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yandere-daydreams · 3 years

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Title: Awaited Reunions.

Commissioned by the lovely @99shadowcat99.

Word Count: 1.6k.

Pairing: Yandere!Dabi/Hawks.

Synopsis: Keigo’s never been the paranoid type, but when he’s ingrained with the League of Villains, acting as a double-spy too distant from both fronts to count on either’s supports, it’s difficult not to imagine all the grisly ends he could meet, if he’s ever found out. But, when it finally comes time to bite the bullet, Keigo finds out there are things much worse than death.

TW: Alternative Timeline, Kidnapping, Imprisonment, Smoking, Possessive Mindsets, Non-Consensual Touching, and Explicit Language.

**Disclaimer: I don’t read the manga, so if some minor details are incorrect or misinterpreted, I apologize in advance. This piece deviates from the canon early enough for Keigo not to have completely earned the League’s trust, yet, but late enough for much of his behavior to be considered incriminating to the general public.

Keigo couldn’t remember the last time his wings felt heavy.

Or, this heavy, at least. He could always feel them, he was always aware of the breeze on his feathers, the pull on his shoulder blades, the way his spine began to ache whenever he’d overworked himself, but that was different, it was presence, tense and rigid and stiff but alive, nonetheless. This was different. It was dead, alien, wrong, as if someone had taken two metal rods and driven them into his back where his wings were supposed to be. As if he was being dragged down, and there was nothing he could do but fall.

Weakly, he tried to unfold his wings. He couldn’t remember the last time he had to think about something so simple, the last time he had to genuinely try, but he still did, he still put every ounce of concentration into one motion, one twitch, one sign that there was still something attached to him, something he could use. He tried, and he tried, and he tried, and...

And, nothing happened. Keigo slumped against the bare wall in defeat, letting his hand curl around the collar resting around the base of his neck, the metallic source of his current problem.

A quirk-cancelling collar. It was almost ironic, in a way.

There was a chain connected to it, the links bulky, leading back to a radiator that, thankfully, didn’t work. There were shackles on his wrists, too, and his ankles, but he’d already given up on prying them off. It was a futile effort, anyway. It was an old-fashioned method, but an effective one, too tight and too straight-forward not to be effective. Clunky, but not clumsy. Ugly, but purposefully so.

Then again, he wasn’t sure what else he could expect from Dabi. Bruised, battered Dabi. Simpering, smirking Dabi.

Dabi, who hadn’t said a damn word since Keigo woke up on the floor of this shitty, empty basement, the back of his head throbbing and his wings frozen to his back, despite his best efforts to thaw them out.

For the first time in the handful of hours he’s been conscious, Keigo let his attention drift to his silent companion. He’d changed since the last time Keigo saw him, put on a thinner coat, one without the fine layer of ash that turned a pitch-black to a muddy, distorted grey. He hadn’t combed his hair, but Keigo might’ve been more surprised if he had. The same went for the cigarette caught between his pointer and middle fingers, a new facet, but one that felt right, one that filled the air with a cloudy, darkened smoke that made Keigo squint and frown, despite knowing he should be doing his best to stay neutral in every capacity, right now, expressions included. If Dabi noticed the slip, though, he didn’t bother with a verbal critic. His eyes were the only thing that moved, flickering in Keigo’s direction from where he leaned against the furthest wall.

For a moment, neither of them spoke, waiting for the other to cave under the pressure. Keigo was the first to relent. He could take the hit to his pride, as long as it meant finding out what was going on. “Those things can kill you, y’know.”

Another drag, slow and careless. When he exhaled, the smoke was black, sooty. As if Dabi’s lungs were just as burnt as his skin. “If they want to get the job done, they’ll have to work a little faster,” He muttered, his voice so low, Keigo wasn’t sure whether or not he was supposed to overhear. “It’s a steep competition. I’ve got other ‘suitors to entertain’, and all that bullshit. But you know all about that, don’t you?”

