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#and i cannot search efficiently on Ao3 rip

ficsilike-reblogged · 4 years

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Blood in the Rivers: IX

A/N: Apparently I cannot write short chapters. Thank you for your patience and for all the likes and reblogs and kind comments on the last chapter. I love you all so much. Special shout-out to @starlight-starwrites for listening to me whine about this chapter.

Pairing: Oberyn Martell x Ellaria Sand x F!Reader (Tully)

Rating: NC-17, for acts of warfare (blood, guts, and gore--our Tully is a little mean), Face-sitting, fingering, using sex to go to sleep, a few kisses

Word Count: 14.2k ( ¯\_(ツ)_/¯)

Read Chapters I-VIII here! Or on Ao3!

Chapter Nine: The Monster, The Maiden

King’s Landing still smelled of piss and soured bread.

Robb’s missive had come just after they had set the Lannister fleet alight at Lannisport. Yara and her fleet would be left to sack Casterly Rock with a majority of Y/N’s small band of men while Obara and Arya and a handful of Riverlanders set off toward the capital with Y/N.

Cersei had grown desperate and crazed. Growing only more bold and paranoid after she was crowned Queen.

King Tommen was dead. Margaery had been thrown into the Black Cells under suspicion of his murder and the new queen had pulled nearly all of her loyal bannermen to protect the city. Obara surmised that it was a Faceless Man, sent after the king after the Iron Throne refused to pay their debts to the Iron Bank of Braavos.

So much had changed since she had left the safety of Sunspear’s shadows. And yet not enough. The Lannisters still called themselves the rulers of the Seven Kingdoms and the Realm still suffered.

Obella’s tactics had kept all but a handful of the men under Y/N’s command alive. The Westerlands had been put to the torch and their gold and silver mines plundered in the dark of the night. The small band of Riverlanders hid in the dense forests and picked off the Lions’ bannermen when the roads forced them to march two-by-two. She, Arya, and Obara had been welcomed as guests at Pinkmaiden and settled there as their first command stronghold. When asked why she did not think to travel to Riverrun, Y/N’s answer was simple. “I have asked men to leave their homes to fight. I do not go home until they do.” They had never stayed in a location for longer than two days, moving from target to target with brutal efficiency.

But now she was back in the gods-forsaken capital that she had narrowly escaped.

“Has it always smelled like this?” Obara asked, nose crinkling as the wind carried the putrid stench up to the high hill above the city.

“Yes,” both Arya and Y/N answered.

The men at their backs looked grim and anxious in their cloaks, trying to hide their armor. While the Northmen and Dornish were still marching toward the capital, the Reach knights and cavalry had been the first to arrive at the gates of the city, demanding the release of Margaery—the rightful queen. It provided a well-enough distraction.

Y/N slipped off Qēlos’ back and patted the mare’s side in thanks. The beautiful horse had earned her weight in apples a thousand times over in this terrible war. She handed the reins to Lord Blackwood who promised to keep her safe until she returned.

“But are you certain-”

“Lord Blackwood, my answer has not changed since the last time you asked. I thank you for your concern but it is unwarranted.”

The older lord’s face colored with an embarrassed blush and he dipped his head. “Of course, my lady.”

Arya barely concealed a laugh as she, too, dismounted but Obara was stone-faced as her feet hit the damp grass. Patrek Mallister was quick to offer his hand to take her horse’s reins. (In truth, he’d been quick to do anything Obara needed. When they were still setting the Westerlands ablaze and picking off their infantrymen from the cover of forest, Y/N noticed that the majority of men under Obara’s command were either half in love or half terrified of the eldest Sand Snake. Patrek was decidedly the former. His time as a captive of the Freys after the Red Wedding had stripped him of the wandering eye he was known for.)

Obara and Arya stepped to Y/N’s side and they each took a deep breath.

“May the Warrior protect you,” one of the men whispered at their backs.

But Y/N could scarcely hear it over the thudding of her heart. No matter how many times she had readied for battle and shadowed warfare, her heart always leapt into her throat. And maybe that kept her alive, the slight-panic keeping her senses heightened.

“This way,” Arya said, leading them down, down, down. While Tyrion’s crude drawing of the placement of the wildfire around the Red Keep and King’s Landing was safely tucked into Y/N’s small pack, Arya was the one leading them into the mouth of the passages beneath the city. She had warned them about the smell.

It did not help.

Once pleasant and cool water gave way to stink and muck that had Y/N retching. Arya shushed her above the lapping brown water as one of Euron Greyjoy’s longboats neared where they had been treading against the waves. And then, much to her horror, it became clear that they would have to submerge themselves in the muck to avoid detection as the boat sailed by. Through the brown water and with burning lungs, Y/N watched the boat sail across the surface and she nearly vomited when they quietly crested, feeling the disgusting water line her mouth as she clutched her pack to her chest.

“Nearly there,” Arya whispered, starting a slow swim toward a dark corner of the wall.

They were quiet as they hoisted themselves up into the stone hole, gurgling with more sludge. But Y/N could not hold back her retch any longer as they finally curled around a jagged corner. It echoed in the dark and she winced when she heard it.

“Come, Little Fish, do not let your stomach fail us now.” Obara’s words of encouragement were stilted as she tried to keep her own rolling stomach contained.

“The worst is behind us,” Arya whispered with a small smile, murky water on her lips.

Both Obara and Y/N sighed at the girl’s unflinching (if not dark) optimism they quickly set off after the young Stark, following her steps in the dark, twisting tunnels and up the tight steps of uneven stone stairs which led to more tunnels and more stairs. They walked in silence for a long stretch of time, the squish of their soaked boots the only sound they heard. But dim light soon trickled down from some unseen room above to light the path Arya led them on. With the light came the realization that they were surrounded by dragon skulls, damp and dusty with the passing of time.

“I once thought they were monsters,” Arya whispered, a far-off look on her face.

“Is this what you found when you disappeared for half a day?” Y/N asked, skirting around a skull with teeth as long as her arm. It all seemed like a lifetime ago that she had been worried about where Arya had hidden away and Ned had sent Y/N and half his guard out into the city to look for her. When Arya arrived back at the Tower of the Hand, reeking and dirty, near dark, Ned had been both relieved and furious with his youngest daughter.

“It was,” was all Arya said, voice sad. It had been a lifetime for her, too.

And now they were here, in the bowels of the castle that had tried to rip their lives asunder and had very nearly succeeded. But now it was their turn.

The dim light only grew a fraction brighter as Arya finally slowed to a stop—but the noise grew, too.

The first voice was unmistakably Cersei; “the Red Keep has never fallen.”

“Our own father helped it fall. Have you forgotten everything?” Jaime near-snarled in return.

Y/N crept closer to light on quiet feet and followed it so she could more properly hear the conversation. Any bit of information was valuable, even if she was soaked in muck down to her skin. She pivoted so she could look up into the room above, a tiny sliver of stone crooked in its place. She recognized the carved pillars and marble lions of one of the interior courtyards even through the small field of vision the stone allowed.

“Father is here—he will never allow-”

“Our father is not a god despite your best efforts to make him one in your heart of hearts. And neither are you.”

“He will keep us safe. I am Queen of the Seven Kingdoms! Let them try to take my crown.”

“They will try!” Jaime pressed. “The Tyrells are at the gates and the wolves and Martells are coming. What will you do when they arrive and Father’s plans fail you? Yara Greyjoy’s fleet have taken Casterly Rock. There are whispers of Riverlanders picking our bannermen off from the trees after torching most of our bannermen’s lands. What will you do?”

There was a pregnant pause and Y/N felt Obara tug on the back of her jerkin, trying to get her to move.

“Let them have ashes.”

Obara tugged again and Y/N let herself be pulled away this time as she fumbled to grab the wax-coated map of Tyrion’s wildfire storehouses from its hiding place in her pack, unhearing of Jaime’s reply. “We must be quick.”

Arya huffed. “You were dawdling.”

But the three of them set off in search of the glowing jars of fire and found them almost exactly where Tyrion had said they would be and quickly—and carefully—started to move them, hoping that Tyrion’s map proved accurate again. It took hours of cautiously shuffling in the dark to move the cracked glass jars and half-filled barrels they found to where they needed them for this plan to work. They did not have the time to completely empty the city of its wildfire caches and knew there were still piles of them in secret coves and shadowed corners of the city’s underbelly.

Through more thin walls and cutaway stones, they heard whispers. Whispers of the forces outside the walls. Whispers of movement of the gold cloaks and Kingsguard around the city. Whispers of doom with the arrival of the Northmen at the gates.

Whispers whispers whispers.

When her arms ached and her clothes had dried, they moved the last little jar into their pile. But the tiny jar refused to settle and tried to topple from its perch. Y/N thrust her hands out and caught it before it shattered on the floor. A single drop leapt from the jar’s depths and missed her hand before it spattered on the ground, hissing and smoking against the stone.

“We have to go,” Obara said. Even through the thick walls, they could hear the din of movement along the balustrades, readying for battle. Obara had a small barrel in her arms, too. The second-to-last piece in their plan.

Y/N froze for only a moment before she tore off the sleeve of her tunic and shoved it into the top of the jar in as a makeshift stopper. She could use it later, she reasoned to herself, as she stuffed it into the small bag at her back.

Arya was pressing her ear up to the slab of stone at the end of a squat, dead end tunnel. She only needed to stand on her tiptoes to reach it, face tight with concentration. “We’re good,” she whispered before reaching up to move the stone. A whoosh of cooled night air came with it.

Obara started to slowly pour out the contents of her barrel, leaving a sickly green trail from the pile of jars up to Arya’s side. “You first, Pup,” she said, crouching to avoid hitting her head on the ceiling.

Arya then leapt and scrambled up into the dark. Her little hands reached down for the barrel Obara was holding and Obara followed her path up once the barrel was out of her grasp.

“Little Fish,” Obara whispered, “come. We’re nearly finished.”

Y/N glanced back at the pile of wildfire. It looked so much smaller from a distance. She hoped it was enough. Obara held out a hand for her and Y/N took it, needing the help to get out of the tunnel. They were just outside the city now, right at the edge of one of the Old Gate. The grass was damp beneath their feet with early-morning dew as Obara took the barrel from Arya and quickly emptied its contents down into the hole and then trailed it away to leave a smoking green puddle. She discarded the barrel as they crept toward the sparse forest, hoping the growing sun would provide enough cover so the guards on the walls would not see them. The murmur of a city ill-at-ease crept over the high walls and gave a beat to their retreating steps.

Tytos and Patrek were hidden behind the first handful of trees, looking more worried than Y/N expected.

“The Tyrells have retreated for the moment. The archers on the walls have kept them from battering down the Lion Gate,” Tytos said as he handed over the reins to her horse. “And the Northmen have arrived.”

“Have they seen you or our men?” Y/N asked as she rifled through one of the saddlebags for a canteen and a scrap of cloth and quickly wet it, wiping it across her face.

“I do not believe so, my lady.”

Y/N nodded and then tossed a fresh and damp cloth to Arya and Obara, letting them clean their faces, too. She then grabbed a small canteen of ale and swished it around her mouth before spitting it out. “Raise your banners. It is time we made our presence known.”

Tytos nodded once again and signaled toward the men lining the dark of the trees.

Y/N hurried to pull on her armor and huffed out a thanks when she felt Obara’s rough fingers tightening laces or adjusting the pauldron over her shoulder that she had skewed in her haste. Arya’s armor was impeccably placed even without help and Obara slapped at Patrek’s hand when he tried to assist her.

The banners of the Riverlands started to rise as they stepped out of the tree line. Shouts came from the wall when they were spotted.

Y/N patted Qēlos’ flank as she pulled her bow and quiver from the horse’s tack, sending the mare further into the woods to wait.

“Archers!” Some gold cloak yelled from his perch. “Archers!”

Y/N nocked her arrow and Arya lit the end. Dirty fingers pulled the string tight for just a moment as she angled it up into the sky and then let it loose. It sailed through the air and hit the small puddle of green at the base of the wall.

A terrible crack and boom filled the sticky dawn air and Y/N nearly lost her footing as some invisible force shoved her back. Green flames filled the air and the city wall erupted into a storm of broken brick and black dust.

“The wall!” someone cried, muffled against the ringing in her ears. “They’ve breached the wall!”

Y/N righted herself and watched as her small band of Riverlanders and Obara and Arya surged forward in a wave, quickly followed by men in copper armor, pressing into the city’s wound as the green flames of the wildfire continued to eat at the wall and screaming soldiers.

The Dornish had come.

She nocked another arrow and let it fly, tearing into the neck of a distracted solider at the top of the crumbling wall. Another pushed an archer taking aim from his perch. Again and again she picked off the remaining soldiers on the balustrade above the hole in the wall until her quiver was empty. But then, even over the din of the battle, she heard a distinctive crack. Metal breaking and smacking against stone and brick.

“The gate! Defend the gate!”

And now there were two.

Y/N slung her bow across her shoulders and drew the pair of small blades from her belt and pushed forward, trailing behind the press of Dornish and Riverlands.

The city was in chaos. Gold Cloaks and Kingsguard and Westerland bannermen were scrambling over the rubble and wreckage, swords clashing against the invaders. But the Reach and North had pushed their way through the Lion Gate.

There would be no escape.

A man in red and gold armor screamed as he ran at her, spear thrust out in front. Y/N was able to dodge it but his feet could not be stopped and she sank the end of one of her blades through the eye slot of his helmet. She knew she needed to keep moving. Her armor was not meant for full-scale combat like this. But she would not leave her men, Riverlander or Dornish, to fight alone.

But the battle raged. Her small blades were coated in crimson and her arms ached as they pushed forward toward the Red Keep. Toward Cersei.

She caught sight of Arya in the skirmish ahead. The little wolf was holding her own for the most part against some City Watch brute but a well-timed kick to her stomach had Arya falling to the ground, her little sword slipping from her grasp.

“Arya!” Y/N screamed as her heart leapt into her throat to strangle the air from her lungs. “ARYA!” She pushed through the pulsing group, watching the Gold Cloak sneer and stalk toward Arya who struggled to get to her feet. Y/N fought against the crowd, dodging an ax at her throat and a sword at her stomach with a desperation and savage grace a person could only conjure for someone they loved. But she knew… She wouldn’t get to her in time. She wouldn’t make it. The man raised his sword, sweaty face pulled tight with glee and ready to strike the life from Arya Stark and then-

A golden hand caught the sword just as its reached its crest and Jaime Lannister shoved the man back before driving his sword through his belly.

Y/N slid to a stop on her knees as she reached Arya’s side, pressing Needle into Arya’s grasp again and urging her to her feet and back into the near-safety of the advancing crowd. Jaime gave them both a look as they stumbled back, unreadable and…sad. But then he was gone between the swarm of swords and shields.

The Bells did not ring. There would be no surrender. She expected nothing less from the queen.

But perhaps she should have remembered Cersei’s cruelty, her need for control, and Cersei’s own words. All Y/N could think about was finishing this—finishing this war, this stupid war that had taken too much from everyone she cared about.

As the sun started to settle high in the sky, she heard a rumble. Even over the roar of the growing battle, she heard it. Felt it shake the stones beneath her feet. And then the city burst. Green flames and thick smoke filled the air as brick and wood rained down like a terrible storm, ripping through Westerland armies and invaders alike. Dirt clouded her mouth and she tasted fire as her ears started to ring with an intensity she had never experienced, pushing her back and on unsteady feet. With dazed eyes, she watched a man in a gold cloak stumble forward, mouth open in a silent scream as the emerald flames blazed across his armor.

