Welcome Bxtch

The days after that passed in a blur. I managed to convinced Alicent to have my chain extended so I could at least sit by the window. Practice I quickly abandoned since Aemond started guarding the sky with Vaghar.

My days consist in laying on the ground, against the maesters advices, and staring at the ceiling. I tried to think of all sort of escape, nothing works, I have no allies here and I'm sure they got better things to think about at Dragonstone.

But that doesn't mean I'll stop trying.

--------------

"Could you at least lay on the bed?" Alicent asks, she visits me every evening, she is trying to make the situation more... bearable.

"Why?" I ask, pretending to not know what she's referring to.

"Your wounds need to be taken care of, Y/n." She states.

"So I can be presentable at my wedding?" I snap, "so the people won't suspect I'm being forced to marry a murderer?"

"It was an accident." Alicent sighs.

I stand, weakly, but I ignore the pain in my bones and get in front of her.

"An accident?" I ask and she averts her eyes, looking down, "an accident, Alicent? Your son used the largest dragon to chase Arrax... Vaghar lived through Aegon's conquest, with Balerion and Meraxes at the Field of Fire... you want me to believe that Aemond was naive enough to hype her up with a chase against such a young and small dragon like Arrax?" She sighs, but still doesn't meet my eyes, "look at me, Alicent, look at me and tell me you actually believe that."

She raises her head to look me in the eyes, an expression I can't decipher.

"It was an accident." She finally says.

I nod, disappointed, stepping back.

"Fine... I see I'm not the only prisoner here." I go and sit by the window, "at least, I recognise it."

A sudden knock on the door catches our attention, followed by the door opening even without permission, though I don't look away from the window view.

"Ah! Mother, I wasn't aware you'd be here." I let out a tired sigh once I hear Aegon's voice from the door.

"Your Grace," Alicent replies, ever so proper, "I always visit lady L/n before retiring myself. Check if she is recovering properly."

"How kind of you." He says, almost mockingly, "now leave us, I'd like to speak with my future sister-in-law."

My head snaps towards Alicent, our eyes meet. I see her tensing, her son watching her closely to urge her to go. She takes a deep breath and nod her head before walking out.

"What do you want?" I ask, tired.

"Now, now... is it a way to talk to your king?" He slowly walks closer.

"You're not my king. That's for sure." I spit out.

"Aww." He pouts, hands behind his back, "we're about to become family, we should be kind to each other, my lady."

"I'm not marrying your brother." I tell him, final, standing, ready to put some distance in case I need to.

"Let's put it this way, lady L/n." He says, stopping his movements towards me, "I'm a magnanimous king, so I'll let you choose your path, would you like that?" He waits for me to answer, though I simply stare at him so he continues, "you can choose to marry my brother, show the people you've come to you're senses and you support my claim, or..." he stares at me, making me feel too expose as his eyes trails from my face to my body.

"Or?" I snap, covering myself with my arms.

"Right..." he snaps out of his thoughts, "or you could marry me."

I widen my eyes in surprise and shock by his audacity.

"How is that better for me?" I ask, "also, you already have a wife."

"I never said my options were to make it better for you, did I? And it's not the first time a king has two wives." He smirks.

"You're not the Conqueror."

"Doesn't matter." He steps closer, "I'm letting you choose."

"Why would I want to marry you?"

"Why would you want to marry Aemond?" He asks back, "but I won't lie, even if you were to marry him I'd still visit you don't worry."

I grimace in disgust at his offer, taking a few step away from him and he laughs, amused.

"You're disgusting." I say.

"You have no idea." He chuckles, "you know..." he starts walking towards the door again, I'm thankful his visit is coming to an end, "I used to touch myself thinking about you when I was younger. I'm excited for you to be part of our family." He winks at me and leaves the chamber leaving me shivering in disgust.

I go back at looking out the window shaking the thoughts out of my head, I'm more convinced I need to find a way out.

--------------

The bed is soft, warm, it feels like home, back at Dragonstone. I take note of the arm around my middle, holding me close and my first thought is one of my lovers', making me relax lightly.

"Daemon..." I sigh.

The arm tightens it's hold and slowly I start remembering where I am.

"Guess again."

I push Aemond's arm away and slide away from him so much that I fell out of bed.