“If you want me to know about anything, you’re gonna have to stop talking in fucking riddles,” Keigo groaned, letting his head fall back against the bare wall. There was a jolt of pain through his skull, the ghost of something hot and thick dripping down the back of his neck, but Keigo elected to ignore the bolts of reflexive panic that shot up, in response. “This is a joke, right? The last thing I remember is you storming into the bar, hitting me over the head with a pint I wasn’t finished with, and the next thing I know, I’m tied up in some dark basement, listening to you rant about ‘suitors’ and ‘competition’. If either of us should be asking questions, it’s me.”

Now, that got Dabi to laugh, a deep chuckle that, for whatever reason, did little to ease Keigo’s nerves. He almost regretted trying to keep the tone so light. “That’s cute,” He said, letting his heel knock against the skirting as he pushed himself away from the wall. “I thought spies were supposed to be good at sweet-talkin’.”

Keigo felt his heart drop.

It wasn’t an unfamiliar sort of dread, all hollow fear and sore tightness, the same thing he felt every time someone mentioned lying, or how close he seemed with the Heroes he supposedly hated, or stared too long or failed to smile or made a comment that just wasn’t trusting enough, for Keigo’s sense of skepticism. If he’d been able to use his wings, he might’ve taken his chances, running Dabi through like an especially hostile pin-cushion or going on the defensive and hoping most of him wasn’t burnt away in the process, but he didn’t. He couldn’t. He couldn’t do anything, and fuck, he was starting to get sick of it.

He couldn’t do anything, so he didn’t try to. For a long, calculated second, he held Dabi’s gaze, his expression shocked and confused, and then, he cracked a smile, bowed his head, and forced himself to laugh.

“You’re fucking with me.” Blatant, simple, vulgar. He spoke Dabi’s language, spoke like his friend. Like he was one of them, really one of them, rather than a poorly-crafted imitation. “You have to be fucking with me. A spy? Really? If you wanted to scare me, you could’ve just--”

“The League already knows,” Dabi cut in, not bothering to indulge Keigo’s attempts to backtrack. “Took a while, but no one was that surprised to find out the hero might not be on our side. Funny how quickly all that hard work goes to waste, right?” The cigarette fell from his hand, soon caught under the toe of Dabi’s boot. “Don’t worry about the Hero Commission comin’ for their golden boy, either, I’ll make sure no one puts you over daddy’s knee. The news about our dissatisfied, glory-speaking hero should start spreading in three... four hours? Just the part about you working with us, obviously. If the rest of your valiant friends want to save face in front of their adoring fans, they’ll drop the case quickly.”

In his defense, Keigo didn’t break down. He didn’t scream, he didn’t cry, he didn’t do much of anything, not as Dabi laughed, not as he stretched, and not as slow, careless footsteps made their way across the otherwise empty room, only stopping once he reached Keigo’s kneeling form. Keigo didn’t look up. He kept his eyes fixed on the floor, concentrated on one particular crack in the concrete as Dabi lowered himself to one knee, taking his time to settle into the position. He didn’t want to look up, but he didn’t have a choice, not after Dabi’s hand clamped around his jaw, his thumb just digging into Keigo’s cheek and forcing his head back. Forcing him to take in the glint of silver staples, those hooded eyes. That smile, crooked and sharpened and so, so satisfied.

Keio felt sick.

“The guys wanted your head on a platter for it, but let that scare ya’. Took a while to calm ‘em down, but your new jewelry helped, and no one hated the idea of seeing you placed in my loving care.” There was a slight squeeze, a sudden jerk that left Keigo scrambling to catch himself and Dabi releasing an amused huff, one seemingly unaffected by his hostage’s silence. “Think of this as a favor. A gift from an old friend, an act of mercy from the only person who’s ever going to care about you, going forward.”

It was an instinctive reaction, one Keigo didn’t have to think about. Not anymore. “You’re not my friend.”

“This again,” Dabi sighed, his tone anything but sympathetic. “Need another hint, Takami?”

