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precious-little-scoundrel · 2 days

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|| My fellow Colonel

Y’all asked for it and here it is. Whew, I wrote all of it today so here’s to hoping it is tolerably alright. Also, as an aside, I am just shy of 1k followers and that’s astounding to me. I had to rebuild this blog from scratch in December after two previous deactivations where I lost a similar amount collected over a far longer time. I’m truly so grateful for each of you who take an interest in sharing this little corner of the internet with me. Thank you, thank you!

Warnings: usual universe warnings apply, 18+ with additional chapter warnings for gore and violent character death, brief mention of racial discrimination and a very dark headspace for Ida at times including brief yet crassly recollected sexual assault

April 1945, escape spoilers ahead

“Bitte.” Ida kept her hands placating, outstretched and harmless by her side, the most open expression on her face that she could summon as she stared the woman down, “Bitte nicht!”

For eleven days she and Smith and Cleven had managed to scrounge their way westward, evading recapture or altercation. But eating from the dead horses on the side of the road was out of the question, agricultural fields were churned to sludge by Amtrak’s and the small amount of wheat berries they found in one abandoned supply truck had long since ceased to fuel their weakening bodies.

They had passed by a camp, one that they observed from the shelter of the woods to be abandoned or liquidated, once used for civilian labor, judging by the signs. After a careful reconnaissance it was agreed that Ida should go and act on her hope that the commandant's empty dwelling may not have been completely ransacked. That there might be some leftover provisions either there, or in the homes of the other personnel. She had had no luck at the commandant’s, it had been empty, no luck in the next idyllic little shack either, only the eerie knickknacks of some bygone person whose vocation it was to deal in pure evil.

In the third house she had found jars of spoiled milk, tubers of some sort gone to sprouts but she did not care, she grabbed a ratty towel lying on the floor and made a sling for them. She was in the process of prying a loose floorboard up, anticipating some root cellar below when the whining creak of a sneaking step sounded behind her in the still place.

She whirled around in a crouch, half expecting either one of her companions or else one of the many starving children they encountered on the road. Instead, silhouetted inside the bright doorway there was a woman, in the uniform of a guard and with a Lugar poised at the ready. Ida felt a cold spike of fear at the flashing recollection of her last encounter with such a female, at the horrid misery that was Ravensbruck, the complete and entire lack of respect shown to her or her girls by these indoctrinated tools.

Ida’s grasp of German had been sufficient enough to keep herself and her companions away from suspicion in their occasional interactions with passersby. While she wore the heavy overcoat of a military man, it had no markings, and it was just as likely for some freezing civilian to steal it off a carcass as it was for an American female officer to be on the loose. Ida knew this and she tried to play at being dumb, pointing to the food, explaining in unstudied desperation that she was starving.

The female guard observed her coldly, her impassive face showing a certain lack of curiosity or even remote interest in Ida’s narrative that made her heart quicken with a presentment of a swift and sudden execution. She has seen these guards lift a gun, squeeze the trigger, and move on boredly all in the matter of a second. What about her own features or story were so compelling to prevent it?

“Bitte nicht!” She repeated again, choosing to take a step forward, eyeing the woman’s grip and posture, professional, soldierly, the woman left little opening for Ida to capitalize on, but she would rather get a bullet in the gut while fighting than be shot hunkering over stolen potatoes.

There was a darkening in the doorway, it caught Ida’s eye right before she timed her launch. It was Cleven. His appearance made her hesitate a moment too long. He had his arm barred around the guard’s throat in an instant but the pistol was out of his reach and one stride too far away from Ida’s grasp. Unlike the hapless children in the forest that had attacked them days ago, this officer had bullets. Ida felt the searing tear of its bite smart her shoulder, blurring her vision in pain before she rushed in, clasping her own hands around the pale wrist.

Cleven had the woman’s eyes rolling back with his grip, her grapple at his forearm growing feeble as her oxygen ran low. Another shot rang out, a bullet embedding in the ceiling rafters as Ida managed to wrench it away at last. She turned it on the woman and fired, only to find her luck run out again, as well as the chamber.

There was a knife in the guard's boot, both women seemed to think of it at the same instant as the guard became possessed with a final animated struggle to reach for it, desperate to break out of Cleven’s strangle. But Ida wasn’t about to watch another friend die, or miss her chance to go home, to bear witness to what her girls, her men, her brother were yet enduring, not to spare herself a fleeting moment of misplaced mercy. She dove for the boot, wrenched the knife free from its sheath and drove the blade in under the sternum, carving it upwards as she herself rose to her feet. Her wrist was fully in the chest cavity, arm covered with warm still living blood, by the time she saw the guard’s head loll impassively against Cleven’s chest, the soul finally gone dim behind the eyes.

“Sweet Jesus.” He stepped back from the corpse, letting go. Ida felt the weight of the body in her wrist as her grip on the knife was all that kept it standing. She tore the weapon free with another sickly gush, and blearily observed it crumple to the floor.

“There are spuds.” she told Cleven as she braced her hands on her knees, nodding to her abandoned sack of potatoes. The edges of her vision were blurring from the exertion, her coat sleeve was soaked to the elbow, but she had a weapon now and a dead Nazi at her feet. Both sat well with her.

The potatoes bought them another days walk, with Smith using the ratty towel to wrap Ida’s shoulder, it was only a flesh wound. That evening they had another run in, but this time it was with the friendly faces of gum chewing yanks who were welcoming with their smokes and their K rations. Poor infantry boys, they were bamboozled by the existence of a female officer, the experiment of integration having only added to the flyboys somewhat derisive glamor. But it was mostly awe, and a healthy amount of respect, that they showed for the blood smeared lady Colonel.

“That make you one of Brady’s Banshees?” one bright corporal made conversation with Ida as he allowed her a seat beside himself on the hood of a tank, it was a hitched ride into Belgium.

“She is Brady.” Smith drawled for her, enjoying far more than Ida how gobsmacked the man was to be in the presence of feminine greatness.

They were welcomed warmly everywhere by their fellow allies, ferried like heroes on any conveyance possible. Smith was their cheery intercessor, knowing her superiors were of so torn a spirit and conflicted of conscience as to be half inclined to go back to where they came from. In truth, Ida could hardly bring herself to board the last plane -an unbelievable courtesy taking them from Paris straight to Thorpe- as all she could think on were what repercussions might have been exacted on the others for their escape. And what cruelties she had left her brother to endure without her.

Cleven was not much better; Egan, Maureen, all of them still left behind. As they took their seats on the benches, felt the old nostalgic rumble of the engines, not of a Fort but of a Gooneybird, what should have been a lightening of spirits as they soared over the channel was instead a dismal camaraderie of guilt.

That fateful night when they had all agreed to escape before crossing the Danube, the organization had been infuriatingly chaotic yet the groups were chosen with emphatic pragmatism. The guards were used to watching certain persons in company with their favorite fellows. The Bradys, the Buckys, Smith and Murph, each had some comrade the Germans expected to be their partner in any subversive endeavor. With this in mind, their agreed-upon groups were intentionally fractured to confuse their captors, each hoping to meet up somewhere on the road or in the forest.

Cleven and Ida had waited only a few hundred yards in the tree line for over an hour, hoping to be joined by their fellows. In the end only Smith came, with the word that the gig was up, Egan had been detained, John Brady never even began to saunter off before they closed the perimeter. No more were coming. It took all of Smith’s vicious logic to keep the officers from going back, she had to lean on reminders of reprisals and certain death, how they could in no way alleviate the suffering of the others by rejoining them.

What they could do was carry through, escape, go back to England, spread the word, liberate.

Despite this inner turmoil, Ida felt like kissing the ground when her feet landed on East Anglian soil. Or, rather, the cement of the old familiar runway. Instead she settled for Crosby‘s cheeks, the beaming fellow being so utterly honest in his welcome that some tiny part of her melted in momentary relief at having actually made it. That hadn’t really sunk in, not until there was an English mist pelting her face and Harry’s crinkled cheeks between her hands.

“A major?!” she repeated his rank and felt prouder than his mother in that moment while Harry blushed scarlet under the affirmation.

“A-and a father.” tumbled out of his mouth as a deflection except, that subject made a great hullabaloo too, with even Cleven growing exuberant in his congratulatory shoulder slapping. “What am I doing makin’ you stand out here, get in the jeep sirs, I’ll take you to a hut, or-or the club? Or the doctor?”

Both Ida and Cleven stiffened in their swing into the jeep at the last suggestion, a brittle defensiveness tightening their smiles, “Bed and board are all we need, thanks Crosby.” Gale gave him one of those devastatingly final little nods of his.

They kept him occupied and rambling on the ride, updates on new crews, new buildings, Jeffreys, Meatball, the improvement of rations, tales of bombing Berlin, the prospect of victory within reach. By the time he’d parked outside Cleven’s old barracks, Harry knew next to nothing about their own experiences, and he felt that somehow to have been quite calculated.

“There’s still a ladies sector, Colonel,” Harry assured Ida, much to her confusion as to why there wouldn’t be, “I’ll take you and Smith there.”

The old hut was as she remembered it, same as all the others, curved metal amplifying the patter of rain and the monotonous comfort of Air Force regulated bunking. It hit then, no more wooden combines or roadside shelters. She was really back.

“Where the hell is everyone?” Smith asked, the place eerily quiet, even for midday.

“There at- there at work.” Crosby offered haltingly.

Suspecting something dreadful, or as Bucky liked to say of her instincts -sniffing out bullshit- Ida slowly turned to Crosby and gave him a stare, one she recalled having once effectively shrank the man by a few literal inches. Perhaps because it was remarkably similar to her brother’s. Harry bore up under it better now, oak leaf cluster on his breast or a hard three years adding some spine to him, she didn’t know, but still his expression wavered guiltily.

“At work?” she repeated his phrasing, “That what the kids call war these days?”

“A few, a couple, -some,” he settled on, “are on missions. We’ve been uh, we’ve been running a lot of missions. Picking up prisoners -like you guys.”

“The rest?”

“At work.”

“Where’s this work?”

“Uh, well, various posts, you know how it is-“

“-grounded?” She supplied.

“Well, yeah. Just like Douglass and me and-“

“They badly hurt? Who’re we talking about?”

“Colonel,” Harry begged her, looking mildly close to drowning on dry land and sending a wet eyed sos at Smith, “dozens of them are posted here. Grounded yes, but, in good positions, required positions-“

“Did they get corresponding promotions?” Ida hit back, “Were they grounded because they were too valuable or were they hurt? Or did they just get squirreled away in some cupboard with a typewriter?”

“Look, uh, sir,” Harry chuckled nervously, “a lot of them are on missions, some of them are at their jobs -where I should be right now. But, it’s true, uh, the brass thought that, well they weren’t sure, Ida, when we got word you’d escaped we wanted to welcome you back right and uh, we didn’t know what to expect. We’ve had a lot of reports. Some reassuring and a lot…not. Not reassuring at all. And uh, we didn’t know what to expect, they didn’t know and uh, depending on how you were, it could affect the morale. So they thought, clear the place out a little, yeah? Make sure you were -you were…”

“Didn’t wanna scare the kids.” Ida supplied, tone softened, suspecting she probably did look half witch from all her trials.