Someone’s hands grasped at her arm and tugged her to the side, finding a bit of refuge behind the fallen remains of an inn. Arya was looking up at her, covered in soot and blood and Y/N watched her mouth move for a few moments, unable to hear anything but then it came back in a wave.

“-taking the Red Keep.”

“What?” Y/N asked, tongue heavy in her mouth.

Arya frowned. “Did you hit your head? Robb is about to take the Red Keep. Cersei must have sent someone to light the rest of the wildfire.” Arya turned to look at something over her shoulder and stiffened. “Come on. We haven’t finished this yet.” The younger girl pressed Y/N’s blades back into her hands. She hadn’t even realized she had lost them. And then Arya was striding away through the rubble, disappearing into a haze of smoke as green flames continued to lick at the wreckage.

Y/N shook herself, trying to free her mind of the buzzing and sluggishness and opened her pack, making sure that her own stash of wildfire had not started to crack or bubble. It was intact, thankfully, and it gave her enough momentum to push forward. Another gold cloak ran into her path a few steps later. His armor was blackened and charred, and buckled when she kicked at his chest to knock him toward the ground before driving one of her blades into the small gap between his cuirass and helmet.

It was easy when they staggered and stumbled or looked too long at the green flames. It was easy. When had it become so easy?

But it didn’t matter when she kept Obara from falling to some red cloak’s sword through her back or when Tytos was knocked from his horse by a City Watch soldier. It didn’t matter that it had become easy when she was keeping her people alive. The ground continued to rumble as more small pockets of wildfire roared to life and burned everything it could. But she kept moving forward, her steps trailing behind Obara’s as they pushed up the steps toward the Barbican of the Keep. It had been reduced to chunks of splintered wood and twisted metal, trampled over by the advancing armies. Y/N turned as she reached the top—just for a moment—to see the destruction the war and wildfire had brought upon the city. Almost a quarter of King’s Landing was gone, swallowed into the maw of black smoke and broken stone. The Red Keep was still burning. More green flames had reduced most of its outer walls to piles of smoking rock and ash. Only the Holdfast still stood tall. If Cersei’s plan had been to burn the advancing armies in the streets—she failed. But a sizeable group of Kingsguard and Gold Cloaks still stood between them and the crown that sat on Cersei’s head.

And they pushed and swung their swords and battered their shields, driving the loyalists back or into the ground.

But then something caught Y/N’s eye. Drew her attention like the Stranger had placed their hand upon her head and turned it.

Tywin Lannister was standing outside the smoking Tower of the Hand. His sword was bent and his helmet fell from his fingers with a clatter. His guards had abandoned him; his grand army reduced to only a handful of men. But his face still hardened when his cold eyes raked over her. Even as the battle had clearly been lost, he held his head high and pointed his sword toward Y/N with a sneer. “Come along, girl. Let us finish this.”

Equal parts dread and joy stoked her soul then. And her heart thundered in her chest even as she knew that the time was short. As Tywin took a step toward her, she threw one of her blades, aiming for his throat—and he deflected it easily, as she knew he would. But her hand dove into her pack and her fingers found the warm glass. Y/N threw the jar at him, uncaring of how her shoulder popped and ached with the sudden movement. All she could do was smile when she watched it smash across his chest plate, dripping green. His eyes grew wide as recognition flickered across his face. She bent to pick up a piece of burning wood and threw it at him, watching the green flames erupt.

Fire makes people dance. And Tywin was no exception. He screamed through the green.

The scrape of a sword against a sheath gained her attention.

It was Oberyn. Dark eyes alight with want and fury and, with a single stroke, took Tywin’s head from his shoulders. It still burned as it rolled across the stone, spitting green embers in its wake. The body slumped to the ash-covered ground, plate armor smacking against broken stone. And then Oberyn was marching toward her, sliding his bloodied sword back into its sheath. With his usual brutal grace, he wrapped his arm around her waist and slanted his mouth against hers, uncaring of the grime or dirt. Y/N quickly reciprocated, pressing her lips firmly against his. Months of separation, months of wondering if she would see him again despite her promise, months of yearning poured out of her as she grasped at the back of his neck to pull him closer, uncaring for the moment of the surrounding destruction. All there was, was Oberyn Oberyn Oberyn and his beautiful mouth that she had missed too much.

He only pulled back to breathe before he took another kiss, smiling against her mouth. “Blood suits you, my moonlight.”

And it suited him, too.

Tywin’s head looked large as it sat next to Cersei’s. Most of it had escaped the wildfire because of Oberyn’s quick removal but half of it was still charred.

The man and woman who had destroyed her family had been reduced to silent heads on a soot-covered floor.

Robb was sitting on the Iron Throne, Widow’s Wail across his lap and a hammered bronze and iron crown settled over his dark auburn curls. The grime and blood of battle still streaked his armor but he looked every bit the portrait of a king with Grey Wind sitting near his feet, gnawing on something that looked suspiciously like someone’s arm. The remains of the Throne Room were filled with dirt-smudged commanders and lords who had sacked the City. Oberyn found all of it tedious and had slipped away with a kiss to her temple to help his men settle into camp for the night.

The sun was setting, casting the entire room in the warm glows of pink and orange over its broken walls and melted windows, like the gods were presenting them all with a bit of beautiful quietness for their victory. Their dead would be tended to later, before the city would be looked over to see what could be salvaged. The story that Cersei had set the stashes of wildfire alight as a final effort to kill the advancing armies was already being whispered throughout the smoking city. No one needed to know that the only reason why more destruction had not been reaped was because of Y/N, Obara, and Arya’s actions in the winding tunnels. It was their secret to keep and hold.

As Robb started to hold court, presiding over the captured Lannister forces and learning Euron’s fleet had turned and run when the wildfire had started, fleeing East toward Essos, Y/N excused herself, trying to fill her lungs with something more than soot. She walked through the winding halls, some half broken and others still filled with groups of injured needing a healing touch. And perhaps it was muscle memory, but Y/N found herself standing outside the door of her old room before she could remember turning that corner or walking down this hall. Her fingers brushed against the wood. The wound from Gregor’s sword had not been patched and it splintered under her touch when she pressed against it. For a moment, she thought of opening the door and walking in and seeing what else had changed or stayed the same. But her hand retreated. Her life was not here anymore. There was no need to step into a place of terrible memory just for memory’s sake.

Movement out of the corner of her eye caught her attention and Y/N’s heart leapt into her mouth at the sight. “Jon?”

His face morphed from anger to surprise to joy and then he was running toward her with outstretched arms.

She met him halfway and threw her arms around him, uncaring of the blood or dirt and grime. He still smelt of fresh snow and pine even over the stench of battle. His gloved hand found the back of her head and he held her close—like he was afraid she would disappear from his grasp if he let go too soon. “Your hair is so long now,” she murmured into his shoulder.

And his answering laugh sounded choked in his throat. “I have so much to tell you.”

“We have all the time in the world.”

But then Mace Tyrell cam huffing and puffing into the hall, still clad in his gaudy golden armor and red in the face. “My lady, Lord Snow, His Grace is requesting your presence.” He then turned and half-ran back toward the throne room without an ounce of grace and his tarnished golden armor untightened and slapping against his extremities with each step. Y/N hid her laugh behind her hand until Jon nudged at her shoulder.

“You have not changed at all, Y/N,” Jon quietly mused.

“Oh, I have changed quite drastically, dear cousin. But not the parts that matter.”

Jon shook his head with a small smile. “I will hear your stories one day.”

“As I shall hear yours,” she promised just as they walked through the broken threshold. But the respite was torn away the moment she noticed who had been lead in chains in front of Robb’s new throne. A handful of Freys were on their knees and snarled at her as she walked past when Robb waved her forward to stand at his side. They were surrounded by the small band of men she had brought to King’s Landing—every one of them looked hungry for blood. And if there had not been an audience, Y/N would have let them slake that need.

“House Frey has refused to bend the knee,” Robb said, his light eyes cold and hard as his gaze moved to the men at his feet.

“Usurper-!”

Whatever insult the Frey had wanted to spout was silenced when Tytos cracked him across the face with a closed fist, his dented gauntlet still covering his hand. “Silence!”

He turned and spat blood. A tooth clinked against the floor. “Bitch.”

Tytos raised his hand again to claim the rest of his brown teeth but Robb stood from the throne and strode down to the man and grabbed the Frey’s greasy hair and yanked his head back to expose his throat. The edge of Widow’s Wail pulled a thin line of crimson from his throat as he gulped. “Tell her what you confessed. Tell her, braggart,” Robb seethed, making sure to angle his face to look at Y/N. But every other person was staring at her, too.

And Y/N wished she had Oberyn to stand with—to feel his steadying warmth at her side when the man’s hard stare ripped across her face. But Arya was a comfort too, moving to stand at her side with a snarl of her own. “We found your father outside Pinkmaiden. He tried to bargain, said the Red Wedding did not have to stain all of our hands.”

Y/N could feel her heart stutter in her chest but fought to keep her face neutral. “But you did not care to treat with my father.”

“We dragged him to Harrenhal,” another man said with a laugh. “Took his head and gave the rest to the bear.”

Y/N felt her stomach roll. Bile was rising in the back of her throat in a terrible wave as she curled her into fists behind her back. Grey Wind rose from and licked his bloody chops, baring his sharp teeth and the man cowered and shriveled. “You boast of your own damnation. Have they never taught you of what becomes of men who do not heed the gods’ warnings? Or have the gods never touched The Twins?”

The Freys bellowed, screaming and hollering this and that but all she could hear was a dull roar in her ears, watching their dirty faces contort with their own simple rage.

She dragged her gaze to Robb. “I have heard what they had to say, Your Grace. What else would you have of me?”

Robb stood straight, ignoring how the prisoners still fumed. “I would have nothing of you, my lady. You and your house have paid a high price for your loyalty.”

Robb’s words pushed something both cold and soft against her fragile heart. She nodded once, knowing his words meant more than their simple meaning. “House Frey has wronged more than just me and mine, Your Grace. You know that better than anyone. Do with them what you will. I do not care for their mortal coils and the gods will not care for their souls.” And she watched, a little entranced as they were dragged away, one by one, and slowly the Freys’ screaming was snuffed out. Y/N noticed a bit of tension leech from Robb’s posture as the quiet settled over the crowded room and he retook his seat.

But it was quickly washed away as the next prisoner was brought in, chains singing with each step. A quick kick to the back of his legs brought Jaime Lannister to his knees in front of Robb. And the last living lion in the city actually smiled. “Stark, we must stop meeting like this.”

Maege Mormont started to draw her sword when Robb held up a hand. “You once made my mother a promise. An oath. To return her daughters to her care.”

“I did.” His green eyes flickered to Arya at Y/N’s side.

“You failed.”

Jaime clenched his jaw. “I did.”

“And then we find you fighting alongside your sister.”

“To be fair, it seemed your sisters were already in the care of your cousin so my oath-”

“My sister is the only reason your head is not on a spike,” Robb seethed. “She told me of how you saved her life.”

“Is this true, Lady Arya?” Some lord from the Reach asked. He was quickly met with looks of derision from the surrounding Northmen for questioning her or Robb. (“Of course it is true! She’s no reason to lie!”)

“It is true,” Y/N said, stepping in front of Arya who looked ready for the ground to swallow her whole. Her pride was a fearsome thing. “I saw it with my own eyes. Against his own bannerman, he raised his sword to keep Arya safe.” Murmurs started to slide through the assembled crowd and Robb’s jaw ticked to the side but all Y/N could see was Jaime’s soft, sad smile when he looked at her, like he was remembering how she cried and asked him not to tell anyone. A quiet kindness repaid.

“Your brother has been granted exile.”

And Y/N watched Jaime’s eyes widen, almost hopeful, as Robb continued to speak.

“You will have until sunrise to find a way out of my kingdom. If I see you again, your head will be thrown into Blackwater Bay.” Robb waved his hand and the chains encircling Jaime’s wrists and ankles were released. “A life for a life, Lannister. I suggest you make the most of it.”

“Perhaps they’ll have a song about my father when this war is truly over and the city is rebuilt. They can call it the Fish and the Bear.”

“I would hope the bards would grant him a more fitting song. He had more tales to tell than the way he left this plane, my moonlight.” Oberyn wrapped his arms around her as they stood on the balcony of her room, watching the city settle in for the night and she pressed her ear over his heart, listening to its beautiful beat and letting it steady her own.

It had been nearly a week since they had taken the Red Keep and Robb had been proclaimed king. Everything was slowly being rebuilt. Northmen and cavalry from the Reach were staying to help the city’s smallfolk resettle and survive, creating a sense that all would be well. The gold taken from the Westerland mines settled the Iron Throne’s debt with Braavos. Margaery had been surrounded by the maesters and healers the Tyrells had ferried with them in the war, making sure her time in the Black Cells had not permanently injured her, but had been presented to Robb just this morning and he had gladly accepted her as his queen. It was all a show, of course. The alliance between Robb and the Reach had been forged in the shadows long before he ever set foot in the city. The plan that Oberyn and Ellaria carefully crafted had unfolded beautifully. There were a handful of pieces left to move but Oberyn and Dorne were thankful for a bit of respite and Y/N was grateful for his arms to fall into when she felt that insidious ache once again grow in her chest. Oberyn made it easier to bear. He had kept her close when the other lords and ladies started to learn of her campaign in the Westerlands and what she had done—looks of horror and morbidly curious whispers disappeared when Y/N was in his arms. She only wished that Ellaria was there, too. It had been far too long since she had them in her arms. She needed them both.

“You are being called back to Sunspear, are you not, my prince?” A raven had arrived from Dorne just after they had broken their fast.

“We are being called back to Sunspear,” he mused before pressing a kiss to her forehead. “But you are not coming with me.”

Y/N had not said anything to give him that inclination. But Oberyn always knew. She felt him breathe in the scent of her skin as she sighed, burrowing a little closer to his warm chest. “I have to finish it.”

“I know, my moonlight, I know. And I will never keep you from your wrath.” He leaned back to gently cradle her face in his warm hands. “But I will have you promise me, again. Promise me that you will not forget us. Come home. When you are finished, come home.”

“Tell me something, Arya. Something good.”

“I met a boy. Named Gendry.”

A dense fog had settled over the damp grass, curling its ghostly fingers around the trunks of the trees that sheltered Y/N and the armed men from any eyes that might be scanning the land from the safety of their chambers.

Arya spoke, unhurried but succinctly, about her time disguised as ‘Arry’ with Yoren and then the Brotherhood without Banners, as Y/N waited for her men to finish a perimeter check. Most she knew, having gleaned it from conversations with Arya back in Dorne when they took breaks at the training grounds with Obara. But it seemed she placed the secret of Gendry a little closer to her heart. “I thought I saw him in King’s Landing before we left. Working as a blacksmith again.” Arya almost sounded wistful. “I didn’t ask or get too close. I wouldn’t… I wouldn’t know what to do if it was him.”

“I think we have both learned that fear gets us nowhere, Arya,” Y/N said softly. “If he makes you happy, makes you laugh, try. Seven know you deserve some joy.”

Arya’s mouth tilted up in a small smile and she looked out toward the formidable fortress of The Twins, seat of House Frey. A strange location for such sentimental talk but it seemed the pair both needed a bit of respite. The handful of Riverlands men who had gone with her to King’s Landing were accompanying her for one last mission. And a small band of Northmen who were heading home were given leave by their king to help Y/N if they chose—and they did.

Ghost, Jon’s white direwolf, trotted to her side on silent feet and Qelōs whinnied in greeting. Y/N had met Ghost after taking King’s Landing when she found Jon wandering the ruins of the holdfast, trying to find a kitchen so he could feed Ghost. The direwolf was decidedly quieter than Grey Wind but no less protective of his chosen Stark or anyone Jon seemed fond of.