"What the fuck!" I exclaim, standing up painfully.

"Come back to bed." He demands, sighing.

"Once you get the fuck out." I motion towards the doors, upset.

Aemond simply turns to lay on his back, and I notice there's nothing covering his chest.

"Tell me you're not naked." I pinch the bridge of my nose, annoyed.

"We're about to be wed, we should be comfortable with each other's bodies." He simply states.

"Get out." I repeat.

"Come back to bed." He sits up, "don't make come and get you myself."

"I'm not getting in bed with you. Get dressed and get out." I tell him.

He looks at me, no signs of anything on his face. He stands up, unashamed, and walks towards me, something dark flickers behind his eyes, until he is right in front of me, towering over me.

"You're still weak from your wounds... I think you're in no position to give me orders." He uses two fingers to lift my face enough to look up at him.

"What?" I snatch my head out of his grasp, "you're saying you'd force me?"

"I'm patient, but not so much." He declares.

I take a step back, sadly realising my back just hit the wall.

"What happened to you?" I genuinely ask, he steps closer so that his body is fully against mine and I try to ignore the repulsion I'm feeling.

"I had to grow up, no one would give me what I deserve and I realised that the only person who could was me." He cups my face with one hand, while the other is on my hip, "so, come lay back down before I do it for you."

His was a statement, and yet he makes no move to step away. Instead he starts to lean closer. I try to move my face away from him but he tightens his grip to keep me in place.

"Get... off.." I grit out, using all my strength to push him off, but he suddenly grasps my wrist and violently push them against the wall, I groan from the pain.

"Would you have accepted me otherwise?" He asks, getting right into my face.

"Otherwise?"

"If I were still that weak boy you had to console all the time." He specifies.

"I never accepted in the first place!" I snap, "and I wouldn't have, regardless."

"Mh..." he whispers, slowly letting my wrist go and taking a step back. A cruel smirk makes its way to his face.

"Now get out." I try again, though I feel less confident than before. I don't like how he's looking at me, I don't like the thoughts he might have right now and I don't want to be anywhere near him.

"No." That's all he says, not averting his eyes from me.

"Aemond, stop this and get out." I'm close to beg him at this point.

I'm afraid he noticed as he gets closer again.

"I could give you so much, so much more than my dear sister." He spits out the last words like a poison.

"I said stop."

"Why can't you just say yes to me?" He asks, caging me again as he rests his hands on the wall on either side of my head, "what else do I have to do?"

"Nothing, there's nothing." I shakily say, "I would've never accepted, not you nor your brother... nor anyone else."

"My brother?" He looks genuinely taken aback, confused.

"Oh don't you know?" I can see an opportunity, "he came in here today, gave me a choice: you or him."

Suddenly he grabs me by my neck, cutting me air off, instantly I use my hands to push his away.

"You are mine." He moves so close so his mouth is next to my ear, "you hear me, Y/n, mine. Now, get back into bed. I won't repeat myself again."

"Fuck you." I spit.

He's not fazed by it, he simply hums again and pulls me to him and then against the bed.

"We'll get to that too, my love, once you're recovered." He gets into bed and, before I can get up again, he catches me and holds me to him, "stop fighting it," he orders, "you're in no condition to anyway."

--------------

From that moment on each day has been the same: maids coming to help me dress, sometimes they help me bath, despite my refusal; Alicent would come and talk to me, in hope I would willingly take part in this facade; sometimes Aegon would walk in and be his disgusting self; and Aemond would get into bed with me, not without a fight from me.

Except tonight.

Tonight he hasn't come. Even though I feel like breathing for the first time in a huge while, I can't help the eerie feeling in the back of my head. The war has basically started, everyone must be pondering their moves, strategies ready to be set.

I take advantage of this moment alone to stare out of the window.

It's night, so there's no one around, I take deep breaths, thinking about Rhaenyra, how lost she could be feeling right now, Daemon is furious, I am sure of it and Jace... does he know about Luke yet? He must be back to Dragonstone already. Did they hear about the wedding? Would they think I betrayed them? No... no they wouldn't.

Something out my doors catches my attention: voices, orders... a woman's voice.

Suddenly the doors open and Helaena rushes in, she has something in her arms, and just collapses on the floor next to the bed.