“We didn’t know what to expect.” Harry repeated, a significant amount of relief bleeding into his voice, like he was going to get choked up on her mere continued existence.

“Well I need a change of clothes, and I need a shower.” Ida smiled at him until he gave her a fastidious look while glancing at her blood stained coat and she sent him a sour glare in return, “And a nap. And then I dare say nothing about me will be cause for alarm, not even for general LeMay.”

Harry was back to chuckling nervously as he walked his way backwards out the hut. “Of course, yeah, uh, we tried to supply uniforms, laid them out -best we could scrounge, for now.”

“Thanks Croz.” Smith offered, trying to soften the ending of this interaction.

“Before you go,” Ida stalled him, “tell me a little about the new ones? Who should I know? What should I know? Hate to wake up in here and have to start making acquaintances from scratch.”

“Colonel,” Harry answered her in the most mournful voice, “there aren’t any new ones.”

That old whiff of cold dread was back. “Crosby.”

“They uh, after you went down, colonel they, they scrapped the program.”

“You cannot be-“ Ida rubbed at her throat, trying to get it to open up, wondering what the hell it must be like to be Gale Cleven and get to come back to Thorpe Abotts and nothing be different, get to be home and get to find everything where it should be because your own higher ups aren’t fighting against you right along with the bastards with the flak and the barbed wire and the endless taunts about women being made for breeding. “Crosby what do you mean scrapped? They shut it down?” she wished she sounded angry, but she knew it was a cry, and to his credit he looked ready to cry for her.

“Colonel I’m so sorry, the reports were so alarming and the-“ he shook his head, “-they grounded all female servicemen right after. Cut the program, if it wasn’t for Kidd they might’ve sent them all back, discharged or moved to the WASPS. Well, they stayed, but, it’s not- it’s not what it was, colonel.”

Ida bit her lip, that old throbbing pain from the old injury of her cheek bloomed again, it felt like arriving at the stalag in one too many ways. “Y-you said something about, you said some were up on missions.” She wracked her brain for it and found it, that one bit of hope and she clung to it like a woman drowning.

“Yeah!” Crosby was over eager to soothe the pain with the modicum of good news he had, “They are! Rosenthal he uh, he’s over the squadrons now and uh, he’s seen to it they are allowed up. Mostly uh, mercy runs or behind allied lines, they don’t want anyone captured but, they’re up. They’re getting their thirty missions. They’ve uh, they’ve changed the number, since you were here.”

“Thirty.” she repeated numbly.

Harry’s footsteps had long ago receded along the gravel outside by the time Ida allowed herself enough movement to sink atop the pristinely made bed in her filthy clothes and just stare at the opposite bunk of equally pristine sheets and all of it so pristine and so rigorous and so proud and so pristine and so-

The echo of her own scream startled her, banging off the tin walls and circling back to her. Ida felt more than saw the implacable Tallulah Smith jump in fright beside her, but that level headed woman knew better than to soothe her officer. Not after what they’d just learned. She bit her tongue and busied herself sorting amongst the clothes and provisions for towels, combs, soap, toothbrushes. Ida watched this rich display of care on the part of their fellows with a snarl bending her lip, she could taste salt and knew she was also crying and all that she could hear amongst the cacophony in her head was a desperate wail -she didn’t want combs and towels, she wanted her squadron back.

Some aspect of this heartbroken petulance must’ve shown on her face as Smith extended both a comb and towel to her with forceful kindness, “LeMay didn’t lay these out.” was all she commented. “Think of it as Harry’s hospitality. You look a mess, and won’t get any respect for it.”

Smith had some vantage point from which to speak, Ida knew. Native American with bronzed skin just shy of being segregated twice over, getting screwed over was something Smith had made into an art form of cat and mouse. Ida had long admiringly observed it; she never thought she’d need to adopt a similar posture to this degree. Not when she felt like grabbing at the knife still in her trench coat pocket and making a charming scene and all it would get her was confirmation of the reports.

Whatever those were. Alarming reports, apparently. It was so very upper brass of them all to find the enemy’s methods unfortunate and so shoot themselves in the foot like it evened things out.

“I’ll be along in a minute.” Ida insisted to Smith from her bunk, refusing more than the towel and comb.

They’d all been through hell for daring to be combatants. But Ida, at this news of her loss, was beginning to recall particular parts of her own hell she had not dwelt on since they occurred.

Colonel -the way each had called her that, sneering at the mere concept of a colonel with a cunt, an officer so easily breached, a leader made by her Creator to be bent over and taken. She’d had a squadron then, and no amount of scorn or cruelty could take that from her; no, only her friends could take that away.

And they had.

Robert Rosenthal was giving himself a little pump up speech as he stalled outside with his hand on the door knob, knowing he needed to knock first and that knocking would buy him a little more time to ready himself, and so he really should go ahead and knock. The pattering drizzle on his hat brim should have been human incentive enough to get inside already, if duty and honor and admiration weren’t quite cutting it today. But he stalled, even went so far as to cast an indefensibly juvenile and furtive glance over his shoulder at the shrinking form of the accommodating lady who’d passed him on his march here. A Lieutenant Smith, who had told him she was glad to be back and that her famed superior was still inside-

“Angry as God after catching the Israelites worshiping cows at Mount Carmel.”

Rosenthal knew Ida Brady had every reason to be utterly furious, hell -he was furious for her, with her, about her. And he had no right to stand there and wish she wouldn’t take it out on him, to defend himself with shitty excuses like the fact a few of the girls got to see the top of clouds because he had put his shiny and promoted boot down and asked for it. He wasn’t exactly the problem, perhaps, but he was, by sheer implication of it being men like him unable to require better treatment, at fault. And so, Rosie stood in the drizzle and gave himself one last minute to think about Colonel Ida Brady as she had been the last time he’d seen her, terrifyingly formidable and utterly kind.

“It’s no worse than your dread of it, I swear.” she had told him and Nash that night before their first time up, “I was relieved to have seen it.”

What had she seen since? He stared at the little leather binder in his hand and scoffed at the administrative mission that carried him here. To hell with it. He knocked, he waited, he knocked once more, and he went in.

The stipple of rain on the roof of an empty Nissen hut was a calming background noise he himself savored whenever possible. Despite their bare aesthetic and extreme practicality, there was a serenity to them as well, and on spotting a seated figure a few bunks down from the entrance, he felt a pang of empathy for the desire to just decompress.

She looked up at the sound of his footfalls, not startled in the least. Not angry. In fact, she looked utterly dazed, like the men he’d helped out of their forts after a bad run of it. A face he’d seen in the mirror once or twice or a couple dozen. There was a docile listlessness in her gaze that he knew better than to be comforted by, despite the selfish feeling of relief at not immediately being eviscerated about her squadron. She was gaunt, understandably so, her strong jaw so pronounced he could cut his thumb on it, the pallor of her skin jarred unsettlingly with her dark brows, set off in stark relief by her tangled, jet black hair. Her overcoat was half muddy brown, half doleful rust. There was a bloody story there, a recent one, not washed away by a hard rain or bath. Rosenthal didn’t have any doubt how that struggle had ended for her assailant: she was here, wasn’t she?

He’d never seen anything more magnificent in all his life than this battered figure sat on a pristine cot with dawning recognition in her eyes.

“Welcome back, Colonel!” he ventured, keeping his tone soft as befitted the setting, yet unable to keep the creeping happiness at her return from showing in his voice.

“Mm, yes. Rosenthal.” Ida was straightening automatically, rising from her seat, shrugging off her clumsy overcoat and standing near to attention at sight of the brass on his lapel, “I remember you. A Colonel now, I see. Well done.”

Rosie felt his cheeks burn, another juvenile thing, her hand extended itself to his surprise and he clasped it warmly, maybe a little too firmly. “Well that’s kind of you, Ma’am. Very kind. Welcome back, Colonel.”

“You’ve said that already.”

“Apologies.” he stumbled, releasing her hand in hopes of regaining his thoughts. She didn’t look angry yet, she looked wary, “Just glad to have you back. There was…a lotta concern.”

“It was touch and go but -here I am.”

“Right.” There was silence after that, it was so thick that the quirk of his kind lips and the gleam of his eager eyes slowly dimmed and fell as no small talk resumed. “Uh, colonel,” he ventured, “due to those aforementioned concerns, uh, I’ve been asked-“

“Aforementioned? What kind of talk is that?”

“Ha, well, lawyerly talk I’m afraid. I need to get a report from you, colonel.”

“For God’s sake man, I just got here, maybe with a shower and a nap and a cup of joe I might have a report for you but- I just got here.”

“Yes.” he refused to wince, he refused to. He was a colonel now, he had to require unpleasant things every day from his friends. Today it was required from a hero. Small difference in a war. “And if it were up to me I’d give you weeks to do all that before asking a thing from you. But I can’t, colonel. They wanted an immediate, preliminary report. It’s -it’s the same as an integration after a mission. Less interaction beforehand, less time to confuse the details- you get my drift.”

“You’re under orders.”

“I am.”

“Why didn’t you say? God’s sake Rosenthal.” she was close to angry now.

“Sorry, ok, Colonel I-“

“Why the whole welcoming committee schtik? Just say what you mean.”

“It’s not a schtick, Ma’am,” he insited, heatedly, “it’s a genuine honor to have you back with us and a relief to see you safe. And yes, I have orders to get a preliminary report.”

“In future you can save us both precious minutes of our lives by being this forthright, please?”

“Understood.”

“Right, well. What’s wanted? What kind of report?” He didn’t fail to notice the sudden and very studied nonchalance that took over her gait, the way she leaned against the railing of her footboard, almost a slouch that made the lean line of her look entirely unperturbed. He wasn’t a good lawyer out of naïveté about such posturing. She was braced like hell for this, probably worse than he was.

“On uh, on your general treatment. Ma’am.” he decided to summarize it thusly.

“Well Colonel,” he had forgotten what a nice voice she had, it wasn’t pretty and it wasn’t gruff, it was simply nice, “if Gale Cleven’s under eyes didn’t tell you the food was meager and hardly nutritious, I’ll go on record to say so. But they did try, I think I can give them that. Looked like everyone was starving by the end.”

“Conduct of your guards?” he had his stupid little leather case open on his forearm and the not quite soggy notepad in it was being dutifully filled with scribbles.

“I’ve little to say against the Luftwaffe, they were honorable for the most part. I think you’ll get that same report from the others. There were a few incidents, but we were enemies. To be expected.”

“Right, uh,” the pencil drug a little “this is a general report so I’ll spare an inquiry into those incidents.”

“Thanks.”

“Of course.”

“Anything else?” Ida tried to smooth her face, she really did.

“Colonel -yes.” she watched him as he deliberated for a moment before seeming to recall her scathing admonition of before, and carried on resolutely in the bluntest manner he could summon, “Regarding your prolonged detention before the stalag. It’s our understanding you were not always under Luftwaffe jurisdiction?”