Keigo opened his mouth, but he didn’t get the chance to answer. Dabi was already wrenching him forward, chapped lips soon pressed against his own. The kiss was harsh, sudden and forceful enough to be bruising and thankfully, thankfully cut short as Keigo shoved at Dabi’s chest, forcing him to draw back with a throaty laugh. It only lasted a second, less than that, but it lasted long enough for Keigo to remember the last time someone kissed him like that, long enough to remember his training, the cramped rooms and thin mattresses and the tiny cots that only seemed smaller when another warm body found its way onto his. To remember a boy with white hair and smoke on his breath, a boy who died, a boy who was still dead. A boy who Keigo had to tell himself time and time again couldn’t be in front of him, couldn’t be alive, couldn’t be Dabi.

A boy with a cracked smile, one that never seemed genuine, whose touch was too harsh and whose kiss was too hard and who thought he loved Keigo, who thought he could love Keigo.

Who thought Keigo could love him back, if he didn’t have another option.

“Touya.”

Dabi only let go of his jaw, taking Keigo by his collar, instead. Keigo didn’t look at him. He couldn’t look at Dabi, but he didn’t have to. He could feel the tug forward, the smile as a soft, chaste kiss was pressed into the top of his head. “I thought you’d never come around,” Dabi, no, Touya whispered, his teeth ghosting over Keigo’s skin.

“Miss me, sweetheart?”

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myselfinserts · 5 years

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“We’re players in a game that I don’t intend to lose.”

Étienne stared at the man before him with a curious level of intrigue. He’d heard horror stories of the man they called Inkwell. He didn’t know which were true. And frankly he didn’t care.

This was someone Ceri treasured, so he would try to play nice.

Though Inkwell was making that very hard.

“Yet another draw,” Grigor sighed. “I honestly expected a challenge.”

Étienne could feel his eye twitch. “Maybe we should stop playing chess-”

“You’re holding back on me. Worried I’ll get mad or are you trying to win me over for Ceri’s sake? I want you to actually try beating me.”

“I’ll destroy you if you make another comment like that.”

“How can I get you to do your worst on me?”

“Are you even listening?”

“I got it!”

“You’re not even listening.”

“Let’s have a wager.”

Étienne stared at him, his urge to leave growing every second.

“One last game,” Grigor proposed. “If you win, I’ll pay the normal price to have you update my gloves.” He leaned forward, his inky stare glimmering with mischief. “But if I win, I pay you double.”

“You what?” Étienne asked. “That makes no sense.”

Grigor smirked, his voice low and inviting. “It does though. You’re Ceri’s special someone. And I’m going to test you to make sure you won’t destroy him.”

This man is insane, he thought. He seriously thinks a game of chess like this is a test? “What-”

“We’re players in a game that I don’t intend to lose, Étienne Allard. I want to know if you’re worth all the hype Ceri has toward you.” Their playful demeanor vanished, replaced with cold despair and warm compassion. “He’s been through enough. I just want to make sure you’re at least half the man he claims you are. If you have the integrity to stand up for what’s right by him.”

Étienne stared at the old hero before him, trying to get a read on him. Needless to say, it was impossible at this point. He’d gone back to the cheshire grin.

“Very well,” he relented. “I’ll see your wager.”

Grigor cackled. “Perfect. Now, no holding back. Give me your worst.”

Étienne smirked. “Very well.”

They played once again. The atmosphere changed. It wasn’t awkward or annoying. It was rather exhilarating. It was rather nice to be able to enjoy this challenge. He watched as Inkwell became flustered, trying to keep pace with him. There was something different about this game. But he didn’t care to look into it.

He only cared about his win.

“Checkmate,” Étienne declared. “Now, I think that’s enough nonsense-”

“You’re an honest man.”

Étienne stopped, raising an eyebrow. “Pardon?”