Alarmed I quickly walk to her, finally noticing she's holding her daughter to her. I kneel beside her, careful not to touch her.

"Helaena... what's going on?" I ask, using the softest tone I can.

"They killed the boy." She says while rocking back and forth. Dread fills my vain, eyes wide in shock.

"Who did?" I carefully ask.

"The rats."

"Did you tell anyone else?" I ask and she shakes her head no, "alright, you're safe, sweet girl." I don't even know what to say, I tentatively reach out to touch her shoulder, she lets me, probably too shocked to notice. I slowly stand and walk to the doors, "guards." I try, no answer, "guards!" Still nothing, frustrated I take a deep breath, "Guards! For fuck's sake! I'm not asking to be let out, fucking listen to me, it's about the little prince."

Finally one of the guard opens the door just enough to pay attention.

"What is it?"

"Send someone to Helaena's chambers, and tell Alicent her daughter is here." I inform him, he doesn't say anything just stares at me unfazed, I sigh, "you just saw the Princess rushing here, scared out of her mind with her daughter in her arms... do you have a brain? Go."

I turn around and go back at kneeling beside Helaena, still not crowding her too much.

"Can you tell me what happened?" I gently ask her.

"They get in and ask me which one was Jaehaerys... I offered my necklace... they didn’t want it..." she says in a monotonous tone.

"You had no choice..." I softly whisper, "you had no choice."

All of a sudden Alicent rushes in, immediately to her daughter's side, who scoops away immediately.

"What happened?" Alicent demands, and just now I notice Cole by the door.

I stand and take her arm to get her away from Helaena just enough.

"Someone fucking killed her son, Alicent." I tell her, "someone fucking sneaked in and killed that boy. No one was guarding apparently..." I glare at Cole, "hope wherever you've been has been worth it."

"Enough." Alicent calls me out, which is the explanation I needed.

"I see..." I smirk, yet there's disappointment in my tone, "hypocrisy suits you both, by the way."

I turn away and sit back with Helaena, her daughter almost unaware. There's silence behind us, so either Alicent and Cole went away or they're too unsure on what to do next.

I notice the confusion and alert in both Rhaenyra and Daemon's eyes as they see me. I rush to them, hugging Rhaenyra immediately.

"I'm so sorry." I say to her as the Knight announes Rhaenys too.

"What for?" She looks at Raenys, and seeing the grave look on her she asks, "is it about Lord Corlys' recovery?"

"Viserys is dead" the white haired princess doesn't waste any more time, and Rhaenyra tensed beside me, I look behind us at Daemon, incredulous look on his face, "I grieve this loss with you, Rhaenyra. My cousin, your father... possessed a kind heart." Rhaenyra doesn't know what to say, so Rhaenys comes forward, "there's more." I hold my lover's hands, hoping to ground her for the next news, "Aegon has been crowned as his successor."

Suddenly Rhaenyra winces, holding her belly.

"Rhae?" I check.

"They crowned him?" She asks, ignoring my concern.

"How did Viserys die?" Daemon asks, he got closer to us.

"I could not say." Rhaenys replies.

"Neither can I." I say.

"How long ago?"

"A day past, perhaps two. Both me and Lady Y/n were made prisoners in our quarters while the queen made her preparations." She explains, though my focus is on Rhaenyra, clearly in pain.

"Viserys has been slain." Daemon guesses, more like declares.

"Alicent demanded you declare for Aegon." A silent question from Rhaenyra hangs in the air.

"She did. I refused her." She looks at me, "we both did."

"And yet you are alive." It's a silent accusation that Daemon sends, to Rhaenys more than to me. Rhaneys ignores him.

"The High Septon crowned Aegon in the Dragonpit. I witnessed it myself just before I fled on Meleys." As Rhaenys explains, Rhaenyra keeps wincing, I keep my hands on her, soothing her.

"They crowned him before the masses." She says, still fighting through the pain.

"So that the masses would see him as their rightful king."

"That whore of a Queen murdered my brother and stole his throne. And you could have burned them all for it." Daemon's voice is full of hatred, I can sense the rage radiating from him.

"Daemon.." I try to call him out.

