smoldering ruins of houses, inns, and brothels, trampling charred corpses – mindful of her step. Carrion crows had circled above, the timid sun peeking from grey clouds. The foul, stifling stench had twisted her stomach, tears needling her eyes. Mine and Aemond’s handiwork. Only the sept, the square, and the trout-shaped fountain had remained intact. When dragons flew to war, everything burned, her mother had warned at the Black Council. What have the people of Stoney Sept done to merit this devastation? What power do they have over their lives? We play our grisly game of thrones, and the commonfolk bear the immeasurable cost.

The encampment had spread interminably – miles of pavilions, armories, forges, stables, latrines, wagons, and baggage trains – crawling with Greens cussing, mocking, and shouting at captives, pages distributing letters, squires polishing armor, honing weapons, feeding, watering, and combing horses, patrols walking to their posts, smiths hammering boisterously, cooks chopping vegetables, skinning rabbits, disemboweling deer, and roasting boars, giggling washerwomen hurrying by, and maesters ministering to the wounded. The turmoil had imbued Visenya’s senses. Mesmerised, she had watched a wailing, writhing man have his leg amputated, until one of her assigned guardians had shoved her forward.

She had assumed that Blackwing had flown away… but, having escaped the battle unscathed, and always loyal to a fault, her dragon had landed in the enemy’s camp, razing barracks and roaring ferociously, seeking its rider. After it had mauled the Greens who had attempted to approach it and shackle it, Aemond had begrudgingly permitted Visenya to comfort her feral companion. Blackwing had nuzzled its snout against her, coiling its tail around her, protectively, while Visenya had murmured “lykirī”, caressing its scales – her taut restraints impeding the action. Her chest had constricted agonisingly when the traitors had forcibly separated them. I will return for you, I promise.

She had been ushered into a vacated chamber, where the maids had obediently unchained her wrists, had removed her armor, had unbraided her hair, and had helped her undress for her bath, evading her glare and her nakedness – scarcely addressing her. What grim tales have they been told about me? Under the ewerers’ supervision, Visenya had washed herself – her uninjured arm vigorously scrubbing her skin with a bar of soap – and had dried off on her own, using cloths and rags. They have taken away my gear. Her indignation dwindling, she had slipped on the plain shirt, brown breeches, pelts, and a pair of flat shoes that they had brought her – tucking her salvaged brooch in her pocket. Is this meant to humble me?

She had sluggishly eaten her bland yet nourishing food, on a bench, by a candle, goggled at by blushing serving lads.

Aemond had summoned her to his tent, along with the maesters, who had cleansed her burns, had applied a poultice that had reeked of lavender and vinegar, had bandaged her arm, and had rubbed balms on her cuts, bruises, and split lip. Visenya had endured their ministrations in utter silence, grinding her teeth and clenching her fists. She and Aemond hadn’t exchanged a single word.

The pavilion had been modest for the Prince Regent, consisting of a firepit, an oaken war table – stripped of its tomes, maps, scrolls, ink, and wax – chairs, rugs, and a featherbed, with books scattered atop it. The colors red and black dominated the tent of a proud and eminent Green, who carried the golden banner of the Pretender. Aemond cannot deny his Targaryen heritage. Had Otto Hightower dyed his locks silver-white and ridden a dragon, he could have sat his ass on the Iron Throne and ruled in his own name. Instead, he urged the King to make my mother his heir, coerced his daughter to seduce him, and installed his grandson on the throne. Puppets upon puppets, plots within plots.

With the maesters dismissed, Visenya finally had the opportunity to regard Aemond. He hadn’t changed much since she had last seen him, at his brother’s false coronation. In the fire’s light, he had been a sight to behold; the flames illuminating his attractive, distinctive features, his mouth seemingly lodged in a permanent smirk, his eyepatch obscuring his missing eye, his tresses cascading down his back. Aemond had cleaned himself up, shedding his armor – now resting on a rack – for his usual black leather tunic, fastened with a belt that had his sheathed dagger attached to it, and a lengthy coat sewn with fur around the neck. He cast a tall shadow in the pavilion, his posture impeccable. Half dragon, half feline.

‘There’s a lack of dresses,’ informs Aemond, obdurately calm, retrieving a flagon of wine and two cups from the servant at the tent’s entrance, ‘And we had to find clothes that would suit you.’

‘I gather that there’s some poor stable boy currently running around naked,’ quips Visenya, tugging the pelts around herself.

Aemond huffs through his nose, amused, and sets one of the goblets on the table, proceeding to fill it with Arbor Red for her. The war evidently hasn’t affected the Usurper’s notorious love of drinking. Lord Redwyne smelled profit, and pledged his support to the Greens, to ensure that their wine supply never dries. An onerous task. The Pretender has ample ambition in that respect.

‘Don’t fret,’ assures Aemond, upon heeding Visenya’s skeptical, arched eyebrow, ‘It’s not poisoned.’

‘Surely someone spat in it,’ she guesses, convivial, swirling the liquid in her cup.

Aemond smiles, drinking his wine. Visenya tentatively lifts her goblet to her lips, and sips. Delectable flavors invade her mouth, soothing her nerves – albeit a little. She mulls over her next words… half carefully.

‘I reckoned that you and Ser Crispin would share a pavilion,’ she confides, lewdly, crossing one leg over the other, ‘Though your prides would not fit together.’

Aemond’s gaze darkens, his mouth subtly pressing into a thin line. His disposition could make Mushroom miserable... and it has.

‘You could lose your tongue for such insolence,’ he cautions, sternly.

‘What’s new?’, suspires an indifferent Visenya, ‘I can write this down as well.’ She pauses to take a swig, then demands, bluntly, ‘Where is Blackwing? And my men?’

‘The dragonkeepers are tending her,’ explains Aemond, irritation in his tone, leaving his empty cup on the table, ‘Your men are being questioned.’

Good fortune. They know nothing. The laughter and singing outside contradict Aemond’s claim. Drunk on victory. A weakness that she could later exploit. If I could reach Blackwing… lest they harm her.

‘Blackwing was your companion prior to Vhagar,’ she mentions, heatedly, flexing and unflexing her hand, ‘If you touch her–’

‘You are in no position to launch threats, Visenya,’ chastises Aemond, coldly, prodding at the logs with a poker, the wood crackling in the fire, ‘Your treatment depends on my good will. As does your fate. You have my word that Blackwing will not be harmed.’

‘The word of a kinslayer,’ spits Visenya, venomously, eyes darting to him, ‘If you are under the impression that minor acts of benevolence shall convince me to talk, you are gravely mistaken. You overestimate my family’s trust in me.’

‘They trusted you enough to put you in command of an army four thousand strong,’ reminds an earnest Aemond, ‘And you expect me to believe that you have no knowledge of your twin’s whereabouts?’

I wouldn’t trade Jace for the Iron Throne. ‘We shared a womb, not a brain,’ she corrects, tracing the rim of her goblet with her digits, contemplating refilling it. I need my wits about me. ‘You are wasting your time, nuncle. Mine, too. Fetch your torturers, and be done with all this bother.’

‘I will do no such thing,’ he rebuffs, inclining his head.

‘You will torture me yourself?’, asks Visenya, feigning innocence, brushing her loose silver-white hair over her shoulders.

‘You are being difficult, Visenya,’ he accuses, exasperated.

‘What do you intend to do with me?’, she interjects, involuntarily fiddling with her absent rings, ‘Executing me would be unwise. I presume that you will have my dragon killed, and me delivered to King’s Landing, where your usurper of a brother awaits, warming my mother’s rightful seat… or is he still broken and bedridden, lost in poppy dreams?’

‘Mind your tongue, Visenya,’ warns Aemond, louring at her, melting some of her resolve.

‘The Clubfoot will probably throw me in a cell and dispatch his floggers to visit me,’ she concludes, scratching her thigh. Stable boy must have had fleas.

‘I’m not sending you to King’s Landing,’ announces Aemond, with apparent mirth towards her gesture.

‘You will ransom me to my father?’, taunts Visenya, smirking wickedly, ‘He’s the poorest man in the Seven Kingdoms.’ Aemond’s demeanor refutes her insinuation. She continues, all semblance of jest vanishing, ‘You cannot justify keeping me here. Once the Pretender learns about my capture, he will order you to send me to King’s Landing.’

‘Aegon does not concern me,’ he grumbles, clasping his hands behind his back.

‘Pār ivestragī nyke jikagon,’ she advises, coyly. Aemond hums, musing, a glimmer in his eye that doesn’t indicate outright negation. ‘We are at war, and you allow your feelings to cloud your judgment?’ (Then let me go.)

‘Iksi daor rȳ vīlībāzma,’ argues a mild Aemond. (We are not at war.)

So, you did not slaughter Luke? That’s a consolation. ‘Iksis bona skoro syt emā daor ossēntan nyke?’, inquires Visenya, masking her anger. (Is that why you have not killed me?)

‘Killing you would be as imprudent as freeing you,’ he reasons, purposely oblivious, ‘You are worth more alive than you are dead. You lost a fair battle, you surrendered, and now you are my prisoner.’

‘I’ve heard stories about how you and Ser Crispin treat your prisoners,’ she disputes, mordant, ‘And I never yielded. You ride the largest dragon in the world. That’s hardly a fair match.’

Cole and the Usurper’s forces had sacked the port town of Duskendale, putting the ships at the harbor to the torch, hundreds of men, women, and children to the sword, and beheading Lord Gunthor Darklyn for supporting her mother’s cause. Hundreds more had been massacred at Rook’s Rest, where Lord Staunton, too, had been relieved of his head. Besieged by the Greens, he had barricaded himself inside his castle walls, and had requested assistance from the Blacks. With Prince Daemon at Harrenhal, and Queen Rhaenyra griefsick in the aftermath of her son’s murder, command of the Black Council had passed to the Velaryons. Rhaenyra had forbidden her children from answering their ally’s plea, so Princess Rhaenys had flown to Rook’s Rest instead. She and Meleys had fallen in battle against the Pretender, the Kinslayer, and their dragons. Sunfyre had been rendered flightless, the Usurper had suffered severe burns, and Aemond had assumed the title of Prince Regent – to rule in lieu of his older brother.

Visenya’s side hadn’t fared any greater. A wroth Sea Snake had blamed Rhaenyra for his wife’s demise. Jace had named him Hand of the Queen, to appease him – a measure that Visenya had commended. Better than Ser Crispin.

‘You ambushed us,’ reiterates Aemond, incredulous, ‘We would have presented you with terms, to avoid bloodshed.’

Oh, please. You don’t believe that. ‘Fuck your terms,’ curses Visenya, waving dismissively, ‘I suppose that being twice a kinslayer would have marred the carcass of your reputation.’

‘I spared your life,’ he chides, vaguely baleful.

‘A clemency that you did not extend to my brother,’ she sneers, bilious, her nails digging into the table’s surface.

‘Half-brother,’ deadpans Aemond, promptly.

‘If you had to slay your own kin, personally, I would have picked your dear brother, the Pretender,’ proffers Visenya, honeyed.

‘Perhaps you should have killed him,’ he retorts, untroubled, ‘You had your chance.’

Her family had gone to King’s Landing for the Driftmark petition, where her father had created a ghastly spectacle – publicly beheading Vaemond Velaryon for defaming her mother and her brothers. The Targaryen method of solving quarrels. Viserys himself had sat the throne, and had favored Luke as the heir to Driftmark – adhering to the Sea Snake’s wishes.

Due to his declining health, the King had been the first to retire during the subsequent supper that they had all attended. Visenya hadn’t been surprised by his condition; she had frequented the capital, unlike her parents and her siblings. The gathering had soon turned disastrous. Jace had invited Helaena to dance with him – offending Aegon and Aemond. She is so sweet. Alicent had been evil to marry her off to that cunting demon. None of them deserve her. Visenya herself had danced with Daeron, grinning the entire time. We had once been engaged... I could have loved him. He would have been a dutiful Prince Consort and a doting father to our children. Aemond had toasted to her Velaryon brothers, referring to them as “strong.” Fighting had erupted betwixt her siblings and her uncles, and her father had intervened to break them apart.

That evening, her family had sailed for Dragonstone, but Aemond had insisted that she stay in King’s Landing with him. Against her better judgment, Visenya had accepted. She ponders whether it had been a ploy of the Greens to take her hostage, and Aemond had simply played his part. Her grandsire had tragically expired overnight – poisoned by the Hightowers, according to her father. Visenya isn’t so certain. He hadn’t required meddling. He had been rotting for decades.

On the morrow, the Greens had locked her in her chambers. Visenya had refused to swear obeisance to Aegon – had even spat in his face – and to bow at his false coronation. Blackwing and the Princess Rhaenys had come to her rescue – emerging from underneath the Dragonpit on Meleys. Visenya had mounted her dragon, and had addressed the crowd, her voice clear and fierce, laced with fury.

“People of King’s Landing! The Hand and the Dowager Queen deceive you. King Viserys named my mother the Princess Rhaenyra heir to the throne. For twenty-four years, the succession remained indisputable and unchanged. Rhaenyra is the rightful and lawful Queen of the Seven Kingdoms. By crowning Aegon, the Hightowers have committed the highest of treasons and have usurped the Iron Throne, violating the King’s will. Aegon shall show you neither kindness nor wisdom. Remember today. Remember that you lived by the mercy of Rhaenys the Queen Who Should Have Been and myself. If the Hightowers do not cease in their treachery and do not bend the knee, I vow to return with fire and blood!”

Blackwing had roared so intensely that the Conqueror’s crown had been hurled from the Pretender’s head.

Aemond has the right of it. We could have bathed Aegon in flame, quelled their rebellion then and there.

On Dragonstone, the news of Viserys’ death and the Hightowers’ betrayal had driven her mother into an early labor. Her father had descended into madness, determined to levy war. Their losses had continuously piled… and the Seven Kingdoms would bear the cost.

‘I am no kinslayer,’ snarls Visenya, slighted by the idea, tearing her gaze away from Aemond.

‘I made you a generous offer that would have foiled the war,’ he broaches, the grievous memory still raw for him.

Oh, how could I have displayed such ingratitude? She wouldn’t describe his proposal to marry him and rule together as “generous.” It had been an odious humiliation. Aegon – who had not wanted the throne, declaring himself “unsuited” – would have embarked upon a ship and departed Westeros permanently. The Iron Throne is not his to relinquish. Visenya knows that Aemond has no love for his father, but asking her to usurp her mother’s throne? An audacious affront. She had vehemently spurned him, and they had traded sour words – their prides injured.

‘Our families would have started a war to kill us for it,’ drones Visenya, flatly, ‘And what of my parents? They would have never abided by your… solution.’