And where Ghost was, Jon always appeared. She watched Jon slide through the trees to stand at her side.

“Twelve guards on the perimeter. Five archers in the Water Tower.”

“Inside?”

“No more than forty.”

Y/N nodded and tightened her grip on the reins. She knew most of the Freys and their allies had been in King’s Landing and had been disposed of in battle or by the ax.

But she wanted all of them.

“They seem to be gathering who they can. Must’ve heard whispers of us marching North.”

But the Freys had few allies left. They were the only house in the Riverlands who had not sent forth supplications and oaths of fealty to the new king and queen of the Seven Kingdoms. And the simple bit of parchment in Y/N’s saddlebag was all the protection and fodder she needed to fan the flames already consuming the dark part of her heart that had led her here. It read simply; House Tully was once again Lord Protector of the Trident and the liege lord of the Riverlands. Any and all actions House Tully made on behalf of the Crown to secure allegiance and peace were sanctioned and accepted.

Perhaps Robb did not know what Y/N meant to do. But maybe he did, letting her loose on the House that had caused both her and her sweet cousins so much pain. She had kept her wrath contained while at war. It burned and raged under her skin but she had pulled it back like a tiger on a chain, knowing that if she had let herself be blinded by her need for vengeance, she would have only caused herself and others more heartache as her men would fall to the sword and ax because her plans would have left them vulnerable instead of safe. But now they were safe. This was the final piece. And she could let it finally burn.

A window pushed open and caught Y/N’s eye. A glint of metal, a cage, was revealed in low candlelight. The rookery, it would seem. Y/N watched a raven fly and pulled an arrow from her quiver. She nocked it and pulled her bow taut, listening to the string sing under her fingers. The arrow flew and took the bird from its flight. They would have no support.

Y/N drew another arrow and turned to Jon. “Give the signal.”

“Your father would be proud, my lady. You are a force, just as he.” Tytos was still filled with compliments even as he let a maester stitch up a gash on his arm.

Y/N managed to smile and dipped her rag into a bowl of fresh water and dragged it across her blood and dirt caked face and neck as she glanced out the window. For a moment, she doubted Brynden Tully would be proud of her. Letting loose a band of men still raging from victory and anger from the betrayal of the Red Wedding onto enemy territory and giving them permission to do whatever they wanted and needed to take the fortress was not honorable or something he would have ordered. But he was gone and she still breathed. She was a survivor—and she knew he would be proud of that.

Portcullises crumpled and arrows flew. Swords ran red and the fortress burned. The siege had lasted all of a handful of hours—just long enough for her to spend her quiver of arrows as she picked off fleeing Freys as they ran across the bridges. But it was finished. Almost.

Y/N grasped Tytos’ uninjured shoulder and squeezed, telling him to rest as Patrek ran into the room and told her they had finished gathering the Freys as she requested. He led her out of the damp, dark castle and onto the grass just on the edge of the Green Fork. A band of about twenty men were on their knees as the Northmen and Riverlanders created a circle around them with dirtied swords kept them from wavering.

The last of the Freys. All of them were guilty. Every single one of them knew of the plot and drew their blades when the time came. Each one had benefitted in some way from the slaughter of the Red Wedding and murder of her father.

Patrek continued on as Jon separated himself from the group and touched her arm just before they reached the group. “This will not bring them back,” he whispered, dark eyes pleading. He had seen enough bloodshed.

Y/N pushed his hand from her arm and stepped forward. “No, it will not. But blood begets blood. And I shall bathe in it. There shall be no root or stem left.”

Patrek had dragged a large stump from the tree line and set it at her feet. She watched a few of the men nervously glance between the stump and Y/N, knowing what was coming.

“Your men have refused to swear fealty to King Robb, the rightful King of the Seven Kingdoms. Your House has refused to bend the knee. Guest Right was violated for greed.” Y/N held her hand out for the ax Lord Cerwyn had across his back and he gave it readily. “I have learned that if you pass the sentence, you should swing the sword. I gave the order.” The weapon was heavy in her grip as she remembered Ned’s words. She’d just been a girl when he had said them and his eyes were sad. But she knew the words to be true and just. “Bring me Lord Walder Frey.”

Two Northmen darted into the group of Freys and pulled a snarling man, still in his sleeping clothes, up and then dropped him to his knees at Y/N’s feet.

“Little Lady Tully,” Walder sneered with rotted teeth. “If your cousin had been half the bitch you are, she might still be breathin’.”

“The gods gave you a chance to be true when they sent Lady Catelyn to your door. They gave you another when your men found my father. You and your wretched family betrayed mine. Now you must reckon with me.”

Walder’s face contorted and splotches of red dotted his grey cheeks. “You-”

Y/N swung the ax and buried it into his neck but it caught on this spine. His eyes grew wide as blood spurted and oozed from the wound. Walder’s mouth opened and closed with silent curses and stained his brown teeth red. She yanked the ax back and watched the Frey crumple down onto the stump before finally cleaving the man’s head from his shoulders. “Bring me the next,” she called out over her shoulder. “I should like to finish this before nightfall.”

She needed a new ax after the third Frey. And a damp cloth to wipe the blood from her face and hands.

“Bring me the next!”

A tall man was then shoved to his knees in front of her, brown hair thin and greasy as it stuck to his sweaty face. He snarled up at her, as a handful of others did before.

“Name?”

“Raymund Frey.”

And that gave Y/N pause. “Arya!” Arya came running, a stranger’s blood streaked across her cheek but still bright-eyed. Y/N handed over the ax. She took it with a frown and glanced at the Frey. “This is Raymund Frey.”

Realization dawned on the young Stark’s face and her grip tightened. If the Freys had not been so fond of bragging, perhaps they would not have known he had been the one to slit Catelyn’s throat at the Red Wedding. But they knew. And so, Y/N watched Arya bury the ax into the man’s neck.

And when all of them were gone, bodies left out to be pecked by hungry carrions, Y/N walked out into the river and washed the blood from her hands. It was finished. The blood in the rivers had washed her clean.

Riverrun had managed to survive a handful of sieges and a brief Frey occupation without losing its integrity. Jon and Arya accompanied her to her family’s seat and she invited the Northmen to rest in its halls for a fortnight before continuing North.

Houses from the Riverlands descended upon Riverrun when they heard of her return and Edmure’s release from the bowels of Casterly Rock. And Y/N was not sure if they had heard of her campaign at the Twins or in the Westerlands but a handful of them stuttered and avoided eye contact when they once again swore fealty to House Tully and bumbled through lathing compliments for King Robb as if he were standing beside her. It amused Arya endlessly who poorly concealed her giggles behind her hand until Jon nudged at her shoulder.

But Edmure had been much changed since his time in Casterly Rock’s dungeons. He walked with a limp and was in need of a cane. The fingers on his left hand were crooked, healed broken and at strange angles. And his vigor had left, his pride, too. Whenever anyone asked for an edict or command, his blue eyes flickered to Y/N and she found herself answering.

Settling feuds, giving instruction on how to rebuild, granting clemency, and doling out justice when needed. Through all of it he seemed to look to Y/N for guidance, to answer for him. She had only planned to stay long enough to make sure the Riverlands were at peace but Edmure gave her pause.

It was exhausting and confusing and Y/N, more often than not, found herself in the familiar kitchens late at night in search of wine. While she had anticipated that being within Riverrun’s familiar halls would finally grant her some peace, all she found was longing for the warmth of the Dornish sun and the gentle touch of Ellaria and Oberyn. The sound of the little ones laughing in the Water Gardens while Obara hollered out formations at the training field. Riverrun was so…quiet. Had it always been so quiet and cold? A small comfort was taking her father’s childhood rooms as her home. It was a way to feel close to him but the ache that had settled in her heart grew a little easier to bear with each passing day. And receiving a raven from Winterfell made her smile, too. It was from Sansa, stating that she had sailed North from Sunspear and had settled back into Winterfell without issue, a small band of loyal Northmen at her call. She had been named Warden of the North by her brother Robb and Y/N remembered how the broken throne room had been filled with cheers at the news, even if Sansa had not been present to hear it. But her own troubles persisted.

Jon found her the night before he, Arya, and the Northmen were to depart for their homes. She poured him a large glass of wine and ushered him into a seat in the dark room and finally pried his story from him. He spoke of betrayal and death and love and loyalty until the sun rose with the next morning.

“Out of all the Starks, you were the most prone to finding trouble.” She reached out to grasp his hand and squeezed, matching tired smiles on their faces. “But you survived. That is all that matters to me.”

He laughed and rubbed at his eyes as she smiled. “If you ever tire of the snow, come to Dorne. I will always have a place for you.”

And then she led him out into the sun to join the rest of the Northmen and bid him goodbye with a tight hug and a kiss against his head and she turned to Arya who begrudgingly gave back the Sand Steed she had stolen before hugging Y/N with a ferocity only she was capable of.

“Find your joy, little wolf,” Y/N whispered into her hair as she held Arya tight. “You deserve it. Now, stay safe.”

Arya nodded and sniffled once before clearing her throat as she pulled back. They both whispered soft goodbyes to each other as the morning light continued to grow. And then Y/N watched them disappear on the horizon with a heavy heart, knowing she was strangely alone now in the place she had called home. As she stepped inside, she nearly bowled over Roslin. Apologies tumbled from Roslin’s mouth as she cradled her son to her chest, almost shaking.

Y/N bit back a sigh and plastered a smile on her face. In truth, Roslin was a genial and gentle woman. Pretty. Loyal. So unlike the rest of her family. Y/N saw how she constantly looked to Edmure with love in her eyes and was met with a broken smile in return. And when the news had come of what had been become of her family, Roslin almost seemed relieved. It made Y/N wonder what she had endured while under her father’s thumb. “It is nothing, my lady. My fault. You are Lady Tully now. Apologize for only what is necessary.”

Roslin froze for a moment, as she always seemed to do whenever Y/N spoke with her, but then nodded with a small smile of her own. “Of course, my lady. Thank you.”

The pair spoke for a little longer, Y/N asking after the health of her babe, a boy nearing his first nameday and named after Edmure’s childhood idol and pride of their house, Kermit Tully, who had led House Tully to the height of their power during the Dance of Dragons. Yes, Y/N supposed, Roslin would grow to be a fine Lady Tully.

If only she could ensure Edmure would become the man she needed him to be.

Y/N eventually found herself slipping away after bidding Roslin a good day and walking up toward the rookery, she wanted to send a raven to Sansa to ask how she was faring. The ravens cawed in greeting as she stepped inside. They always recognized her, the intelligent little beasts. But it was the open window that drew her attention. A white raven cawed as it turned to watch her approach. The noise came again as she brushed a finger against the bird’s back and it fluttered its wings, showing the slip of parchment tied to its leg.

Y/N already knew what the missive would say – white ravens only appeared with the changing of the seasons.

The raven cawed against and nuzzled against her finger as she untied the parchment before flying away. And she was right – “winter has come” was all the Citadel had written, probably in haste to finish the hundreds more needing to be sent.

When she asked Edmure what should be done, finding him sequestered away in Hoster’s old rooms, he gave her another tired smile and asked her to make sure the other Riverlands houses were informed and cared for. Yet another obstacle. Dorne had never seemed so far away.

Y/N ordered the overfilled storehouses of the Twins be emptied to make sure the houses beleaguered by the long war would not starve and wrote to Willas and Olenna in Highgarden to secure a few hundred bushels of grain and barley as well. Even with the war, the Reach had enough to spare. And so, more weeks slipped through her hands. Lords and ladies from across the Riverlands came to Riverrun to receive what House Tully could give them and continue to ask for guidance from their liege lords.

An envoy from House Vance was the latest to arrive and it was then that Edmure seemed to finally show some of his former self. He smiled and greeted them, welcomed them, and helped them settle for the handful of nights they would be housed at Riverrun. And a breath Y/N did not realize she was holding finally pushed its way out of her tired lungs. He would be fine, she told herself. He just needed time.

Even Roslin seemed to settle more into her role at Edmure’s side. It was comforting to know that House Tully was secure once again. She sent a raven to Dorne, telling Oberyn and Ellaria she hoped to leave within a fortnight and arrive before the first snow of the new season. It put a certain spring in her step to think that soon she would be back in Dorne. She would be married and-

“Y/N!” Edmure called her name and snapped her from her pleasant reverie before the evening meal. She walked to his side in the hall and offered a small smile. “I have a gift for you, cousin.”

Before she could ask what the gift was, they were ushered into the hall for the meal. Edmure then pointed out Lord Vance’s third son and prattled on for a majority of the meal. Kirth Vance was handsome, she supposed, and he spoke kindly to servants and squires alike and tended to his horses and hunting dogs with care and doted on his nieces and nephews—if Edmure could be trusted. But every word nearly turned her stomach and she resorted to pushing her food around her place in a poor attempt to look like she was eating.

Ser Kirth was almost bashful as he met her gaze and quickly ducked his head with pink cheeks. “He thinks you are the most beautiful woman he has ever seen,” Edmure continued to whisper. “Kirth is not one to overstep—he would listen to your commands and see them through as a faithful consort to you here at Riverrun.”

And then she saw what this was.

“I would have the room,” Y/N said, rising from her seat. While most everyone quickly scurried away, including Roslin and her babe, Edmure signaled for Kirth to come closer. “No, no, Ser Kirth. My dear cousin has misread my intentions. I would speak to him alone.” Another ruddy blush took over his cheeks and he tipped his head before all but running from the hall. When the door firmly shut, she rounded on Edmure. “How dare you.”

Edmure stood, cane clacking against the floor. “Y/N-”

“If you think for a moment that you have the ability to coerce me into staying by offering me a man like that, you do not know me at all.”

“You led the Riverlands to victory. Not me. Not little Robb. You, dear cousin. You raised the banners and called on their loyalty and oaths. You bled alongside them.” Edmure pulled in a shaking breath and pressed harder onto his cane. “Riverrun should be yours.”

“I do not want it.” Y/N turned away from him, trying to hide her disgust. “Is this why you have shunned your duties? You believe you cannot serve your people.”

“I know I cannot.” And he sounded so defeated that she almost turned to comfort him. But rage kept her still.

“Then the Lannisters have won. They sought to strip you of your will and pride and make you a soulless creature of their making.” And Edmure was quiet and that was what had her turning. Her once near-boastful and handsome cousin had all but curled in on himself, face warped and scrunched like he was near tears. “Don’t let them win, Edmure. They are gone. You are still here. You are the man who led men into battle without flinching. You are the man who sheltered smallfolk here, in your home, because you knew they were scared.” Her voice cracked, broken in her throat. “You are the man who read me stories when I was a child. You are a good man. True, brave, and honest.”

Edmure shook his head and a single tear escaped his eye. “I cannot be that man again. I am tied to the family that imprisoned me, killed my sister-”

Y/N reached out to place her hand over Edmure’s on the head of his cane. “The Freys are dead and at my hand. I would gladly do it again. But that woman loves you—loves your son—despite your best attempts to spurn them. The gods have given you a fine wife, Edmure. Do not squander it.”

“She-”

“Is your wife. The mother to your heir. You were once a man of honor. Be so again. No one shall claim the Twins. Let it rot if you wish. Roslin loves you, chose you over her family. There is no ill will in that woman’s soul toward anyone. Just love.” Y/N sighed. “We know love in any form is rare, Edmure. You have found it in Roslin. I have found it-”

“In Dorne,” Edmure grumbled. “Yes, I have heard of your betrothal to Prince Oberyn and your dalliances with his paramour.”

Y/N pulled back her hand and crossed her arms over her chest, a sad shield against the wound he had cut. “I am happy. They love me. I love them. Why can you not see-”

“He has daughters older than you, Y/N. All of them bastards. Do you not believe you could find someone more suitable to call husband?”