“I think it’s time to change it up. How about mancala?” Grigor began to clean up the chess board. “You know, I’ve proposed the exact same wager to support designers in the past. And caterers, artists, musicians, even other Heroes and civilians. They all threw the games intentionally to get more money, or because they thought I’d be angry if I ever lost.” His gaze had softened, lingering on the pairs of queens and kings before them. “I knew if that was the kind of person Ceri fell for, I’d have to correct him. People like that oft turn to people like Abney should they not harbor pure intent.” He looked at Étienne, handing him the little golden king. “You on the other hand, are an honest man. No matter how your relationship with Ceri continues or ends, I know I can trust his heart to you. You’re a good man, Mr. Allard.”

Étienne stared at him, trying to figure out what was going on. This wasn’t the same man he was playing chess with just a moment ago. He was tired. More haggered. Almost...lonely.

With a gentle sigh, he accepted the king. “I’m not a good man. You’re just insane.”

“Perhaps,” Grigor conceeded. “But that doesn’t mean I can’t still trust you. If you ever need someone to...take care of matters. I’ll personally make any problems go away.”

“...I’ll keep that in mind.”

Inkwell is insane, he decided. But perhaps...I can come to trust him as well.

“By the way,” Inkwell hummed. “There’s something I need to tell you...”

Étienne looked at him, perplexed. “What is it now?”

“You’re an honest, good man. You take no nonsense. I like that in an artist.” He set the chess set on the bookshelf, pulling out the mancala board. “I’m certain this isn’t something you need to know, but I’m saying it anyway, because unwanted advice is something that I’m damned good at giving.”

As he set up the game, Étienne poured himself another cup of tea. “Very well. What is it?”

“If you ever want to win a battle before it begins, never let your enemy get an inch in edgewise. You’re better than them. Find the chink in the armor and slay.”

Étienne stood on the porch, watching as the red haired Heroine approached. Rage burned in his veins as he saw her. Not just his own, but Reginald’s as well. But there was another feeling there. Something softer. Something he came to understand was genuine care for Mary. Something that, had Étienne never come face to face with him, would have prompted Regi to possibly have stayed with her for the rest of his days.

There was a part of Reginald that still wonders if he’d have been happy with Mary.

But Étienne knew, deep down, Reginald and Mary wouldn’t have lasted.

Especially as long as Lucien had stuck around.

There were happy memories. Gentle date nights, kind gestures, words of love and care. They were all genuine. She really did love him, and he really used to love her. Étienne acknowledged this.

But there was so much bad that Reginald had brushed off. The controlling actions, the constant decisions made before consulting him, the harsh criticisms of Reginald that slowly wore him down over time until he lacked any kind of self confidence, the yelling. Oh god, did Mary yell. It was a wonder Regi didn’t leave her sooner.

He was weak, back then. He didn’t know he could have had better.

And he was weak now. He’s struggling to find himself, lost in the memories that were not his.

She could easily take him back now.

And like hell Étienne was going to let him fall back into her control.

Mary walked into the yard, leaving the gate open (oh how they both hated that habit of hers), smiling and holding up a grocery bag. And for just a vague moment, a fleeting second, he felt a warmth in his chest. Not as strong as the one for Luci, but not small enough to ignore completely.

He ignored it anyway.

“Hello,” Mary greeted. “I’m here to see-”

“Leave.”

Mary blinked, smile faltering. “Ah, you must be Étienne-”

“You’re not welcome here,” Étienne interjected. “Reginald is not well enough to deal with your ‘shenanigans’ as he’d try to politely put it, so I’m going to politely ask you to leave before I make you.”

Her face became as red as her hair. “Who do you think-”

“You’re not welcome here, Mary McMiller, and you haven’t been welcome here since the day you broke into Luci’s personal records. Reginald has standards for his close circle, and you proved a long time ago that you don’t meet them.”

“How dare-”

“He’s been happier since you moved out and quite frankly, from what I’ve seen, I’m surprised he didn’t dump your ass the day he figured out that he was Bisexual. And as the one he came out to first as well as his best friend, I can safely say that poor soul probably would never have come to that conclusion with the level of care you took in isolating him.”