‘They have no consideration for your happiness and welfare, yet you still toil in their service,’ observes Aemond, provocatively.

‘And you have?!’, she opposes, her fist slamming on the table, ‘You conspired to usurp the throne and slaughtered my brother, the Princess Rhaenys, and their dragons. You are in no position to launch accusations.’

‘Even now, you feel compelled to defend them,’ he comments, dejected.

‘Lucerys was my blood!’, snaps Visenya, wrathful, standing from her seat and storming up towards him – stopping a couple of feet in front of him.

‘As am I!’, booms Aemond, towering over her, ‘And you have never defended me half as much as you did him! He took my eye when I was but ten, and to even that the imp felt entitled, while you gladly dismissed it as an accident and moved on!’

Outside, Blackwing and Vhagar grow agitated, shrieking and flitting their wings, stirring the wind. It seemed to Visenya that Aemond had often been harsher on her than he had been on Lucerys. He loves me… or he used to.

‘It was an accident,’ she maintains, tamer, ‘We were children. Our parents mishandled everything. I’ve told you numerous times that I profoundly regret what happened to you. It’s the truth. I cannot undo Luke’s actions.’

It’s been ten years since then, and forgetting the incident has been impossible. Aemond wears the consequences of it on his face, in his daily life. Our unease at the sight of his gash is a small price to pay.

He had delivered several blows – and had broken Luke’s nose – afore he had been overwhelmed by all five of her siblings, and Lucerys had slashed one of his eyes. Visenya’s absence from the fight had spared her from the interrogation, wherein Rhaenyra had suggested that Aemond be “sharply questioned”, Alicent Hightower had demanded Luke’s eye to compensate for Aemond’s, and Viserys had been eager to abandon his conciliatory obligation. The discord had exposed the personal feud between Rhaenyra and Alicent – their rhetoric diverting from “vile insults were levied against my sons” and “my son has lost an eye” to “duty and sacrifice are trampled under your pretty foot” and “you have been hiding beneath the cloak of your own righteousness.” The Queen had gone so far as to attack the Princess – slitting her arm with the King’s dagger.

Visenya hadn’t spoken at all – displeasing Aemond and her siblings. To her, matters hadn’t been so absolute. Although Aemond had claimed Vhagar too soon – disrespecting Laena Velaryon’s memory – his assault and maiming had been unwarranted. I love Rhaena dearly, but Vhagar was not stolen. The dragon never belonged to her. Aemond and Vhagar chose each other. Visenya had later communicated her opinions to him, and she had reassured her sister that she would have a dragon.

The next morning, the Targaryens and the Hightowers had exchanged false courtesies and falser apologies. Her family’s exile to Dragonstone hadn’t prevented Visenya from writing letters to Aemond, Helaena, and Daeron, or from flying on Blackwing to visit them in King’s Landing.

Alas, the bloody seeds of strife had been sown.

‘No, you cannot,’ concurs Aemond, glancing at her lips, ‘No one can. That is why I sought justice for myself.’

‘Justice?’, echoes Visenya, disdainful, her glare piercing, ‘Had you had your other eye, you would still be as blind as you are now.’

Aemond growls, lashing out and grabbing her roughly, their lower bodies pressing together. Visenya glowers at him defiantly, placing her hands on his breast, to preserve some distance betwixt their upper bodies. The effort shoots a jolt of pain along her arm.

If he meant to scare her, he failed. Aemond would not harm me.

‘Hold your tongue, Visenya,’ he exhorts, through gritted teeth.

‘Or what?’, she challenges, her face inching closer to his, ‘You will have it removed? You will butcher me as you did my brother?’

‘You are brazen, to speak of your half-brother, of my wrongdoings and my crimes,’ berates Aemond, his jaw clenching, ‘What of your family? What of my nephew Jaehaerys?... Iā tresy syt iā tresy. Nyke gīmigon īles aōha kepa.’ (A son for a son. I know it was your father.)

Aware of what Aemond alluded to, Visenya hesitates, her response withering on her tongue.

After the tragedy at Storm’s End, a raven from her father had arrived at Dragonstone. An eye for an eye, a son for a son. Lucerys shall be avenged. She had deduced that Daemon had hired the assassins who had executed Prince Jaehaerys – the Usurper’s six-year-old heir – with Alicent, Helaena, and the latter’s other children as witnesses. Visenya had confronted him about his heinous deed at Harrenhal. Undaunted, her father had firmly admonished that the “pious one-eyed flea of a traitor who slobbers over you” had slain her brother.

In retaliation for Jaehaerys, the Pretender had sent Ser Arryk Cargyll to Dragonstone, to assassinate Jace and Joffrey. The knight had entered the castle in his Kingsguard attire, disguised as his twin Ser Erryk – Queen Rhaenyra’s loyalist – whom he had encountered on his way to the royal apartments. By the conclusion of their duel, the two had mortally wounded one another.

I owe the Hightowers nothing, least of all my sympathy. Children should not be the target of our ire. How do we differ from the Greens if we perpetrate and perpetuate the same crimes that they do?

‘Nyke ēdan daorun naejot gaomagon rūsīr bona,’ clarifies Visenya, sincerely, albeit faintly. (I had nothing to do with that.)

‘No, you are merely the spectator,’ scoffs Aemond, haughty, ‘Proudly passing judgment while others bloody their hands. You are passive. Passive in your beliefs, your guilt, your love.’

Visenya blinks against the tears that prick her eyes, her breath hitched. His cruel and bitter words cut deeply, rooted in years of grievances, enmities, neglect, and abuse. Aemond had once been a sweet, innocent boy – her closest friend, her betrothed. He’s the product of his conditions, his upbringing, and his parents’ influence… as am I. Both confined in a prison of our parents’ sins. Perhaps we inevitably inherit the burdens of our forebears.

Though Visenya may not be the sole reason for his resentment, she is present. Aemond hadn’t blamed her for her family’s actions. He condemned her for not loving him enough. That is unfair. I’m not culpable of that.

A consuming poison has been dribbling inside of her, on the verge of gushing. Visenya has strayed too near to the edge – now wavering, uncertain whether she wishes to tread the line and unravel the truth. That is not why I am here...

... but her decision has already been established.

The truth is important to me.

Summoning her courage, Visenya reaches behind Aemond’s head to peel off his eyepatch, lifting the veil between them. I need to see him, so that he cannot deceive me. She tosses the item aside, neither shrinking nor averting her gaze. She caresses his face, drinking him in – his scar, the sapphire in his eye socket, the flesh that had healed crookedly. Aemond tenses, watching her intently, his respiration ragged. His grip on her slackens.

‘Gōntan ao ossēnagon zirȳla kesrio syt hen issa?’, murmurs Visenya, circling his wrists, impeding his retreat. (Did you kill him because of me?)

At the Black Council, Jace and Luke had offered to act as their mother’s messengers, to acquire support for her claim. The twins had been tasked with the difficult mission – negotiating with the Eyrie, the Three Sisters, White Harbor, and Winterfell. Lady Jeyne Arryn would declare for Rhaenyra if dragonriders defended the Vale. Jace and Visenya had met with Lords Borrell and Sunderland at Sisterton, and at White Harbor, they had arranged for Joffrey to marry Lord Desmond Manderly’s youngest daughter.

The news of Luke’s death had accosted them in the Vale. Visenya had collapsed in Jace’s arms, wailing as her twin had embraced her tightly. She had agonised over her brother’s demise every night, plagued by what she could have done to save him, weeping into a tumultuous sleep. Visenya had never listened to the rumors and the gossip. Lucerys had been her family, her brother, her blood. I fed him, bathed him, read to him, sparred with him, played with him… yet I could not protect him from Aemond.

She possesses little knowledge of what had occurred betwixt Luke and Aemond at Storm’s End. The weather had been atrocious, her brother’s dragon too small to withstand it. In the following days, bits of Arrax’s carcass had washed up on the shore of Shipbreaker’s Bay. Luke had never been recovered. He may have died a dragonrider’s death, but he had died alone and afraid. Had his demise been slow and painful, or swift and painless? Her brother had sworn on the Seven-Pointed Star that he would not fight – merely deliver the Queen’s message. Aemond had taken no such oath. Had Visenya known, she would have held on to Luke and besought him not to go.

If I had flown to Storm’s End in his stead, Aemond could have slain me, and my brother would still be alive.

‘Daor,’ whispers Aemond, at last. (No.)

Visenya stifles a sob, tears escaping her eyes, dampening his thumbs. She foolishly believed that her grief would wane. His confession barely scrapes the surface. Visenya feels no relief, no closure. Has she been on an erroneous campaign to absolve herself of any responsibility, to alleviate her own conscience, and to forgive Aemond – chasing these ends to the detriment of Luke’s memory? If I wanted to bring justice to my brother, I would have slit his killer’s throat and let him bleed out on the ground.

When Aemond succumbs and pulls her into him, Visenya doesn’t resist. The buckles of his tunic are cold and rough against her cheek, contrasting the warmth that he radiates. She releases the exhale that she has been withholding. Her greatest flaw rears its hideous head – a flaw that has sown division amongst her family and has rendered her an outcast. Visenya had suffered for her refusal to forsake her friendship with Aemond, enduring disapproving scowls from her parents, mean jests and malicious accusations from her siblings, and a lack of compassion – all serving to remind her of her tenuous position.

Her proximity to Aemond had even prompted her mother to spurn her as her heir – arguing that he would undermine her as Queen. I cannot have both Aemond and the Iron Throne. I am the eldest child. By all rights, the throne should pass to me.

Shoving those thoughts away, Visenya clutches his sides, sobs wracking her body. Aemond timidly buries his mouth in her locks, breathing in her scent.

‘Daor,’ he repeats, definitively, cradling the back of her head. (No.)

The remainder of her defenses crumble. Visenya loathes that she errs, that she seeks and welcomes comfort from the man who is the source of her sorrow. With the realm plunged into war after Lucerys’ death, there has been no time to mourn – not for her grandsire Viserys, nor her sister Aemma, nor her brother Luke.

An unavoidable war. We are Valyrian, and prone to violence. A testament to power corruption. Prior to the blood magic, the dragons, and the conquests, Valyrians had been a peaceful community of shepherds. They had become increasingly tyrannical and ambitious as their power had soared. The peak of our Freehold… and its ruin. Forewarned about the Doom by Daenys Targaryen’s prophetic dream, her forebears had fled to Dragonstone – a venture that the other, unsuspecting dragonlords had considered cowardice and had ridiculed. We had the last laugh.

Targaryens have always been stubborn, passionate, fierce. Visenya is no exception. Despite their families’ hopes and despite his crimes, her love for Aemond hasn’t dwindled. Their bond is too strong, their souls and fates entwined. I am the blood of the dragon. Nobody dictates whom I love.

And love is seldom simple.

Aemond brushes his lips over her temple, causing her skin to tingle. Visenya lifts her eyes to meet his, and recognises the same ache and longing that lay dormant inside her. Affection blooms in her chest. She could stop this from flourishing, spare them both the misery. As children, they had found solace in each other’s company whenever their families had been the reason for their anguish, so they had promised to never hurt one another.

A part of Visenya still yearns to love Aemond freely. Must her logic always be at odds with her emotions? The only man that I have ever desired, and I have been deprived of him my entire life. I have never been in control. The forbidden aspect merely furthers the appeal of the dalliance. She wants to surrender to the temptation, repercussions be damned.

Visenya traces his mouth with her fingertips, reverently, and strokes his face – recommitting it to memory. Aemond leans into her touch, reveling in the gesture, his respiration shallow. The tips of their noses graze against each other. He wipes her tears before his digits fall on the sides of her neck, feeling her quickening pulse under the pads of his fingers. Aemond’s eye gleams with lust, igniting the same blaze within her. She peers at him from underneath her lashes, drowning in the depths of his blue eye. A shiver runs down her spine. Her lips tremble in suspense, the proximity making her dizzy.

Aemond dips his head to capture her mouth in a tentative kiss. Visenya surges upwards to reciprocate, inhaling sharply through her nose, eyes slipping shut. Their lips mold together, their flame rekindled. His large, calloused hands grip her jaw, to guide her. She splays her hands over his chest, fisting the lapels of his coat, desperate to draw him closer. Visenya parts her lips, granting him entrance, tasting the lingering flavor of the wine that they had shared earlier. A familiar ardor seeps into her belly, immersing her body. Her fire has burned quietly for too long. Now, it has stirred again, emboldened to emerge.

Aemond sinks his teeth into her bottom lip, splitting it and sucking the blood, famished. Visenya groans, her breath blowing the loose strands of hair that cover his forehead. Her knees weaken, and she grasps his shoulders for support, grateful that he wraps his arm around her middle. Her pelts land on the floor. Aemond steps forward, backing her into the table, and hoists her on it impetuously.

Aemond kindly adjusts his belt, to remove the dagger betwixt them. The irony isn’t lost on Visenya. She spreads her legs, inviting, allowing him to settle between them. He sprawls over her, caging her in, his heavy weight almost crushing her against the table’s rigid, uncomfortable surface. His silky hair cascades around her head, framing his face, conferring a strange sense of privacy. Visenya peppers delicate pecks over his chin, continuing along his jaw, her digits prodding at his smooth neck.

She fervidly awaits a kiss that never comes. Aemond hums affably, his arrogant smile shooting to her core. Their breaths mingle, his hands traveling up and down her sides with modest curiosity. Visenya huffs in exasperation, and shifts, ticklish, the heels of her feet digging into his ass. Her thumb catches his lower lip, pressing into it. Aemond holds her gaze, parting his lips enough to engulf her thumb. He swirls his tongue over it afore sucking on it gently. She watches him, captivated, her mouth slightly agape.

The knot in her belly snaps, her patience having thinned, ousted by resolve. She pushes him off, so she can sit up, impelling him to stand. Aemond obliges without objection. Visenya hooks her fingers in his belt, to bring him nearer, and deftly unbuttons his tunic, revealing his bare chest – inch by inch. She drinks in the sight, caressing his glistening skin. The intolerable heat induces sweat to drip betwixt her breasts and to trickle down her spine.

She leans in, only for Aemond to jerk his head away and deny her another kiss – the tip of her nose bumping against his cheek. He smirks, conceited, despite his ruddy complexion. Visenya gnashes her teeth, intent on retribution. Straightening her body, and looping her uninjured arm around Aemond, she licks his earlobe and bites it softly, eliciting a growl from him. He squeezes her hips in silent warning, and sneaks a hand under her shirt, to fondle her breast and pinch her nipple until it stiffens. Visenya moans, hushed, her head lolling back into her shoulders.