“And you think Kirth Vance would be suitable?” She bit out, anger replacing the hurt. “I would give Oberyn eight more bastards if the gods allowed!” She bellowed as something protective struck at her stomach, even if the targets of her cousin’s ire were thousands of leagues away. “He loves me and I love him and Ellaria. He fought beside me, for me—for the gods-forsaken pile of brick and mortar because he knew I once called it home.”

“It is your home!” Edmure yelled in return. “You are a Tully-”

“I am Prince Oberyn Nymeros Martell’s wife in all but name and I am going home!” Her chest heaved and she wiped a hand across her face, trying to calm herself before said anything else. “You are the Lord of Riverrun. Lord Paramount of the Trident. You are not a child. Your life has led to this moment. Do not forsake Hoster’s teachings for your learned meekness. He named you as his heir—be the man he knew you to be. Because I cannot and will not be.” And then she left, leaving Edmure alone.

Y/N pulled her fur-lined cloak a little tighter about her shoulders as she strode out to the stables. Qelōs was being tended to by the stable hand and her tack was waiting to be placed on her gleaming back. Full saddlebags were ready for one last journey South. Y/N had spent the last night in Riverrun’s Sept, praying for guidance and for her father’s soul one more time—another quiet goodbye. She thought it would be fitting to do it here, in his former home. And as the sun rose the following morning, it was the most at ease she had felt in almost a year.

“I am never coming this far North again,” Obara said, moving closer to her to try to get a bit of body heat. The large fur cloak and gloves were not enough, it seemed. Obara and Oberyn had led an envoy to the Riverlands to collect Y/N and ensure she was safely delivered back to Sunspear. Frost had started to stick to the grass around Riverrun, thin sheets of ice collected over patches of the rivers and Obara had been distraught about the temperature since she arrived with her father two days ago. Ellaria and the rest of the Sand Snakes had stayed in Dorne. Loreza and Dorea had apparently caught a bit of a fever with their first Winter and Oberyn and Ellaria both wanted to keep the rest of their daughters healthy. The little ones would be fine, but Ellaria and Oberyn always wanted to be sure.

Y/N chuckled at Obara’s plight and pulled a thick wool stole from one of her bags and wrapped it around Obara’s shoulders, making sure to tuck it high around her neck. “What of your plans to see Seagard? Hm? Lord Patrek will be devastated.”

Obara sniffed and looked away. “He must wait for Winter to end if he wishes to have me at his home. I am of Dorne. He-”

“Is in love with you, Obara. And Lord Mallister is amiable to the match if you wish it.” Y/N assumed tales of Obara saving his heir’s life and fighting beside the Riverlanders may have something to with Lord Mallister easing his views on who could be a possible match for his son. That, and Oberyn Martell being her father, a Prince of Dorne and the man who took Tywin Lannister’s head from his shoulders was a definite bargaining point. Y/N finished tucking the stole around her frigid companion. “But I am happy to simply see your face again.”

“Sap,” Obara said with a small smirk. “If I have to hear Father wax poetic about your eyes the entire ride to Dorne, I will be forced to murder you both.”

“Oh, I expect nothing less.”

They spoke a little longer, watching their horses be readied for the ride before one of the stable hands said, “Oh, Lord Tully! Good morrow!”

Y/N turned to see Edmure at the mouth of the stables. Roslin was at his side, a small smile on her delicate lips. Something was bundled in his left arm, his right still holding his cane. It had been a tumultuous two weeks within Riverrun’s halls. Edmure had stumbled when regaining his duties but fulfilled them with more confidence with each day. He had kept his conversations with Y/N at a minimum and had steadfastly refused to speak to Oberyn more than necessary when he first arrived. But Edmure softened. At almost an alarming rate. But perhaps that was simply Oberyn’s charm. His pervasive magnetism that could draw nearly everyone to his side if he wanted them. Edmure was no exception. And that gave Y/N a little comfort, to know that Edmure did not hate her betrothed as he had tried. Knowing her two families, no matter how different, were coming together was a solace. Riverrun would survive under Edmure’s lordship.

The pair stepped closer and Roslin helped Edmure press the bundle into Y/N’s arms. “It is a gift for you. A reminder of… of Riverrun.” Not of home. Not anymore.

Y/N looked down at the bundle and watched it move, the tip of the fabric peeling away to reveal a fluffy snout. Y/N quickly unwrapped the dog with a huff of a laugh as it wiggled in her hold. The pup fit comfortably in her arms and had the most beautiful black fur with a tuft of white on his chest.

“He is of the Riverlands, hearty and loyal. Even if Riverrun is no longer your home, I’d like… I’d like if you still had a piece of us with you.”

The pup squirmed in her grasp and raised up on unsteady legs to lick at her chin with a happy yip. A fortuitous distraction for both Edmure and Y/N as they tried to clear the tears from their eyes. Y/N nodded and pressed a kiss to the dog’s head before leaning up to kiss Edmure’s cheek. “He’s wonderful. Thank you, Edmure. A treasure to be sure.”

It was not an apology, not an outright one anyway. But Y/N accepted it just the same. It was a soft ending to a hard chapter.

But she was ready to start a new one.

And as Oberyn walked into the stables, a soft smile on his face, she knew it would be a good one.

The distance between Riverrun and Sunspear seemed so long and so short at the same time. Each night was spent in Oberyn’s arms, trying to reclaim the time she had lost. They would whisper about their plans for the future, of how they both wished Ellaria in their arms when the nights grew colder and colder.

But it was good. It was soft and gentle and eased the ache she had held against her heart like a shield since she had left his arms. It was good.

The pup had grown astonishingly fast. He often squirmed out of her grasp in the saddle to trot alongside their horses. If there were ever a body of water near the road, he quickly jumped into it to wet his fur and then happily scampered back into line, proud of himself.

“He is a little bear,” Oberyn once griped as the pup’s sharp teeth nipped at his leg when Oberyn had moved to help Y/N down from her horse. The pup seemed a little insistent on having Y/N’s attention at all hours and he only grew bolder as the distance from Sunspear grew shorter. Obara found her father’s frustration with the pup endlessly entertaining and would also lathe attention on the pup at any moment. She followed her father’s lead in calling him a little bear, much more affectionate in tone. And Y/N supposed the name just stuck. She called him her little river bear in High Valyrian, but settled on just calling him Gryves for short.

As they crossed under the stone arches of Sunspear and the crowds cheered, little Gryves happily pranced next to Qelōs and snapped his jaws, catching the flower petals the people of Sunspear had thrown into the air in celebration of their return. Ellaria and the Sand Snakes were waiting on the steps of the fortress and Y/N dismounted before Qelōs even stopped and raced up the stairs. Tears were in Ellaria’s eyes as Y/N wrapped her in her arms and she could taste them as she pressed her lips to hers again in again in a fevered frenzy as an incandescent warmth bloomed in her chest at just the simple touch of Ellaria’s skin. And it took Ellaria holding her still, gentle hands on the side of her face, to realize she was crying, too. “No more tears, my Tully,” Ellaria whispered. “You are home.”

A happy shriek had them pulling apart to see Dorea and Loreza bowled over on the steps being licked by Gryves whose entire fluffy body was shaking with how quickly he was wagging his tail.

Oberyn stepped to their side and kissed Ellaria soft and slow before pressing a kiss to Y/N’s smiling mouth.

Yes. She was home.

Gryves huffed for the third time, disturbing her attempt at sleep. Or maybe the dog knew she couldn’t sleep and was sharing in her plight. Y/N gave up after she heard him huff again and slipped out from under her blankets and padded over to her balcony, letting the cool breeze wash over her as she pulled the doors open. Gryves’ nails tapped against the stone beside her and they both walked to the railing, looking out over the still-bustling fortress.

Her wedding was tomorrow. Her dress was carefully hung and her maiden’s cloak alongside it. Daisy had been bouncing in each step in the last week, happy to have her friend back safely and to “finally see you married to your prince, my lady!” Daisy and Daemon’s own ceremony would be held the following day. People were buzzing about down below, readying for the festivities. While the ceremony would be small, Doran insisted on letting them have every finery they wanted. Y/N did not care if she had to marry in a threadbare sack and in bare feet and they only had blood oranges for their wedding dinner—she simply wanted to be married.

Gryves placed his front paws on the railing and looked out over the small crowd, too. He let out a soft ‘boof’ as he watched. He was still growing, his head now coming to her waist but he was still as playful as ever—and patient. Loreza had fashioned him a hat that looked peculiarly like an otter and he let the girl set it on his head and sat still long enough for the girls to coo over him before getting distracted by a gull he promptly chased into the sea. He was doted on by almost everyone who resided in or worked around Sunspear. (Oberyn was still trying to find a way to get the dog to like him and stop nipping at his leg whenever he tried to kiss Y/N.) Sarella was home (“For only a moment!” she insisted.) from the Citadel and the Sand Snakes were all together again and Y/N found them all to be wondrous company. Daisy and Daemon were still steadfastly in love, perhaps even more so that Daemon had returned unharmed. All of it was so idyllic. So perfect. And for a moment, Y/N once again wondered if the world was about to crash around her—but she quickly dismissed the thought and she thought of Ellaria telling her that happiness does not have limits and that she had the ability to choose every joy and happiness that was placed at her feet. And Y/N wanted to seize every last opportunity.

A knock at her door had her turning and Gryves kept to her side as she walked back into her rooms to open the door. Ellaria was on the other side with a soft smile and Gryves darted around her and into the darkened halls, probably in search of Loreza or Dorea. Y/N stepped back to let Ellaria in and softly shut the door behind her. Before Y/N could ask what she was doing, Ellaria had grasped at her face and pushed her lips to hers, easily delving into Y/N’s surprised mouth to lick and explore. Y/N faltered for a moment before letting her hands slide around Ellaria’s waist, bunching the silky fabric of her dressing robe between her fingers. Ellaria pulled away for a moment to press soft, wet kisses against Y/N’s cheek and down her neck, humming as she felt the thrumming pulse beneath the skin.

“I knew you would not be sleeping, my Tully.” Another kiss to Y/N’s panting mouth. “And I will have to call you something else after tomorrow, won’t I?” Ellaria’s laugh was light and her fingers started to trail up and down Y/N’s arms, raising goosebumps in their wake.

“You can call me whatever you desire,” Y/N said, tone breathy.

“And if I simply wanted to call you mine?”

“I am already yours.” Y/N leaned forward to press her forehead against Ellaria’s as her hands gently grasped Ellaria’s hands in hers, wrapping her fingers around her wrist. “I am yours and you are mine,” she whispered the vow against Ellaria’s lips. It was no Sept. There was not a Septon in sight nor any other trappings of the ceremony. But Y/N meant the vow as seriously as she would tomorrow with Oberyn.

And then Ellaria was kissing her again, tightening her grip on her wrists like she wanted to brand her touch to Y/N’s skin. “I am yours and you are mine.” Ellaria then dragged Y/N forward and spun her around before pressing a hand to her chest and pushing. Y/N didn’t even realize they had come so close to the bed until she fell onto it with a laugh, greedily grabbing at Ellaria’s legs as she climbed over her and stole another kiss against her smiling mouth. “You need to sleep, yes? I have two options for you.”

“Oh?”

Ellaria nodded and trailed her lips across Y/N’s chin, nipping at her jaw, before sliding down her neck again and letting her tongue dip into the notch between Y/N’s collarbones. “I can have you brought tea. Or…”

“Or…” Y/N played along, letting her hands slide up from Ellaria’s legs to her hips but her grip stuttered when Ellaria’s mouth suddenly pressed over her chest, tongue finding her nipple even through the cloth and teasing it to a hardened peak. When she was satisfied with one, she quickly did the same to the other.

“Or I can tire you out myself,” Ellaria said, situating herself with ease so she could lay her cheek against Y/N’s chest, undoubtedly listening to her fluttering heart. “Which would you prefer, my Tully?”

“You. Always you.”

Ellaria’s smile was bright even in the dark of the room as she sat straight and shuffled down the bed while signaling for Y/N to center herself in the blankets. She gracefully stretched out beside her slowly pushed the edge of Y/N’s chemise up, up, up until it exposed her lace-edged small clothes. “You’re always so pretty for me,” Ellaria mused before her fingers trailed over the front of them, already coaxing a moan from Y/N’s lips. “It has been too long since I’ve been able to touch you like this. You are never to leave us like that again.” She leaned down to kiss Y/N’s lips again, licking into her mouth. “Swear to me.”

“I swear it,” Y/N said, last word a breathless gasp as Ellaria’s talented fingers slipped beneath her small clothes and found her heat, ready and wet for her. Y/N had not even realized she had become so wet, only able to focus on Ellaria.

“Good.” Ellaria dragged the damp small clothes and dropped them to the floor. “So pretty,” Ellaria whispered as her fingers started to push through Y/N’s folds, gathering her slick before trailing up to her clit and circling it with just the right amount of pressure to have Y/N’s hips lifting from the featherbed. Again and again, Ellaria would push through Y/N’s folds, barely dipping into where she needed her most, as she pressed lazy, open-mouthed kisses against Y/N’s panting lips.

“Please,” Y/N near-pleaded. “Please.”

“And always so polite.” And then finally—finally—Ellaria curled her fingers into Y/N’s pussy in one single motion and delighted in Y/N’s high pitched whine and how the younger woman fisted her hands in the silk sheets at her sides. Ellaria leaned up just enough to seal her mouth over Y/N’s, all teeth and tongue and heavy, warm breaths as her fingers started to move, dragging in and out even as Y/N’s fluttering walls tried to pull them tight.

The familiar coil was starting to grow and unravel at an embarrassing rate and Y/N heard herself nearly wailing as it snapped and that delicious wave of pleasure washed over her. But Ellaria did not stop. Her fingers continued to curl inside her, Ellaria’s other hand pressed down against Y/N’s belly and pinned her to the bed. Y/N cried out at the burst of pressure she felt bloom and the coil started to wind itself again, now with an unfamiliar bite and sting that sang with each movement of Ellaria’s fingers.

“Oh please,” she said, words choked in her throat. She reached out to grasp at Ellaria’s wrist, pushing her further, letting her fingers brush against the spot only she and Oberyn could reach.

“That’s my good girl. Take what you need.”

Even through her hazed mind, Y/N keened at the praise. She wanted to be a good girl.

Ellaria licked across her panting mouth and bit at Y/N’s spit-slicked lips, smirking the entire time. Y/N’s walls fluttered around her fingers and she pressed her thumb against her clit with enough pressure to have Y/N cry against her mouth. Slick soaked her hand but she did not cease her movements, pushing her fingers into her until her hips pressed up against her grip and Y/N’s fingers clawed at her shoulders.

“El-Ellaria I-”

But she pressed her down to the dampened blankets and smiled. “So beautiful,” she said. “Give me another. My good girl.”

Her thighs shook, nearly clamping down over Ellaria’s arm as wave after wave of terrible pleasure wracked her body. The room blurred as her arms slid down Ellaria’s back to pull her close as if she were not the one inflicting this delicious torture. The sounds that came from Y/N as her fingers continued to move could only be described as lewd. Wet and frenzied.

“Give it to me,” Ellaria said, steady and low against her heated skin.