“That’s correct. Combatant status was not recognized for four and a half weeks.” Ida gave a clipped nod. “We were even briefly detained at a concentration camp.”

“I can’t imagine what you must’ve seen there.”

Ida stared back with some slight emotion flitting over her mask-like face at long last and Rosie felt maybe his own showed it, too, “From what I’ve heard, we may be the only ones to have left alive.” she said at last.

“Your testimony, what you saw there, it could become-“ Rosie drew in breath, “-invaluable.”

“I’d do anything to see justice done, Major.” she agreed, “Sometimes I think I dreamed such mass cruelty. Seems too large to be real, too awful to be abetted for so long by so many.”

“I saw what was left of one of the smaller camps. In Poland.”

“Mm, so you can imagine.” she retorted, but it was a kind retort.

“I don’t see much else when I close my eyes.”

“Mm.”

“Right, back to this uh, report, the question is, how were you treated before civilian status was adhered to?”

“Is this a personal report or a general one?” Ida inquired suddenly.

“The assignment was to ask about your own observations as senior officer of the female contingent of-“

“-then in that case, the treatment was barbaric, Major Rosenthal.” Ida informed him forcefully, “The Luftwaffe used plenty of rough tactics and one officer was particularly cruel to Cleven. I was informed my brother was dying and that my obstinance in denying giving them information was prolonging his torment. All of that I was prepared for, it was one soldier’s attempt to break another. The gestapo, on the other hand, were beasts. And the SS -sadists. They dealt in cruelty for the pleasure of it and my girls went through hell. Once in the stalag there was a reprieve. Then the Luftwaffe were relieved of command and it began again- if you expect details, come back with a larger notepad.”

Rosie gave a curt nod of his own in understanding, his brow creased at the implication.

“No one wants to see justice done for them more than I.” Ida went on, “But they’re still out there, and I’m here. And I-I don’t know that those are my stories to tell, Colonel. What I saw is plenty enough to hang a village. And it wasn’t just toward my girls.”

“At…at a later point, you’d be willing then?” he ventured, softly, no longer professional, “To tell me what you saw?”

“Larger notebook, Rosenthal.”

“Yes ma’am.” he knew a dismissal when he heard one, he even felt a brief and heinous relief at the prospect of slipping away on a high note. The dreaded scrapping of the program still undiscussed. “I’ll uh, leave ya to that shower.”

“It’s good to be back, Colonel.” she called to him while he was still maneuvering through a somewhat meandering exit, she called out this concession as if it were meant only in regards to him, “Like what you’ve done with the place.”

Well now that was -that was kind and that was unexpected and Colonel Robert Rosenthal may have let the door hit him on the way out.

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modawg · 3 days

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major yap warning; deep dive into parecabeth (parent!percabeth)

what age were we thinking percabeth would have kids ?

to me annabeth has always been such a planner that i always thought she'd plan all that out, like on their wedding night annabeth pulls out like three binders with ages on the front '20-30's, 30's-40's' and is like "bitch you better be ready"LMAO, though i KNOW percy is DYING to have children i also know percy would def respect her decision to have kids a little later after she's settled in her career

i think i always saw them (having a girl teehee) in their early 30's and i will always stand by the at home dad percy would def be

like maybe up until their ready he works to save; working maybe at an aquarium or some other random places that work with his skills (also dependent on what he actually goes to college for) then once annabeths secure they have their first kid percy stays home and writes his books based on the stories he would tell his daughter (like rick did)

this also gives them another source of income; he prob uses a fake name (cough rick riordan cough) so he doesn't get like stalked or smth but its still nice money to have

i think they'd have a simple two, maybe two girls (teehee) and reference camp as their other kids; their kids growing up surrounded by hundreds of other demigod kids along with the kids of their friends

i once read this fanfic where annabeth designed and built the home they have kids in and i agree with that deeply i think she would get pregnant right as the house would finish up and use the rest of her pregnancy to decorate and really home it up until she gave birth

i think they would stay close to NYC to be closer to sally and paul (and prob annabeths job too) but it would be further away from the city and closer to Montauk

I think that house (and family tbh) would be the pillar for everyone else like most of the time if their friends want to see them they go there rather then the other way around

they probably have cookouts every other weekend, porch jams into the night when apollo kids come to visit, i think the house def has enough room for guests, demigods dropping by every so often for a place to stay but I also think its common curtesy to not try and pry like they don't try to get them to join they just come to shower, to get some wisdom and leave; I think having percy and annabeth as parents would cause a shift in CHB like they always do, percabeth is literally the next generation of adult greek demigods even if they aren't the first to have kids they're the first since the first war to LIVE this long, and to have a fulfilling life that they're willingly sharing with CHB and i think that would really start to give greek demigods hope pushing them more towards the future CJ has (GOD I LOVE THEM)

speaking of room; theres a guest room on the first floor with big windows and house plants that they call the g-room for green room, built for the man himself, g-man. Juniper and Grover come to visit alllllll the time (along with tyson) like its basically their second house, everyone refers to their kids as cousins and even when they grow up theres no questioning that

^ jumping back to having kids i could def see apollo blessing annabeth with an easy pregnancy, safe birth, and quick recovery; i could see percy and annabeth telling CHB and CJ just a couple days after and them pulling up to camp with a big, but quiet, celebration; big feasts and sentimental presents, i could see CHB burning shrouds like they did after their first quest all beautifully embroidered, the campfire dancing with different colors from everyones emotions

i wish we knew more about CJ traditions but i know they would have a feast too and it would be like unlocking the next level being able to explore CJ from the new lighting of parenthood; they probably have an honorary small house gifted to them so they can come and visit whenever but i feel like most friends would come to CHB for the bigger celebration first

god and don't get me started on the hunters GOD i just know thalia is BAWLINGGG and she def comes to visit all the time bc she's probably the god-mother like how grovers probably the god-father

and i know that convo was a hard one having literally everyone in the room crying when they asked

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g1rld1ary · 3 hours

Text

you never disappointed me - part five

part one part two part three four

➻ synopsis: luke castellan x aphrodite!reader ; luke tries to apologise for the party, but it takes you a while to forgive him (10 things I about you AU)

➻ word count: 3753

➻ warnings: ooc/kind of loser!luke, ooc silena, she/her pronouns used for reader, swearing

➻ did this take a month? yes. am I sorry? yes. will it happen again? absolutely

TAGLIST: @myxticmoon @wicca-void @leeknows-wife @thekittyxo-blog @number-onekidqueen @instabull @slaybestieslay946 @sflame15-blog @yourfavmiki @ivory-sage @caramelandvenus @chasebeth @maraudersmyloves losergirlcrowley amortencjja wisecrownpaper iammightsadyall odeasforyou rlqfpdl

════ ⋆★⋆ ════

You were humiliated. You’d spent all night crying, mortification setting in thick over your body as you lay on your bed. However, despite how embarrassed you were, you were mostly angry. Angry at Luke for acting so affectionate, for making you believe that he really liked you then pulling away at the last second. Angry at yourself. Angry that after all these years, all it took was one stupid boy to bring down all your walls; angry that you let yourself be led into this situation.

And so that morning, instead of letting yourself mope around about it anymore, you picked yourself up with a new determination. You were angry, and everyone was going to know about it. Your braids were pulled extra tight, not in the mood to deal with flyaways or gentleness, and the smudged eyeliner around your eyes served as a reminder of the tears you’d wasted.

There was a much shorter line at the Lava Wall than usual. Although skipping out on activities could earn you some shitty chores or revoked dessert privileges, your bad mood had seeped into the whole area, practically lowering the temperature around you. You only had a few newer campers dare to enter your territory, and it took a Herculean effort to not snap at them for even coming near you.

Luke watched you from afar, hidden away in one of his typically safe smoking spots. He was trying to gauge your mood, see if anything was fixable. His prospects currently looked grim. He watched in anticipation as a young girl made a dumb mistake. Luke thought it wouldn’t have been her fault — Chiron had made him tour her around camp only a few weeks ago and she’d been pretty beat up before she got to camp. He watched you yank her off the Lava Wall moments before disaster, and held his breath as you both seemed to falter. The girl looked like she was going to burst into tears, and your face was unreadable, which was usually not a good thing. Just as he thought you were going to take out all your feelings on the scared kid, you crouched down to her level, thumb wiping away her spilled tears. You spoke softly to her, bringing her down from an impending breakdown with a gentleness that didn’t often emerge at camp.

The interaction gave Luke some hope, maybe your heart hadn’t totally closed off. That thought was quashed, however, when minutes later you ripped Travis Stoll a new one for being an ‘egotistical dickhead’ as he fooled around on the wall. Luke was genuinely shocked at the volume which came from your body, he could have mistaken it for a conch horn. Even Travis seemed a little taken aback at your outburst. Usually your bad moods were pretty easy to avoid — stay out of your way and you stayed away from others. Clearly today, though, you had anger to get out of your system, and you weren’t hesitant in expressing it.

You were still upset by lunchtime, and your day only got worse.

“Dance for me, cowboy,” Katy Gardener yelled, evil grin shining across the Dining Pavilion. You kept your head down and ignored it, hurrying to your table. A body popped up in front of you, blocking your path.

“What do we owe you for the table dance, babe?” Ethan crooned, and if you were in a slightly more private setting you would have decked him. You grumbled out a “Fuck you,” and shoved past him towards Drew, knowing that at least she wouldn’t reproach you in public. Ethan clearly wasn’t done with you yet, though, and began an all too innocent conversation with Mr D.

“Why don’t you ask how her weekend was, Mr D?” He said, throwing a casual glance over to you.

“Unless she kicked the crap out of your dumb ass, Elton, I don’t wanna hear it.” You could have kissed Mr D, and then immediately recoiled at the thought. Ethan’s embarrassed expression was enough to please you though, and you sunk into your meal silently, but at least not active with anger.

After lunch Luke tried to apologise to you, or explain himself at least. He knew you were upset, but he was still feeling good about himself. He had noble intentions, and was doing objectively the right thing by not taking advantage of you when you were drunk. None of these sentiments were expressed, though, when you stormed right past him, making sure to land an extra aggressive stomp on his foot as you went. Chris couldn’t hold back his loud laugh, clapping Luke on the back in semi-sympathy as he headed to his own next activity. Luke stood dumbly in his spot for a few minutes, unsure of how exactly to proceed. Clearly you were more upset than he thought.

Your own next activity was Ancient Greek with Mr D. You didn’t know why he taught it at all given you personally thought he was hardly fluent, but it was one activity you actually didn’t mind, especially as you got older. Whilst the younger kids had lessons focused on getting used to the alphabet and language, the elder campers who were more fluent had more traditional ‘english’ classes — learning about texts and languages, only in Ancient Greek so the dyslexia didn’t slow you down as much.

You shot Mr D a tightlipped smile as you walked into the pavilion, hoping to get by the lesson unscathed, though you didn’t have much hope. Both Ethan and Luke were in this class, and you really didn’t want to see either (though Luke usually skipped, so he wasn’t such a pressing issue).