Aemond rests his free hand on the base of her throat, his digits winding around it, lips latching onto her exposed neck. Visenya suppresses her whine, the air deserting her lungs. He incessantly strokes her bosom, his teeth abusing the sensitive skin of her neck. She drops her arms – mindful of her wounds – one hand surrounding his wrist, her other fumbling, blindly cupping his hardened member through his breeches. A salacious grunt rolls out of Aemond’s mouth, filling the tent.

His fingers release her throat to tangle in her tresses, and yank, his hips grinding against hers, creating friction. He withdraws his lips from her, and tugs her hand away, his other hand raking down her abdomen. Her chuckle turns into a gasp as Aemond languidly rubs the wet area between her legs, his breath fanning her face. Visenya relishes in the waves of pleasure enveloping her body, her spine arching, though her soaking cunt clenches around nothing. She heaves her thighs higher, hugging his waist – lest he dare pull away from her.

A metal item pokes at her thigh.

My brooch.

Visenya peels her eyes away from him, scrambling to salvage her composure. Aemond ceases his ministrations. He raises her chin with his thumb and forefinger, coaxing her to look at him. Her heart stutters, her vision bleary beneath his suffocating leer. The clouds in his eye have cleared… or he conceals them well. Their lips crash in a frantic kiss – her veins aflame, scalding. He swallows her wanton moan, kneading the flesh of her ass. Aemond cannot fool me. A constant tempest festers within him, ravenous for blood and revenge. Visenya would never be able to tame it. Nothing would.

Numbing remorse smothers her fire. She had forgotten herself and her loyalties. She breaks the kiss, tasting ashes on her tongue. His mouth chases hers, his hand curling around the nape of her neck, to reunite their lips. Aemond bends her back, cradling her against him – the pressure on her shoulder tearing a whimper from her. He lays a tender, apologetic kiss there. Her digits slide into his locks, thwarting him. Visenya stares at the shadows dancing across the ceiling of the pavilion – Aemond’s head pillowed on her breasts.

What am I doing? Where am I going? With him? Distant limbs envelop her, lips ghosting over her skin. He licks a stripe up the column of her throat and nips at it, nuzzling his nose against her neck. I would never betray my family. I cannot have both Aemond and the Iron Throne. The dream is over. Bury it, and crawl out of this bottomless pit of vipers.

He has been stretching seconds into minutes, delaying the inevitable, but he cannot stop it. The die has been cast.

‘Aemond, wait,’ pants Visenya, her own voice foreign to her, her nails clawing at his back, ‘We cannot. I am–’

‘Betrothed?’, deadpans Aemond, cocking his head to peek at her, crimson lips swollen, hair and clothes disheveled, ‘I’m aware. Your half-brother told me, at Storm’s End.’

Her heart leaps into her throat, yet Visenya falters, preferring to disregard his comment and its implications. If Aemond and Lucerys had exchanged insults – and her brother had mentioned her betrothment – it might have incited the former to attack the latter. A door best left shut.

‘Lord Stark is a good man–’

‘Have you sunk so low?’, criticises Aemond, reproach etched on his features, ‘You are a Targaryen princess, the blood of Old Valyria. Dragons do not mate with other beasts, and we do not consort with lesser men.’

Visenya blinks in incredulity, scanning his face for any indication of pretense. He has been collecting dangerous beliefs. Undoubtedly the result of Ser Crispin’s and Alicent Hightower’s influence. King Viserys had been too neglectful to bear any blame in that respect. He’s overly culpable in innumerable other matters.

‘If I have sunk low, I do not wish to imagine what hell you wander in,’ she retorts, dour, shoving him away, her lower back pressing against the edge of the table, ‘I do not require lessons on our heritage. Valyria is gone. I do not adhere to the Doctrine of Exceptionalism, nor do I delude myself about our superiority. According to this logic, your Westerosi mother is lesser. Everybody has their history and their pride. The Starks are the blood of the First Men, descendants of Bran the Builder. Cregan is my equal, and I will not bring him dishonor. You once said something similar to me, when we were younger.’

Visenya purposely omitted that Cregan would have taken additional offence if Aemond – a usurper and a kinslayer – had been her choice of paramour. Following the annulment of her betrothment to Aemond, she had snuck into his bedchamber, and had urged him to claim her maidenhood. It would have compelled our parents to marry us to each other. He had adamantly refused, reiterating that he would dishonor her by doing so. Visenya wonders whether his consent would have changed the tide, whether he rues his decision now… were he capable of it.

‘I remember,’ mutters Aemond, cupping her cheeks, brushing his nose against hers, ‘Yn īlon issi daor riñar dombo.’ (But we are not children anymore.)

‘No, we are not,’ she assents, doleful, undeterred by his lingering lips on her forehead, ‘I am a woman grown, my mother’s daughter, and I vowed to marry Cregan. My word is not fickle. A foreign concept to you and your family.’

She had suggested the match herself, on Dragonstone, prior to hers and her brothers’ departure. Supposing that the Queen’s appeal failed to persuade Lord Stark to pledge the North to their cause, Visenya would offer her hand in marriage.

The memory of beholding Cregan for the first time still exhilarates her. She had been climbing down from Blackwing while Jace had approached Lord Stark, to greet him. Cloaked in furs, he had been an imperious presence – tall, brawny, handsome, graced with grey eyes, dark, wavy locks that cascaded to his shoulders, and a dense beard. His gaze had frequently drifted towards her. Jace had suavely introduced her, and Cregan had curtsied, addressing her as “princess.” Visenya had answered with “my lord” – her smile timid, her eyes wicked.

The harsh weather hadn’t spoiled the northern capital’s beauty, magnificent structures, and rich culture. The twins had received a warm welcome at Winterfell, amidst the winter preparations, and Lord Stark had been a most hospitable host, entertaining his guests with drinking, sparring, and hunting trips in the wolfswood. Visenya had mingled with the commonfolk, conversing with them, helping them with their errands, and teaching their children how to read and write. Cregan had often watched her, fondly, from afar. Some servants had been intimidated by her appearance and her station, stammering through their responses. She had instructed them to simply call her “Visenya.”

Whenever his duties had permitted, Cregan had accompanied her on walks around the castle, to the library, the ancient godswood and its hot springs, and the disturbing crypt that had contained the tombs of the deceased members of House Stark. His direwolf Splinter had ambled after them everywhere. They had discussed history, politics, trade, and their families, and had comforted one another in their grief, as Cregan’s wife had recently perished in childbirth. He had even confessed that Jace had reminded him of the brother that he had lost more than a decade ago. She had met his sweet babe Rickon, whom she had doted on. Cregan had bestowed upon Blackwing the highest distinction, deeming her a “formidable beast” – with his habitual morose disposition. Visenya had become besotted with him, regarding him as virtuous, conscientious, tenacious, and reputable.

By the end of the twins’ stay in Winterfell, the Pact of Ice and Fire had been formed, whereby Visenya would wed Lord Stark, and the North would side with Queen Rhaenyra. He had forged a direwolf brooch for her, and she had gifted him one of her rings, to wear it as a necklace. Cregan and Jace had sworn an oath of brotherhood, sealed in blood.

‘You sold yourself to a wolf pup so that you may rally his army to your mother’s cause, and you boast about honor,’ accuses Aemond, scornful, satisfied that he discerns her imagined act, ‘Twas a different kind of sword that you required.’

Sold myself? Visenya’s mouth twists downwards, her latent, crude contempt quivering. Blackwing rattles her shackles, screeching viscerally. He views me as property. I paid my price in kindness and youthful promises, so I am constrained into being his property. I have no freedom, no intuition, no capacity for judgment. I am a frail puppet dancing on my family’s strings, dependent on Aemond to rescue me. He would rather I were a fly in his web. What sort of person expects me to fulfil the vows that I uttered as a child?

‘Cregan would have honored his late father’s word,’ she contends, smoothing her garments, heedless of Aemond’s eye roaming over her body, ‘Lord Rickon Stark swore an oath in the throne hall, and acknowledged my mother as King Viserys’ heir. All of the Westerosi lords did, great and small.’

Upon his lord father’s death, Cregan had inherited Winterfell at the age of thirteen, so his uncle Bennard had ruled as regent until his nephew had reached manhood. Bennard’s reluctance to relinquish power had spurred Cregan to imprison him and his three sons. Akin to Queen Rhaenyra’s plight, his kinsman had attempted to supplant him. Lady Jeyne Arryn – Queen Aemma’s cousin – had thrice endured uprisings that had contested her inheritance of the Eyrie.

A hereditary curse. A woman’s curse. In this world of men, we women must band together.

‘Over twenty years have passed since then,’ specifies Aemond, shrugging blithely, ‘Most of those lords are dead, including the wolf pup’s father. Bones are all that is left of them and their vows.’

Pup. A peculiar term to use for Cregan – a man older than they are. Aemond’s vanity confirms that, to the Greens, King Viserys’ succession amounts to nothing. Their cause is false – founded on quicksand, conspiracy, and murder – and they bury themselves deeper and deeper into an abyss of lies and treachery.

‘They represented their Houses and spoke on their behalf,’ corrects Visenya, her shoulders slumping from the sheer absurdity of having to explain this, ‘Enlighten me, nuncle. How does your situation differ from mine? Are you not betrothed to one of Borros Baratheon’s daughters for her father’s troops? Or is it all four daughters? I have heard varied accounts.’

The illiterate Lord of Storm’s End – another traitor responsible for Luke’s demise. Her brother Joffrey had sworn a terrible oath of vengeance against him and the Kinslayer. The Velaryons had prevented Joff from instantly mounting his dragon Tyraxes to exact revenge. Would I have done the same? He is merely a boy, too young to know such hatred and grief. He and Rhaena are in the Vale, out of harm’s way. Willful Baela remains on Dragonstone, to fight by Jace’s side. Aegon and Viserys, the youngest, are with them. We must ensure their safety, else the war will strip them of their innocence… and their lives.

Dragonstone, Harrenhal, Winterfell, the Vale, King’s Landing, Stoney Sept… My family is divided. If only I could protect them all…

‘I did what was asked of me,’ defends Aemond, forlorn, resting their foreheads together, ‘I never intended to wed her.’ He adds, his words scattered among hasty, consecutive kisses, ‘We have always agreed that we would marry one another. I have neither forgotten, nor forsaken that. I want you.’

‘I thought that we were not children anymore,’ she echoes, shrewd, bending to retrieve her discarded pelts, ‘Our parents annulled our betrothment years ago. You would have us marry without your mother’s blessing? I value my well-being, even if you do not.’

‘You are mistaken,’ coos Aemond, holding her hand to his mouth, kissing her knuckles, her palm, her inner wrist, ‘It’s not too late. There’s still a chance for us.’

Visenya had once shared that sentiment. He lives in the past, clinging to it, misconstruing it. Matters betwixt them would never be the same – a truth that he hasn’t accepted. I would have waited for him... Aemond had usurped the throne and had slain her brother. Now, he hopes to abuse her clemency. What stops him from mistreating her, from hurting her? Why must I always be patient and compassionate? Why must I always forgive and forget? What will I gain from it? Aemond? It’s not enough. His redemption is a prolonged, tedious endeavor that she will not partake in.

I’m severing my noose.

‘A chance?’, snarls Visenya, in conjunction with Blackwing’s shrieks, ‘Is that what you offered my brother when you unleashed Vhagar on him?’ She folds her arms over her chest, her furs caught between them. ‘You have already spilled my blood. I will not present you with a chance to do it again. Aye, I once wanted to marry you. A summer dream of summer children. Winter is coming.’

Ripping the cord that binds her to Aemond will be excruciating, like slashing a part of herself. He is the thorn lodged in her side, her twin flame, his scent and touch imprinted on her, haunting her asleep and haunting her awake. The only power I wield over him is denying him myself.

‘You have returned to threats,’ chides Aemond, buttoning his tunic, visibly irritated by her usage of the House Stark words, ‘Parroting words that are not your own, chirruping tales that others have stuffed your head with, like a little bird.’

‘‘Tis not a threat, beloved,’ purrs Visenya, woven with venom, savoring his indignation, ‘It is a fact. The maesters of the Citadel will release the white ravens soon, to announce its arrival.’

She had witnessed the foreboding signs with her own eyes, at Winterfell – the resplendent snow, the howling winds, the bitter cold. Winter is upon us… and we are vying for the throne.

‘‘Tis also a fact that your wolf pup has a wolf pup of his own,’ jeers Aemond, donning his eyepatch, ‘A son whom he fathered on another wench. A son who will inherit Winterfell and all of its attendant lands, titles, and incomes. A vile indignity, a humiliation, to you and your brood. You would submit to a puny northern savage, as his second wife?’

Puny northern savage? Innovative.

“Our children will sit the Iron Throne,” Visenya had told Cregan in the godswood, with the snow floating around them, piling in thick layers on the ground, the trees, and the castle walls. I kissed the snowflakes on his lashes, and they melted on my lips. Her heart flutters at the memory. My sullen wolf. She longs for him more than she can express.

Would that appease Aemond? Nothing would. He has become spiteful. “Wench.” Lady Arra of House Norrey had been Cregan’s late wife and cherished childhood companion. She had dismally died birthing Rickon. I will not debate Cregan’s family with Aemond, a jealous craven threatened by suckling babes.

‘Rickon is an innocent babe,’ reasons Visenya, hugging herself, suddenly feeling naked without her armor, ‘Aye, he is the heir to Winterfell, and no threat to me. I will not set my children against their brother, nor will I encourage them to steal his birthright. I am not your mother.’

And, oh, how you despise that…

‘I suppose that you will be no threat to him, either, should you die in childbirth,’ ventures Aemond, elated at the notion, his eye shimmering in the light of the flames, ‘And your wolf pup would be twice widowed.’

Visenya lashes out, striking him so viciously across the face that his head whips to the side. Blackwing’s mighty roars rumble outside. Aemond doesn’t even blench.

She had never hit him before. If he is startled or enraged by the assault, he masks it – devoid of any emotion. Visenya quashes the temptation to shout at him, to call him a dog, a pig, a rat. He is beneath these creatures. He has no conscience, and his cruelty is boundless. Her grandmother Queen Aemma and her aunt Laena had both expired in childbed. Her sister had been stillborn. What does Aemond know about the perils and throes of women? Nothing.

I could flee, go anywhere but here... Her flesh crawls. I’m his captive in so many ways. Briny tears well in her eyes.

Tears cannot quench dragonfire.

‘Do you love the wolf pup?’, challenges Aemond, his demeanor impassable, though she distinguishes a crack in his frigid tone.