"A war is like to be fought over this treachery, to be sure." She tells him, "but that war is not mine to begin. I only rushed this warning to you out of loyalty to my husband and to my house. The Greens are coming for you, Rhaenyra. And for your children. You should leave Dragonstone at once." Rhaenys suggests before starting to walk away. Rhaenyra's pained cry stops her, but I can't focus on her now.

There's a pause, she stays still and looks at me, panic settles into my bones as she checks herself, when she show me her hand there's blood on it.

"Rhaenyra," I say, steadily, "the baby is coming." I look at Daemon, "call the maesters and her maids, now." I say, I start leading Rhaenyra to her chambers.

"Not now." She keeps saying, grunting in pain everytime.

"I'm sorry." I softly say as I help her take her dress off so she can be more comfortable, "keep breathing, princess."

"Her term is far from complete." The maester whispers. "This should not be happening."

But Rhaenyra hears him.

"It is fucking happening." She snaps at him.

I gently pull her away.

"Ssh sshh it's okay, you've done it before." I motion for the midwife and maids to come help her, "I'll be back with herbs to help you, okay? I'll be gone for a moment." I assure her, she nods her head squeezing my hand before letting me go. " it should not happen, you are right, but it is happening so you either help me help her or get the fuck out." I say to the maester as I pass him.

It feels like a force controlls my every moves, it feels like my head is nowhere near here because of everything that happened and is happening and yet I'm managing to make the oil and the infusion for Rhaenyra.

My mind doesn’t register much except the moment Rhaenyra is holding her baby... dead.

--------------

The funeral was as emotional as expected, Rhaenyra is devasted, so is Deamon.

They don't have much time to grieve, the imminent war.

And so the first war council start.

Measuring out assests and strategies, of course, alliances too.

Until Deamon starts talking about using dragons.

"The queen is right, your grace." I intervene, "we might have more dragons on out side, but some of them has any experience in war... Vaghar is the only one, claimed, to have fought. How will you teach the dragons how to fight?" I ask, worried.

"There are also unclaimed dragons. Seasmoke still resides on Driftmark. Vermithor and Silverwing dwell on the dragonmont, still riderless. Then there are the three wild dragons all of whom nest here." He explains.

"And who is to ride them? The only other Targaryen blood wants us all dead." I ask.

"Dragonstone has 13 to their 4." He continues, "I also have a score of eggs incubating in the draginmont." He says, I can't help rolling my eyes, "Now, we need a place to gather, a toehold large enough to house a sizable host. Here, at Harrenhal. We cut off the west, surround King's Landing with the dragons, and we could have every green head mounted on spikes before the fucking moon turns."

Sir Erryk gets closer to Rhaenyra to warn her a ship has been sighted offshore... with the Targaryen's crest on.

Daemon is quick ans grabs his sword demanding the guards to move quickly, I look at Rhaenyra, and I nod, in a heartbeat everyone is ready.

I stay behind with the rest of the court, watching from the window Rhaenyra riding her dragon to meet Otto.

--------------

After the meeting we are assembled again, around the stone stable.

Rhaenyra informed us of the terms the Hightowers offered.

I scoffed at each one of them.

"It's no easy thing for a man to be a dragonslayer. But Dragons can kill dragon. And have." Daemon explains, "The simple truth is this, we have more dragon than Aegon."

I open my mouth to speak, but Rhaenyra preceds me.

"Viserys spoke often of the Valyrian histories. I know them well." She says, "when dragons flew to war... everything burned. I do not wish to rule over a kingdom of ash and bone."

"Are you considering the Hightowers' term, your grace?" One of the lord asks.

"As queen, what is my true duty to the Realm, lord Bartimos?" The queen asks back, "ensuring peace and unity? Or that I sit the iron throne no matter the cost?"

"That's your father talking." Daemon says, bitterly.

"My father's dead." Shs says, almost as a reminder, "and he chose me as his successor... to defend the Realm, not cast it headlong into war."

"Well, the enemy have declared war." Daemon snaps, "what are tou gonna do about it?"

They stare at each other for a long moment, tension building so strong tou can cut it with a knife.

"Clear the room." Rhaenyra orders.

One by one everyone walks out, as I walk past her I quickly squeeze her hand, reassuringly, and send a warning look at Daemon before I too walk out.