Just your luck, Ethan was already in his unassigned assigned seat behind you, filling in the campers who didn’t attend the party about your escapades. You just rolled your eyes, trying to seem somewhat graceful about your own actions, but the leering eyes of your peers was making it supremely difficult. For once you did regret not making many friends at camp — if you had, maybe your humiliation wouldn’t be such a hot topic, but the very presence of your class reminded you why you had no interest in being friends with them.

The room thankfully quietened down when Mr D walked in, the whole camp somewhat wary of his temper. He started the lesson: Shakespeare. You perked up a bit from your slouched position in the chair. Whilst school wasn’t exactly your strong point with the ADHD and dyslexia, Shakespeare was something you actually kind of understood. When you were younger your Dad had taken you and Silena to a production of A Midsummer Night’s Dream and you’d loved it ever since. Shakespeare translated into Greek was maybe your dream.

Mr D started talking about sonnets, and you got the distinct impression that he didn’t totally know what he was talking about — or just didn’t care enough to go into any detail. You figured that was more correct since he was the god of theatre, but you could never be totally sure with Dionysus. Regardless, he’d moved on from explaining the basic form of a sonnet and had set you a project: write your own version of Shakespeare’s sonnet 141. You sat straighter in your seat, unable to hide the small smile that had crept onto your face. You raised your hand, slightly offended by Mr D’s eye roll.

“Yes, Miss I-have-an-opinion-about-everything?” He sighed, but you persevered nonetheless.

“Do you want it in iambic pentameter?” You asked.

“You’re not going to fight me on this?” He hesitated, and you revelled in the fact that you could still surprise him after all these years.

“No, I think it’s a really good assignment.”

“You’re just messing with me, right Barton?”

“Beauregard,” You corrected for the thousandth time, “But no. I’m really excited to write it.” You picked uncomfortably at your cargos as the class watched your exchange.

“Go see Chiron.”

“What?”

“Get out!” He yelled, not quite angry but you weren’t going to be the one to test him. There were rumours of previous campers who’d been turned into dolphins and you did not want to continue that legacy. You wandered out of Greek class, still slightly confused at what had just happened, and headed back to your cabin, not bothering to go see Chiron. With the cabin to yourself you tried to get a start on Mr D’s project, but inspiration was lacking and you resorted to taking a nap instead.

The rift between you and Luke became public knowledge at that night’s campfire. Without even realising it you’d started sitting with him most nights (or rather he sat with you, bothering you until you submitted to a conversation). Then suddenly you were avoiding him like the plague, spitting out a harsh “Get fucked, Castellan,” when he called your name softly, almost begging you to talk to him. You were never one to back down from your decisions though, and left him in the dust, taking a seat next to Clarisse. You could tell even Chris could see something was seriously wrong as he pressed a kiss to Clarisse’s hand and disappeared somewhere, presumably to sit with Luke.

You didn’t even really know why you were at the campfire in the first place. You’d been only a handful of times before you knew Luke, and now you didn’t want to know him yet here you were. Clarisse tried to keep you entertained with her quiet comments — which did admittedly make you snort a laugh once or twice, but you were otherwise miserable. You sure as hell weren’t going to participate or chat to anyone, and you were really regretting not just pursuing your usual routine of getting to the top of the Aphrodite cabin for stargazing. Plus, you could feel Luke’s eyes following your every move, and you were getting fed up with the kicked puppy act.

Your final straw was the singing — why was everyone in Camp Half-Blood so obsessed with singing? The second some douchebag from Apollo brought out a guitar you were done, launching yourself out of your seat and stomping back towards your cabin for some peace and quiet. Just as you were crossing the threshold out of the amphitheatre a hand grabbed your arm and you whirled around to face the culprit, ripping your arm out of his embrace.

“Touch me again, Castellan, and I swear to the Gods I will make sure you have no hands to use.”

“Look, I just wanted—”

“I don’t care, Castellan. We don’t always get what we want, do we?” You knew you were being mean, but you frankly didn’t care. When Luke was shocked into silence, mouth slightly open as he searched for anything to say, you took the opportunity to leave him in the dust, trying to keep your confident walk even as your legs were shaking slightly.

“Bro, what did you do to her?” Beckendorf approached Luke up near the exit of the amphitheatre.

“I didn’t do anything,” Luke snapped, before taking a beat to calm himself down, “She would’ve been too drunk to remember.”

“But the plan was working!”

“What do you care? I thought you wanted out.” A slight blush crept on Beckendorf’s face, accompanying the dumb grin.

“Yeah, well I did, but, um, that was until she kissed me.” Despite his own bad luck, Luke couldn’t help but be happy for Beckendorf, slightly hating the fact that the lame younger boy had grown on him significantly. He let Charles ramble about the kiss for a bit despite his decreasing interest in the conversation, very glad when Percy joined them.

“So I talked to Clarisse,” He said, and Luke knew by his tone the news wasn’t going to be good. Beckendorf was still hopeful (or just naive) though, and pestered him for more details. “’Hates him with the fire of a thousand suns’ is the direct quote.” All three of them grimaced, yet Beckendorf persisted.

“Hey, we don’t know. She might just need a day to cool off.” Luke thought back to the bruise you’d left on his foot earlier in the day.

“Maybe two.”

The Aphrodite kids were all in archery except you, who’d claimed to be sick to get out of it. So, Silena was on her own and vulnerable to Ethan approaching.

“Hey there, Cupid.” He popped up behind her, not noticing the grimace creeping onto Silena’s face.

“Hi, Ethan.” She refused to look at him, focusing instead on aiming her arrow.

“I want to talk about the end of summer dance.” Silena rolled her eyes as the rest of her siblings pretended to mind their own business despite their innate need to know what was going on.

“Look, you know the deal. I can’t go if my sister doesn’t.” The end of summer dance was exactly what it sounded like; a big party for all the kids at camp to celebrate the three months they’d spent together and send off the kids who weren’t staying all year round. Though the actual dance was supervised, it was a well known secret that all of the older campers stayed out through the night drinking and dancing, and most of the folk around camp turned a blind eye for the night. Usually, your dad would pick you up just before the party started, which would inevitably result in a fight between you and Silena. Now though, Silena wasn’t quite so against leaving early, wanting out of the boy drama she’d found herself in.

“Your sister is going,” Ethan said, puffing out his chest as if it made him look more manly. Silena’s surprise was genuine.

“Since when?”

“Let’s just say I’m taking care of it,” Was all Ethan said before walking away, confident swagger in his step as he passed in front of your siblings, and Silena wondered how many of them were holding back the urge to let go of their arrow as he crossed them.

Still, Ethan had to make good on his word, so he found himself approaching Luke again. Rummaging around in his pockets, Ethan presented him with 200 dollars in cash. Luke raised an eyebrow, not bothering with words.

“This should take care of everything for the dance. I’m sure you don’t own anything presentable so this is for a new outfit, flowers for her, whatever. As long as she comes to the dance.” Luke stared at him, and was disgusted at what he was feeling. He might’ve been growing a conscience, something that would be greatly inconvenient for his life as the scary, unsociable older guy at camp.

“I’m sick of your game,” He said finally, pushing the cash back towards Ethan, who frowned. Luke got the distinct feeling he’d never been told no before — except by you, of course. Ethan exaggerated a huff and reached back into his pocket, pulling out one more hundred dollar bill. Luke faltered. He was sick of hurting you, but three hundred dollars was a lot of money. And without any way of making income as a year-rounder it was only more attractive. So Luke swallowed his pride and his morals and took the money. Though, getting you to ever consider going out with him again was basically a hopeless case.

So Luke began his new quest of getting you to speak to him again. He’d shown up to the Lava Wall full of audacity and enthusiasm, and waited patiently in line as you helped the other kids, pretending you couldn’t see him. When it was clear he wasn’t going to leave — or have his turn on the climbing wall — until you acknowledged him, you rolled your eyes aggressively.

“What are you doing here?” You snapped, gesturing for the Athena kid standing behind Luke to have her turn.

“I want to improve my time,” He smiled, and you could tell he thought he was being cute. You only partly secretly agreed.

“You’re so…” You trailed off, unable to find a word appropriate for your audience of children.

“Charming?” He asked, and there was that smile again. “Wholesome?”

“Unwelcome,” You settled on, turning back to your duties.

“You’re not as mean as you think you are, you know that?” You froze for a second, then told the kid waiting to start to hold on until you could get rid of him.

“And you’re not as badass as you think you are.”

“Ohh, someone still has their panties in a twist!”

“Don’t for one minute think that you had any effect whatsoever on my panties,” You scoffed, subconsciously adjusting your denim shorts.

“Then what did I have an effect on?” Despite the two of you clearly arguing, there was a surprisingly vulnerable look in his eyes. You ignored it.

“Other than my upchuck reflex? Nothing.” You turned on your heel, making it clear the conversation was over.

You were absent from that night’s campfire, which Luke was grateful for since Percy and Beckendorf had much to say about the plan, none good.

“So she’s still majorly pissed,” Percy started and Luke snorted.

“Yeah, got that, genius.”

“Well the question is, how do you stop a girl from being mad?” Beckendorf asked, and Luke could only cringe at how they sounded. With the way the three of them were talking, any passerby would surely think they were three prepubescent virgins. From next to them, Annabeth sighed harshly.

“Look, Luke. You embarrassed her, her ego’s taken a hit. Devastating for any girl, especially damaging for a daughter of Aphrodite. You need to get on her level; even the score and embarrass yourself for her.” The boys sat back, stunned. One by one they processed the instructions, nodding slowly. Thank the Gods for Annabeth Chase was the only thing Luke could think.

With much planning and a little bit of outside involvement (Luke swapped some of his chores with Clarisse’s to get her to agree), the plan was set in motion.

“C’mon, it’ll be fun. We can make fun of the little kids singing Disney songs?” Clarisse lay on your bed as you cleaned your bunk area and you looked at her skeptically.

“Why tonight? We never go to the sing alongs.”

“Dunno,” She shrugged, “Something to do. Plus, summer’s almost over and soon we won’t get to spend any time together.” You grinned, reaching over to pinch her cheek lightly.

“Aw,” You cooed, “I knew you liked me deep down.” Clarisse swatted your hand away but smiled nonetheless, and the two of you stayed huddled up on your bunk gossiping until dinner.

Swayed by Clarisse’s begging, the two of you ended up at the sing along, much too close to the front for your liking. You struggled through the karaoke songs, only staying to commentate to Clarisse. You’d heard one too many awful renditions of classic childhood pop songs when the amphitheatre went quiet, no one knowing who was meant to be leading the next song.

“You’re just too good to be true,” The voice rang out into the night, unaccompanied voice making you gasp immediately in recognition. This was your favourite song, but hardly anyone knew that. It was the song you used to dance to with your dad when you were a kid, before you even knew you were a demigod.

“Can’t take my eyes off of you.” People were murmuring now, trying to figure out where the voice was coming from and who it belonged to — no one who’d sung before for sure.