And if I do? You would flay him alive, and force me to watch. The question of Visenya’s suitors continues to be intricate and contentious. The Disputed Lands of Westeros. She had been engaged to Aegon, to Aemond, and to Daeron, and had been courted by Westerosi Houses, Essosi princes, triarchs, archons, nobles, magisters, merchants, and generals. The Red Kraken would have made me his salt wife. Visenya had rejected all of them. Adulterers and drunkards old enough to be my grandsires and fat enough to crush me beneath them.

Rhaenyra had been sympathetic to her daughter’s predicament; she herself had initially opposed marriage. My mother had been younger than I am when she had birthed me and Jace. Visenya shudders at the thought. Her father hadn’t been concerned, confiding that she could wed out of duty and fuck whomever she pleased. Men always do so. Why shouldn’t I? Her twin had convinced her that she would find a suitable pair, to her liking. Jace had the right of it. I chose Cregan, and he chose me. She touches her brooch through her trousers. I’m assuming control of my life and my future.

‘I will,’ declares Visenya, seething, jutting her chin, ‘He is neither a usurper, nor a kinslayer. Cregan is worth a thousand of you, and more.’

‘Yet you delay marrying him, and the wolf pup delays assembling his banners and marching,’ admonishes Aemond, his reddened cheek beginning to swell, ‘Perhaps you are not as devoted to each other as you think you are.’

A surrounded animal, slinging its final, pitiful blows. Her wolf’s motives for not marching had been warranted. He awaits the collection of the harvest, so that he can feed his subjects throughout the winter. The Southrons seal themselves in their castles with their bountiful harvests, whereas the Northerners bear the brunt of the burden – snow, frost, famine, death. Cregan’s obligations lie with his people and his lands.

As for herself, Visenya prefers to marry him during peace and stability. He could mourn his wife properly, and he would not be widowed again, if I were to… to…

‘His Winter Wolves are at the Twins,’ she states, noting Aemond’s mouth twitching, ‘They have joined their forces with the Freys’, and will resume their advance south. They are merely a fraction of the North’s strength. I assure you. Cregan will honor his vow.’

She had wept upon reading Lord Roderick Dustin’s words to Lady Sabitha Frey. We have come to die for the dragon queen. Cregan had taught Visenya about the Winter Wolves – elderly men who leave their homes in order to conserve supplies for their kin. Grisly custom. Those warriors hope to die for glory and plunder. They will never reunite with their families. Wretched conditions, wretched measures.

Aemond must have observed a spark in her eyes, heard something amiss in her voice that aroused his suspicion.

‘What have you done, Visenya?’, he demands, narrowing his eye, fixing her with a hawkish glare.

I fucked the wolf pup. And Alyn Velaryon… Not both at the same time. She had befriended Alyn and his older brother Addam shortly after hers and Jace’s return from Winterfell. Her twin had summoned Targaryen bastards – “dragonseeds” – for the riderless dragons, promising wealth, lands, and knighthood for those triumphant. Addam’s feat of claiming Seasmoke had emboldened the Sea Snake to petition Queen Rhaenyra to legitimise the Hull boys. Conveniently, their mother Marilda had revealed that they had been sired by Ser Laenor Velaryon. And Mushroom is seven feet tall. My stepfather had no interest in women. Lord Corlys had proceeded to name Addam his heir.

Alyn, however, had been less fortunate. Sheepstealer had bathed his cloak in flames. His brother had doused the fire, saving his life. At least Grey Ghost had vanished. Those had been wild dragons. Alyn is lucky to be alive. Grand Maester Gerardys had tended his burns, and Visenya had changed his bandages thrice a day – delighting in his insolence. The habit had blossomed into clumsy intimacy. She had seldom stayed the night – a decision that hadn’t troubled Alyn. He never judged me. Visenya misses him; his jests, his smile, his company.

A furious Jace had reprimanded his twin for her recklessness and temerity, arguing that Cregan was a good man, a second chance – everything that she had ever dreamed of. Her involvement with Alyn could compromise their indispensable alliance with the North. Visenya had listened to his warning, remorse slithering around her throat.

I have been remiss… but Alyn is only a matter of brevity. I have to tread prudently.

‘I do as I please,’ she asserts, the ghost of a smirk tugging at her lips, ‘Do not fret, cousin. Cregan treated me well and was most gentle with me… the first time.’

Her admission slices him to the bone. Aemond’s expression sinks, desolation flooding his eye. A child looks at her, into her, agony engraved on his features. Have I been too austere? Spoken too harshly? He had betrayed her trust, had usurped the throne, and had murdered her brother. My sins pale in comparison.

Aemond recoils, turning away from her, his head lowered. His fists clench at his sides. The table behind her shakes at Vhagar’s menacing growl. Visenya maintains her composure, sheathing herself in steel. I will not cow. I am the blood of the dragon.

And I will not regret Cregan.

While she hadn’t lacked for suitors, those men had sought to marry her out of pride and ambition. My Targaryen heritage brings their House closer to the Iron Throne, and my dragon is power.

She had proposed to Cregan that she would willingly surrender her maidenhood to him, as a token of her intention to wed him. Fighting a war a maiden seems particularly dreadful. Should anything befall her, Cregan wouldn’t feel cheated or insulted – he would have claimed her gift of innocence.

I lost my innocence long ago.

Visenya hadn’t abused her station to compel him to lie with her. She wouldn’t have been offended if he hadn’t desired her.

“I would be,” her wolf had responded, earning a chuckle from her.

Two nights – and numerous fiery kisses – later, he had accepted her offer. A timorous ardor had washed over Visenya, her heart hammering against her rib cage. Cregan had led her out of the godswood, past the hot springs, the main iron gate with its walls, across the inner yards, into the castle, and up the winding stairs – retreating to his solar, where they had shared half a flagon of wine. He had kindly asked her if she had been nervous.

No. I am a Targaryen princess, a dragonrider… and the wine soothed my nerves.

Their intimate moments had been sweet, passionate, exhilarating. Visenya remembers them so vividly. His large hands cupping her face, disrobing her with deft precision, caressing and fondling every inch of her. His darkened eyes reveling in her figure. Cregan lifting her into his arms as though she weighed nothing, laying her down on the bed. His tongue licking her stiffened nipples, his mouth sucking on her plump breasts. Her fist stroking his leaking cock, guiding him into her heat slowly. Cregan swallowing her soft whine when entering her, the stretch burning deliciously. The overwhelming need to hold him nearer. Wrapping her limbs around him as he vigorously thrust into her, the featherbed engulfing her. The chambers brimming with their moans, gasps, and the lascivious sounds of sweaty skin slapping against sweaty skin. Cregan intertwining their fingers, Cregan driving her to the heights of pleasure, Cregan spilling his seed inside her, blending with her maiden’s blood.

Slick pools between her legs, and Visenya squeezes her thighs shut, salivating at the memory.

He had collapsed on top of her, and – at her insistence – had lied there, panting, his face buried in her neck, his beard tickling her. An equally breathless Visenya had threaded her digits through his damp hair, pecking his cheek and his temple. Cregan had rolled off of her, grunting at the effort, and had pulled her into him, allowing her to rest her head on his chest, and to hook her leg over his. Her wolf had attentively inquired whether he had hurt her.

“Not at all,” she had murmured, demure, draping her arm over him, their combined fluids trickling on her groin, “You have been so good to me.”

Visenya had drifted off to sleep in his safe embrace, lulled by his heartbeat and his snores. His body had been a hearth underneath the pelts. I am the blood of the dragon, allured by warmth and fire.

She and Cregan had spent most evenings together – to the dismay of his bed. Days had been dedicated to duties, negotiations, and furtive glances, nights for themselves and for each other; for raw lust, hushed laughter, and the solace that they had been starved of; for their satiation and contentment. Her loins had often ached by the next morning. A good ache.

Cregan had even taken her in the godswood, under a starry sky, before the heart tree, following their sword sparring. Afterwards, he had suggested that they retire to his solar.

‘To sleep?’, questioned Visenya, coyly, tangling their feet together.

‘If that is what the princess wants,’ granted her wolf, amiably.

‘The princess wants you,’ she mumbled, nestling against him, their clothes and furs providing scant shelter from the cold.

‘She has me,’ vouched Cregan, carding his fingers through her locks, ‘All of me.’

Oh, yes. He has had me in the sight of the old gods, and I have bled for him. Targaryens have always had a grievously deep connection to blood. It’s one of our House’s words. Our forebears used blood magic to bind the winged beasts to them. We cut ourselves and drink each other’s blood in the marriage ceremony. We practice incest to ensure the purity of our bloodline. The blood of Old Valyria, the blood of the dragon. Blood unites, and blood divides.

Their stealthy meetings might not have been shrouded in such secrecy. Jace had dared to tease Visenya about the marks that he had glimpsed on her throat. She had thrown a snowball at him, hitting him in the nose.

‘Locking myself in a castle is more appealing than waging war against my own kin,’ admitted Visenya, in an instance of fragility, atop one of Winterfell’s towers.

‘You’re not destined to hide in a castle,’ proponed Cregan, petting Splinter, basking in the sun – reminiscent of their early mornings abed. I would trace the lines of his back, the scars on his chest, admire his naked form as he opened the shutters… ‘Your hair is akin to the snow around us, your eyes the color of the sunset sky. Why would nature make you so lovely, if not to behold you and to reflect on you? The sun must see you to shine, the moon to glow.’

Visenya tore her gaze away from him, misty-eyed.

Her Valyrian appearance had protected her from japes about being a Strong bastard. Is that term so preposterous? My parents hadn’t been married at my birth. I had borne the name Velaryon for a decade. People had viewed her as a Myrish carpet – to be gaped at – and had treated her like a stud-mare, to be bought, owned, and mounted to produce sons – her beauty a mere instrument to that end. Devious motives behind hollow adulation.

‘You are gracious, my lord,’ rasped Visenya, flustered, the gossip of the commonfolk below muffling her answer slightly, ‘I am flattered.’

‘I have spoken the truth,’ affirmed Cregan, tipping her chin up, coaxing her to peer at him, ‘You are meant to be kissed.’

‘By you,’ she assented, his gloved digits wiping her tears, delicately.

On the day of the dragon twins’ departure from Winterfell, Vermax and Blackwing had been impatient to leave the North and its freezing temperatures. Visenya hadn’t shared their zeal. I’m not a little girl anymore. The winds of winter are rising. There is a war to be fought and won.

“Come back to me,” her wolf whispered to her, their joined hands concealed in their cloaks and pelts.

I will.

Aemond’s subtle movements wrest her to the present.

We’re at war with the Greens. I’m a prisoner at Stoney Sept, in the Pretender’s camp. My Cregan is leagues away.

I must not forget my mission.

Aemond’s insidious posture betrays him, his shoulders on the brink of crumbling under the burden of his pride and envy.

‘A dragon rendered a broodmare by a wolf pup,’ he chastises, repulsed, his features drawn into solemn lines, ‘Have you spread your legs for his army, too? I wouldn’t be surprised, given your taste for depravity.’

Visenya refrains from guffawing, albeit with great difficulty. Oh, may the Crone’s lantern light my path to wisdom, and may the Father judge me justly, and may the Mother show me mercy, for I am a filthy wanton, and Lord Stark does possess a generous… host.

‘I would rather be his broodmare than be your wife,’ she spits, defiant, baring her teeth, ‘The wolf pup is Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North.’ And you are insufferably obtuse. ‘He and his bannermen will liberate me, should the Winter Wolves and the river lords fail to do so, and should you yourself refuse to release me. Are you so mad that you would oppose the might and wrath of the entire North?

‘I have heard enough about your wolf pup,’ announces Aemond, his nostrils flaring, ‘He has dishonored you. Perhaps I ought to march on his bleak castle, after I seize Harrenhal.’

You ought to dress up in motley. Visenya shifts her weight from one foot to the other, her brow creased. The Hightowers must have abandoned their wits putting him in charge. Aemond is utterly inept. Their Lannister friends will find trouble at the Red Fork, and he will never take Harrenhal from my father.

‘Your men are unlikely to survive the muds of the riverlands, whose lords have unanimously declared for my mother,’ argues Visenya, twirling a lock of her hair around her forefinger, ‘I doubt that they will endure the dire conditions of the North… also pledged to Queen Rhaenyra.’

‘I have Vhagar,’ reminds Aemond, his arrogance oozing like pus.

‘And what of it?’, she hisses, squinting her eyes, ‘You would torch the North, from the Neck to the Wall, on hoary, old Vhagar? Tens of thousands would perish.’

Despite rivaling the combined size of the other kingdoms, the North is scarcely populated. Their lives, lands, history, and culture matter all the same.

‘Your wolf pup amongst them, if the gods are good,’ drones Aemond, looping his digits through his belt.

‘Cregan will die of old age, in my arms,’ corrects Visenya, keeping her furled fists at her sides, lest she strike him again, ‘You cannot vanquish the North. It is too vast and too wild. The Neck is impenetrable, filled with swamps and bogs. Moat Cailin is a choke point, and it has shielded the North from southron invasions for millennia. This is folly, Aemond. It will be your doom.’

Then why am I trying to dissuade him?

‘Or on the contrary, the glory will be mine,’ boasts Aemond, his permanent smirk bolstering his confidence, ‘Those savages might dare to resist me, but in the end, they will pose a minor obstacle. Aegon the Conqueror brought the North to its knees.’

‘Because King Torrhen Stark bent the knee after the Field of Fire, to avoid bloodshed,’ objects Visenya, scowling, ‘Do not attempt to revise history. Ours will not redeem you. The kinslayer is accursed in the eyes of gods and men. The lickspittles that buzz around you will never be sincere, so I will bestow the truth upon you. You are cruel, despicable, and you nurse a grievance like a suckling babe. You are not Aegon the Conqueror. You are a prideful fool playing at war.’ You’re not good at it, either. ‘And winter is coming. That is the truth.’

‘The truth?’, repeats Aemond, creeping up on her, his eye boring into hers – a predator scenting its prey, ‘What do you know of the truth, Visenya? You lie and deceive and plot with every breath that you draw. You are a traitor to the realm, daughter of traitors, sister of traitors. You chose the Iron Throne over me.’

You chose for me.

‘My mother is the rightful Queen of the Seven Kingdoms,’ she pronounces, her smile ominous, ‘The only traitor here is you, nuncle. You cower from the truth, and you retain it from everyone.’ Visenya tiptoes, and their lips almost touch. ‘You are looking with the wrong eye. Perhaps you will have to close the other to finally see.’

Aemond cups her face roughly, pressing her against the table.