Mary started to go pale. “What are you-”

“He doesn’t have any lady friends outside of Phoenix and L and I have no doubt you’re part of the reason why. Then again, I’m shocked he and I even managed a friendship with you constantly deciding where he would be staying when he traveled, texted him three times a day at every meal, planned all his outfits, decided on dates before even asking him if he was free and wasn’t bogged down with scientific research that could save millions. You realize he’s actually incredibly coulrophobic right? And that he often hides it because of work but ends up sleeping on his cot in the lab just so people don’t see him crying to sleep from fear? Oh wait, of course not. Otherwise you wouldn’t have made him watch IT and Killer Clowns from Outer Space back to back. He’s been needing therapy for that for years and it wasn’t until Luci had to drag his ass to the doctor that he got help for it and by god did your pathetic lack of empathy do a number on him.”

Étienne knew he’d probably be going to far. Something inside him, probably the too kind half of Regi’s memories causing his head to ache, was asking him to stop.

But he didn’t listen to it. The rage both he and Reginald had was just a little too strong.

“I don’t,” Mary stammered. “I didn’t-”

“You didn’t know,” Étienne moaned. “The tired ol’ excuse you’d give him every time you made him angry or upset him or did something that put him in a position where he’d have to reveal a major weakness that he didn’t trust you enough to tell you and honestly? If you’d bothered learning proper communication, maybe he’d have trusted you enough. Remember when he told you that he can barely watch horror movies as is? And you planned a horror movie marathon anyway? Or what about the time he told you that he was allergic to papayas and you got him a Tropic Paradise smoothie at the local juice bar?”

Mary nearly dropped the bag as she stumbled back, trying to get away as he got up closer with a glare. “Please stop-”

He adjusted his glasses, giving her the strongest, most demented grin he could muster. “Oh no, no. Am I getting too loud?”

The wind slowly picked up. Mary was shaking. Étienne had completely torn her down. And she would not be recovering from this for a while.

He wondered if he’d gone too far.

But then the memories began to pound away in his mind. The mixtures and good and bad, all set to one of Regi’s many confusing playlists. The nights of crying alone. The pain of wondering if he was broken. The seemingly happy nature of everything around him. So much people pleasing. So much praise for being so amazing. The power couple expectations. The fear. The love. The hatred. The glory.

The loneliness.

The loneliness that swam into every corner of his being.

Oh god, it wanted to swallow him whole again.

But he couldn’t let it.

Not now.

“Your past actions have proven you are not to be trusted with his welfare,” Étienne stated bluntly. “And if you think I’m going to let you any closer to that door, you’ve got another thing coming.”

Mary’s lip quivered and she handed him the bag. “You win...I’ll leave now...”

“Good.”

“Please take good care of him...” She crossed her arms, tears streaming down her cheeks. “I’m sorry...”

Without another word, she left, closing the gate behind her.

Étienne looked inside the bag, making sure there wasn’t anything potentially harmful. Inside was a case of IRN Bru, some salt and vinegar crisps, a box of chocolates, a tin of nice loose leaf chamomile, a stuffed clown bear with a “get well soon” sign, and a bottle of papaya juice.

“I expect nothing and yet still I’m left disappointed.” He took out the bear and juice and chucked it in the nearby bin as he went back inside. Meatloaf was staring down at him from her perch, but made no noise. Luci was sitting on the couch with freshly made tea.

“How did it go?” they asked nervously.

Étienne simply smiled.

“She won’t be coming back anytime soon.”

#myselfinserts #mybnhaocs #friend's ocs #the au of class #ooooooh boy was this a ride an a half to write #Anonymous

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henseonos-blog · 6 years

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Stormborn: Chapter I.

A/N: I'm afraid I've been thinking lately—a dangerous pastime, I know—but I had an idea that I just can't get out of my head. Behold the first chapter of that idea. You might be thinking that this sounds exactly like the beginning of the Season 7 / Episode 2 "Stormborn" of Game of Thrones, and you'd be right. Things will change as the idea develops. By you clicking on this story, you've consented to read a rated "M" fic that will inevitably contain F/F. Oh, and you're also agreeing to be cool with spoilers for Game of Thrones if you haven't already seen it. As a final note, it'd be really awesome if you kept any hate to yourself and only offered praise for what you like and constructive criticism for what you don't.