Y/N cried out as another jolt of blinding pleasure shot through her, hips finally lifting from the featherbed as her vision went white. Her heart continued to roar in her ears. Ellaria’s fingers slowed their assault before pulling out, leaving Y/N feeling empty and spent even as her body shivered with residual tremors. Ellaria’s glistening fingers dipped between her kiss-bitten lips and her tongue twisted and slid to gather everything she could. When she was finished, she shuffled down Y/N’s body to press a kiss against her wet cunt and Y/N let out a broken moan. Her dark eyes sparkled when she looked up at her. “One more.” She licked a broad stripe up from her hole to her clit and Y/N keened, nerves alight and near painful. But the long strokes of Ellaria’s tongue continued, broken up by little kitten licks against her clit or dipping inside. Every flick of Ellaria’s glorious tongue brought Y/N closer to the precipice but it came sooner than either of them anticipated, dribbling out of her with a broken sort of cry and a new puddle between her thighs. With a final kiss, Ellaria rose and walked to the vanity near the open balcony and pulled a golden cloth from its pile before dipping it into the small basin of water Daisy had left for Y/N to wash her face earlier. She slid onto the bed again and wiped between Y/N’s still shaking thighs with a gentle touch, delighting when she shivered. “Are you all right?” Ellaria asked as her tongue peeked from between her lips out to clean the shining mess from around mouth.

Y/N sighed with a tired smile. “I am perfect.” She reached out toward Ellaria’s soft skirts and felt the silk slide between her fingers. “But I would like to please you, too.”

Ellaria smiled and dropped the damp fabric to the floor. “Are you sure?”

“I am. But I hope you do not mind guiding me.”

Ellaria slipped back onto the bed and her knees bracketed Y/N’s thighs as the younger woman gently pulled the skirt up to reveal Ellaria’s uncovered mound, shining in the candlelight. Y/N’s hands slid from her waist to the backs of her thighs, urging Ellaria up toward her face. Ellaria had taught her many things, one of them being how to give her pleasure with just her fingers and Y/N had delighted in the taste of her love. But, in truth, Y/N had been fascinated by watching Oberyn make Ellaria cum with his wicked tongue. She wanted a taste from the source, too.

“By the gods, you are perfect,” Ellaria murmured holding her skirts higher so she could look to see Y/N’s face between her legs. She reached down to curl her hand around the back of Y/N’s head, pulling her up to meet the crux of her thighs.

Y/N quickly licked a short but firm stripe from Ellaria’s hole to her clit, earning a soft sigh in return. The bitterly sweet taste of Ellaria was heavenly and Y/N quickly, selfishly, licked again and then wiggled her tongue against Ellaria’s hole, trying to collect as much as she could.

“That’s it.” Ellaria’s grip tightened on her head and Y/N licked again and again before taking a chance and pulling her clit into her mouth and sucking. They both sunk into the pillows.

Y/N reached up and around to grasp at Ellaria’s hips as her licks grew bolder, encouraged by Ellaria’s moans. They grew louder as her tongue started to delve and lick and press. Ellaria would sometimes murmur instructions, “to the left” “right there” “a little harder, my darling” and Y/N followed each with wild abandon and squealed when Ellaria pressed down onto her mouth and moved her hips, grinding against her tongue.

“So good,” She panted. “So good.”

Y/N ate her out in earnest, sloppy and spit sliding out of the corner of her lips between covetous licks. Ellaria could suffocate her like this easily—and Y/N would die happy.

Exploring fingers slid down and Y/N simply pressed against the bundle of nerves and smiled when Ellaria wailed in response, head tilted back to press the sound into the sticky night air. Her hips moved faster. Y/N did all she could to keep up, to give Ellaria as much as she had given her. The hold on her head tightened and Ellaria suddenly stilled above her with a groan. The thighs on either side of Y/N’s head shook and the taste of Ellaria flooded her mouth. Y/N pulled her fingers away from her clit but gave a few final licks before Ellaria pushed off and then sat beside her on the pillows.

Ellaria caught her breath with a laugh and then leaned down to press a kiss to Y/N’s lips. “I cannot wait to teach you everything I know.”

Ellaria kissed her again before Y/N rose and wet her own bit of cloth to wipe between Ellaria’s thighs. She lathed a kiss against each of Ellaria’s legs before pulling her skirts down again as she lounged on the featherbed. “I will be a dutiful student.”

The laugh Ellaria let out was tired but joyful. And they spoke for a few more stolen moments, Ellaria constantly checking to make sure Y/N was not overworked or feeling strange as they shared slow kisses in the moonlight. “Will you be able to rest now?” Ellaria asked as Y/N yawned.

“You have thoroughly exhausted me.”

Ellaria’s smile grew and she kissed Y/N one more time before she slipped off the bed again. “Then I shall see you in the morning, Princess.”

Y/N smiled at the sound of the title. “In the morning, my love.”

A/N: Please let me know what you guys think! I really appreciate it. :)

Beautiful people who asked to be tagged: @roxypeanut @lostinwonderland314 @fandomreblogsnoshame @arianawills @nyrnerosmartell @5hundreddaysofsummer @honestlystop @huliabitch @youhavemyfantasticbeasts @karmezii @thesadvampire @sarcasmisakindofmagic @alexa4040 @paintballkid711 @huliabitch @stitchers-in-stitches @iellaren-uodo-rian

#oberyn martell x reader #oberyn martell imagine #oberyn martell x ellaria sand x reader #game of thrones imagine #oberyn martell #game of thrones #asoiaf

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bluejaytaco · 6 years

Text

Superhero AU

Yup, posting again! This brings things a little out of order considering this is more of a chapter one type thing. Also, this will now be poster both here and AO3!

And, despite not really needing to read them first, this would technically be Part Four. Check out One, Two, and Three.

[KC EXPERIMENT #00001: SUBJECT HORUS.]

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< Found Kaiba Corp Logs for Project Millennium. Searching Log files mentioning ‘Horus.’>

<<ERROR: MANY LOGS WERE LOST/CORRUPTED. PROCEED ANYWAY?>>

….

<Searching…>

Log #27

Isis gave her final visit to the facility today in order to say farewell to Subject Horus. Despite his infantile state, he did manage to look up at her as if he knew who and what she was. We all agree Isis is showing clear signs of regret over leaving behind the child for the project, but as he did inherit her abilities naturally, she had no choice but to leave him in our care. She knew the outside world could be a dangerous place for people like her and her brother; there was no doubt she hoped for something better for her son.

I made sure to assure her Horus would never want for anything. All his needs would be met. I didn’t tell her about how, even at only three months, he would be used for his abilities and enhanced to do get things. He would survive; just like the rest of them.

The first thing the team served to do was the insertion of the Eye. As his powers over the ‘Void’ (as it’s been dubbed) have become more and more clear, we’ve implemented a few enhancements to allow Horus to control and harness the abilities as he ages. We can only hope there is enough of his father’s DNA within to keep him from being so virtually ageless like his mother. That particular trait is far from necessary when it comes to the other subjects for this project.

Log #460

The subjects seem to take to their newfound abilities quite nicely. Ra has nearly mastered his own abilities with the help of Horus. At only a year old, he’s taken to teaching the other children what he’s already managed to control, although he shows signs of frustration when something is outside of his abilities. The enhancements have yet to be perfected and each projection for Horus’ eye seem to frighten him to the point of tears. Too many times, one of the handlers has rushed in to coddle the subject. I need to remind him this is not some simple child.

Anubis serves everyone that reminder on a daily basis. The subject has yet to grasp the extent of its powers and shows signs of disassociation each time damage is done. Tomorrow, we will put Horus and Anubis in the same room. Hopefully, Horus will be able to guide Anubis into a mastery of control just as he did the others.

Log #461

Subject Horus is finally in stable condition.

It’s hard to pinpoint exactly when everything went wrong. Horus was in the room first in front of a simple puzzle given to him by Dr. Mutou, a team member to which most of the subjects have really become attached. When Anubis was pushed into the room, he immediately hid behind one of the tables.

Horus, never one to shy away from the other subjects, approached Anubis calmly and curiously. His approach was the same as it was with everyone else; there was no reason for Anubis to be fearful.

Then everything happened so quickly the video feed couldn’t play it properly. It ended with Horus screaming as Anubis pinned him to the ground and tried to tear out the enhanced eye. Anubis showed no signs of care as the two subjects were separated and Horus was rushed from the room. He was left alone in that room and, when one of the assistants returned, they found him simply playing with the puzzle Horus left on the floor. The pieces are now covered in Horus’ blood thanks it being all over Anubis’ hands.

In a few days, we will attempt again to have the two of them meet and bond. The only hope in stabilizing Anubis is to have him bond properly with Horus just as Ra and Thoth were able to.

Log #465

Horus still shows signs of intense fear towards Anubis. As soon as Anubis was pushed back into the room with him, Horus screamed and cried in fear of the other child. He climbed the leg of the observer in the room and demanded to be picked up in order to get away from him. Despite my protest, Dr. Mutou lifted Horus into his arms. I fear the man might be growing soft with the children. He coddles them too much. I will have to remind him these children are not to be treated as children. They are too dangerous and one misfire could be the end of everything.

As for the relationship between Horus and Anubis, I feel as though the two just need a little more time in a highly controlled setting. With the newfound fear in Horus, it may be difficult for both of them. So far, Anubis has shown no more signs of violence toward Horus or even the other subject. In time, I hope to have the two of them bond to one another.

Another concern sits in the fact that the tear duct in Horus’ right eye seems to have become overactive, possibly from the trauma suffered when Anubis tried to rip it out. More tests must be run to see if this will affect the implant in any way.

Log #527

Thoth and Hathor are dead.

It happened last night after the team left for the night. The cameras caught sight of Anubis sitting up in bed and fazing out of his room. The cameras in Thoth’s and Hathor’s room indicated he fazed in right on top of Thoth. Anubis strangled Thoth in his sleep.

Then Hathor woke up and tried to fight him off before she knew her companion was dead. Her fate was much less pleasant. Her body was mangled on the floor of the room. The camera feed also picked up Anubis attempting to continue down the path when he moved into Ra and Kuk’s room. Moments later, Horus burst into the room and fought Anubis away from the two boys before they could be harmed. When we returned in the morning to do our morning routine, Horus was inside Anubis’ room. He was awake, against the wall, with his eyes staring stubbornly at the bed.

He refused to let Anubis out of his sight. This… is a massive improvement from running in fear of the other subject. Dr. Mutou believes this is a sign that what we’re doing to the subjects is wrong. That all Anubis wants is to be treated as the child he is.

I politely told him he was out of his damn mind if he believed treating Anubis gently was any way to progress the project. Despite how brilliant a scientist he might be, I’m afraid Mutou’s emotions are overtaking his logic. He may need to be let go from the project.

Log #600

It’s been one month since Mutou left. Horus, Ra, and Kuk still look to the door as if they’re waiting for him to walk in with games and sugary treats in his arms. Anubis still shows no signs of care and, instead, continues forth with his testing. He’s gained control of his abilities and honed the skills to be deadly on the beings he deemed worthy of punishment (In this case, the targets with a red marker. Blue markers all get a pass with no damage.)

Horus has begun to exhibit signs of trauma and depression; all of which should be to complex for a child of his age. He continues to cooperate with the tests but only in one on one testing facilities. With the loss of Thoth and Hathor, not to mention Mutou, Horus continues to distance himself and only confides in Osiris. The tear duct in his right eye continues to be overactive. No one on the team can explain the reasoning behind it.

Log #640

There was a break in. The facility has become compromised and three of the subjects are nowhere to be found.

The cameras were completely wiped of any evidence. I’m concerned it may have been orchestrated by [REDACTED]. However, the fact that his nephew is one of the children left behind might imply otherwise. My thoughts went to Mutou briefly, but the man was far from the best at being mobile enough to break in, take three children, and rush back out while still being able to wipe any possible evidence of him being there. A search of his place also qualifies him as innocent.

Plus, he wouldn’t be stupid enough to release Anubis. I could understand stealing Ra or even Kuk… but only one person could be responsible for the disappearance of Anubis. A man who heard about the subjects through a leak into the black market. I want to say his surname was… Bakura.

He had a special interest in Anubis. But the man is now nowhere to be found. I’m hoping the subject killed him and, maybe, ran off. If that’s the case, it’ll only be a matter of time before Anubis finally makes an appearance. His… relationship with Horus might be enough to lure him back.

In the meantime, I’m concerned about what this means for the project. It’s possible it may need to be aborted now that three of them are out in the world. We will need to dispose of the subjects in the cleanest way possible.

Log #641

Project Millennium has been dissolved.

With the disappearance of the three, the team and I have decided to dispose of any evidence that may lead back to what many might say was ‘child endangerment.’ Funny how they don’t care about them when they’re in an orphanage, but then as soon as they’re brought into a case like this…

I digress.

Osiris and Bast both went down smoothly. As expected, they were injected with a painless substance while they slept and simply did not wake up. Horus however…

Horus seems to be immune to such things. So immune, in fact, that it woke him up. It took twelve people to finally subdue him and he still hasn’t been properly destroyed. There were too many… casualties… to continue the attempts. Of course, the very last piece of evidence to the Project is the one that cannot be killed. This is something his mother failed to mention.

He’s in stasis until we can figure out what to do with him. Death may not be an option, but it seems eternal sleep is.

Now, our next priority is to find Anubis. I’m hoping time will eventually lure him out and back here. Maybe he will come back and attempt to destroy Horus himself. If that’s the case, we may just need to leave the two in a room together and they can destroy one another.

Log #1072

I’ve come up with a plan.

With Anubis and the others still nowhere to be seen after seven years of searching, I’ve come up with a new idea. A new subject with the only objective to seek out all the remaining subjects of the project. He’s older than the others were when the abilities were implemented, but I’m hoping his high intellect and surprising maturity will be enough to keep him from catastrophic failure. If not for himself, then for his little brother at the very least.

Subject Set may be the only hope we have left to end this.

Maybe it was a good thing Horus couldn’t be destroyed. Although, his aging in stasis is promising that death may be an option if he’s just left alone. But, had he been destroyed, I would have never been able to transfer his powers into this last ditch effort.

Log #whocares

The project founder is dead. Anubis, Ra, and Kuk either are dead or just so good at hiding that everyone just thinks they’re dead. Isis might also be dead; I don’t know. I don’t care. A lot of these logs were lost. Father sucked at organizing information. This entire project is bullshit.

Horus, I’m waking you up. You can thank my brother for finding you. I read up on your abilities and I’m sure you’re smart enough to know what you need to do in order to keep from being in this tank again. Let’s hope, at least. A lot of power is being wasted in keeping you asleep. All this power could be used for literally anything else.

So, good morning, Horus. Let’s have a talk.

-Seto Kaiba

#ygo fanfiction #seto kaiba #atem #other unnamed characters #superhero au #writings #eventual puzzleshipping

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fluffymusketeer · 6 years

Text

Mirror, Mirror

It is a strange thing, to share your bedroom with a stranger from another dimension.

I was struggling for inspiration today so I wrote a drabble! Well, I say drabble, it’s like 2.5k words which is pretty concise for me, so I decided to post it here on tumblr instead of AO3. It’s Levi/Eren, Teen + Up, Reincarnation (kinda), and um… I suppose character death? Sort of. There’s angst. Anyway, I hope you enjoy!

It happens after a long shift. They’d lost a patient en route to the ER that day, and all Eren wants is to crack open a bottle of wine and sink into oblivion.

He glances idly at his full-length bedroom mirror as he’s peeling off his clothes. Instead of scruffy brown hair, tired eyes, and a fading green uniform, he finds another world reflected.

“Huh,” Eren says, scratching his head.

The world in the mirror is a person’s bedroom, neat and spartan. Eren can almost smell the wood polish on the worn surfaces.

Of course Eren tries sticking his hand through the mirror, and checking behind it, and for good measure he examines the corners of his bedroom for hidden cameras. Nothing is out of the ordinary. It’s his mirror. Same white frame, same shiny screws, even the same smudges on the glass.

It’s just not his reflection in the mirror. It’s somebody else’s bedroom.