‘Your mother will never sit the Iron Throne,’ he sneers, ‘And neither will you. She still spurns you as her heir, but I vow to pay you the homage that you so desperately crave, and to lavish you with precious gifts – the heads of your family, your betrothed, and your stepson. They shall decorate the spikes of the Red Keep–’

Visenya swiftly yanks his dagger from his belt. Aemond seizes her wrist too late. The tip of the blade digs at the underside of his chin.

‘Enough, Aemond!’, bellows Visenya, and for a moment, she is her ferocious Blackwing incarnate, ‘Are you deaf, as well as blind? You have usurped the throne, murdered my brother, and butchered hundreds of innocents. Your actions have consequences. Heed my words, for the love that you claim to bear me.’ She drags the point of the dirk down to the base of his throat, nicking him. ‘You will not make me an orphan and a widow. You are surrounded by enemies in every direction, and more are gathering as we speak. We have the armies, the fleet, the dragons, and most importantly, the legitimacy. An advantage that you will never have. So, either kill me or let me go, and flee to Essos, because you cannot – you will not – survive what’s coming for you. The choice is yours.’

Aemond’s malicious eye studies her, a forlorn wall of blue ice.

The boy I grew up with is gone. Hasn’t Visenya sensed it all along? We are not children anymore. The time has come to accept it.

When has it all gone so awry, become so twisted? She mourns the boy that she had once shared everything with – a childhood, hopes, dreams. Those died with Lucerys.

Dreams didn’t make us kings. Dragons did… and tears cannot quench dragonfire.

It ends as it had begun, with fire and blood.

Bloodlines will burn.

Visenya licks the blood off of the tip of the dagger, spins the weapon, and presents it to Aemond, hilt first.

TAGLIST: @a-dash-of-random-magic @aaleksmorozova @aemondsversion @aereth @agirllovespancakes @another-life-addict @burningshewolf @buttercup--bee @cecespizza01 @cleastrnge @crazylokonugget @five-seconds-of-socialising @flosaureum @haystack-boy @lavendertales @lordsrks @maharani-radha @mandaloresson @masset-fotia @missusnora @moonlight-prose @oloreaa @poppyreader @prettyboyeddiemunson @revolution-starter @sofietargaryen @stargaryenx @strawberrypeachesss @sullho @sweethoneyblossom1 @s-we-e-t-t-ea @that--thing @valyriians

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moyokeansimblr · 4 months

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People You'd Like To Know Better

Tagged by @andrevasims, thanks! I'm always down to do this

Last Song: Set Yourself On Fire by ULTRA SUNN. I'm obsessed with the lyrics the body is a limit, but the mind is higher, you've just to admit it, and set yourself on fire

Favorite Color: Yellow 💛

Currently Watching: Just finished You're Nothing Special on Netflix last night. It was kinda meh. Still watch Love Island with my grandma weekly, but we're up to date on UK so I'm making her watch Australia now and we're just on season 1 of that (but I've seen through season 3). Also, not sure if Eurovision National Finals fall under this category but it's that time of year for all my Saturday afternoons to be spent watching those.

Last Movie: Whatever I said the last movie I watched was the last time I did this... I'm not the biggest movie person tbh.

Currently Reading: Nothing atm.

Sweet/Spicy/Savory: As I always say, if it doesn't kill me it's not spicy enough! 🌶️

Last Thing I Googled: "sims 2 pooklet families"

Current Obsession: ULTRA SUNN, and Strangetown. I think about my Strangetown and the sims in it every single day whether I have time to play or not. Also the Survivor blanket my mom got me for Christmas... I've been wearing it around the house like a cape. And poppet v2 hairs, since I started using those I check the poppethairs tumblr like every other day in case there's new ones because 600+ custom hairs + I defaulted all the maxis hairs but apparently I need more...

Currently Working On: I've 3 active patreon requests atm so that's pretty much all I have the brain space for.

Tagging: @episims, @paluding, @isimchi, @keoni-chan if you want, or anyone else who wants to. These things are always kinda fun

#moyokean #tag game

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umbracirrus · 5 months

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WIP Wednesday? Thursday?

So. Late WIP Wednesday at.... 5:40 on Thursday morning... mostly because yesterday was filled with chaos of many flavours and I didn't have the chance to do much of anything. 😐

Anyway, I've not done much on a creative level, my brain is still frazzled from university assignments which needed submitting at the beginning of the week, but I have done a little bit of writing!! It's an excerpt from a few chapters into Seeking the Sun and would you look at that, Elyse has only just met her future husband and he's spoiling her already. I'm also not going to tag anyone - my mind is the physical manifestation of TV static right now so names just aren't coming to me but if people want to say that I tagged them then go right ahead.... 💛

“I know who you are,” the woman behind the counter hummed, confusing Elyse as she held onto her bandaged wrist which she had made the painful mistake of leaning on the wood with a few moments earlier as she had sat down. “You survived Helgen, didn’t you?”

All the colour drained from her face as she felt the inn quieten down quite a bit at the question. Her lips only opened slightly, no words escaping her as her mouth and throat began to feel inexplicably dry.

“The Jarl sent someone over to pay for a room for you. Told me what you looked like and that you would probably be nursing an arm injury.”

That came as even more of a surprise to her - the Jarl had suggested that she stay in the Bannered Mare for the night... She never anticipated that he would have actually paid for her to stay there. She had to clear her throat before she could respond, even if it was only a mere two words framed as a question. “H... He did...?”

“Aye. It’s common knowledge that the Jarl has been worried about the rumours of a dragon attacking Helgen. The fact that a survivor went to him, well, I’m not surprised he’s going the extra length to make you comfortable in the city,” she muttered, pulling out a key as her lips pursed together and the creases in her face grew deeper. “You’re probably the best he’s got for getting answers, especially if he’s not on talking terms with the Empire or the Stormcloaks. He’s lucky that his decision isn’t affecting business much... yet.”

Elyse remained quiet as the woman then stepped out from behind the counter, a slow and weary motion, and gestured for her to stand up. “Your room is this way. But so that you are aware, the Jarl’s hospitality has extended to a room and a hot meal only. Anything else, you pay for it off your own back.”

#meg has done some writing #dragonborn oc elyse #skyrim fanfiction #this might sound a bit random but i almost used baked beans as a metaphor in my rambling at the start... yeah.

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topmechaniic · 4 months

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𝑬𝒎𝒑𝒂𝒕𝒉𝒚 𝒊𝒔 𝒂 𝒌𝒊𝒏𝒅 𝒐𝒇 𝒔𝒕𝒓𝒆𝒏𝒈𝒕𝒉...

- A private, selective/mutuals only, canon-divergent, and multi-versed CINDY AURUM from Final Fantasy XV. This blog is very headcanon driven ( pun kind of intended x3 ) and will incorporate some elements of Final Fantasy Versus XIII. Adored by Dani ( she/her, 30+, UTC +9 - Tokyo ) multi/OC and duplicate friendly! Minors DNI, Personals & fan blogs will be blocked on sight!!

rules // carrd // playlist // pinterest // thread tracker // interest tracker

Affiliated with :: @liightbringr, @ravusnightblossom, @yukikorogashi, @battleshot ( ship exclusive ), @inscmnus Mains :: @nifhilium, @dracenary, @strictomiles, @tenebriism, @rcdfcxr

Wire :: topmechaniic

Current Activity :: Slow af/running on queue

Links and basic rules...

Credits :: theme bg & details // icon template // pinned banner // main psd Extra info :: starters // memes // verses // Cid sideblog Blogroll :: OC, Multi, Yoruichi, Serval, Benedikta

Possible triggers include death ( parental loss/ loss of a partner ) and dealings with PTSD ( survivors guilt ), night terrors and panic attacks. While not heavily focused topics, they are significant parts of my Cindy's background. Naturally they will be tagged accordingly, but please place your own comforts first and follow at your own discretion. 💛

Don't be a dick. Any harassment, discrimination or gross behavior of ANY kind will result in a hard block. If you write homophobic, transphobic, incestuous, racist, no-con, or ableist material, or interact with someone who does, do not approach me in any way shape of form. Also please understand that I will only interact with mutual followers ( exception with meta/hc memes unless otherwise posted or in the case of sideblogs ) and I do not always follow back.

If we're mutuals feel free to send all the things! Memes are the best way to get interactions started with me as I rarely make starter calls anymore or don't have the spoons for plotting. So seriously if you or your muse are chomping at the bit over a certain meme or a random open starter, if you wanna turn a meme answer into a thread, DO THE THING! I'm totally cool with that. Just understand that while I am very appreciative, I am kinda slow. Sorry in advance.

Do not follow me just to pursue a ship. Shipping requires chemistry with both muses and muns. It's also not my blog’s main focus and I will not change my muse in any way for a ship. As it stands, I am ship exclusive with battleshot's Promto and rcdfcxr's Rufus. Besides my exclusives, I am cool with shipping with at least two of the same muse. Also any romantic meme or prompt sent w/o prior IC or OOC interaction will be disregarded or treated as purely platonic.

Please be patient with me. We all have a life outside of this hellsite. A casual reminder to something is cool cause we’re human and forget things or tunglr is just ... being tunglr. However daily reminders, random follows & unfollows/likes & unlikes might push me away from interacting with you.

Please tag any possible trypophobia & arachnophobia posts cause it really ooks me tf out! My spicy posts are tagged usfw , usft primarily, and at times ⚙ ; 𝐍𝐒𝐅𝐖 :: Push it to the limit. and/or ⚙ ; 𝐃𝐞𝐬𝐢𝐫𝐞𝐬 :: Rev up the engine. Please blacklist accordingly to keep your dash as clean as you desire.

#📌📌📌

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pinkhairedlily · 2 years

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the nights have monsters (but i'm with you)

Hinamori Momo struggles to transition into a life after war. Sleepless for most nights and burdened with survivor’s guilt, her feet lead her to the person that could give her comfort, but she wouldn’t, couldn’t, shouldn’t. It’ll only take a few nights before her walls of pretense start to crumble, and she’ll be left to face the remains of her ghosts.

In an era of peace, the peacekeepers are restless.

For @soybeanprophecy 💛💐

#hitsuhina #hinamori momo #hitsugaya toushiro #hinamori #hitsugaya #bleach couples #fic!pseudolily #fic!pinkhairedlily #friends to lovers #canon compliant

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4everbrookemarie · 2 years

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I don’t talk about the things going on in my life much out loud because I usually just talk to the creator, the almighty, the great I am, abba, our father, Father God about them because I know that he has and will work it out. He won’t run with it or tell others about what we have discussed or make a joke out of it, but as I lay here not being able to sleep I thought I would jot down what’s weighing on me as well as some praise reports showing that God is still able to do what he said he would do. I’ll start with what’s causing me to have a heavy heart first and end on a good note.

First off my love… he is currently going through some things that could have been avoided, but as we all know, no one walking this earth is perfect.. we are all human and we all fail sometimes. My heart is breaking for him knowing that there is nothing that I can do to fix this for him… To know him is to know that he is a very good person, easy to get along with. He would literally help anyone in need without keeping tabs of all that he has done for you. Although my heart is breaking for him in this time, I try not to fret over it because I know that God has and will work this whole situation out. God had it worked out before we even knew that there was a situation at hand.

Next up, my big sister… she is very tired right now and in need of medical assistance. Me working on the medical field I see how all this plays out behind the scenes. I’m still not 100% on board with how it all works. Clearly her reports show that she needs the medical assistance, the doctor says she needs the medical assistance, yet the insurance companies be on some Bull and just take their time. This is literally playing with her health, her life and I can’t stand it. To know my sister is to know a good hearted person. One that will literally sit and listen to you whine and cry about whatever without complaining. She will cry with you, but don’t get it twisted, she’s ALWAYS ready to throw off need be haha. Much like with my love’s situation, I know that God has already worked this out in his perfect timing, I’m just being pushy and impatient.

Next Up my lil sister… the one with the kiddos… my sis has 2 very handsome boys that she lives with her entire being. She also has a fiancé who proposed to her 2 years ago on Christmas night! My sis is goofy, kind, loving and a sweetheart. She would do anything for you. I have thought since I’ve heard of and met her fiancé that he is definitely the one until recently. My sis hit my line up in total shambles because of what was going on with her relationship. Without going too deep in her story I’ll just say this amazing man decided to be on some Bull and then all of a sudden change his mind. My sis is still basically having PTSD over the situation and my heart goes out to her and the boys on what may come next.

Now for the praise reports. ✨✨✨

Starting with my amazing mother, as of Sept 1,2022 my mom is now a 10 year breast cancer survivor 💕💕💕

And two weeks ago this coming week she will be 2 weeks post surgery. She is doing amazing and I can clearly see God working all the kinks out in her life. To know my mom is to know love. She is hilarious. She has the biggest heart. Always for the underdog. Loving, caring, charismatic, and will get in your behind if need be! My mom is like a superhero! I can’t thank avid enough for thinking of me enough to make her my mother!💛 I love you momma 😘

Next up on the praise report

My cousin/auntie… she has a stroke May 10,2022. A very big/bad stroke that some doubts about BUT GOD stepped in, showed up and showed out! Although she still has a ways to go, she sure has come a mighty long way and that’s ALL GOD right there! She is hitting new milestones every week and all praise to God she is on her way back home!!!🙌🏾🙌🏾🙌🏾 she has always been the backbone of her household! Literally putting the weight off everyone on her shoulders. This situation made her sit down and let others take care of her. Of course at first she couldn’t take it at all, she felt helpless and basically worthless, but with all the love and support and much reassurance I think she is starting to enjoy the help that she is being given!

As I come to an end of my thoughts or rant to some, I just want to say Thank you God in advance for working out the situations for my love and my sisters, and thank you God for what you have done and continue to do in my mom’s and aunties life! If it weren’t for you, my God where would we be? You have brought us from a mighty far way and I know you haven’t brought us this far to leave us now! Thank you! I love you!

In Jesus’ Name I ask these things and pray! Amen

#prayer #answered prayer #prayers request #I love my people #my life #my love #my sisters #my god my god #I love you #Thank you in advance #survivor #look at god #won’t he do it #my faith #the almighty #The great I am

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lisa-is-writing · 2 years

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Coming Home Pt.1

i wrote it before the russian invasion in ukraine, what completely changed my perspective for this work. anyway, i translated it and now i'm planning to make it a trilogy. before reading, i'm asking you to acknowledge the fact that even sleeping peacefully in your bed is a big privilege, and some of us will never come home. thank you.💙💛

Inspired by this post // AO3 link

Anthony Stark was known as a great warrior far beyond the borders of the Kingdom of Shield and Sword. A native of the nobility, he renounced his place in the Council and became an ordinary knight of King Nicholas the Furious, and very quickly had risen to a commander. He was called Iron Man for his steel will and endurance, cold mind, ruthlessness to enemies and kindness to his soldiers. And it also seemed that he was invulnerable. He came out of any fight victorious, without a single scratch. The swords seemed to pass through the flesh, leaving no wounds. The mere mention of his name made the invaders' knees shake, and discord and anxiety reigned among the barbarians. In the Three Kingdoms, he was loved and revered, the king himself trusted him with important decisions, his opinion was valued at court, but his life was shrouded in a veil of riddles and secrets.