Disclaimer: I am not in any way associated with George R. R. Martin, HBO, etc. The characters and storylines found within this fic belong to their creator, and no copyright infringement is intended.

It began as any tale of war and love and woe might, on a thunderous night where the gods hailed their fury down upon the world. Dragonstone sat atop its ancient seat in the earth, besieged by the elements on all sides. Waves that might swallow a man grown, would that they could, crashed against its sandy shores. A wicked wind kicked up a thick mist as it howled over the groaning sea. Torrential rains pelted the very stones of the keep, making their own mark upon centuries of erosion. The sky was alight with blue fire, but it mattered little. Come what may, the seat of House Targaryen would yet stand upon the morrow.

"On a night like this, you came into the world," Tyrion Lannister recalled, sliding his hands over the weathered stone of the table before him. Across its surface sat all the great houses in their seven kingdoms. A speared sun, the sigil of House Martell, shone proudly from the south, and the lions of Lannister growled menacingly in the east. Other figurines sat scattered across the board like pockmarks, but his eyes lingered for just a moment too long upon the three golden beasts.

"I remember that storm," came another soft voice—Lord Varys, the Spider and once-Master of Whisperers. He, too, stood with his soft, powdered hands stretched out across the realm, facing the balcony where the rain pushed a cold breeze into the room. "All the dogs in King's Landing howled through the night."

"I wish I could remember it," spoke the woman there, outlined against the night as the darkness turned her rounded edges hard. Daenerys Targaryen turned then to face them, loose ringlets of silver hair shining in the candlelight about her shoulders. "I always thought this would be a homecoming." Her footsteps echoed around the war room of her ancestral home, bouncing from one stone to another. "Doesn't feel like home…" She came to rest before the great table, eyes downcast to gaze upon the Seven Kingdoms—hers by birthright.

"We won't stay on Dragonstone for long," Tyrion promised, his expression as sympathetic as his words were encouraging.

"Good."

It was a curt reply, to be sure, and spoken in the harsh tone of an impatient ruler in place of a forlorn friend, but what more could he expect? To be so close to victory and, yet, so far… Well, he could only imagine. It was only a moment after his lips had pursed into a hard, thin line that he turned from her and lifted his goblet. A hearty sip of the finest Dornish wine seemed to serve as a far better response than anything he had left to offer.

Daenerys watched his retreating form from the farthest corner of her vision. "Not so many lions," she commented, turning her attention back to the tabletop. Her hands moved to its surface, drawn by the unspoken promise of supremacy it offered.

"Cersei controls fewer than half the Seven Kingdoms. The lords of Westeros despise her." Varys spoke with the confidence not of a eunuch but of a man in greater power and title than he held. His plump fingers dug into the rough stone across from her, but he met the gaze of his queen as evenly as he dared. "Even before your arrival, they plotted against her. Now—"

A sculpted brow quirked in response, but her expression otherwise remained neutral. "They cry out for their true queen?" A mocking lilt entered her tone. "They drink secret toasts to my health?" She withdrew her hands from the map and wrung them before her. "People used to tell my brother that sort of thing, and he was stupid enough to believe them." Her pace was slow as she rounded the table, inching ever closer to the Spider.

It was in seeming disinterest that she lifted her own sigil off the board and inspected the figurine, a dragon with its wings stretched in flight. "If Viserys had three dragons and an army at his back, he'd have invaded King's Landing already."

Tyrion's eyes narrowed upon his queen, watching her as she studied her mark upon the map. "Conquering Westeros would be easy for you, but you're not here to be queen of the ashes," spoke the dwarf, his hands then clasped firmly behind his back. It was a reminder, gentle but firm. Sacking the capitol with three dragons grown and an army of foreigners would only serve to distance her further from the throne she sought and the loyalty that came with it.