“You feel like heaven to touch, I wanna hold you so much,” You gasped again as you saw the figure emerge from the darkness. Luke Castellan was singing at the camp sing along. You couldn’t hold in your giggle as he continued to sing a cappella, coming into the light of the stage. He seemed to be searching for something though, eyes roving over the audience.

“Can’t take my eyes off of you.” His eyes locked with yours; he found what he was looking for. Before you could dwell on the incredibly cheesy act, music swelled to life, the Apollo musicians seemingly having learnt the piece beforehand. You wondered how much planning went into this. Your joy only increased as Luke began to dance; dorky, outdated moves that made you laugh out loud — a sound so unfamiliar that a few campers had to look back to check it was really you. You laughed and clapped along with everyone else, thoroughly enjoying Luke embarrassing himself in front of the whole camp.

The performance had to end at some point though, and you found yourself rising out of your seat to give a standing ovation, whooping and cheering along with everyone else. By chance you caught a glance of Clarisse’s face to see her already watching you, a satisfied look evident on her face. You were confused for a second before a memory struck you — a late night on the roof trading drunk secrets and stories where you told her about your childhood connection to Can’t Take My Eyes Off Of You. You were floored, and also kind of flattered. You knew it would have taken a lot for Luke to go to Clarisse for help — she was scary when she was pissed, and she was definitely pissed at Luke after the party.

You felt that little ball of light start to flicker in your chest again, and you were scared. But more than that you were excited. Despite everything else about you, you were a daughter of Aphrodite and a teenage girl, and the most romantic thing to ever happen at camp just happened to you. You guessed Luke had probably grovelled enough, and you would’ve told him that immediately if he hadn’t been swarmed by campers congratulating or laughing at him. Deciding you couldn’t put yourself in the middle of that crowd, you settled on telling him in the morning.

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f1daydreamers · 4 hours

Text

𝐋𝐢𝐭𝐭𝐥𝐞 𝐖𝐡𝐢𝐭𝐞 𝐋𝐢𝐞𝐬 [𝐓𝐀𝟔𝟔] 𝐒𝐌𝐀𝐔

gif credits: @trenty

Pairing: Trent Alexander Arnold x Fem!Reader

Summary: You’re a tease, asking for things you supposedly already have. Trent catches on... eventually.

A/N: This is my first social media AU so bear with me if it absolutely sucks, also my first time writing for Trent so a bunch of firsts going on today. Enjoy!

Warnings: not much, just a lot of fluff and shite captions lol

...

yourusername | 📍Venice, Italy

tagged venice.explore and calvinklein

liked by yourbsf, calvinklein, and 17,786 others

yourusername can I call you later?

view all 2671 comments

user1 pretty ladyyyyyyy

calvinklein summer collection has never looked better 😍

— yourusername have never loved a black dress more

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user2 omg i need to go to venice asap

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— yourusername next week!! super excited omg 🩷

…

trentarnold66

liked by liverpoolfc, andyrobertson94, and 946,716 others

trentarnold66 Recharging 🔋

view all 76,936 comments

andyrobertson94 Right, there’s no need to flex the arms 😒

— trentarnold66 I was just bending them? 🙃

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— trentarnold66 💪

user6 BYE TRENT FINALLY POSTED HOLIDAY PICS SO I CAN SLEEP NOW

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— user8 so real 🤣

judebellingham No invite lad? I see how it is 🫤

— liked by trentarnold66

…

yourusername

tagged hudabeauty, hudabeautyshop, and kayali

liked by hudabeauty, trentarnold66, and 30,651 others

yourusername Coming to you… July 👀

view all 9862 comments

yourbsf A DREAM IM SO PROUD OF YOU BABE

— yourusername i love you 🥹

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— liked by trentarnold66

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…

trentarnold66

liked by liverpoolfc, yourusername, and 976,816 others

trentarnold66 Singapore 🇸🇬 Feels real good to be back.

view all 126,625 comments

liverpoolfc What’s up, Vice Captain? 💪

— trentarnold66 🫡

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…

yourusername | 📍 Liverpool

tagged liverpoolfc

liked by trentarnold66, harvelliott, and 29,872 others

yourusername bleeding red today, bleeding red everyday

view all 11,463 comments

user12 she does know trent’s mural is literally opposite hendo’s right? 🧐

— liked by yourusername

— user12 OMG SHE LIKED MY COMMENTTTT

harvelliott love it 🌹

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— harvelliott 😂

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…

trentarnold66

liked by judebellingham, liverpoolfc, and 817,625 others

trentarnold66 Skipper today but winning in front of you is the best part ❤️🏟️

view all 262,527 comments

user5 IS HE TALKING ABOUT YOURUSERNAME

— user13 bro you lot reach sm wtff he’s obviously talking about the fans lmao they played at home today

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— liked by trentarnold66

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— trentarnold66 Only if you’ve changed shirts

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— liked by trentarnold66

…

yourusername

liked by yourbsf, trentarnold66, and 96,726 others

yourusername my mom approves

view all 70,637 comments

user5 I CALLED IT FROM THE START YESSSSHDHDHSHSHHS YALL ARE SO CUTE

yourbsf ok trying to convince ppl that i’m the other one in ur pics is getting harder and harder to do

— yourusername 😂😂

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— yourusername took you long enough

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— yourusername i bet you've already taken it anyway

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…

trentarnold66

tagged yourusername

liked by yourusername, andyrobertson94, and 1.2 million others

trentarnold66 Dear Darling ❤️

andyrobertson94 Congrats Brother 🫂

— liked by trentarnold66

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user5 I WANT MY FINDERS FEE 👩‍⚖️

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…

Masterlist

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emilykaldwen · 2 days

Text

The Maiden and the Drowning Boy | Aegon x OC | Chapter Sixteen

Rating: Explicit

Ships: Aegon II Targaryen x Abrogail Strong (Lyonel Strong's Daughter), Jacaerys Velaryon x Helaena Targaryen

Summary: As the kingdom teeters on the edge of chaos, Alicent Hightower swaps the pieces on the board: Aegon will marry Abrogail Strong, Larys’ younger sister and heir to Harrenhal. Caught in the web of intrigue and political machinations, the pair must figure out where their loyalties lie, and what they mean to one another.

Tropes: Childhood Sweethearts/Friends to Lovers, Generational Trauma and Cycles of Abuse, It's All About the Character Development, Unreliable Narrators, Multi-POV, Canon Divergent, Bisexual Aegon II Targaryen, Book/Show Mash Up, Fix-It Of Sorts, Stopping the Cycle of Abuse before it gets us all killed, Team Neutral, fairy tale vibes meets victorian medievalism meets grrm

No tag list. please follow @emkald-fic and turn on post notifications for updates or subscribe on AO3

Tumblr Masterpost

AO3 Link

Author's Note: And we're back! Thank you all for being so patient with me as I took some time away. I'm honestly glad I did. TL;DR (or read the update in the previous chapter) I lost my job, things were rough. I'm feeling a lot better now and here we are with the final Aegon birthday chapter! As I stated as well, we'll be moving to something closer to a three week posting schedule for the last few chapters of this fic and continue on that posting schedule for the sequel.

PLEASE PLEASE subscribe to the series page or my author page so you get updates when we start the next story! You're not going to want to miss it. (And follow @emkald-fic on tumblr if you read here!)

All my eternal love to @vampire-exgirlfriend, whose been my rock. I love you. Please go join her as she finishes up her Aemond fic, They Say I Killed You (Haunt Me Then)!

Warnings: Larys Strong Jumpscare, and MURDER!

CHAPTER SIXTEEN - Flew Like a Moth to You

Aegon's birthday hunt includes some fantastic girl action and some murder! OH! And Some Jacelaena biting. You love to see it.

Floris Baratheon could not sit still, clutching her bow and quiver, peering out the carriage window as they approached the Kingswood. “A-hunting we shall go, a-hunting we shall go-”

“Hi-Ho the derry-o, a-hunting we shall go,” Abby sang in turn, the song a familiar one from childhood. The Baratheon girl had been quite annoyed that she could not ride a horse the way the other men did, but with the promise that she would not have to sit with her sister in a carriage, she had been content enough.

Abby sat beside Lythene Ryger, who had been quite speechless at the invite to the carriage. Wylla would have normally been with them, but with her soon to be good-sister, Alys Bracken, coming along, she was off playing chaperone and overly curious and mischievous younger sister to Alys and Harrion. Abby was glad she had the opportunity to do so, for her dear friend was giving up much to stay in the south as her Mistress of Keys instead of returning home to the Karhold.

On the other side of Helaena, Margaery Crane of Red Lake sat. Her lush, light brown hair was braided in a crown around her head, and her face was square with large, unnervingly green eyes. Her head was bent towards Helaena’s, threads of evergreen and butter yellow woven in her fingers as she taught the princess how to finger knit. It was an easier pastime during the long carriage ride to the camp than Helaena’s embroidery. Her twin sister, Desmara, sat on Abby’s other side. The only difference between the pair was her dark, chestnut hair and the scar across her full mouth.

“I’m sure if you ask Daeron when he goes out with the party, he’ll retrieve the stag antlers for you,” Helaena said, her eyes focused on the thread between her fingers. “He’ll love the opportunity to prove himself.” Floris rolled her eyes in only the way a girl of one and ten could, her black braid wrapped around her head with stubborn tendrils escaping. She tugged on the ties of her raven black cloak.

“Nay, Your Grace,” she said primly. “I would show my own mettle, and face the stag myself.” Her cheeks were pink all the same. Abby bit her lip to hold back her chuckle, not wanting to tease the girl. She caught Desmara’s own amused look, the scar across her mouth pulling at her own smile.

“Well, I don’t think they’ll let you go hunting the stag, Lady Floris,” she said. Floris looked pleased at the kind address from the elder girl. “But we’ll be going hawking and the spoils are certainly yours. That’s how I obtained the rabbit fur for my gloves.”

“That’s true,” Abby chimed in. “And you are a child of Nightsong, are you not? I’m sure falconry is in your blood.” Floris’ mother was a Caron, with a lineage of fierce warriors nestled in the Dornish Marches. Lady Ellyn Caron had songs sung of her, and how she, in part with other lords of the Stormlands, defeated the Vulture King. It was exactly the kind of family lineage Abby could see Floris idolizing.

Floris nodded seriously, running her fingers along her bow. “This is true. I suppose I should practice.”

“Practice until you come back dragging the stag behind you,” Helaena continued. “My elder sister is said to have taken down a boar with her own hands, only a dagger as a weapon. I think you have that same mettle in you.”

Floris preened, leaning into Helaena’s side to watch the magical weaving of the yarn. Abby’s heart ached with fondness for the girl, pleased that she had been taken on as Helaena’s ward. The girl was not meant to be stuck behind her three eldest sisters. The Smallest Storm would blossom, she hoped, beneath Helaena’s care and attention. It did not go past Abby’s notice of Cassandra’s harsh attentions to her sister. It reminded her of her own sister’s lack of understanding; always critical, always focused on some perception that her behavior would reflect poorly upon her. Floris was exuberant and curious, but she was not into reckless mischief or excessive rudeness.