No one has ever seen him with a woman or a man. Rumour had it that after the service he hid in an Ancient forest, in the heart of their homeland, but those desperate who wanted to follow him and reveal this secret, wandered in centuries-old groves for days until they were spat out to the walls of the city, exhausted and lost. Someone claimed that Anthony is a hermit, and lives in the forest to avoid unnecessary meetings with people. This was at odds with his bright friendliness and caustic sense of humour, which was liked by everyone who crossed paths with him. Someone whispered that he had sold his heart in order to instil fear in enemies and demolish their heads without the slightest hesitation, with one single movement of a sharp sword. Someone else thought that their commander had a wife and a brood of children a long time ago, but he did not want to show them to society and put them in danger.

But Anthony himself didn't give a damn about all this. He skilfully avoided provocative questions, joyfully greeted the townspeople, and still went into battle without a second thought, when his king demanded it. He was the only one who knew the truth, and what the gossips were right about was that he really didn't want to put his personal life on public display.

That is why he only rolled his eyes at the jokes of his knights when they returned from another campaign, tired, having suffered losses, but still with a victory. The commander was still quietly mourning the fallen guys who gave their lives for the good of their kingdom, but did not want to pull the fun of the survivors, allowing them small pranks. Despite the external impenetrable facade and the name given to him, Anthony was quite soft-hearted, nothing human was alien to him. He couldn't wait to get home, escape into the arms of his dear thicket of the forest, and forget about the service and the world around him for at least a few weeks.

A silhouette flashed by from the side. Stark turned his head, meeting the bright blue eyes of his right-hand man and good friend, Stephen Rogers. The man looked at him as if he saw everything that was going on in his head, and it caused some discomfort. Anthony knew that no one could read his thoughts, with or without magic, but the icy gaze pierced through, making him shiver. He only tightened his grip on the reins of his faithful horse Hyacinth and looked back at the empty dusty road. The path, trodden by thousands of feet, slither between the sown fields close to the standing village to the barely visible tops of the mountains, behind which the Kingdom were hidden. They had been on the road for several days in a row, stopped for the night every two nights, which made the foot soldiers' legs give out from fatigue, but everyone wanted to be home so much that no one dared to complain.

"Your eyes are glowing," Stephen said after a moment of silence, "you're eager to come home.

"Like all of us," he jerked his heavily armoured shoulder. "Don't you want to see your spouse?"

“Of course I do. And that's why it's strange to see the same expression on your face that I've been seeing on mine for the last two weeks.”

Anthony grinned and shook his head. The scoundrel will find out everything. Despite the fact that Rogers went hand in hand with him in dozens of battles, never judged and always treated with understanding, he also did not know the entire biography of his commander. All he knew was that Anthony was really waited by someone there, in the Ancient Forest, but he wasn't going to share it with anyone, not interested in intimate details. It was enough for him to see a smile on the face of a combat comrade.

“If you know, why are you asking? Do you hope that the hard shell will crack, revealing the golden core to the whole world?”

“No. I just want to understand you better, that's all.”

Tony smiled placidly.

"You understand me better than most, Stephen. And you know more about me than others. But there is something that even you can't find out.”

“Just answer me — are you happy?”

Anthony turned to Rogers with a dreamy smile, with his eyes sparkling like two stones of dark jasper. By his face only it was possible to understand everything, nevertheless the man quietly said:

“Happier than anyone in the world,” he gave a short laugh and added: “No offence, my friend.”

“None taken,” Stephen smiled in response and shifted the topic to a more general one, which relaxed Stark a little and allowed him to let go of himself, not controlling his own words so hard.

They reached the city when the sun hovered over the horizon in a huge circle, ready to set any minute. The crescent moon hung like a ghost in the sky, a bluish glow fighting off the rays of tired daylight. From the soft pink-blue twilight, everything around seemed softer and more magical, mesmerizing travellers with such a simple beauty of their native home. Already at the high gate, they were met by jubilant citizens. They showered the winners with millet and barley, flower petals and fragrant herbs in gratitude for the peace they brought. The cobblestones, darkened by the passage of time, led to the square under the castle, where the king was already waiting for them. On the narrow streets between the houses, the horsemen dismounted, and the pedestrians gathered in dense columns, cutting through the crowd like a sharp knife. Restless children were getting under the horses' feet, parents kept shouting, dragging the kids away from the steaming animals at the last minute. In the overwhelming hum of joy and approval, the knights approached the castle and stopped at the foot of the wide stone stairs where their ruler stood.

Nicholas spread his arms and smiled proudly, covering more than a hundred of his warriors with a single eye. They all knelt before him, with Anthony at the head, but the commander allowed himself to keep his head straight and look at the king in return. During those ten months of wandering the borders of the Kingdom and fighting the barbarians, Nicholas had not changed at all: he was still stern, but there was a barely discernible warmth in his eyes towards Stark, whom he considered to be his son, for all those years of faithful service. He nodded, allowing the knights to rise to their feet, and they all turned their eyes to the king with expectation and noticeable fatigue.

"Greetings, my warriors," he began majestically, "you are finally at home. We were all waiting for you with a victory, and you did not let us down. We praise the survivors and mourn the fallen. You defended our kingdom with honour and dignity, for which you will be generously rewarded. Tomorrow you will have a feast, but in the meantime you have earned the right to rest and gain strength. Glory to you!”

The people exclaimed: "Glory, glory, glory!”, loudly applauding and whistling in all sorts of ways. Anthony allowed himself a wry smile. Grooms immediately approached the horses, ready to take them to the stalls and take good care of them: wash, comb, feed and drink. Stark stroked Hyacinth's black neck and lightly squeezed the stiff mane with his metal fingers of armour, meeting the gaze of intelligent dark eyes.

“You were a good girl, my dear,” he cooed and buried his forehead in her nose just below the eyes, exhaling loudly, “you're just great. I'll come to you tomorrow, but in the meantime, listen to the grooms and try not to hurt anyone - they just want to take care of you," in response, he received a loud, as if indignant, snort, and grinned. “Yes, I know. But very soon we will be home. I promise.”

He finally patted the faithful horse on the neck once more and handed the reins to a very young boy who was looking at the commander's companion in fright. Hyacinth immediately shook her head and kicked her hoof in displeasure, to which Anthony grinned:

“She has quite a temper, but don't show her your fear. She can smell fright a mile away, and that's why there’s all this messing around.”

"Y-yes, sir," the young man bleated and pulled the black horse into a stall at the back of the castle. Stark watched them go until someone else's hand landed on his shoulder with force. He turned around, unsurprised that there were just few people left in the square — everyone had a place to be. The king looked at him expectantly, gripping the metal of his armour with strong fingers.

“Come on, Edward,” he was the only one calling the commander by his middle name, except Anthony’s parents, “we have something to discuss.”

"Of course, Your Majesty.”

No matter how much Anthony wanted to saddle Hyacinth and ride away into the forest, the service still stood above his own interests. That was why he nodded respectfully and followed the king into the Great Hall, where the councillors and governors, including his father, were already seated. Howard jumped up from a heavy chair as soon as Anthony crossed the threshold, and hugged him tightly, not ashamed of his high status and everyone present.

"Glad to see you, son," he said softly in his offspring's ear and pulled away, looking into eyes identical to his own, "you made your old man proud of you again.”

"Thank you, Father," Anthony replied just as quietly, feeling his chest warm from the words. Even though he was already in his fourth decade, and his father's face was covered with deep wrinkles, he still wanted to make his family feel proud of him. “Glad to finally be home.”

“I'm happy about it.”

Finally, Howard patted his son's hand with a flourish and sat back down at the table, Edward sat down next to him. The king, who had been sympathetically silent before, started talking about attacks on the state, demanding a report of what was happening on the borders and began a discussion about how they could stop attempts on their lands once and for all. All this dragged on until late at night, and everyone left the hall completely exhausted. Stark, who had not known a restful sleep for months, felt like an old sponge wielded by cooks in royal kitchens, washing plates and cups. Nicholas dismissed all those sitting and volunteered to escort the commander to his chambers, which he had once allocated for him in the palace. Edward stayed in them when it was too late to go home, as it was this time. At the king's wish, he just shrugged his shoulders and moved along the corridors with a measured unsteady step, jerking his shoulders every now and then: from long wear, the armour mercilessly rubbed the skin and pressed on tired muscles.

"You did a great job, Edward," the ruler said, looking at the man next to him with some concern, "very few people give themselves to the service with the same passion.”

"Serving you and the people of these lands is the least I can do.”

"That's the noblest thing you can do, as well. I will never be able to fully thank you.”

"Your praise is gratitude enough for me.”

"So that means your salary increase isn't really necessary?"

Nicholas smiled slyly, and Anthony shrugged his shoulders, not wanting to show that the allowance would be very useful to him. He was paid enough, but money is never superfluous. Stark was thinking about the future, saving money and cherishing dreams of children.

"As you see fit, Your Majesty," he replied plainly and shrugged again, anticipating how he would take off his armour to hell and forget about it for the next few weeks.

"I consider it necessary to raise your salary by twenty-five gold pieces and a two-month vacation in your beloved wilderness. Rogers will replace you in your absence.”

Anthony was taken aback by such generosity and even slowed down, looking dumbfounded at the king's back, covered with a black shirt.

"Your Majesty, I didn't even dare..." he shook his head, gathering his thoughts. "I am very grateful to you, sir, but I must ask if my soldiers have received the same honour?"

"Of course," Nicholas nodded importantly, "everyone will receive a bonus of ten gold and a month of rest. We have enough people to protect the Kingdom, and you deserve a long vacation like no other.”

"But will the treasury be able to withstand such expenses, Your Majesty?"

“It will. Again, thanks to your efforts, villages are not robbed or burned, fields are not trampled, our fertile land is not poisoned. People are still working, neighbouring kingdoms have concluded even more favourable contracts with us, which allows me to pay both workers and soldiers a decent salary. The Kingdom of Shield and Sword is only getting stronger every day, and your role is not the least in this, son.”

The general thought only for a moment before nodding humbly. Only in front of the king he could show such meekness, and only because he sincerely respected his ruler. It was not in his nature to bend under others, which he proved more than once by his actions.

In silence, they reached the oak doors of Stark's chambers. Nicholas put one arm around his shoulders, hugging him for a brief moment, and quickly left, leaving Anthony to himself. He entered the rooms and inhaled deeply the smell of clean bed linen and herbal soap. The already familiar surroundings pleased the eye: a comfortable bed with a red canopy, a sturdy table and two rough-hewn chairs that did not lose their comfort from carelessness of work, heavy curtains at mosaic windows, a wardrobe and several empty chests of drawers. Sparingly, because Anthony did not live here, preferring to leave the palace shrouded in an aura of awe and live surrounded by nature, life, reality, away from that majestic stone walls.

He began to unbutton the clips and straps, throwing off the heavy metal with a sigh of relief. It came with some difficulties, in the absence of another pair of hands, but soon he was left only in thick clothes with leather inserts, which went to the floor after the armour, leaving a strong body naked. Fighting a shiver from the palpable coolness of the night, Anthony pulled out a lighter garment from the chest of drawers and threw it on a chair near a large bucket of already cooled water that was waiting for him in the far corner behind the curtain. Stark stepped into the water with his feet, which made him shudder again, took a hard wash cloth and hastily moistened his body. After that, it was the turn of that scented soap — he lathered his greasy hair and exhausted body, and washed himself with water again. It turned completely gray from all the dirt that covered the commander's body for many weeks. He didn't try to wash himself until his skin creaked — he was too tired — but even after such a simple washing, he felt as if he had been reborn. With a rough comb, he somehow managed to untangle his dark hair, dressed and climbed under the blanket, sighing happily. The light cotton of the shirt and pants pleasantly cooled the body, while the feather bed and duvet warmed and gave comfort. He buried his nose in a pillow stuffed with feathers and curled up in a ball, pressing his hands to his chest. The solar plexus was burning with a familiar, barely perceptible heat, which made him smile. Already on the verge of sleep and reality, he thought that no matter how good it was in the royal palace, it would be a thousand times better at home. It took Anthony exactly four breaths to fall into the long-awaited deep sleep.

He woke up out of habit with the first cocks. The body still needed rest, but the mind was as clear as the sky that morning. The sun playfully peeked in through the half-open window, watching Anthony stretch with a grunt after a short, but still excellent rest. His stomach rumbled loudly, demanding at least some food, to which the man grimaced with displeasure - he did not want to stay in the castle for a minute, but he still needed to go into the kitchen and sneak a little treat for Hyacinth to please her.

He put on low leather boots and found his scabbard at the head of the bed. The familiar weight of the sword felt pleasantly on his hip as he walked briskly through the castle. The lower he descended, the more servants he met on his way. Everyone greeted him with a smile and a nod of the head, good acquaintances lingered to exchange a few words. Eventually, Anthony managed to get to the kitchen; the spacious room on the underground floor was covered with a blue veil of steam from numerous pots and pans on the stoves and in the oven: everyone was preparing for the upcoming celebration with might and main. Cooks and small servants were rushing back and forth with food and ready meals, giving instructions and shouting over the general noise.

"What kind of people," Anthony heard close to his ear and turned to the sound of a woman's voice. In front of him stood Natalia, one of the princesses who loved to visit the most unexpected places for the royal blood, “have you come to personally give instructions for the feast? Don't worry, I'm sure your favourite rum will be served first.”

“I'm looking for something to appease Hyacinth,” Stark chuckled and crossed his arms over his chest, not giving up under the inquisitive gaze of the girl, “and what are you doing here? It's not right for Your Highness to get her hands dirty with such work.”

“Which I don’t,” Natalia shrugged her shoulders and waved two tight red braids, which received a disapproving look from one of the cooks. Anthony smiled knowingly and looked at the servants at the far wall, near the door that led to a narrow secret staircase. A dark-haired guy was looking back at him with a cocky grin. Strong, sinewy hands peeked out from under the sleeves of a gray shirt, fingers clutching the handle of an axe.