At this, she looked up from the carved figure before putting it back in its rightful place and squaring her jaw. "No."

"We can take the Seven Kingdoms without turning it into a slaughterhouse." Of this, Tyrion was sure. Daenerys possessed the qualities of a true queen, one that the people of the realm deserved and would support, but he could not be sure if patience sat among them. "If the great houses support your claim against Cersei, the game is won."

Her hands resumed their wringing.

"With the Tyrell army and the Dornish on our side, we have powerful allies in the south."

As if a memory long forgotten had been sparked by his words, the queen's eyes snapped up from the table, and she turned to face Varys fully. "I never properly thanked you for that."

Taken aback, the eunuch was silent for a moment before withdrawing his hands from the great table and responding. "They joined our side, My Queen, because they believe in you." His words were cool and measured, but a flicker of worry flashed across his features like the sky's blue fire across the horizon.

"You served my father, didn't you, Lord Varys?"

There was yet another pause before he answered. "I did."

"—and then you served the man who overthrew him."

She now had the full attention of everyone in the room. Even Tyrion had sense enough to look worried, his wine long forgotten as he shifted his weight from one foot to the other and tracked her movement. A dwarf he might be, but blind he was not. Even a fool could guess his queen's intentions, and what might happen next, but an unwitting spider? He would send a silent prayer up for the man to any god that might be willing to listen.

"I had a choice, Your Grace: serve Robert Baratheon or face the headman's axe."

"—but you didn't serve him long." Her eyes remained cold, but a small, knowing smile pulled at the corners of her lips. She had him beneath the heel of her boot. "You turned against him."

Again, taken aback, Varys let out a quiet hiss of air. Spittle dotted his lower lips and his heart thumped painfully in his chest, but still he met her gaze. "Robert was an improvement on your father, to be sure. There have been few rulers in history as cruel as the Mad King." If he had struck a nerve, her countenance did not betray it, nor did it waver from the smirk she wore. "Robert was neither mad nor cruel. He simply had no interest in being king."

He hadn't even had the time to draw a breath before she spoke once more.

"So, you took it upon yourself to find a better one."

The accusation hung in the air for a long moment before Tyrion thought to interject. "Your Grace…" he began, eyes lowered to one jewel or another fixed to the dark material of her garment. When she turned to him, arms crossed at the wrist over her navel almost expectantly, he found that he could not meet her gaze as the Spider had. "When I was ready to drink myself into a small coffin, Lord Varys told me about a queen in the east who—"

"Before I came to power, you favored my brother." She rounded back on the eunuch like a hound after its bone, fury boiling beneath the surface of her skin now. She had no interest in hearing the rest of her advisor's tale, lest it end in her wrath turned upon those who did not yet deserve it. "All your spies, your little birds, did they tell you Viserys was cruel, stupid, and weak?" She watched as his eyes dipped down, breaking from her unspoken challenge. "Would those qualities have made for a good king in your learned opinion?"

The Spider seized the opportunity to speak, his brows furrowed and skin creased in a strange mixture of concern and indignation. "Until your marriage to Khal Drogo, Your Grace, I knew nothing about you, save your existence and that you were said to be beautiful."

Daenerys lifted her chin, refusing to relent under the charm of his sweet, panicked words. She had never been fond of flattery. "So, you and your friends traded me like a prized horse to the Dothraki."

"—which you turned to your advantage."

If he had thought that the repetition of what was known would break her, he had judged her poorly. She would not be deterred. Still, the question burned in her throat like the flames of her dragons. It begged to be released into the space between them, to do whatever damage it may. "Who gave the order to kill me?"

Tyrion's eyes darted from his queen to the eunuch and back again. There was a small part of him that trusted Varys, for the things he had done. That part of him yearned to put an end to this mummer's farce. However, there was a far greater part of him that still distrusted the Spider, even more so for the things he had done, and that part of him longed to see the queen get the answers she sought.

"King Robert," Varys answered, having the good sense to look at least nearly ashamed.