--------------

I walk back in as soon as I see Daemon leaving.

"Rhae..." I walk to her, noticing her heavy breathing and her hand caressing her neck, "what happened?"

"Nothing for you to worry about." She tells me, dismisses me almost, "sometimes I'm afraid all he wants is the power I have."

"Sure, that can't be it." I say, trying to assure her.

"It just feels like it." She breaths out, " always been jealous of how my father saw me, and not him."

"I don't think we are in our right mind at the moment... I wouldn't take everything we say as completely truthful." I say, taking her hand and caressing her knuckles.

"Yes... yes, you're probably right." She forces our a smile and pulls me a little closer, so our forehead touch, "thank you for being here."

"Always." I whisper.

So the days after that became war plotting and tension until hope finally made its way to us: Lord Corlys recovered better than expected and, with him, the Velaryon's support.

--------------

"Are you sure about sending them?" I ask, the morning of the princes' leave.

"I am. They're right. Dragons are faster." Rhaenyra answers. I can tell she's worried, but she also knows she can't keep her children under a glass bell to protect them.

"Lucerys to lord Borros, though? Are you sure?" I can't help my worries to rise, "I mean the man is a cunt, to put it plainly."

"I trust Luke." She says.

"So do I." I agree, "I don't trust that drunk pig."

"Are you suggesting something?" She directly asks, looking at me.

"I..." I take a breath, "send me with him."

"What?"

"Send me with Lucerys, every prince needs an escort." I state, like it was the simplest thing.

"Jace won't have one." She clarifies.

"Lord Borros won't know." I tell her, I sigh as I look at her thinking, "I know it's not ideal, I know, but Luke is still young, he wants to prove himself, but he's scared, if someone he trusts is with him it would be easier. I won't say anything, I'll be just present."

"Right." She chuckles, "you? Not saying anything while someone like Borros talks? I'll believe it when I see it."

"I promise to behave." I try to convince her, "I'm just... I'm worried about Luke. Jace is older, and he's going to the Stark, they're honorable. I can't say the sake thing about Borros."

Rhaenyra sighs, deeply, almost defeated.

"Fine." She says, "but we'll ask Luke if he wants too, and..." she looks deeply into my eyes, warningly, "do not provoke Lord Borros."

"I promise." I say, "I'll get ready, in case Luke agrees."

"And also," she stops me, taking my hand in hers, "come back to me."

"Always." I nod, she lets me go and I rush to my chambers to get ready.

--------------

I arrive as Rhaenyra talks to her sons, handing them the messages.

I can see she's making them swear not to engage nor start conflict with anyone. Both to ensure their safety and the alliance's.

I walk closer.

"Cregan Stark is... closer to your age than to mine." I hear her, "I would hope that as men, you can find some common interest."

"Yes, your grace." Jacerys replies.

"Storm's End is a short flight from here." Rhaenyra says to Luke, to reassure him, "you have Baratheon blood from your grandmother, Rhaenys. And... Lord Borros is an eternally proud man. He will be honored to gost a prince od the Realm... and his dragon." She gives him the paper, "and, if you want, Lady L/n to accompany you.

"Only if you want." I specify, "mostly because Lord Borros is, as her Grace put it, 'and eternally proud man', which is a kind way to say..."

"They can figure it out." Rhaenyra cut me off with a playgul glare, and I nod my head, "what do you say? Is there room for Y/n?"

Luke looks at me, I can sense some trouble in him, he probably thinks to be less because he agrees to be accompanied, and at the same time he wants something to make him feel safe.

"It... maybe having Lady L/n with me would show Lord Borros I'm important." He then says.

"You are. Regardless of my presence." I smile at him, then turn to Jace, "you be careful too, if I could double myself I would."

"I know, my lady." Jace replies, keeping his posture, I warmly smile at him.

"Go to it then." Rhaenyra tells us, and in mere moments two dragons are flying above the Seven Kingdoms.

--------------

The flight is quicker than I expected, riding Arrax was like breathing fish air for the first time. Luke guided him perfectly, like they were one. And without turbulence we land right in front of Storm's End's fortress.

Always the kind one, Luke helps me getting off Arrax and we walk to the entrance, only to stop when a loud growl explodes in the air.

Vaghar.