"Buchanan," Anthony drawled and turned his gaze to the princess, who, on the contrary, turned away with a barely noticeable blush. “Your Highness…”

“Yes, yes, I know,” she rolled her eyes, “he is married to Knight Rogers, happily married! It's like I have some kind of power over my own heart.”

“That's for sure. I can only say that your happiness awaits you somewhere out there, behind the walls of the kitchen. You'll be languishing here all the time – you won't have a chance to meet someone even more worthy," he fell silent for a moment. “And I also heard that Crown Princess Maria is coming to our kingdom. Her disinterest in men is a fairly well-known fact. So there is nothing to poison your soul with false hopes in vain. It's better to go out and give yourself a chance.”

Natalia looked at him for a good minute, without any reaction, before smiling gratefully, squeezing his forearm with an elegant palm.

“You are incredibly wise, Anthony,” from behind her back she pulled out a canvas bag with the clear rounded outlines of several apples. “I think this will be useful to you,” she also stole a slice of freshly baked bread from the table, still hot, and handed it to him, “just like this. Father will be displeased that you are leaving today.”

“The King himself gave me two months of rest.”

“I think he assumed that you would go after the feast.”

The commander's thin lips stretched in an anticipatory smile.

“May His Majesty forgive me, but I've been waiting to come home for almost a year. I'm not going to wait another minute.”

Natasha also smiled broadly and nodded towards the door, prompting the man to take action:

“Go ahead, then. Don't keep them waiting.”

Anthony nodded and went out into the corridors of the castle again, winding through the familiar passages and stairs until he was back in his chambers. He packed up his armour and other belongings in two clunks and left the room, closing the door tightly. A little later, one of the servants would come to clean up, but until then, no one should have seen the mess he had made overnight. Usually neat and thrifty, Stark took care of both armour, sword and horse, as well as clothes, bed, the house in which he lived, and the land belonged to him. He was ashamed to leave his chambers in such a state, but impatience was already boiling in his body lake oil, burning all his insides and urging him to go faster.

He went out to the stables, meeting the eyes of the old groom. The latter only nodded to him and continued to clean out the stalls, not paying any attention to him. It was quiet, only the occasional snorting of horses interrupted the established idyll. Hyacinth, as if sensing his approach, stuck her head out into the passage and neighed loudly, meeting her master. Anthony smiled, dropped the bags on the floor and stroked the horse's head, lightly scratching the short fur with his nails. The black looked much better than yesterday: neat, shiny, combed and obviously pleased, she poked Stark on the cheek and hands, demanding affection.

“Hello, my gear,” the commander addressed the horse in a familiar affectionate tone, “did you behave well? I see you've been taken good care of. Great. We're going home," he pulled an apple out of the bag and brought it to Hyacinth — the deliciously looking red sides immediately disappeared into her mouth with a loud crunch. The lips slightly hooked the open palm; after chewing, the horse trustfully licked the hand with a rough tongue, begging for more, to which Anthony smiled. “Okay, here's another one.”

The man fed her the remaining two apples and entered the stall, attaching the saddle to Hyacinth's back with honed movements, tightening the flaps and putting on the bridle. The thick black tail was swinging anxiously from side to side, but the horse was silent — she understood that very soon they would be home, and she would be able to forget about the constant load for a long time. Anthony secured the clunks on the saddle and led the animal outside.

The sun caressed the landscape with a soft morning light. Dark roofs of houses beyond the moor, overgrown with moss in some places, juicy green grass, which Hyacinth immediately pinched to chew, narrow trodden paths to the castle or to the city. The fortress itself pleased the eye with unusual gaiety, anticipation was in the air. Someone will celebrate in the large halls of the stone walls, someone will go to the city square much lower down the streets, and will dance until the morning. Only Anthony was indifferent to the celebration. With all his soul he was drawn to the forest, to his home, to a quiet harbour.

He checked all the fastenings once more and with a smooth movement of his body straddled Hyacinth, gripping the bridle tightly in his hands. Without armour, his weight was not so noticeable, which is why the horse joyfully reared up, neighing cut through the peaceful silence. The rider almost fell to the ground, slightly damp from the morning dew, but only laughed, allowing his fighting friend a little joy. He kicked the black sides with his heels — and the black immediately took off. Anthony bent down to the horse's neck, holding himself expertly in the saddle. The loud clatter of hooves on the cobblestones warned onlookers all along the street ahead, people parted before the galloping animal that darted like an arrow between the two rows of houses on each side, raising dust behind. A strong current of air ruffled the rider's hair, as well as his dark mane. Stark felt a happy laugh bubbling in his throat. For such a long time, filled with nothing but battles, he had forgotten how wonderful it was just to ride light like that, wherever his eyes looked.

Pretty quickly, Hyacinth crossed the city and came to the edge of the forest. Anthony caught his breath — majestic trees bent their crowns under the wind currents, rustled their leaves, beckoned deep into the mystery of nature. The ancient forest stretched to the very horizon line as far as the eye could see, and stood here long before people built their city at its borders. The inhabitants revered the creation of the highest forces, no one allowed even the thought of chopping down century-old oaks, slender birches, razlogie firs and powerful cedars. Everyone, from naive children to wise old men, believed that the wrath of heaven would fall on anyone who wanted to harm the forest.

Hyacinth, without slowing down, flew into the thick of it, bypassing trees and overcoming obstacles in the form of fallen trunks, thickets and angular stones. Without looking around, she confidently galloped forward, as if led by something. The trail ran ahead like a thin snake, but if you look back, only dense rows of greenery and wood will be standing behind you. High above, birds screamed in fright, disturbed by the horse's loud gallop, scared wild animals ran away in all directions. The forest breathed the scent of herbs, the warm wind, the coolness of unbridled rivers and lakes. Anthony inhaled the smell with a full chest, until his lungs ached, and pulled Hyacinth by the bridle, forcing her to switch to a light trot. He straightened up, looking at the endless riot of flowers, the celebration of life, where death was just the beginning of a new path. Stark missed the trees familiar to every roughness of the bark, the voices of forest dwellers, the air that made his head spin with its freshness and settled on the tongue with the taste of freedom.

Over the years of living here, he learned to respect the Ancient Forest and take care of it; he was not afraid to get lost, because he believed in invisible spirits, as the townspeople believed in the Lord, who always led him to the right path. The forest was alive: he spoke and was silent, he loved and grieved, laughed and cried. The forest was bigger than Anthony could ever realize, but the man revered him as the church reveres Jesus. Nature was his religion, life here was his altar, where he knelt before the unrestrained power and authority of the Mother of All. Others would think he was crazy, but that belief was one of the few things that made him feel real.

Very soon, the forest led them to a cluster of rocks, looking like a mountain range. More than three meters in height, they stretched to the left, turning inward. Anthony got off Hyacinth and took her by the reins, pulling her to the right. Ten steps later, a slit appeared in front of them as if out of nowhere, hidden in the best traditions by tree branches and long graceful stems of wild ivy that touched the grass with its angular leaves. With his hand, Stark pulled the green curtain aside and entered a short tunnel. The horse snorted with displeasure at the sight of the dark passage, but obediently walked alongside. Following the route learned a long time ago — five steps forward, a turn to the left, three steps straight and three steps to the right — the travellers quickly overcame a small cave and came out into a bright clearing.

High stones encircling a quiet place with a crescent moon, and a small lake at the two "ends” of the ridge, with a river coming out of it, created an extraordinary solitude and tranquillity. The same sturdy trees stood by the stones, and on the opposite side of the lake there was ploughed land overgrown with wheat, potatoes, corn and other crops. There was a neat stone house with a wooden veranda by the pond, and cherries, apple trees and nuts grew around it in a small garden. Anthony stood in the shade of a weeping willow that bent its vine over the crystal clear water, majestic and beautiful. On the left, along the very edge, there were small wooden buildings — a stable, stalls and a chicken coop. The horse shook its head and neighed, receiving a three-voiced answer. Stark grinned and still led Hyacinth to her dwelling, where they were met by other horses: a gray Fjord, a brown Raven and a bay beauty Luka. The man happily greeted the horses with stroking on the neck and kissing on the nose, noting with surprise the rounded belly of Luka.

“This is a surprise,” he smiled and ran his palm through the silky hair at the belly with trepidation, “and who is the happy daddy? What else happened while I was gone?”

Luca responded with a whinny and pushed Anthony's nose in the back, as if driving him away. He shook his head and led the patiently waiting Hyacinth into an empty stall, finally removing the saddle and harness, to which she happily kicked her front leg. Stark put hay on her and patted her black neck with his palm, saying goodbye. He also looked into the chicken coop, noticing three chicken more than he remembered, checked a black-spotted cow Fanny, along with a goat Alberta, were still in good health.

Rounding the lake, Anthony approached the house, picking a cherry from a nearby tree on the way. The bloody red sides smelled of the sun, tasted sweet, like honey. The openwork curtains in the house through the wide-open windows fluttered a fresh breeze, the porch was filled with clay pots with medicinal herbs and strange plants that were not found in their region. The man climbed the stairs, listening to the faint creak of the boards. The carved handle lay familiarly in the palm of his hand when Stark finished the apple and entered the house, breathing in the familiar smell of his native haven. All the same medicinal herbs, a bitter note of alcoholic tinctures, melted metal and ... something new that wasn't there before, unclear what exactly.

Finally, the tension left the body completely, the broad shoulders relaxed, it was worth seeing all the same small oil paintings, elegant lamps, already worn-out floor mats and greenery. There is a lot of vegetation, as if the forest has found its continuation in these walls. His heavy boots clattered loudly on the wooden floor in time with his steps as Anthony moved deeper into the house. The tips of his fingers stroked the rough wall of stones and clay, entwined with ivy stalks. The variety of colours and shades, despite the monotony of the building, pleased the eye and was an outlet after long months away from home.

The door to the nearest room was ajar. The man bit his lip painfully in an attempt to restrain the laughter rushing out and went inside, catching a sight of the figure at the window. House walls, studied to the smallest detail, remained out of sight, the eyes eagerly dug into the man's back, hidden by a loose white shirt, and elastic curls on his head. A deceptively elegant, somewhat fragile silhouette loomed in the rays of the midday sun. Anthony felt his breath catch, his heart quickened its rhythm, a sweet pull tightened his chest.

"Peter," he croaked, and took a step toward the window. Peter immediately turned around, flashing carnelian eyes and a smile that could replace the sun of the day. Stark sobbed violently, dropping a single tear, while from someone else's chest a quiet warm laugh.

“Spirits of the forest, who are you, and what have you done to my husband?”

Anthony laughed and picked up Peter's body in readiness when he closed the small distance between them in a few steps and rushed into his arms. He was immediately struck by a warm wave, the smell of metal became clearer: magic. Dear, pleasant, because it belonged to Peter.

"You've grown like you haven't seen a pair of scissors in ages," Peter muttered into his neck.

He pulled back and looked into Anthony's eyes, cupping his face in his hands. Peter looked so tenderly, with such boundless love, that he wanted to cry even more. Stark covered the others' palms with his own and brought the brushes to his lips, leaving a few kisses on each wrist, entwined with witchery patterns. The drawings immediately flashed a bright golden colour, but at the same moment they went out, leaving behind an ephemeral feeling of warmth on the cheek. The man began to examine his husband's face, a bit changed, but still the same: the hair was shorter than he remembered, which caused them to curl in small elastic rings; the face, previously as if chiselled from stone by the best craftsmen, acquired roundness; Peter himself seemed to glow from within, and it was not magic. The look showed even more steel than before, the shoulders are completely relaxed and straightened in a proud posture, the smile is confident, but at the same time even more affectionate. He has changed so subtly, while remaining the same witcher full of love for the world, with his soul wide open. Anthony, unable to resist, bent over Peter, leaving small kisses on his face, to which he laughed and became stubborn.

"Come on, Tony, you're prickly.”

“I'm sorry, I just missed you so much.”

“Me too. Very much. Now come on, I'll warm you some water.”

“But I want to hug you…”

“You will hug me after I wash off all this dirt from you and bring you back to human form, dear.”

Peter intertwined their fingers and pulled them along, squeezing Anthony's hand tightly with his own. Tom had no choice but to obediently follow his husband into the kitchen, where a large wooden bucket was already waiting for them in the centre of the room. The witcher let go of his hand and gracefully waved his wrists — buckets of water from the corner floated to the bigger bucket, pouring all the contents into it until it was almost filled to the brim. One more pass — and the water began to breathe steam, hot in a minute. The patterns on Peter's hands again shimmered with a golden glow until he was satisfied with the result, lowering them down. Anthony wanted to come up to him from behind and put his arm around his waist, but the husband dodged the touch, his shoulders tensed just for a second, but it was enough for the man to frown.

“Is something wrong, love?”

"It's all right," Peter smiled softly, no trace of heaviness or contention on his face. This only confused Stark even more. “Why’re standing like a stranger? Get undressed.”

Without thinking much about his actions, Anthony pulled his shirt over his head, and then his pants along with his shoes, presenting himself in front of his husband in all his naked beauty. He noticed how the sparks flashed in the honey eyes, how the Adam's apple twitched, how the chest rose through a deep breath. Peter's gaze searched his body, burning holes and sending shivers through his skin. There was a distinct heaviness in his groin, but Stark did not allow the excitement to manifest itself and sank into the hot water, sighing blissfully. A little water spilled onto the floor, which the witcher immediately removed with an angular movement of fingers, kneeling behind her husband. He shuddered, feeling the gentle touch of thin fingers on his shoulders. At first, they were neat, timid, as if they were on the thin ice of a frozen lake, and every movement could send them into the blue cold of the depths; then the whole palm lay on the skin, ran down to the elbows, then to the wrists. Peter’s breath was felt on the back of his neck. Peter stroked his chest, back, torso and neck, thereby erasing the line that had emerged between them during this time apart. Anthony felt trust, openness, honesty returning, as if by magic. But the witcher's patterns didn't glow, which indicated the magic blossoming between them from the very first meeting.

The man closed his eyes, allowing himself to dissolve into the unpretentious tenderness and care of his spouse. Peter touched him as if he was the most precious treasure in his life. Tears welled up in his eyes again, Stark sighed and grabbed his lover's still dry palm, unable to resist another kiss. Peter's fingers habitually rested on his cheekbone, turning his face to the side, where he was met by an answering kiss on the bridge of his nose. To feel her husband's lips again was a breath of fresh air after a week of suffocation. Drowning in love, he found every movement a revelation that tore down all the walls between them. So stern in the service, and so sensual next to his husband.