She’d be good for Helaena. More importantly, had been good for Helaena, who had taken on Margaery Crane as one of her new ladies, and Abby would take Desmara. The Crane twins had endeared themselves quickly, Margaery introducing herself by way of teaching Helaena a new fiber art, and Desmara had gifted Abby a book on Asshai, a knowing wink in her verdant green eyes.

As the carriage pulled into the camp, cheers had already started from the other gathered lords and ladies. “With all that noise, they’re sure to scare away all their quarry,” Abby laughed, peering out the window to look on ahead.

The boys had ridden on horseback, Aegon in the lead on Kostōba, Aemond, Daeron, and Jace on their own horses beside him, with their own small retinue. Their cousin, Lyonel Hightower, was with them, as were a few other lordlings that Abby was unfamiliar with. She spied Alyn Hull’s silver braids from where he was on his own horse, smiling at the sight of the brash young man there within Aegon’s retinue. He had been a true friend to the prince over the years and it was good to see him brought into the fold officially.

Alyn would serve as steward when they departed for Harrenhal, taking on the household duties from Uncle Simon and learning under him. Aegon had been pleased that he’d agreed to the offer, brushing off his mother’s gape mouthed indignation about it. “He’s the reason I still live, Mother,” Aegon had said, unusually mild in the face of Alicent Hightower’s anger that morning as they broke their fast. He’d brushed a kiss against her forehead, and Abby wondered if he had found strength in the security they were building between them, that not even his mother could shake.

Seeing Aegon’s confidence was intoxicating, so rarely did he come off so sure of himself, and she craved to see more of it. Her teeth scraped her lower lip, belly rolling with heat.

“Good tidings to Prince Aegon, second of his name!” came the booming voice of his Uncle Hobart, leading the call of cheers. “Good tidings to him on his nameday!”

“Good tidings!” came the call of the gathered crowd. “Prince Aegon!”

As Abby settled back in her seat to wait for the footmen, she caught Helaena’s gaze. Anxiety crackled between them, mixed with the joy and love there for Aegon’s nameday. After the hunt, Abby was certain Helaena would cocoon in her chambers, barring the door should anyone try to get her into another crowd. Abby didn’t blame her, and in fact, might even join her for a bit.

The cheers had begun to die down by the time Daeron’s smiling face helped them out of the carriage. Windswept, dark blonde hair fell across his forehead as he bowed. “Allow me, my sister, ladies.”

As he helped Floris from the carriage, their eyes met, both faces going pink at the cheeks, and Abby saw her future good-brother’s hand tighten slightly around the girl’s fingers for the briefest of moments before her feet met the ground and she pulled away, her eyes on her shoes. It was not often that Floris fell quiet and blushed so red, and it did not appear that anyone else had noticed. Daeron clenched his hands to himself and his eyes met hers, his own flush deepening before he quickly hurried away.

The king had stayed behind in the Keep, as did several lords and their families. Lord Grover’s health had also kept him behind. Lord Otto had stayed to facilitate court, leaving the festivities that day in Aegon and the queen’s hands.

Her hands, Abby knew, as young ladies of the noble houses began to approach her and the princess, a few mothers in tow.

“Baela’s a Targaryen too,” Helaena muttered. “Why can’t they flock to her?”

The lady in question had rode on horseback, her red leather jerkin fitted against her lithe form over a gray tunic and black breeches tucked into black polished boots. The rings in her hair glinted in the late morning sun, sparkling as she turned her head with a laugh and dismounted her mare by Jace. Abby shook her head.

“Because they’re afraid she’ll be a bad influence, I’m sure. How are they supposed to get husbands if they dress comfortably?” Abby posited, smoothing her hands over her riding jacket. It was a warm evergreen color, deep azure and crimson soutache snaking over her shoulders like the red and blue forks of the riverlands. The crimson lined wool jacket fell just past her knees, and she wore a pair of warm trousers tucked into polished black boots. Helaena was dressed similarly, her jacket the same shade of deep azure as Abby’s decoration, embroidered with silver dragons with black beaded buttons carved in the shape of dragon head clasps running down the front.

“Hasn’t Mother decided that you should remain here to entertain all those ladies?” Helaena asked, their arms linked as they headed to the main tent. Ahead of them, Alicent Hightower was resplendent in a warm cloak of the deepest verdant green lined in black fur, her gown not one for riding or hunting, but far more comfortable for the outdoors. It lacked excessive ornamentation, the black and green skirts swirling around the tops of her own boots. Her hair was much like Helaena’s, wound in a braided crown about her head. Lady Fossoway was a half step behind her with Ser Criston as they always were, with the rest of the ladies trailing after like a gaggle of geese.

“We’re doing the receiving line,” Abby said, the fingers of her free hand fidgeting against the fall of her jacket. “Aegon’s receiving his gifts and then we’ll have congratulations on the betrothal.” She flexed her fingers, the soft leather of her gloves creaking slightly with the movement. They were lined with soft fur, luxurious, indulgent, and while she was certainly never dressed in rags before, it was rare to accept and let herself have new things when they often felt so unnecessary.

It was a new feeling to be excited about the new clothes that she had, more sumptuous than what would normally be allowed at her station.

Wylla joined them as they passed into the pavilion, warm from the braziers placed strategically about the place, each guarded by a cage of decorative wrought iron to prevent unfortunate accidents. On one end of the great tent, a small dias with a simple, dark wood throne, crested with a dragon, wings spread in welcome.

It was the King’s chair, but the king was not here.

“Are we to accompany you while you receive them?” Wylla asked. Her long hair was bound tightly back and wrapped in a coiling knot along the back of her head. Her padded black jerkin clung to her over a long tunic of gray, black riding trousers tucked into a pair of matching boots. Like Baela, she was dressed for a day in the wilderness without the cumbersome dealing with skirts.

“You look nice,” Abby told her with a small smile. “Not quite the Wildling I heard rumor of,” she teased and Wylla snorted.

“It’s a hunt and the opportunity to ride and get the fresh air. We’ll be going hawking while the men go to shove their pricky things into…” She trailed off with a twist of her mouth, the small scar along her top lip pulling at it. “Men waving around their big pointy things.”

“In a far more acceptable manner than what it implies,” Abby added on, giggling at the silly implications of it all. “And yes, I think you should. We’re receiving gifts, so you best take Desmara and Lythene with you to Lady Fossoway for instruction.”

“And then we’ll go hawking,” Wylla said with a nod.

“I have to stay here,” Abby corrected with a shake of her head. “It is my duty to entertain with her Grace.”

The northerner’s brow furrowed and both of them looked in the direction of the queen, her cloak handed off to a servant while she spoke with Lady Johanna. Wylla shifted beside her and Abby could feel the questions and arguments flitting beneath her friend’s skin. She rested a gloved hand on her shoulder, giving her a squeeze. “As I told Aegon, these are some of our new duties, no matter how dull they seem to be. Hopefully there’ll be time for me to go exploring later.” Hopefully. Abby loved exploring the Kingswood, and she’d been looking forward to going hawking, even if she did not particularly hawk herself. However, fun and indulgence could not be had in favor of duty and responsibility.

No matter how much she craved the freedom of it.

Wylla gave her a long look, teeth biting at her lip before she nodded and getured for Lythene and Desmara to follow her. Helaena had already left with Margaery and Floris and Abby was left standing alone, for the moment, amidst the steady flow of nobility pouring in for refreshment and talk. Alone, Abby was relatively unnoticed. Just a small girl in the midst of a crowd, no crown on her head to shout out who she was.

“Abrogail.”

Larys was taller than most people realized, for he did everything he could to make himself small. Few knew that Larys was as tall as Harwin had been, for her elder brother preferred to have such a small cane, to shrink himself into spaces where he could slip in. It was strange, Abby realized, that she had never noticed that it was a trait she shared with him. No desire to be the center of attention, no desire to be noticed, both for their own reasons.

The smile he gave her was an awkward twitch, but Abby noticed that it did reach his eyes, which was a rare thing, and she found herself returning it. Small and shy, perhaps, as if she were still the somewhat muddy little girl she’d been who he’d look at curiously across the breakfast table in the family solar.

He was subdued in a quilted doublet of the same deep azure and brown leather, his cloak a dark green-blue to match, clasped at the shoulder with a firefly broach. She slipped her hand into the crook of his elbow of his free arm, languidly walking toward a clutch of plump seating not far from the currently empty dais. The smell of cooking food caught on the woodsmoke in the air, and Abby’s stomach rumbled with hunger. They’d only had some fresh bread and cheese on the ride over, and the idea of warm, spiced pumpkin soup and a turkey leg the size of her own face was rather appealing.

“You’ve conducted yourself quite admirably under all the attention as of late, little sister,” Larys complimented, taking a seat on one of the padded benches. She perched beside him, smiling her thanks at the servant who came by with mugs of hot, mulled wine. She inhaled the scent of orange and lemon, the warmth of cinnamon before taking a sip. “Even with your, shall I say, antics at the tourney, they were quite well received.”

“Antics?” she asked lightly, feeling the curl of heat spread across her chest. There was no way for Larys to know what sort of other antics they’d gotten up to. The bite Aegon had left along her shoulder had turned bruised and tender, the imprint of his teeth still deep in her soft flesh. That mark was quite well hidden beneath her jacket and shirt beneath.

Larys only hummed and took a sip of his drink. “The other lords have expressed concern at my choice of husband for you, but I have assured them there is no reason to fret. I simply wanted my sister to be cared for and happy.” He gave her a sidelong look, placid expression barely shifting, his dark eyes large and innocent in his expression. “And everyone can clearly see how happy you two make one another. The queen…” he trailed off with a sigh, “has not quite been pleased but…”

Abby looked down at the deep purple-red wine swirling in the silver goblet. Anxiety prickled through her, confusion at her brother’s attempt, it seemed, to try to bond with her on something more personal. “Her Grace has been very indulgent,” she said softly, mouth twitching into an awkward smile that her brother returned. He inclined his head towards her only just.

“We both understand how passionate the queen’s frustrations can run, little sister,” he said softly, the scent of him cold and clean, like a tomb. Abby blinked, the awkward smile falling from her face. Her throat bobbed, the sting of bile in the back of her throat was almost painful. Had the queen told him what had occurred? Or had Larys, with his strange talents, found out what happened himself. “You will not be her ward for much longer. I imagine, like any mother, she is feeling the maternal ache over the loss of her son to his wife, and the loss of you, who is like a daughter to her.”

“Perhaps,” she allowed, busying herself with another sip of wine so she might find the words. They were receiving glances from the bustling court as they found their places, platters and great soup tureens being set out along the tables. Her stomach growled again. “She was quite concerned about… the dishonor I would bring upon the royal family.” Her voice was little more than a shamed whisper and the insinuation was as painful as the day she’d been accused when coupled with Ser Edmund’s harsh words in the gardens. She straightened her shoulders, trying to push past the hurt and shame that lingered still, tilting her chin up, refusing to be cowed. “Apparently some of the other lords are quite concerned about your heir marrying into House Targaryen.” She smiled at the passing servant, plucking a small apple tart off the platter he held. “I have made my own assurances that our children will be raised in the customs of our people, that regardless of dragon blood, we are the Riverlands.” Whether or not Edmund Vance believed her, if he mocked her to those he could find for such statements, well, she could do nothing about that. She could only mind herself.