He drags a chair in and eats his microwave dinner-for-one while staring at the empty bedroom. It’s raining in the mirror world. Eren can see a rainbow through the window.

He’s getting into his pyjamas when there is movement in the mirror. Eren’s back snaps straight and he watches as a middle aged man slams open the door and marches in, shaking out wet hair which is greying at the temples. There is no sound coming from the mirror world. Just images.

“Hello?” Eren steps closer to the mirror. “Can you hear me?”

Evidently not. The man stomps about the bedroom, shucking wet clothes and scowling. His hair is styled in an undercut. Eren doesn’t recognise him.

The man is unbuttoning his shirt to reveal taut abdominal muscles criss-crossed with faint scars when he finally glances at the mirror. He does a double take.

Eren offers an embarrassed wave.

The man stands frozen in the middle of his bedroom, mouth agape. Eren watches in growing alarm as the colour drains from his already pale features.

“I’m— I’m sorry,” Eren says. “I don’t know how this happened.”

He mouths a word. Eren can hear no sound, none whatsoever, but he recognises the shapes the other man is making with his lips. Eren, he is saying. Eren.

“You know my name?”

The man walks up to his side of the mirror and reaches out.

Eren steps back instinctively.

The man’s hand hits glass. He presses his palm against it, the skin going white with pressure. Thin eyebrows draw together in confusion. He looks back up at Eren and says something, words Eren can neither hear nor recognise.

“I’m sorry.” Eren points to his ear. “I can’t hear you.”

Eren, he mouths again.

Eren shrugs. He hasn’t a clue. Suddenly the man slaps his palm against the mirror.

“Hey, don’t do that—”

Then the mirror world is tilting and Eren feels weirdly off balance, until he realises the man on the other side has lifted his own mirror up to check behind it. The world of the neat bedroom returns, and the man is carefully examining the edges of his side of the mirror, pressing his fingers into the corners as if they will give way.

Finally, he grows frustrated.

His lips form a silent shout. Eren! He hits the mirror with his fist. Again. And again.

Eren is alarmed by the show of distress. He raises his hands in a conciliatory gesture. “Hey,” he says. “Hey, it’s okay.”

The mirror on the other side can take no more. A solid slam of a fist and the glass cracks into a thousand splinters. The last thing Eren sees is the man’s horrified expression as he reaches a bloody hand up to stop what is happening, and then the mirror shatters.

Eren is left staring at his own reflection, pale and shocked in his own unbroken mirror.

He waits for a long time, but the mirror world does not return.

Three days later, Eren is carrying an armful of toilet rolls through to his en suite bathroom when he notices the mirror world has reappeared. “Oh!” he says in surprise, and drops the toilet rolls. They scatter across his bedroom floor, rolling under his bed.

The view of the spartan bedroom is different, as if the man’s side of the mirror has moved position. He is there, slouched in an armchair in the corner, legs stretched out and arms crossed.

After several seconds, he glances idly towards the mirror. Eren waves again.

The man scrambles up, says Eren, and strides to the mirror.

“Hello,” Eren says. “I guess you replaced your mirror, huh?”

The man is speaking words Eren cannot understand, and while Eren can tell he is growing frustrated again, he seems much more in control of his temper. His eyes roam across Eren’s face, grey and searching. The way he gazes makes a blush creep into Eren’s cheeks.

“I still can’t understand you,” Eren says. “But I have an idea. Stay right there.”

He heads to the kitchen to fetch a pad of paper and a pen.

When he returns, there is another person in the room with the man. Eren isn’t sure if they are male or female, but they are wearing an eye patch and scratching their head.

Eren waits until the man notices him.

His grey eyes widen and he gesticulates wildly at the mirror, looking between it and his companion. Eren dutifully waves, but it’s as if the other person is looking right through him. They shake their head and look confused. Eren does not miss the worried look they send the man’s way when he’s busy staring at Eren.

“They can’t see me,” Eren concludes.

The man seems to come to a similar conclusion, and snaps something at his companion. After brief words and tense body language, the man’s companion leaves.

Eren writes ‘Can you read this?’ on his pad of paper. The man stares at it. He looks back up at Eren, eyes lost.

Eren writes his own name, because the man seems to know it, and holds that up instead. But that too is a non-starter, and when the man himself tries the same trick, grabbing a sheet of paper and a strange old-fashioned looking pen from his desk, Eren realises why.

“I’ve never seen writing like that before,” Eren says. “I have no idea what that means.”

Eren, the man mouths.

Eren sighs deeply. “I wish I knew your name.”

The pads of paper and pens are tossed aside and they stare at each other in frustration. The man in the mirror’s greying hair is mussed and untidy, and his soft bedclothes look rumpled. Eren suspects he himself is the reason for the distress, and he doesn’t know why.

“I’m sorry,” he says, and puts his hand against the glass of the mirror.

The man reaches out and lines his palm up with Eren’s. Eren feels nothing but cold glass. It’s just a mirror. The man presses his forehead against the glass, closes his eyes, and his shoulders begin to shake.

“I’m sorry,” Eren says again.

He wishes he could make the pain go away.

It is a strange thing, to share your bedroom with a stranger from another dimension.

Eren asks his Mom to take a look at the mirror. She tells him his clothes are just as unfolded in the mirror as they are in reality, and it’s about time he found a nice man to look after him. He is forced to shoo her away when she starts folding his underwear, supremely conscious of the curious and perhaps even slightly amused gaze of the man in his mirror.

One time, after a particularly depressing shift which involves attending a multi-car pileup on the freeway, he goes for a drink with a male nurse from the ER that Petra introduces him to. They wind up stumbling into his apartment later that night, tearing at each other’s clothes.

Eren heads to his bedroom to freshen up. When he puts the light on, he startles the mirror man, who is reading on his bed. He puts his book down, amiably strolling over.

He freezes when he sees Eren’s debauched state, staring at the hickeys.

“Oh for fuck’s sake, I’m twenty nine,” Eren grumbles.

It takes him long seconds to understand the expression which creases the man’s face. It’s hurt. Confusion, and pain, and heartbreak, and hurt.

“Oh,” Eren says. “Oh.”

His ardour goes down quickly after that. No matter how hard he tries to get back into things on the sofa, he cannot forget the man in his mirror and the expression on his face. In the end, Eren makes his excuses and books a taxi for the cute nurse, and wonders how he will explain it to Petra.

The man stares at him as he finally clambers into bed. Alone.

“Yeah, yeah,” Eren says. “Thanks for the cockblock, buddy.” He switches off the light.

Not long after, Eren has an unexpected morning off due to a last minute shift change, and catches the man in the mirror fresh from a shower. At first Eren is transfixed by the ripped abdominal muscles and flexing biceps, but soon he notices fresh wounds across the man’s rib cage. He looks like he’s been mauled by some kind of animal.

“You’re hurt,” Eren says.

The man is bandaging himself up with practiced efficiency, regarding Eren with a look he cannot decipher.

“You… you really need stitches,” Eren points out. He watches the man, and the man watches him, and finally Eren asks, “What do you do?”

He gets no answer.

Eren grows worried about the man in his mirror. He knows it’s silly. He should be worried about himself. He could be having some kind of psychotic break, seeing things that nobody else can, and with his job…

Instead he’s teaching the mirror man how to play Go Fish. It’s an awkward endeavour, requires two decks of cards and a lot of ill-drawn pictorial rules, but they are getting there.

“Your friend with the eye patch is getting worried about you,” Eren remarks casually.

The man in the mirror holds up three fingers.

“No threes,” Eren says, and does their agreed-upon hand wriggle. “Go Fish.”

The man takes a card from his deck. His shoulders slump, and he gestures for Eren to continue.

“Every time you go to your job, you come back injured,” Eren says. “Are you not very good at it, or are you being reckless?”

The man gestures at Eren’s cards impatiently.

“I don’t know what you do for a living,” Eren says. “But please be careful. For me?”

The man is calm right now, interested in the game, but sometimes he looks at Eren with tears in his eyes. Sometimes he looks at Eren with yearning.

Eren is worried about the man in the mirror.

One night, the man does not come to bed. Eren doesn’t grow alarmed until two days later, when he still hasn’t returned. Eren paces in front of his mirror, rakes his fingers through his hair, and realises the man isn’t the only one who has gotten attached.

The book the man had been reading when he’d last left the room sits untouched and unfinished on the bedside table.

Dust motes float in the red evening light of the mirror world.

“Where are you?” Eren asks into the empty space, feeling sick.

He never comes back. It is two weeks before the companion with the eyepatch opens the door to the bedroom, and as soon as Eren sees their blotchy face, he knows.

“No,” he says.

He watches, stifling his sobs with the back of his hand, as the companion begins to sort through the man’s belongings with stilted movements. After an hour or so, a girl that Eren has never seen before comes in, wearing an ancient and tattered red scarf. She takes one look at the growing chaos and rolls her sleeves up to help. Eren is glad, because the man likes to keep his room tidy, and it seems a sacrilege to mess it up after—

He phones his Mom.

“Eren,” Carla says. “What on earth has happened?”

“Mom,” he sobs.

“Hold on, baby. I’m on my way.”

When they remove the last of the man’s belongings from the bedroom, the world in the mirror fades away.

Six months later, Eren and Petra are called to the scene of an accident. It’s in a state-managed forest, and they are trudging up a dirt trail with the stretcher and medical gear. Petra says, “This is ridiculous! We’re going to need the air ambulance, you know.”

“They think it’s just a broken leg,” Eren tells her.

“I’m always right about these things, Eren.”

They come across the scene of the accident. “Thank god you’re here,” one of the other tree surgeons says. “He’s awake but he’s really woozy. We haven’t moved him.”

“Where?” Eren asks.

He stops short. On the ground, surrounded by fussing colleagues, is the man from the mirror.

Eren pushes through, heart lurching beneath his ribcage. “Give me space,” he says, and kneels down.

It’s the same man. The exact same. Rounded cheeks, dark hair with wisps of silver grey, pale eyes blinking at the sky. He even has the same biceps, which Eren is ashamed to realise he has memorised far too well. The only differences are the Forest Service overalls and the broken yellow hard hat.

Eren peers up at the tree, at the jagged branch from which half the man’s harness still hangs.

“It wasn’t my fault.”

Eren looks down at the man, who is staring up at him.

“The branch fucking broke. It wasn’t my fault.” His voice is deep and clipped and exactly like Eren imagined. “Stupid, though,” he mutters.

“Oh?” Eren says, and gently begins to examine the man’s neck.

“Who are you?” the man asks.

Eren signals for Petra, who has the neck brace ready and waiting. “I’m Eren,” he says. “We’re going to take you to the ER, okay?”

“Oh, great.”

Eren takes a deep breath. He cannot believe that the man in the mirror is real. He’s here, and he’s solid, and thank fuck his neck isn’t broken. Is it the same man? He doesn’t appear to recognise Eren, though Eren can feel his gaze intently nonetheless.

“You’re pretty cute,” the man says.

Eren blinks.

“Oh god, I just said that, didn’t I? Fuck.” The man’s cheeks are going red. “Nice one, Levi. Just ignore me, ignore me.”

“Your name is Levi?” Eren asks.

The man stares, going redder. “Yeah,” he says slowly.

“Levi,” Eren repeats. He takes the man’s hand, and squeezes. “I’m going to take care of you, Levi.”

Eren can feel Petra staring at him, but all he sees is silver. Pale eyes that are open and wide and here. Something in them flashes, a spark, a sign, a something.

A something which is mirrored in Eren’s soul.

Levi swallows, and his fingers squeeze back. “Your name is Eren,” he says, eyebrows knitting into an introspective frown. “And mine is Levi.”

“Yes,” Eren says. “It’s nice to finally meet you, Levi.”

~ THE END ~

#danni's drabbles #danni's fanfic #eren x levi #mirror mirror

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youaremynewdream · 7 years

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Tranquil: Ch 1

ACK okay so here’s my first multi-chapter Dragon Age fic!

The relationships and such are still evolving, but here’s the first chapter, please enjoy! <3

Summary:

In the Ferelden Circle of Magi, Estella was one of the Tranquil. When chaos thrusts mages into a war with the templars, the only hope for peace seems to be the Divine's Conclave in Haven.

Thrown into the center of the chaos, what happens when Estella finds herself with a magical mark upon her hand, and her connection to the fade restored?

Read on AO3 here

Estella understands the reasoning behind the mage rebellion, though she could not care for it one way or another. When the chaos first began, she was unsure of where to turn. People so often like to pretend she didn’t exist, and this time was no different. Emotionless as she is, however, she knows she doesn’t want to die. She tries to think through the options of what she can possibly do within her abilities. If she keeps trying to do her previous work, she will surely be killed. Both mages and templars alike are acting out of character, turning on each other, uncaring of who gets harmed in the chaos. No, she would have to act. She quickly analyzes her surroundings: people scurrying to and fro, spells running rampant, noise of terror ringing above it all. Everyone's faces start to blur together, she knows their names but no one is paying attention to her calm questions. She can't feel panic, but she can tell that is the right word to describe the current mood surrounding her. There is no place really to hide, everything from looters to crazed maleficarum are flooding the tower and if she gets in someone's way... it will not end well.

She must leave the tower. There is no way around it. But where could she go? She likely has family somewhere, but having lived in the tower since she was a child she barely has any memories of her parents. Straining her mind she can remember templars ripping her from her mother’s arms, screaming and painful cries as she desperately tried to escape. Being too hazy of a memory with no location, however, it is worthless to her current situation.

There are no senior enchanters in sight, no one with any rank she can currently see to follow. Some of her fellow tranquil are standing in the corner across the room, but they look just as calculating as she must appear to them. This is troubling. What else can she do?

Deciding to follow the flow of the mages, she heads down the stairs towards the front door, she figures at least if she makes it outside she might be able to find help elsewhere.

Luckily, she doesn't have to search too far. Finally reaching the front entrance, a mage runs headfirst into her, sending both of them toppling to the ground. Estella lies still for a moment, dazed from the impact. Feeling arms circle around her, she tenses for a moment.

The arms around her squeeze tightly as if in relief. Relaxing, Estella realizes the mage had rushed into her not by accident or attack, but was in fact embracing her.

“Oh thank the maker, there you are!" The small blonde woman clung tightly to her shoulders, then releases them to hold her face. Estella looks into her eyes for a moment, blinking rapidly as she realizes who she was, replying calmly, "Cora."

She is her friend, at least according to Cora. Estella doesn't really feel much difference in the relationships she has with other people, but she supposes Cora was... comforting. She remembers being close to her before she was made tranquil, many of her memories included the other mage. And so she remains friends with her, or as close to as 'friends' as one can get when they can't form relationships. It isn't like most mages to talk to the tranquil, but Cora always makes a point to come visit her. She is very kind.

Cora picks herself up and offers her hand to Estella to help her stand. She accepts the gesture as Cora starts speaking, nearly on the verge of tears, "I’ve been searching everywhere for you, I thought they might have... hurt you or something I don't know. Everything is crazy! I've had to fling so many defensive spells I'm not even sure what I'm doing anymore. I swear you can't tell who is on what side. I saw several of the higher ranking enchanters fighting each other! It's madness! This isn't just us anymore, this is a war... But nevermind me, how are you? Did they get to you? Are you hurt?" Estella shakes her head. Cora lets out a sigh of relief.

"Andraste bless us, I was so worried. I know you can't fight for yourself but you've always been good at going unnoticed so I guess that's a plus. Anyway, I was running through the tower looking for you and I figured I might find you near the entrance. We always did think alike, thank the maker. Well anyway, I’m here now, so are you sure that you are alright?” Cora squeezes Estella’s shoulders in a gesture of comfort. Estella nods to assure her, “I am unharmed. I am a bit unsure of where to go, however. Do you have a plan? We will need an alternative place to take shelter seeing as the tower is no longer a place of safety.”