For a moment Peter disappeared somewhere, rattling the kitchen cabinets, but very soon he returned with a wash cloth, soap and a clay ladle painted with flowers. He filled it with water and lightly pressed Anthony's forehead, forcing him to tilt his head back, and poured water on his hair. Much longer than ever, they reached to the shoulder blades, the beard also grew, and resembled the face of a priest of the Christian church. Peter's fingers gently touched his soaked strands, he took the soap and lathered them, caressing the scalp and neck. There was a sweet smell of milk and green millet, Anthony closed his eyes and exhaled, smiling broadly. He listened to the splashing of water, the measured breathing of his husband and ... a baby crying.

Startled, Stark immediately straightened up and turned to Peter. The man stared back at him with fright and obvious worry, his palms still covered in foam, as well as Anthony's hair. While the baby's crying became more and more hysterical, a thousand assumptions managed to flash through the man's head, none of which looked plausible enough.

"Peter," he croaked, forcing the words out of his throat with difficulty, "what's going on?"

Anthony watched as Peter immediately washed the foam off his hands and, with a pained expression on his face, squeezed the rim of the bucket with his fingers, not daring to touch his spouse.

“Tony, I'll explain, I promise …” he bit his lip and squeezed his eyes shut when the child's voice broke into a scream. “Just… Please come to the west room when you're done.”

Without waiting for an answer, he literally stormed out of the kitchen, leaving shocked Stark behind. He sat without a single movement, listening to the baby's crying subside, Peter's quiet singing is heard. He didn't understand anything, each subsequent thought seemed more absurd than the other, so he shook his head and washed the foam from his hair, then began furiously soaping his body. Without the presence of his husband, Anthony finished pretty quickly, got out of the bucket, pouring water almost all over the floor, and wiped himself with a towel, which was waiting for him on the nearest chair. He wanted to immediately rush to Peter and find out what had happened while he was gone, ideas about cheating came into his head, but he forced himself to get dressed and pull a shaving blade out of the locker. He filled a bucket with soapy water from a bucket and pulled his hair into a knot at the back of his head, securing it with a piece of cloth that he tore off from the hem of an overly long shirt. The man took a deep breath, looked into the murky reflection of a small mirror on the bedside table, lathered his beard abundantly and held the blade, revealing a pale strip of skin. He rinsed it in water and shaved part of his beard again. He methodically got rid of his coarse dark hair, thereby drawing a line between the past and the present, leaving the horrors of war and battles in the past. Something worse than death awaited him in the uncertain future, but Anthony stood in the kitchen, as if nailed to the floor, and shaved, breathed deeply, banished all doubts, tried to think sensibly. He allowed himself the luxury of stalling for time, but now his face was smooth and clean again, a familiar man was looking at him from the mirror, which he had been before leaving for the other end of the Kingdom, and the inevitability was already breathing down his back.

Anthony sighed and poured the dirty water back into the bucket, put the remaining dry wash cloth, blade and soap back into the closet and looked around, absorbing the unchanged environment with his eyes. In the corner is a voluminous stove, brilliantly painted with drawings of nature: trees, flowers, animals, so alive that the deer looked like he would start prancing, and the flowers would open their buds. All kinds of cabinets were lined up against the walls, where kitchen utensils, food, medicinal herbs and tinctures could be found. A little further from the centre was a sturdy wooden table and four chairs with soft wool cushions. Often in winter he and Peter would make tea, sit opposite each other and talk, play chess or cards, just be silent, basking in the warmth of the stove and the softness of the blankets on their shoulders. Stark pushed the memories away and strode out of the kitchen, quickly crossing the house and finding himself in front of the bedroom door in the west wing. The next door is his and Peter's room, and this one is obviously a nursery.

He bit his lip, not daring to take up the carved handle. The breath was taken away, the lower abdomen was twisted from nerves, tired shoulders trembled noticeably. Anthony didn't want to give free rein to his feelings, but fear settled like a sticky goo in his chest and gathered in a lump in his throat. So fearless on the battlefield, now the great commander has become a frightened sheep in the face of the unknown. He did not know what was waiting for him behind that door: whether he would lose what he had cherished so carefully for many years, or find something valuable and dear to his heart. Stark took a deep breath, closing his trembling eyelids, and still opened the door to the room, crossing the threshold with more fear than ever.

Previously almost empty, the small room now resembled heaven on earth. Bright, with blooms of various plants crawling along the wall; nappies are stacked on a bedside table by the window next to quilted toys made of soft-looking fabric. Peter was standing by the open window, his back to the door, swaying slightly from side to side, his head slightly tilted down. The July breeze ruffled the air curtains, filled the room with freshness and the smell of hyacinths from the flower bed at home. His heart skipped a beat, the boards creaked under Anthony's heavy step. Peter immediately turned around — and his heart stopped for a second once again, but not from fear, but from the picture before his eyes.

Dressed in loose clothes, barefoot, with chocolate curls on top of his head, the witcher was holding a little girl in a white shirt and tiny socks in his arms. Still toothless, she drooled a small fist, turning her head to Anthony. She looked about three months old, and the baby was adorable. The man noticed that she had the same big brown eyes as Peter, which caused a dull pain in her chest.

"Pete," Stark croaked and took another step towards him, but stopping at a sufficient distance from his spouse, "please�� What does it mean?”

Peter looked as if he had stepped off the canvases of the great masters of painting. In the light of the midday sun, he seemed to be a living embodiment of Christian icons; hope and immense love splashed in his eyes. Now it was clear to Anthony what had changed the witcher so much in these ten months — the child. A tiny human being turns anyone's life upside down, irrevocably changes everything. But, gods, how fatherhood suited Peter…

"I- I didn't tell you because I wanted to surprise you."

“A- surprise me? What do you mean?”

"I found out a few weeks after you left.”

“So the conception happened while I was still here?”

“Obviously. But I didn't bother you because I knew that you would immediately snap and rush home. Still, duty comes first. That's why I didn't write anything in the letters.”

“How you- Why did you do this to me? Does my love mean nothing to you?”

"It means everything to me! I was afraid of losing you!”

“Do you think that everything has changed now, and you are not losing me?”

“I was hoping you'd be happy.”

“What? The appearance of some child in our house?”

“I thought you wanted children.”

“I want children. But this… This is completely different.”

“How is it different? Does the fact that I carried and gave birth to a child make me a smaller person than I was? You think the same about women, don't you?”

“Wait,” Anthony raised his hand and widened his eyes in surprise, “this is- Is this baby from your womb?”

“What other womb should she be from?” Peter would have already flared up, but having a child in his arms left him only blushing with anger and misunderstanding, talking in lowered tones.

“I thought… I thought you have someone else.”

As soon as those words left Stark's mouth, he immediately regretted it. Peter's eyes flew open, his mouth opened slightly, but no sound came out of his throat. He immediately put the baby in an elegant cradle suspended on long ropes, and approached his husband, stopping at arm's length. The Witcher looked with wet eyes into Anthony’s, as if searching for an answer there, while the commander stood motionless, unable to look away.

"I guess we haven't lived together long enough for you to fully understand that magic is not just incantations," Peter said softly, his tone sending goosebumps down Anthony's skin. “Our union is irreversible, it will be dissolved only by death. And death will follow the one who lies with another. Have you forgotten the ritual? Have you forgotten the day when we bound our souls into one?”

No, he hadn't forgotten. Even if he tried, Anthony would never forget the summer solstice, a tall bonfire in a clearing in the middle of the forest that seemed to whisper something in an ancient language in a quiet breeze. They are with Peter, almost naked, in the centre, and around them the Magical people and the inhabitants of the forest — animals, mavkas, spirits. He will always remember their blood spilled at the ritual stone, how melodious words of the spell poured out of the wizards' mouths. That day, Peter's patterns changed, acquiring a new shape, and an amber glow settled in his own chest — an echo of his husband's magic that settled in him forever during the ritual. Then they merged into one whole, indestructible, and both felt it. The festivities continued until the morning, the air was saturated with happiness, magic and the smell of ginger ale that hit everyone's heads — both people and mythical creatures.

"I could never," Anthony protested just as quietly and rubbed his eyes wearily with his fingers. It seemed like a quarrel, and they had never fought before — not so much.

"Then why do you have doubts about my loyalty? You don’t trust me?”

“I trust you as myself. But what was I supposed to think? I've been gone for ten months, you've been suspended in my last weeks at home. In the letters — silence, and now you have a baby in your arms!”

“But it explains the reason for my nervousness then, before leaving. And you're going to fight, damn it! I know that no one will kill you while I'm alive, but it doesn't calm me down in any way!”

Peter raised his voice, waving his hands. Two tears ran down his cheeks, gathering into a drop on his chiselled chin, and Anthony could not stand it. He wrapped his arms around his shoulders and pressed him to himself, immediately burying his nose in the curly crown, inhaling the soothing smell of metal and herbs.

"I understand, my love. But... you should have told me.”

“Yes, I know. But this idea is about how surprised and delighted you will be when you come home and find out that I wasn't the only one waiting for you… It was too good to let it go.”

At that moment, Anthony felt as if he had been hit on the head with a butt. Of all the words spoken, he could not bear the main thing — he has a daughter. This thought made him inhale loudly and pull Peter away from him. Now it was him who was looking for an answer in his eyes and praying to everything on which the world stands that this was not a stupid joke.

“This is- This is my baby…”

His voice was full of disbelief, his eyes radiated every doubt, settled in Anthony's soul. Peter grinned affectionately and wrapped Stark's face in his palms, gently stroking the skin with his thumbs.

“Yes. This is your baby. Our daughter.”

Tears poured from his eyes like a river, his knees buckled from sudden weakness, and his lips stretched into the widest smile. Peter immediately grabbed him by the waist when the man began to sink to the floor, and he hugged him again, snuggling tightly to his chest, which shuddered from small quiet sobs.

“We have a daughter,” he whispered into Peter's white shirt, squeezing the fabric on his back, “our child. My baby.”

“Yes, you're a father now,” a smile could be heard in the witcher's trembling voice, he gently stroked his husband's head, trying not to unravel the knot on the back of his head.

“You did it all by yourself.”

“Well, not without help. There were times when Mavkas came to rock her, and the trees sang lullabies. May practically lived here for the first weeks after birth, Stephen and Wanda became frequent, their help was invaluable. I wasn't alone.”

“I'm sorry.”

“For what?”

“For being around everyone except me.”

Peter lifted Anthony's head and kissed his salty cheek, getting their foreheads together and stroking his sinewy neck.

“You're always there.”

They stood there until they lost track of time. A minute or an hour passed — none of them knew. Anthony was just enjoying the warmth that Peter surrounded him, and he was trying to realize that his beloved was finally at home. But after a while, Stark carefully pulled away from his husband and looked at him with hopeful eyes.

"Can I-" he began hesitantly, "can I hold her?"

A slightly tense Peter relaxed after these words and smiled, biting his thin lower lip.

"Of course," he breathed, and immediately went to the cradle. The baby was already sweetly cunning, lying on her back and clenching her tiny fists, but he still carefully picked her up and kissed her lightly on the forehead, stroking the tummy hidden by the magpie. He went up to the frightened spouse and held the child to his hands; the girl immediately opened her eyes and sobbed briefly, but Peter immediately cooed soothing words to her, so she calmed down. “Come on,” the witcher encouraged Anthony, “don't be afraid. She doesn't have teeth to bite yet.”

He smiled nervously and still took the baby in his arms, gently pressing her to his chest. She looked a little scared from the presence of someone formerly unknown, but Peter was there, quietly talking to her. A dark strand fell out of the knot at the back of Anthony's head and fell on his face, the tip touched his daughter's rosy cheek, to which she shuddered and grabbed his hair with enviable strength, knocking out a painful hiss from Stark. The witcher laughed softly and carefully untangled a strand from the grip of a tiny palm, and then gently tucked it behind his ear.

“Still have to get a haircut, dear.”

Anthony just smiled nervously and hesitantly raised his palm to the girl's face. Rough calloused fingers next to the most delicate milky skin looked awkward and stupid; it seemed blasphemy to desecrate something so pure and innocent by touching with hands that mercilessly tore heads off shoulders and pierced hearts with a sword. At that moment, his whole life ceased to have any meaning. Military service, which he considered a matter of honour, became just a justified murder and a mechanism for subjugating the disobedient. She painted his hands with blood, which he did not want to leave on his daughter's life. All that he had experienced in his long life was boldly done with just a wave of the long reddish eyelashes that framed the child's eyes. The same as the love of his life. She looked at him with curiosity and incomprehension, her hands reached up to explore a new face, the rounded tummy was heaving steadily from breathing. Holding his daughter in his arms, Stark realized that he would never be able to return to the way it was before, and that he loved this baby more than anything in the world. She was in his life for only an hour, but during that time he realized that he was ready to die for her. Love at first sight still exists — the love of a parent for their child.

"What's her name?" Anthony croaked, on the verge of tears. He didn't shed a tear in the war, but this morning he cried so many times that it would be possible to sprinkle the fields.

Peter laughed nervously. "She doesn't have a name yet.”

This statement deeply shocked the man.

“What do you mean, she doesn’t?”

“ I was waiting for you so that we could choose a name together.”

The Witcher looked slightly nervous, running his fingers over his daughter's fluffy head, and did not notice how Anthony's face softened, and he smiled the happiest smile.

"It's a great honour," he whispered, and Peter smiled back. “How about… Susan?”

Peter wrinkled his nose.

“Anna?”

“Another Anna? Soon, half the city will start turning their heads to this name.”

“Emilia?”

“No. This doesn't fit.”

“Patricia?”

“You can't do this to our child.”

“Well then… Morgan.”

Peter thought for a moment.

"Morgan," he finally said.

“Morgan?”

“Morgan Maria Parker-Stark.”

"Perfect," Anthony said on an exhale and bent over his daughter, leaving a long kiss on her forehead. The baby smelled of milk and metal, the sweet smell of a baby with a hint of tartness that her father possessed. “Hello, Morgan. I'm your dad," Morgan twitched her legs and twisted her mouth into a semblance of a smile. “This is the happiest day of my life.”

Stark looked up with sparkling brown eyes at Peter, who looked back at him with such love that it took his breath away. With his free hand, Anthony caught his husband's fingers and brought them to his lips, kissing the fragile protruding knuckles. He took a ragged breath and leaned against his shoulder, looking at his daughter from the side.

“Welcome home, my love,” Peter said quietly, leaving a warm kiss on Anthony’s neck, “we’ve been waiting for you for so long.”

#starker #tony stark x peter parker #starker fic #my fanfiction #writing #peter parker x tony stark #tony x peter #realm of magic #knight!tony #witcher!peter #inspired by moodboard #mpreg mention

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