“It will be a hard road, Abrogail, given that they do not see you as one of them. Lo, they barely see me as one of them, what with all my work here,” Larys said with a nod, looking at the cake he’d plucked for himself. “What matters is that you greatly impressed Lord Tully, and his son has been amenable and welcoming-”

“I may not have grown up in the Riverlands but even I know there’s only so much influence they have,” Abby cut in, chewing her lip after the words tumbled from her, her voice a soft, biting thing. Larys said nothing to that while he chewed on a bite of cake, and she shifted slightly in her seat and took another sip of wine. “It will not be a smooth transition, not for all. A prince? Becoming vassal to a mere lord?”

“Prince Daemon was Lord of Runestone through the dear, late Lady Rhea,” he reminded her after swallowing. “I don’t recall any such problems between him and the Lady Arryn.”

“Jeyne Arryn was kin to his goodsister,” she retorted. She had spent countless hours in the library with Aemond, taking meticulous notes of the lessons the boys had that her and Helaena did not. Part of that involved wiling away a week of stormy, frigid weather, tracing out the family trees of the Great Houses. The Targaryens rarely married out, even before King Jaehaerys, but there had been Aemon and Daella to houses Baratheon and Arryn, and Queen Aemma’s siblings and half-siblings. She’d even traced her own tree: Harwin’s mother, Lysa, had been Lord Elmo’s sister. Larys and Corynna’s mother had been a Frey. Abby’s mother had been a Westerlander, already outside, already suspicious of the clannish houses of her homeland. “And if all the mutterings and murmurings are true, he cared as little and less for them as they did for him.”

She’d heard the rumors of Daemon being responsible for his first wife’s death, and the occasional muttering that he was responsible for Laena Velaryon as well, but in the past few days being with the mercurial Baela, she did not think that was the case. Abby looked back at her brother again, briefly, before smiling in greeting as Lady Redwyne and her sister settled nearby. The queen had sat on the opposite end of the circle of seating, the corral of it split evenly between the pair of them. Her shoulders slumped minutely and she kept her genial smile as the older women settled in.

Laughter caught her attention, Helaena and Baela both with shaking shoulders near the pavilion entrance as other girls joined them. They would be going hawking soon. The sun caught upon Helaena and Baela’s silver heads, giving them a golden shine. A sigh caught in her throat. How nice it would be to join them, to frolic in the lack of responsibility.

Larys shifted, still sitting at her right hand as the rest of the guests filtered in, and her attention drew back to him. “Ah, yes, the princesses and the other ladies are going hawking. Did your grandfather not gift you a new hawk for your engagement?”

Lord Rodrik had indeed. Abby had hawked some when she was a little girl at one of the hunts for Princess Rhaenyra’s nameday, but had never had a one of her own. But Lord Rodrik and her Reyne family were prodigious hawkers and the beautiful Peregrine she’d named Caelus was a little wonder. He’d been trained by her cousin, Emrik, who had fancied himself a falconer, and had sent a kind letter that she was quick to return. Letters had been rare over the years, but there’d always been well wishes and tidings on her nameday.

“He did, and I know we brought him. The queen…” Abby trailed off, her eyes darting to the other side of the tent where Queen Alicent was smiling at the younger Lady Redwyne. “She said that it was our duty to host while Aegon goes hunting. That it’s my duty. To make friends, to comport myself as the future princess.”

“Oh, did she?” Larys asked mildly, cocking his head to the side and leaning on his cane. “Yes, I can see what she would want that. It was, after all, what has been expected of her when she was your age, already with two children. She had far more in common with the matrons of the court at that point. You are here when others who should be are not.”

Rhaenyra should be here. She was the King’s eldest, his heir. Discomfort prickled along Abby’s spine, a latent spike of anger at the woman who had put her family in danger, hurt at how quickly Rhaenyra had moved to Daemon Targaryen after what happened to Harwin. Her fingers curled against her knees before she forced them to relax and stretch. The Crown Princess had always been kind to her, but could Abby even trust that? After what happened at Driftmark, and what happened to her family?

Alone now, save for Larys.

‘Not alone anymore’, she immediately reminded herself, because Aegon was with her now; Helaena and Aemond cared for her too. They too were her family. Not alone, for she had her grandfather and he loved her truly. Yet, she had felt this loneliness for so long. Rhaenyra was not responsible for her loneliness, but in many ways she felt it keenly. It felt as if everything changed because of her.

This marriage, Alicent’s desire for control, Lord Otto’s keen and watchful eye were because of Rhaenyra. Aegon’s pain was because of Rhaenyra.

Her father and brother were dead and gone because of Rhaenyra.

“I am here when others are not,” she said softly, eyes watching those who watched her, her smile flashing as she murmured her greetings as the ladies began to gossip. Larys was murmuring his own greetings to Lord Piper’s wife, complimenting her on the recent betrothal for her son. Abby’s gaze darted towards the front of the tent, where the girls were still gathered as they prepared to go off for their own little adventures.

Alicent Hightower made sure she was there. She made sure that people saw her as queen, someone to be trusted and counted on, someone that could be reached. She was here, as Abby was here.

“If the Targaryens mean to exercise power in our realm, they will be in for a rude awakening.”

Abby was not queen. She wasn’t certain what that future held, but she did know, with certainty, that she was the future Lady of Harrenhal, and that Lythene Ryger, Melony Piper, even Sarra Frey who was lingering nervously with a goblet in hand, they too would be future ladies of houses that she needed to be friends with. Abby could not just rely on the fact that she held the title, not when she did not grow up in her home, not when people like Edmund Vance were so eager to tell her that it didn’t matter, they would see what they wished.

“Lady Sarra,” Abby called, rising with a smile and handing over her goblet. She could feel Alicent’s eyes on her, and that over the other ladies. “I did not have the opportunity to speak with you at the feast last night. Pray, will you join me and the others out hawking?”

Sarra Frey was a tall girl, broad shouldered with high cheekbones and dark hair bound in a twist of three braids down her back. She wore a simple but lovely jacket of deep blue and silver, the colors of her house. At being addressed, she straightened up, green eyes wide with surprise at being noticed. They narrowed slightly, mouth parting before closing. A flush crept across her cheeks.

“I don’t have a hawk with me, Lady Abrogail,” she said softly. At her full height, she was as tall as Aemond, more softly spoken than her severe expression might have said. Abby smiled.

“That is quite fine, there are plenty to go around.” Sarra nodded, handing off her goblet to one of the passing servants and Abby looped her arms through hers and tugged her towards the others. “My legs are exhausted from that carriage ride, shall we go?”

Even Baela’s mask of judgment faded as they walked towards the edge of camp where the Master of the Mews was minding the hawks and preparing to move out further from camp. She was stuck between Helaena and Wylla, the princess’ silver head shining beneath the sun. Lythene was laughing with the Crane twins and even Sarra was pulled into conversation with Zara Celitgar, who was eyeing the tall Frey girl appreciatively.

“Are we not taking a carriage?” Margaery Crane asked as Helaena led the way past the line of them set aside for their later return.

“It is not a far walk,” Abby assured her. “And it’s nice to stretch our legs after all that sitting.” She nodded towards the Master of the Mews and his apprentices carting the hawks ahead of them. Margaery hummed in agreement, confusion placated, and Abby was set to continue onto another subject when there was a commotion from behind them. She looked over her shoulder to see Cassandra Baratheon striding behind them.

“You all left so quickly!” she announced, censure and jovial all rolled into her crisp tone. A slight smirk crossed her sharp features as they approached. Among the three ladies that accompanied her, Lady Elinor kept close at her side. Cassandra’s dark eyes swept over Abby as they drew closer, and she felt picked apart by the gaze, something sharp stabbing between her ribs at the continued haughtiness of the eldest Storm. Abby straightened, offering her own wan smile. Like hell would Cassandra set foot into Harrenhal, but this?

This she needed to be easy with; this she could allow.

“Of course, Lady Cassandra,” she said. “We would be happy to have you.” Helaena made a soft sound that Abby ignored but felt deeply. Her eyes flitted to Lady Elinor at Cassandra’s shoulder, giving her a warmer look. It was her family’s strawberry wine that had been highly spoken about over the course of the festivities, and Elinor’s responding smile was kinder.

“Congratulations are in order, Lady Abrogail,” Lady Elinor murmured. Cassandra’s eyes tightened, her smile frozen on her face.

“Yes, congratulations on your coming nuptials,” she parroted, smoothing her kidskin gloves over the fall of her woolen hunting jacket. “How comforting it must be to wed one’s childhood playmate. No surprises or excitement to worry about.”

The words were harmless enough, but the barb beneath them was clear. Abby tilted her head slightly, her own smile still on her face. She opened her mouth to speak, but it was Baela who spoke, angling her head between Wylla and Helaena to peer at her cousin.

“Not to mention wedding a childhood playmate means there’s no barrier to intimacy, and no secrets kept,” she said, then bit into the apple she had in hand. “Now let’s fucking move before I start hunting with my bare hands.”

Helaena was meant to be in bed but sleep eluded her. She waved away the maids and headed out into the night toward the great bonfire in the center of camp. There was no danger here, much like there was no need to fear in the Holdfast. Her slippers grew wet after only moments, the night dew soaking into the soft fabric and chilling her toes.

She wanted to dance around the fire, stare into the flames like she heard the Red Priestesses did, and wonder to herself if her dreams would make more sense then. Aemond said she was touched as Daenys was, a gift precious to their Targaryen line. It helped ease the fearful strangeness to know that her strange dreams were not simply the ‘odd workings of an overactive imagination.’ That they did mean something, but what? Helaena was never certain. Sometimes she never knew the outcome, other times they became starkly clear.

‘He’ll have to lose an eye’.

“Would you care for some company?” came a low, curious voice, a slight crack on the last word. She looked over to see Jace lingering at the edge of the firelight, his jerkin long discarded with just his gray linen shirt and trousers, a dark blue cape wrapped around him. The bright flames danced in his lavender eyes, giving them a shade of deep purple-red she found curious indeed. Did her own look the same?

“You’re not gallivanting with the boys?” Helaena asked, not meaning anything by it until the words hung in the air, and Jace’s gaze glanced to what he held in his hands. The only ‘boys’ for him to gallivant with were her brothers. Of course there were other lordlings about, but given that Jace was lingering around the bonfire caused her to wonder if he too liked the quiet.

Or if he were lonely.

“I didn’t want to…” Jace trailed off, rubbing his thumb over whatever he held in his hand. The motion of it reminded her so strongly of Abby, Helaena didn’t know how she was supposed to process it. The curl of unease and her mother’s frustration and anger coated her insides. Her own frustrations, deeply buried but still there, like the ever smoking fires of the Dragonmont, bubbled and burbled in response. The king who loved Jace more, loved him like he loved Rhaenyra more. The blind man who ignored Aemond’s nameday even though it had just happened, who only thought of Aegon’s day because of everything that happened.