Cora lightly smiles. “Of course, Ella. You know I've always got a plan." Pulling Estella further towards the entrance of the tower,

"We have to leave the tower immediately, the fighting is bound to get worse, and I’m not going to let anyone do so much as even touch you. You need to stay by me or I cannot guarantee your safety. I have a small group of level headed rebels that know of a place we can go, safehouses hidden by allies. They know of you and will not abuse you, unless they wish to face the wrath of me." Cora winks at her. Now outside, they slow down. Dropping her hand for a moment, Cora looks out over the water, and a sadness peaks through her previous determination. She turns around and looks her dead in the eye. Hesitant, she asks, "You will come with me, right?"

Estella attempts to lift the corners of her mouth up in a learned smile to comfort Cora, nodding as she says, “Of course my friend, wherever you lead me I shall follow.”

Cora squeezes her hand and leads her to a cluster of mages by a hidden boat. Silently they greet each other and make their way south of the tower. It is the best solution she could think of for the moment, though she is unsure of how this might affect her future.

Life was about to get very peculiar.

***

The war remains relentless. Cora and Estella try to stay low, researching for a faction of the rebels while they fought the templars. Estella, having always had a knack for puzzles, is particularly good at decoding messages. The other mages in the organization deemed her valuable enough to work for them despite her tranquility. She's just grateful to have a purpose, and works to accomplish whatever task they give her with the utmost efficiency.

The days fly by. Estella regularly checks for messenger hawks, being able to attract them easily with her unthreatening nature. Each day seems similar to the next, studying the encryptions from the templars and quickly working out their code. She always manages to report in a timely manner, consistently working to the organization's satisfaction. Cora seems pleased that she iss useful, though every once in awhile Estella catches her looking back at her sadly, as if lost in thought. She wishes she could understand why she looks at her that way, but she knows that asking such questions would only lead to more confusion and hurt on Cora's end. So Estella stays quiet and out of the way. A task she is quite familiar with.

One hazy morning, Estella sits alone in her and Cora's small quarters reading up on herbal remedies for the wounded mages when Cora hurries in and rips the book from her hands.

“Estella, pack your things as soon as you can, the end of the war is coming!” Cora nearly dances about the room as she starts to throw her few belongings into her bag.

Estella remains still, contemplating. “Are you quite sure? What event took place to cause you to assume this outcome?”

Cora continues to shove clothes and potions and the like into her bag, still a bit out of breath from dashing into the room. “The Divine called for a conclave, we are meeting with the templars and trying to figure out a way to live peacefully. We can finally end this chaos! We could get our rights back and…”

Looking back at Estella for a moment, Cora cannott help but feel pained. Estella’s blank expression, forever dead eyes masking the girl she used to be... it tortures her. She softens, stepping closer and gently cups her face, brushing away stray hairs as she rubs her cheek. “Maybe… we can get you back.”

Back? What does she mean by 'back'? Estella does not quite understand. She is sitting right here in the same room as Cora is she not? Or did she mean back to the circle? No that can’t be it, Cora never liked being in there. She would always use phrases such as being 'penned up like monsters' and how they 'tortured innocent mages'. She could always understand her anger, for she remembers rebelling being a large part of her own life before she was made tranquil. No, surely Cora wouldn't ever want to return to the tower. Cocking her head, Estella asks, “Back where? I apologize I don't quite understand what you mean by that.”

Cora looks at her closely, trying to hold back the tears welling up in her eyes. She hesitates for a moment, then closes the small distance between them. Gently Cora places her lips on Estella's, softly kissing her. Estella remains motionless. She was familiar with acts such as this, memories of them linger on the edge of her mind, but surely this was inappropriate. She sits there unsure of what to do. How does one respond to this?

Cora pulls away. Biting her lip she avoids Estella's gaze as she lets go of her face. She runs her hands together anxiously, asking softly, "Did you... do you feel anything? Anything at all?"

Estella doesn't respond for a moment. She understands what she means, but surely Cora knows that she is tranquil. Why is she being so irrational?

"Cora you know I cannot feel any emotions. I apologize if that is hurtful to you. I do not wish you any harm..." Estella wishes she could feel something, if only to make her companion content again.

Cora shakes her head, turns around, and starts packing up Estella's belongings for her. Estella moves towards her, "There is no need for you to do that, I am perfectly capable of packing myself. I apologize if I-"

"Stop apologizing!" Cora throws the bag back on the bed and grabs Estella by the shoulders, revealing the tears streaming down her face. "I should be the one who is sorry... I shouldn't have done that, I shouldn't have kissed you but I just... Do you not remember anything? Any feelings, anything about us from before? Don't you ever wish you could go back to the time before they made you tranquil?" She struggles to control her breathing, squeezing Estella's shoulders tightly before letting go. She backs away slowly and collapses on the bed.

"You don't remember. Do you. Not anything connected with feelings. I know what they did to you. You have nothing to apologize for. Everything you are... everything you do now. It isn't your fault. It's those bastards back at the circle... for what they did... what they made you...."

Estella is silent, making her way to sit down beside Cora, handing her a handkerchief. Cora sniffles for a moment, wiping her face, then she looks her directly in the eyes whispering, “Estella… what if there’s a way for you to become… you again? A way to take away your tranquility?”

Estella blinks slowly, stunned. “Take it away? But… I don’t know if I could, or should be able to handle that, even if it were possible. I was made tranquil for a reason after all.” At this Cora threw the handkerchief back at her suddenly, flaring up with anger.

“That is bullshit and you know it. I know that you have to take all the fodder that they feed you. But Ella you, the real you... The real Estella would never want to be tranquil, never needed to be. You were in control! You loved magic you…” Cora paces around the room. "You were the most talented out of all of us. We were stunned when we found out, people heard you scream." She stops pacing for a moment, looking out the window. "You fought them Estella. You didn't deserve this. You aren't supposed to be like this."

Estella tries to recall these memories, but her mind is blank. She is unsure of what to trust. Surely Cora wouldn't lie to her, but would the Circle? Her memory had too many blank spaces for her to piece together the truth. Too much had been tied up with emotion for her to really know what happened. So she sits quietly, and tries to think of anything to comfort her friend.

“I’m sorry if I’ve disappointed you. I can barely remember having a strong aversion to the rite. It's only glimpses, too much must have been related to my emotions, and I can't recall anything from that time. However if it gives you any peace of mind, I don’t feel upset any longer. I cannot. It may not be ideal, but at least it is better than possibly dying, hurting others, or whatever the templars may have feared for me.” Estella tries to smile again, hoping to calm down her friend, for she knows that Cora’s emotions often overwhelm her.

Cora walks back to her, grabbing her face one more time. She looks deep into Estella’s eyes, searching for something, anything, murmuring, “You're not even her anymore..."

She walks away without another word. Estella remains still as Cora returns to packing. She knew that Cora didn’t mean this in a literal sense, but it wasn’t logical to respond with anything, it was more for herself then to Estella anyway. So the uncomfortable silence hangs in the air as they both finish up packing their bags and leave the room for the final time.

They make their way to the stables and climb on a horse together, Cora makes sure that Estella has her arms tucked tightly around her waist. They ride out with the rest of the pack of mages on horseback, and start making their way west.

Cora looks behind her at their now empty hideout and sighs, saying "I'm glad we can come out of hiding, but I must say, I'm going to miss the excitement of it all."

They ride in silence for a while after that. As the sky grows darker, Cora eventually apologizes, "Hey, Ella? I'm sorry for how I snapped at you earlier. It was... you didn't deserve that."

"Do not worry about it, in truth, I am glad that you care for me. If you didn't I doubt I would be alive right now."

Cora puts her arm over Estella's around her waist, squeezing her hands. Turning around to look at Estella, Cora says, “Things are changing, Ella. Good things. Let us hope for the better.” Estella lifts the corners of her mouth again into her almost-smile, and Cora happily returns it. Estella may not be able to feel happiness anymore, but if she could, this would surely be the time for such an emotion.

If a small facial gesture could improve the life of another, then she has done something to better the world. Hope... she isn't sure quite how to process it, but it equates close enough to her curiosity as to what would come next.

Heads held high, they set off towards Haven and the Temple of Sacred Ashes, to the conclave where the mages and templars will finally meet to discuss the end of a war, of an era.

All the while hope, and a nervous sense of curiosity, hangs heavy in the air.

#dragon age #dai #my writing #tranquil #rite of tranquility #fanfiction #dragon age fanfiction #I'M SO NERVOUS FAM LMAO #*CRIES*

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ladydracarysao3 · 7 years

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In Love, Serenity

Chapter Thirteen: Relics

Chapter Summary Follow Abner through the Fallow Mire. What will happen when her crew stumbles on an old relic of her past?

Note Warnings: Violence. Battles happen in this chapter. Descriptions of death and carnage ahead.

[Read Chapter 13 on AO3] or [Start from the Beginning]

-Abner-

“I swear, if the guts of the undead tarnish my new armor…” Izzalea complains, fitfully brushing rotten entrails from her body with irritated disgust. As if armor was only made to be seen, rather than actually used.

Abner remembers why she prefers to work alone.

But let’s face it, she never forgot.

Ever since they arrived in the bog it has been nothing but misery. Rain, mud, the undead, demons, and constant griping. However, the bog and its contents don’t bother Abner. She’s known worse. But it is the incessant whining from the people around her that has her hackles up. It’s bad enough that Leliana sent her here to deal with an Avvar clan at all, but really, she could have accomplished this mission on her own. It would certainly be less of a head ache.

This clan may be calling for Izzalea personally, but Abner is confident she could quietly and efficiently take care of all Avvar involved in this mess. They would deserve every death, and she would be happy to give each one, personally.

Interrupting her thoughts, Abner spots alarming movement in her periphery. She finds Hawke about to make another stupid mistake. She darts over to him, yanking him violently from the water’s edge and back onto the pathway. She glares at him as he looks at her, wounded and astonished. She scolds him as if he is a child, because that is how he acts. “You nob, you almost stepped in the water…again…” She grits her teeth at the man. When is he going to get it through his thick skull that disturbing the waters in this bog wakes the undead lying within? He has continually stepped in when it was unnecessary, rousing the undead, and causing the group to fight more than they already have to.

...Seriously…These people…

He huffs and brushes off his robes indignantly, “Maybe if I hadn’t suffered a blow to the head yesterday, I wouldn’t feel so disoriented today.” Abner rolls her eyes and shoves him forward down the trail. How is this buffoon supposed to be a champion? He certainly doesn’t act like one.

“Maybe if you hadn’t been so mouthy, Abner wouldn’t have needed to put you in your place,” Iron Bull chuckles. Inwardly, Abner appreciates Bull’s retort, but she is trying to be emotionless toward anything concerning Hawke. She doesn’t understand why he came. He has seen too much of her already. He needs to just fade into the background, like all of the others before him. When she saw him stride up to the group back at Skyhold, she decided she would try to ignore him as best she could, maybe then his crush on her would be squashed.

“It was a joke!” he sneers back at the qunari. She knew he didn’t mean any real harm by what he said, but it is easier to push him away… as roughly as she needs to.

“I do believe our assassin friend did not find your poor attempt at levity to be very amusing,” Solas quips with a smug grin.

Irritated with the ribbing everyone has given him since she punched his arrogant, little nose, Hawke growls at Solas, “You think?!”

Abner considers her options for a moment. She crosses her arms and cocks her head at the brooding mage. Being rough with him isn’t working. It has only clouded his judgement, thus far. Perhaps she should try another approach.

“Alright how ‘bout this… everyone will all stop teasing you,” he lifts his head and looks at her with hopeful eyes. “IF you stop stepping in the damn water every five minutes. I mean seriously,” she points along the trail below their feet. “There is a path right here...follow it…”

He scratches his head, “I kept thinking I saw something in the water. Treasures. I love shiny things,” he pouts.

See? A child. What a dolt…a cute dolt…but a dolt nonetheless.

Groaning with disapproval, Abner points her finger in Hawke’s face. “Well, stop. No touching,” she says sternly. She follows her scold with a quick smile, hoping a little lightheartedness from her will help him focus.

“A smile!” He cheers and points as she rolls her eyes playfully, “A smile! Did you see that, Bull? I think she is coming around.”

“Or she is using the tactics one exploits when speaking to a simpleton… with you.” Solas interjects causing Abner to snort. Hawke glares at the elven apostate. She allows herself to display her amusement at the situation. For all of the reasons she has to be irritated with everyone, this group is oddly endearing as well. Also, she can’t help but think that the elf just gets her, with all of his clever witticisms aimed at knocking Hawke down from his smug pedestal. His adorable, smug pedestal.

“Alright kids. Let’s calm it down,” Izzalea orders, annoyed. Her mood has been sour ever since they discovered that the bog is teaming with undead, just waiting to rip their heads off. Abner can’t blame her. Being a noble, Izzalea is most likely accustomed to much finer things than rotten bogs the smell of death and decay.

She points down the trail. The darkness and rain are so thick that it’s difficult to see even ten paces ahead. “I think I see another one of those beacons. Maker, I hope we are almost done with all of this druffalo shit. Prepare yourself for demons, everyone.” The team cautiously approaches. “Solas, on our ready, light the beacon.”

Cole and Abner crouch on opposite sides of the group. Daggers drawn, ready to strike. With every previous beacon, lighting it not only pulled the undead from the waters, but also summoned terror demons. It has been rough, but Izzalea insists that they void the area from as much evil as they can. Between the beacons, a few fade rifts, and the easily disturbed, hidden undead, they have been fighting nearly nonstop since they arrived.

Solas places a magical barrier over everyone before he lights the beacon with veilfire. Immediately after, a horrifying screech erupts from the ground as a terror demon rips through the veil. Tall, sinewy, and disgusting, it shrieks with an ear-piercing magnitude that makes Abner see stars. While ripping outwardly with long, razor-sharp claws, the demon swipes a lengthy and boney tail behind it to trip-up anyone trying to flank it.

The Inquisitor doesn’t flinch; she immediately throws her grappling chain forward and entangles the creature within its metal links. Yanking it to her with a powerful war cry, she fearlessly bashes into it with her piercingly sharp-edged shield, stunning the monstrous creature. Iron Bull runs to her side and begins swinging his enormous axe into the demon with bloody rage. Blood and bone begin spraying everywhere as the demon shrieks and tries to free itself from their grasp.

Abner detects the undead rising from the surrounding waters. They slowly skulk forward, flanking the melee. She nods at Cole and he nods in return. On opposite sides of the fray, they stealth through the brush and weeds. Flanking their rotting, unaware enemies as they attack.

One by one, Abner sneaks up from behind and jabs a dagger forcefully through skulls. More difficult kills require her to jab and swing as they attack her, slicing their throats hard enough to rip off their heads. Others still, she assaults and forces to stumble to the ground, where she jumps on their brittle, disgusting bodies to ram her blades in into their brains. Putrid bodies stack and fall limp at her feet. Decaying flesh and thick, congealed blood covers her body. With each fresh kill, layer after layer of blood and guts paints over her skin and armor.

The undead Cole and Abner cannot reach in time, are sucked into a vortex by Solas. He manipulates the energies in fade so that a large group can no longer move. They are helplessly gathered into a rancid pile of crunching, shattering bones and slimy, gelatinous flesh. The rift mage then raises their bodies high in the air, only to quickly smash them back to the ground with immense force. Hawke follows up by unleashing a fire storm on top of the corpses. The smell of scorching, foul flesh releases into the air. Abner coughs and attempts to block the smoke from infiltrating her nose with a blood-wet forearm.