Like a prowling lion of Lannister stalking its prey, she moved closer to him. "Who hired the assassins?" Closer, still, she came. "Who sent word to Essos to murder Daenerys Targaryen?"

"Your Grace…" he interrupted, nodding his bald head in equal parts fear and respect. "I did what had to be done to—"

"—to keep yourself alive."

Once more, Tyrion found his voice. For the moment, it seemed as if the soft spot he held for the Spider, his personal savior, had won out. "Lord Varys has proven himself a loyal servant." As he drew breath to continue on in the other's defense, the queen then rounded on him.

"Proven himself loyal?" she snapped, her glare as sharp as dragonglass as it bore into him. "Quite the opposite." She fixed him under her gaze for only a moment longer, almost as if daring him to again speak out against her, before turning back to her prey. "If he dislikes one monarch, he conspires to crown the next one. What kind of a servant is that?"

Though he held no love for or any likeness to dragons, her words sparked a fire in the Spider's belly. "The kind the realm needs." His words were as firm as he dared, his eyes now narrowed into a glare of his own. His anger, like hers, boiled just beneath the surface, but a cold sweat still prickled across his powdered skin as he spoke. "Incompetence should not be rewarded with blind loyalty. As long as I have my eyes, I'll use them."

Daenerys stood still as the stone beneath her feet, studying him as if he was the most curious wonder she had seen in all her years. Blank was her expression, but her silence was permission for him to continue.

"I wasn't born into a great house. I came from nothing. I was sold as a slave and carved up as an offering." He did not break their gaze a second time, as he had found his courage. Eunuchs had often been compared to cravens, some even saying that they belonged to two sides of the same coin or that they had been cut from the same cloth, but none would have dared in that moment. For in that moment, he looked into the eyes of the dragon queen unflinchingly.

"When I was a child, I lived in alleys, gutters, abandoned houses. You wish to know where my true loyalties lie? Not with any king or queen, but with the people. The people who suffer under despots and prosper under just rule. The people whose hearts you aim to win.

"If you demand blind allegiance, I respect your wishes. Grey Worm can behead me, or your dragons can devour me, but if you let me live, I will serve you well. I will dedicate myself to seeing you on the Iron Throne because I choose you—because I know the people have no better chance than you."

A long pause stretched between them, filling the room with silence and a thick, cloying tension. In that moment, the sound of whipping winds and unrelenting rainfall served as her response to him. Then she broke the silence.

"Swear this to me, Varys." Her head canted ever-so-slightly to the side as she continued to study him, deciding his fate. "If you ever think I'm failing the people, you won't conspire behind my back. You'll look me in the eye as you have done today, and you'll tell me how I'm failing them."

Concern still creased his brow, but he gave a small nod of acquiescence regardless. "I swear it, My Queen," he offered, remembering then to bow his head in the respect one should offer their ruler, earned or otherwise. In the farthest corner of his vision, he saw Tyrion release the breath he had been holding and nod his approval.

Their collective relief was short-lived, however, as the queen once more resumed her prowling. Soon they stood breast-to-breast, her mask of cool wrath still fixed firmly in its place. "—and I swear this: if you ever betray me, I'll burn you alive."

The sunken apple of his throat bobbed as he swallowed and his bowels finally unclenched. He offered her a polite smile and another dip of his head. Beneath his fine velvet smock, his shoulders lifted about his ears as he shrugged. "I would expect nothing less from the Mother of Dragons."

For the first time since she had begun her assault, she relented and released the Spider from beneath her heel. He had won her respect for the moment, and she showed him as much with the small, genuine smile that curved her pink lips. This battle was over, and neither had lost. He had won his life and she his promise of loyalty—for whatever that was worth.

"Forgive me, My Queen," came a fourth voice, one she had almost forgotten was present. Grey Worm stepped forward from the far corner of the room, posture as tight and stern as befitted the captain of the Unsullied. "A red priestess from Asshai has come to see you."

#ff: stormborn.#RedDragon #melisandre of asshai #daenerys targaryen #game of thrones #game of thrones fanfiction #fanfiction

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