The dead look in Mother’s eyes that was more and more frequent, when she stared out the window of her solar, her hands twisted and knotted into her skirts. The things that Sire-Father had done to her for no reason except his own dragon feelings, Helaena thought. His need for more and more, consuming him the way the anger would consume Aemond, and the drink would consume Aegon.

All of them pinned to boards in the king’s Freehold miniature; all of them frozen and set on display in his own gallery, for him to take down from time to time to play with.

The burst of a log in the fire startled her and Helaena realized, uncomfortably, that she’d been staring, vacantly, at Jacaerys, who was watching her, still as water, quiet as an orb weaver. He watched her, the fire throwing orange and red across his fine features, catching at the warm red in his dark, dark hair. His right eye was a sheen of red from the fire, his left cast in shadow. Half fire.

Her right side was chilled, when her left was so warm, mirrors of each other.

Half fire.

Jace held out his hand, palm open, offering to her the smooth stone that he had been fiddling with. The ridges of the sea creature who died in it caught upon the light, throwing its own little shadow as it was unable to in life, living in the sea as it did. Only now, in his hand, had this creature found warmth and light.

Helaena reached for it, her hot fingers scraping against his as she took it, feeling his own hot skin beneath her touch.

Half fire.

‘But I am full flame,’’ Heleane thought, for she was dragonflame and lighthouse flame. Lighting the way with fire in her wake. Jace was fire, yes, but he was river water, the way it rippled through him. Still and steady, but crashing and flooding with the ferocity of a dragon’s power. ‘Would this be what her nieces and nephews be?’ Is this what a union of fire and water entailed? Deadly and quiet, steady when they were full of heat and flame.

She rubbed her thumb over the fossilized creature and it felt pleasant against her skin. Soothing, tactile. Grounding. “Thank you,” she said softly and Jace smiled at her. “Pity it’s not another marchpane tentacle.” He laughed, a soft sound that sounded like water over stones and they came to sit on the bench. She shoved her feet closer to the flame and watched the steam rise from the fabric from how hot it was. There was a few inches between them, the warmth emanating, and they sat together, no words spoken. These were her favorite moments, ones she missed. It scraped at her insides, like pushing dirt away from the stone so she could find the worms beneath. They were the memories of the gardens in childhood, Jace beside her, mud and damp soaked into his knees, helping her push the rock up to find the pill bugs and the beetles and the centipedes in the dark, damp earth.

“It was nice to dance with you at the feast,” he ventured, and Helaena looked at him, the shadow along his jaw where he’d wake up fuzzy and prickly in the morning. She reached up to rub the back of her fingers against his jaw, looking at the slight pout of his mouth, the dark fan of his eyelashes. Freckles faint against his skin.

“You're a good dancer. I should know, I’m a good dancer myself.” She smiled at him and he shook his head, a flush on his face and she felt her own spread across her cheeks. He scraped the toe of his boot in the dirt and she nudged her foot against his. He was familiar, in the way Aemond was, but he was new in the way Warren had been. Someone she knew, but didn’t. He wasn’t angry, and he wasn’t pushing and probing at her, looking for a bruise to elicit feelings from, or the thrill of a princess. He didn’t look at her like she was odd, or startle at her staring, her distant sight.

Jace was simply patient, and he waited, and did not seek to chatter. It was new, it was old, it was like pressing against the ground and the dirt giving way, a little tunnel inside that one didn’t know was there, and Jace peered in and made his way inside. A dragon roosting in a cave.

His knee bumped against hers and she looked at him, their matching lavender eyes meeting. It was nice, Helaena thought, that they had this piece to share. Like two different butterflies, different colors and different patterns, but the markings were the same. The wings were the same. Simply… different.

“The mint winds and chokes like ivy,” she said, instead of what she meant to say, which was asking him if he would come looking for stag beetles with her the next day. “The children can’t breathe, it’s bursting from their mouths.” She blinked, startled, but the words that she had not known, had not meant to utter, remained heavy between them. “I-.”

He blinked back at her, brow furrowed. “Helaena, are you-”

A horrible scream ripped through camp and for the briefest moment, Helaena thought it might have been a fox shriek. But this was too loud, too close. Another scream, this time two high pitched ones and then a guttural yell. Jace’s hand gripped hers, pulling her to her feet and away from the fire. She tugged at his hold to move towards the commotion, but he tugged her back. “I’m taking you back to your tent, Helaena,” he said firmly. “We don’t know what’s- Ow!”

She had lifted their hands, sinking her teeth into the plump flesh at the back of his thumb so he’d let go and hurried towards the tents without a second glance, knowing that he’d be following her. She gripped her skirts, grateful for the warmth of Jace’s cloak around her shoulders and her heart sank, panic seizing her chest when she realized it was Abrogail’s tent that was the source of the screaming.

Three of the Kingsguard, including Ser Criston, were already there, as were the gold cloaks that had been patrolling around the outskirts of camp. Their cloaks reminded her of Sunfyre’s scales in all the torchlight, and half-dressed nobility coming out of their tents, bleary eyed in confusion.

On the ground lay a servant with a blade in his chest, blood burbling from his mouth. Helaena looked at him, wide-eyed, Jace trying to get her to look away, and her gaze went up to Wylla Karstark. The northerner was shaking, gray eyes wide as dinner plates, her hair bound for bed, her dressing gown haphazard and sprayed with blood from where the man must have coughed it at her.

“He-he came in. He was on Abby so quickly-”

“I don’t know where he came from!” Abby’s trembling frame was right behind her, clutching one of the pokers from the tent brazier in her hands, still ready to strike. Her curls were twisted and wrapped around the crown of her head, shivering in the night air in just her own nightgown, sleep mussed and clearly straight from bed. “I don’t…” She gulped. “I don’t think he meant Wylla to b-be there.” Her free hand was gripping the back of Wylla’s dressing gown, and Ser Criston laid a hand on Abby’s shoulder.

“Give me the poker, Lady Abrogail,” he was saying in a calm, steady voice like he did when Helaena was younger, cowering in a corner and unable to flee the commotion. “There’s a girl.”

Harrion Karstark was shouting his sister’s name, just as Uncle Gwayne was calling hers. Helaena turned her head to see him coming up, half dressed with his sword belt slung over his shoulder. He reached for her shoulder, tugging her back. “What is the meaning of this?” he shouted, and Helaena stumbled back into Jace as the crowd parted.

Then, Aegon’s shout of, “Abby!” came crashing over the gathering crowd, pushing his way through with Aemond at his back. She caught her younger brother’s frantic look, seeing the worry ease somewhat at the sight of her before going over to the girls. Abby surrendered the brazier poker as Aegon reached her, frantic over the state of her, pulling his cloak off to wrap around her, fear and fury warring on his flushed features. “What happened?”

The man on the ground was rasping, wheezing, but it was hard to tell if he was alive or not, or if this was how his body signaled death.

“This man came to attack Lady Abrogail, Your Grace,” Ser Erryk said. “Lady Wylla got him good.” His twin nudged the attacker with the tip of his boot as Aemond looked at the man, then at Wylla. His face was carved in hard lines, but his gaze was softened.

“Did you throw it?” he asked. “Or did you pounce on him?”

Wylla blinked, her brother’s broad hands holding her shoulders. “I stabbed him.” Her voice was faint and she took the blade handle, clutching it to her. “He… I was putting away our dresses and there was a commotion… I thought…” Wylla’s brow furrowed, shaking her head. “He came in through the flap beside the bed and crawled o-on top of her. Abby screamed and I just…”

Harrion’s hands tightened on his sister’s shoulders and the girl fell silent with a soft squeak. Aemond’s mouth pursed and he knelt beside the man. His hair fell in a curtain, the band of his eye-patch not holding it back from the vantage that Helaena had. He reached down, and twisted the blade, a wet crack sounding in the sudden hushed anticipation. The wheezing sounds the man was making tapered off as Aemond pulled the blade from his body.

It squelched, a gout of blood spraying, and a strange, hissing sound like wind through a crack sounded. Aemond jerked back as some of the blood caught on the ends of his hair and he rose slowly, wiping the blade of the dagger. “Well he’s dead now, Lady Wylla. Your bravery and quick thinking is to be commended. House Karstark should be proud to have such a brave daughter.” He handed her the dagger, hilt towards her. “Keep this close, since you can be well trusted to use it.”

Wylla’s brother held her tightly as the gold cloaks hoisted the dead man between the pair of them, dragging him somewhere.

“I was half asleep,” Abby said. Aegon clutched her to his chest as his gaze swept darkly around, hands rubbing her arms. “At first I th-thought it was Wylla…” Helaena watched Abby’s hand clutch Aegon’s arm tighter, her voice falling silent. Her other hand reached towards Wylla again, the girls clinging tightly to one another.

“How the fuck did that bastard manage to sneak into my lady’s tent?” Aegon demanded, his voice not a shout like Uncle Gwayne’s had been, but more of a warning growl, like Sunfyre. “Where were the patrols, Ser Criston?”

Their mother’s protector - and Helaena realized that Mother was not there and that Ser Criston must have commanded her to stay in her own tent - shifted only slightly. “The patrols largely keep around the outside of camp to keep people from getting in, my Prince. The patrol that was walking through the tents had not made it back around yet.”

Aegon’s jaw ticked, assessing what Ser Criston had said and knowing it to be true. Helaena knew that Aegon and the others had been lingering in Aegon and Aemond’s tent for whatever gossip and giggling boys got up to in the middle of the night.

“Lady Abrogail and Lady Wylla will share my tent,” Helaena broke in, for she was the princess, and her mother was not here. “And we will have extra guards stationed around our tents, so that our Kingsguard are not stretched thin.” She straightened her shoulders and closed the distance between her and the girls. “This is enough horrible commotion for this night, and you should all be ashamed of yourselves for staring so,” she said, frowning at the crowd that had gathered. “These ladies have been terrorized, and you gawk at them. To bed, everyone! Let us gather your things and get you cleaned up.” The last was said to Wylla, who needed a fresh gown and the blood cleaned from her face.

And like the princess she was, she did not wait to be obeyed, reaching for Abby’s hand to pull her toward her tent.

Thank you for being here! If you loved this chapter, please give a reblog and I would adore hearing what you thought about the chapter! What did you think about the Larys and Abby convo? Baela Targaryen continues to be a force to be reckoned with. I for one love the ladies that Helaena and Abby have been gathering around them. Man what was UP with that attack at the end? And also, Jace clearly doesn't mind Helaena biting him. Good.

#hotd fic #hotd oc #aegon ii targaryen #aegon targaryen #aegon ii targaryen x oc #aegon ii targaryen fic #house of the dragon #aegon ii targaryen fanfic #aegon targaryen fanfiction #hotd fanfic #hotd fandom #house targaryen fanfic #jacelaena #my fics #oc: abrogail strong #otp: do not go far from me #aegon x abby #abrogon

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