I take a look at Luke's surprised and allert expression.

"Nothing to worry about, my prince, you are here to remind lord Borros of his father's oath, to deliver a message." I say with a soft voice, he nods and we finally enter, appearing in front of the lord himself.

I notice Aemond on the left of the room, but I ignore him, still keeping an eye out, just in case.

One of the knights announces us, I nod my head in greeting, forcing out a simple smile.

"Lord Borros..." Lucerys starts, " I brought you a message from my mother... the queen."

"Yet earlier this day, I received an envoy from the king." Borros starts talking and I already want to punch him, "which is it? King or Queen? The house of the Dragon does not seem to know who rules it." He laughs, "what's your mother's message?"

Lucery holds the paper out for a Knight to bring to Borros, who looks at it.

"Shit.." I mutter, the man can't even read, he has to call for a maester to read it.

There's tension as we wait for someone to arrive, I dare to look at Aemond who seems to have caught me and smirks. I notice Luke putting his hand on his sword, I want to advise him not to, to not show Aemond he has some power over him, but I can't without drawing attention to it.

Finally the maester arrives to read the content of the message to the Baratheon lord.

" 'remind' me of my father's oath?" He says, almost appalled, "king Aegon at least came with an offer, my swords and banners for a marriage pact, prince Daeron with my youngest. If I do as your mother bids... which one of my daughters will you wed... boy?"

"My Lord... I am not free to marry." Luke responds, "I'm already betrothed."

"So you come with empty hands." He declares, "go home, pup. And tell your mother that the lord of Storm's End is not some dog that she can whistle up at need to set against her foes."

"You sure look like a thief's one, more likely." I can't take it anymore.

"What did you say, girl?" He seems annoyed.

Good.

"I know you can't read, but can't hear either? That's not good... my lord." I say, "you treat a marriage pact like some unbreakable law when in reality is a quick way to shatter your power. You claim not to be a dog, yet you wag your tail at the first, desperate, marriage offer."

"I will not be insulted in my own house, lady, leave before I change my mind." He orders.

"You didn't need me to feel insulted. Your behaviour is enough." I say before turning and walking towards the doors, Luke close to me.

"Wait..." of course, Aemond couldn't let us leave quietly, "my Lord Strong."

"Don't let it get to you." I quickly whisper to Luke, who turns and take a few step towards his uncle.

"Did you really think that you could just fly about the Realm trying to steal my brother's throne at no cost?"

"I will not fight you. I came as a messenger, not a warrior." Luke replies, wisely.

"A fight would be little challenge." Aemond mutters, almost thinking out loud to himself, "no, I want you to put out your eye." He says, taking his eyepatch off, showing his stone eye. "As payment for mine. One will serve, I would not blind you." He then take one of his knives and throw it at Lucerys' feet.

"Don't indulge him." I whisper again.

"Plan to make a gift of it to my mother."

"No." Luke says, final, decisive.

"Then you are crave as well as a traitor." He replies.

"Not here." Lord Borros declares.

"Give me your eye, or I will take it, bastard!" Aemond rushes to get his knives back, ready to attack Luke, I instinctively grab my own sword.

"Not in my hall!" Borros yells, stopping Aemond in his tracks, "the boy car as an envoy. I'll not have bloodshed beneath my roof. Take prince Lucerys and Lady L/n back to his dragon. Now." He orders the guard.

"C'mon." I say, letting Luke ahead of me and following him and the guards out.

I take one look at Aemond to make sure he stays there, he just smiles at me.

Arrax is restless once we get to him, a storm fully exploded around us.

Luke stops, I can see he's looking for Vaghar.

"Don't think about that. Let's go home." I tell him, "you did what you came to do."

He nods, nearing Arrax to calm him down, so we can fly away from here.

It's insane flying in this weather, thunder and lighting are the only living things in the sky, the only small source of light too.

That until a low roar came from around us.

"Keep your focus, Luke." I tell him, "he's trying to scare you."

I almost can't finished the sentence that Vaghar appears in front of us, along with Aemond's mocking laugh.

Arrax is scared, completely, Luke commands him with difficulty. He flies away, trying to escape the old dragon and its rider.

Aemond keeps yelling in high valyrian as Arrax breath fire against Vaghar.