“Abner, watch out!” the Inquisitor frantically calls out to her. In that moment, Abner notices the ground beneath her shakes. Before she can roll, or jump, or run out of the way, a terror demon erupts from the earth. The power with which it springs through the veil, forces her to slam to the ground on her back. Her head smacks against a rock hard enough to cause her vision to blur. She lays there stunned for too long, as every moment in battle is open to life-threatening consequences.

“No!” Solas screams. He freezes the demon in place. Immediately, he doubles over, panting from exhaustion. The freeze holds just long enough for Hawke to run to Abner’s stunned, motionless body. He scoops her into his arms, bolting away from the demon as it breaks free from the freeze. With another ear-deafening screech, the demon madly swipes its claws outward.

The rest of group descends on the demon, attacking with all of their might. Izzalea screams and bashes it with her shield, demanding its attention to focus on her. As she blocks frenzied attacks, Cole and Iron Bull stab and slash with their weapons. They rip through the flesh of its screaming, ghastly body until finally, the demon falls into a wet pile of slime, skin, and bone.

Hawke and Abner lie on the ground, panting from pain, away from the battle. He had brought her there, laying her carefully on the dirt before collapsing beside her. Now, he strains to lean over her, brushing her coiled hair from her face. “Are you alright?” he pants, breathless, and stressed. His eyes dart back and forth between hers, sick with worry, searching for recognition. Needing to see the cloudy daze lift from her eyes, to know that she is alright.

Abner squeezes her eyes shut. “Yeah, I’m fine,” answering with a groan, she reaches to rub the back of her head. Her fingers become slick with blood. She curses under her breath and blinks her eyes quickly, trying desperately to find the focus that is taking too long to return. As the shapes in her vision find alignment, she notices that Hawke is wincing. The pain carried in his face is greater than it would be from just falling to the ground. Concerned that he was hit, Abner jumps to her knees, pushing through the intense dizzy spell the movement conjures, and frantically looks over his body.

“Did it get you?” she asks fanatically just before discovering that the demon had ripped its claws across his back. His robes are shredded. Blood quickly spreads from long, jagged wounds. Dark red pools on the ground.

“Solas!” she screams, “Come quick!” She rips a potion from her belt and forces its contents down Hawke’s throat. “Here, this will take away the pain. Solas can fix your flesh.”

Solas runs urgently and slides on his knees across the ground to Hawke’s back. He quickly takes a lyrium potion from his pack, giving him the temporary boost of power needed to heal the damage. As the mage lies there grimacing, the elf surveys the wound. Solas closes his eyes, a bright, green light emits from his hands as the skin magically reconnects. “There will be a scar, but the danger has passed,” the elf reports calmly.

“What about her head,” Hawke groans as he slowly lies flat on his back. He lifts his hand and points to the scout kneeling beside him, “She hit her head pretty hard.”

Solas looks at Abner, before he can speak she shrugs him off. “I’m fine, go check on everyone else.”

Solas sighs and stands, walking away to inspect the others. As he does Hawke grumbles, “No you’re not. You’re bleeding.” He weakly grabs the hand stained with her blood on the fingers.

“That’s undead blood.”

“No it’s not.”

Abner rolls her eyes, grabbing another small healing potion from her belt. She flashes the bottle in his face with a perturbed glare, before downing its bitter, thick liquid. “There. You can shut up about it now,” she says as she tosses the empty bottle to the ground.

With the threat of Hawke’s life now subsided, anger bubbles up inside her. “What do you think you were doing?” She shouts, roughly punching Hawke in the shoulder.

Labored, he sits up enough to rest on his elbows. He sharply barks back a retort, “Saving your sorry ass.”

“You’re a daft fool!” She stares daggers into him. Shoving him harshly back down on the ground, she rises to her feet. She disguises a dizzy wobble with the act of brushing dirt from her knees. “You could have been killed.”

“And what about you?” He sneers up at her indignantly.

“I would have been fine. I was just about to… to…” Abner searches for words, but her ire, or more likely her banged-up skull, is causing a hazy mind. “To throw a dagger in its face and leap away.” She crosses her arms and taps her foot, infuriated. But is she mad at him for putting himself in harm’s way? Or is she mad at herself for being vulnerable enough that he felt compelled to save her?

“Sure you were,” he scoffs. “You were dazed on the ground! You would be dead right now if I hadn’t…” He shakes his head, infuriated. “I think the words you are searching for, my dear, are thank you.”

“Okay, can we quit with this pissing contest?” Izzalea shouts from a short distance away. She and the others stand at the trail, waiting to continue their trek. “You’re both pretty. So, if you’re quite done with the bickering, we have a purpose here.” She signals her hands in a twirl that ends with her pointing into the misty, rainy beyond. “Let’s move out. I want to get the fuck out of this Maker forsaken pit they call the Fallow Mire before I grow old.”

Grunting, Abner stomps to the body of the demon. She grabs her daggers from ground where she dropped them when she fell. Cursing to herself in a language no one can hear, but couldn’t understand if they did, she wipes blood and guts from her blades onto her leather covered legs. She sheathes her blades while connecting a mutual glare with the champion. Both stubborn and haughty, they don’t speak to each other as they bring up the rear to their bog-trudging party.

The vexed group continues on their journey, walking through the miserable atmosphere in silence. All members of the little group are either angry with each other, or simply refraining from speaking - in hopes to not make the tension worse. They continue trekking through the mire this way, until they hear fighting ahead. Abner steels herself. A sick feeling forms in her gut from wondering who they will find.

They cautiously approach the sounds of a small skirmish… and then Abner sees him… a very large Avvar man battling a group of undead. He towers over them and swats them away as if they are merely flies. He is gigantic, far larger than even Iron Bull. I almost forgot how huge they are, she thinks as the sickness intensifies in her gut.

The Avvar giant finishes snapping the neck and crushing the head of his last undead victim as Izzalea reaches him. She stands at the ready in front of and shielding her crew, hesitant of what the man might do. He casually holds his mace on his shoulder, as if he doesn’t have a care in the world. He looks her up and down with indifference. “So, you must be Herald of Andraste.”

The Avvar wear paint and furs on their skin, with large face-covering helmets of varying metals, leathers, horns, bones, and dreaded hair. Abner did not recognize him at first, but as he spoke, the realization hits her like an axe to the gut. She’d recognize that thick, booming accent anywhere. A relic of her past. She always hoped she’d never see the day…

The Inquisitor peers at him, “I am…Why are you not attacking?”

“My kin want you dead, low lander. But it’s not my job. I’m called in when the dead pile up. Right’s for the Gods, mending for the bleeding, a dagger for the dying. That’s what I do. You’ll need no fear from me. Our Chieftain’s son wants to fight you, but I don’t pick up a blade for a whelp’s trophy hunt.” The Avvar man states matter-of-factly.

He exudes undeniable, unwavering confidence. Being surrounded by a group of possible combatants, covered in blood, doesn’t even register with him. He has nothing to fear, he is Avvar. He surely thinks he could squash the entire group like bugs if given a reason to. But in actuality, he is Sky Watcher. A shaman to the Avvar. He has a close relationship with spirits and the Gods. As an augur, he provides the last bits of comfort to dying members of his clan. He will only fight in self-defense, or if given just cause.

The fact that he is not aligned with the mission his leader is on is very good news. Perhaps there are others in the clan who think as he.

Abner takes a deep breath. Pushing through the fear born in her belly, she silently approaches him from behind the Inquisitor. Low yet strong in confidence, she addresses the colossal man, “Amund.”

He turns his head down to the petite woman. Grinning through his mask and beard he declares, “Well lookie here.” Chuckling, he swings his mace off of his shoulder and down to the ground. All muscles of the surrounding people tense as he does, but Amund simply leans on the hilt. Seemingly pleased, he looks the woman up and down. “Abner… hmph. Never thought I’d see you again.” Abner takes the fact that he did not immediately attack her as a good sign.

“You know this goliath?” Hawke calls out from the back of the group, but she ignores him.

“Abner used to be my kin,” Amund states, much to her distaste. As if it would not be a shock to those around her. Not that he cares.

There is a stunned silence surrounding her, save but the sounds of the rain smacking water-logged ground and distant rolling thunder. She glowers at the man and continues, ignoring the shock around her, “Which son, Amund?”

“You know already. Ofred Movransen, but he calls himself ‘Hand of Korth’ now,” Amund responds.

Abner chokes a sharp laugh, “Of course he does. Ofred always thought himself important. Now he thinks he is the hand of the Mountain-Father.” She shakes her head and crosses her arms. “Daft tit. What’s he want the Herald for?”

“He thinks it will win him favor with the Gods to kill her. Thinks that since she claims divinity, she needs destroying.”

Confidence rises steadily within her, as Amund has yet to show her any animosity. She rolls her eyes, annoyed and slightly amused. “Oh there will be destroying… How are the men he took?”

“A couple were wounded, but alive, last I saw them. They killed far more of us than I thought they would. Someone’s trained them well.” He grins at her. An approval. Abner feels a sense of pride within her, however brief. For as Amund finished his statement, the veil rips and crackles behind them.

Solas calls out in alarm, “Inquisitor! A rift!”

After they finished attacking the demons that poured from the rift, Izzalea closed it with the green mark on her hand. The act stabilized the veil between the physical world and the fade once again. Amund had aided in fight, and amazingly, no one was hurt. After the veil was restored, Amund admitted that he was impressed with the Inquisitor’s ability. He stated, “Maybe you do have a God’s favor,” before he disappeared, chuckling assumedly, into the darkness.

Although it was dark and dreary the entire day, their exhaustion proved that it was time to rest. They secured a camp under the overhang of a large rock formation. Solas sat alone, crafting more health potions for the next day. Iron Bull and Cole worked together, cooking a stew with some frog meat Aber caught, over a fire Hawke conjured. Hawke ensured the horses were properly tended and tethered. Izzalea sat and stared into the fire, her face weighted in thought. Everyone was quiet, but Abner felt their eyes often glancing over her while she set up the tents.

She knows they have questions after the information-bomb Amund dropped. Nevertheless, the interaction with him unfolded much smoother than Abner had feared. Discovering who it is that has the Inquisition’s soldiers though, left her with a dreadful pit in her stomach. Her worst fear realized. Part of her knew it had to be him when Leliana first told her about this mission. Ofred is sole reason she reacted the way she did.

However, Abner knows much more now than she did years ago. She can take care of herself far better than she was able to before. As a young woman, she was never taught how to successfully fight a person the size of the Avvar. Never shown how to utilize her smaller, lighter frame to her advantage. How to take out men ten times her size with ease.

But she knows now.

She can do this.

Finished pitching the tents, Abner sits on a rock beside the fire. She quietly cleans and sharpens her blades while watching as Bull stirs frog and carrot stew. The tension in the air is heavy. Palpable. She knows they all have questions. But she strongly avoids indulging them. She never wanted anyone to know in the first place. Yet, here she is.

Time passes slowly, when no one speaks. Once ready, they all eat their stew in silence. A few murmured comments about the flavor of their meal and the ever persistent rain, but not much more than that. Afterwards, they all help clean up and retire to their tents.

Abner lies in her bedroll, unable to sleep. She listens to the soft snore coming from the Inquisitor across from her in their shared tent, the sounds of thunder clapping violently through the sky as the storm intensifies, and the endless downpour of rain slapping against the wet, marshy ground. Her eyes finally grow heavy as exhaustion wins the battle of her worried, racing mind. A mind focused on what could happen when they find the rest of the Avvar.

Sitting on a mountain side, Abner grins into the sunrays warming her soul. The cool, dry mountain air races across her prickled skin. She loves this spot. She always comes here to get away from him. The one place where he never found her. Here Abner can be happy. Brief periods of time where she feels safe, where she can pretend she lives a different life. A life that is filled with laughter and excitement, rather than screaming and pain.

She carefully stands and tries to balance herself on a narrow, rocky ridge. She thinks about how easy it would be to make the hurt stop, forever. But as she balances her bare feet on the edge of the ridge, she realizes that somehow, she is preforming better than she thought she could. Strange, she doesn’t remember having good balance…

“Were you always so graceful and composed?” A voice purrs from behind her. She startles, wavering in her balance. Amazingly, she manages to spin around without falling down the mountain.

“No… I wasn’t?” Abner furrows her face, trying to concentrate, but it is difficult. “Or… I’m not? I’m not sure.” She looks at the man, confused. “Who are you? How did you find me?”

“I live here, of course,” he says with an impish grin. The stranger strides effortlessly along the ridge and sits beside her dusty, bare feet.

She is sitting next to him now, but doesn’t remember how she made the delicate maneuver. She squints her eyes as she peers quizzically at him, “You live on the mountain?”

He chuckles softly to himself, “I live on all of the mountains. I live in all of the forests, too. The Lakes. The Rivers. The Deserts. The Foothills. The Plains. Everywhere.”

She frowns suspiciously at the stranger. “You’re mental. You can’t live everywhere.”

“I can, and I do,” he proudly responds.

What an odd thing to say. This is so weird. Everything feels weird. Wrong. He seems familiar, but she doesn’t know him. His hair is long, dark, and dreaded, like hers. His skin is a warm, rich, and sun-kissed like hers. But his features are angular and strong. He has the long slender ears and body of an elf, yet he is larger and more muscular than any elf Abner has ever seen. She admires the small skull he wears at the crown of his head. Tiny teeth and beads drape down from the skull, woven into his dreaded hair. He looks wild and feral.

Like me.

“What’s your name, stranger?” she asks.

“I go by many names, da’len,” he responds with a smirk.

She glowers and spits her words at him, “I am no child of yours, hahren.”

“Intriguing. Do you know more of the Elvhen language?” He peers at her as if she a subject on a table, awaiting dissection.

She radiates a noise of disgust and rolls her eyes. But suddenly, she feels her heart racing, panic setting in. This is all wrong. Everything is wrong. She doesn’t know him. Why is she here? She hasn’t been on this mountain in years and she would never risk coming back.

Wait.

She knows what’s happening.

“Shit!” she squeaks. Glaring, Abner side-eyes at the stranger beside her. “I know what you are…”

“Oh?” he appears delightfully entertained by her declaration.

“Fadewalker. I am asleep.” She is dreaming and therefore in the fade, revisiting a place that once made her feel comfortable when she was weak. And this man… this fadewalker… is a mage traveling the fade, looking for people to pester. I won’t let him pester me.

He smiles smugly, “Ah, so you have realized that you are in the fade. Very good, da’len.”

“What are you doing here, Fadewalker? What do you want from me? Why have you possessed my dreams?” She crosses her arms and glares at the man with contempt.

He raises his long, lithe body effortlessly and begins to blithely walk back down the mountain ridge. Away from Abner. “I found you… curious, Abner. Thought I would come to see what makes you, you.” His voice is oddly familiar, but she cannot place it.

He spins his body on his toes. Toes that are open to the dirt and rock, while the rest of his feet are wrapped in an elvhen fashion Abner is familiar with and jealously admires. The swift spin of his elegant body has him facing her again. He has an untamed, savage look in his eye. An impish, insolate grin to his curled lips.

Abner grunts and throws a small rock at the figure. “Get lost Fadewalker, go riddle someone else’s dreams.”

He laughs, amused and unaffected by her disrespect. “Perhaps another time, Abner.” With that he steps off the edge of the ridge, disappearing, as if he was never there.

Abner is left sitting on the mountain side, contemplating how she was able to figure any of that out. Perhaps, the mage had aided her somehow. Perhaps, the ability had been within her all along.

#in love serenity #my fic #dragon age #dragon age inquisition #dragon age fanfiction #dragon age fandom #dragon age romance

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