"No Arrax!" Luke screams, in high valyrian, but he attacks her anyway.

"This is not good." I say, hearing Vaghar behind us.

Arrax flies up and up and up until we get above the storm itself, the clear sky letting us take a breath.

A short one, because in seconds Vaghar's mouth is around us, Lucerys disappears from in front of me and I feel myself falling down, down, back into the storm and into the cold waters. I try to swim up and find a direction, but my head is dizzy, I feel everything around me turning and turning then I feel something hard on my side... a small rock, I climb on it, my arms and legs giving up as soon as I reach the top of it. My vision gets blurred and the last thing I can make out is white hair getting near.

--------------

I wake up with startle in a room that feels familiar but wrong at the same time.

I feel a sudden pain in my head, I want to hold it but when I feel my hand is wrapped in something, I look at it noticing the bloodstains on it. I look around, sitting up as quick as my wounds allow me.

This is not my room, not the one at Dragonstone... this is the one I used in King's Landing.

My heart starts beating so fast I feel like it might explode. I stand up, quickly, walking to the window, but I can't reach it because my foot is chained.

"What...?" I try to pull at it, unfortunately not only I am weak at the moment, but the metal is strong.

The door suddenly opens, I look up at it, seeing Alicent walking in, followed by Cole and Aemond.

"Thankfully you're awake, the maesters weren't sure you would open your eyes again." She says, sounding genuinely worried.

"Why am I chained?" I ask, ignoring her.

"Please, take a sit, you need your rest, lady L/n." She says.

"Why. Am. I. Chained. Alicent?" I repeat, getting nervous and furious.

"Listen to my mother, you did fall from a big height." Aemond chimes in.

I take a sharp look at him, the events coming back to me like a slap in the face.

"Where's Luke?" I say, I see a fragment, a very small one, of guilt in his eye, so I press, "did you tell her why I fell? How it happened?"

"He did." Alicent answers for him, "I am so sorry about Lucerys." My heart drops, "please, sit."

I do. I sit back on the bed, Alicent come to take my hand but I flinch.

"Don't..." I say before my voice could break.

"Very well.." she says, "we will let you rest. Then..." I sense her breathing deeply, "then we will start the arrangements for..."

I walk quickly to my chambers, I can't help the feeling of being watched, the way Aemond talked to me was anything but sweet. Almost terrifying.

I close the door as quietly as possible, hoping to finally get some proper rest, I couldn't even leave with Rhaenyra and Daemon, I did promise Alicent to stay with her.

"Why being so sneaky, my love?" Daemon's voice startles me.

"Shit!" I exclaim and put my hand to my chest to calm my heartbeat.

"Hey..." he says softly, "what's wrong?"

"Nothing." I say immediately, "nothing, where's Rhaenyra?"

"She fell asleep... a lot happened today." He walks closer, "love, is something wrong?"

"No, of course not." I chuckle.

"What did he say to you?" He asks, turning serious.

"Nothing, my love." I say, not meeting his eyes, focusing more on my dress, eager to just take it off and get some sleep.

I can sense him considering me for a moment before he stops my movement, gently making me turn to look at him.

"You're not staying here." He firmly tells me, I let out a deep sigh, turning away from him again.

"I promised Alicent." I say, sitting to take off my shoes.

"Like I give a fuck about that bitch." He scoffs, "you're not staying here."

"I can take care of myself, thank you very much." I snap back, catching myself remembering Rhaenyra's sleeping not far from where we are, I lower my voice, "I can handle whatever crush he might think he has."

"Oh... so I was right, wasn't I?" He smirks, but the clench in his jaw tells me his demeanor is far from playful.

"Yes, fine... you were right." I wave him off, "but it's simply a crush, Daemon, I can handle it."

"Well, I'm not comfortable with you staying here on your own." He says firmly.

"Gods, Daemon!" I whisper yell at him, standing to face him properly, "I'm not a child anymore."

"Exactly." He says, softly. "You're a woman. You're my woman, and it's my duty to protect you."

"I don't need protection here, Daemon." I take his hands, "you taught me how to defend myself, do you not trust your own teaching?" I tease him, to ease his nerves.

"Oh, I trust them very much, I simply don't trust the snakes inhabiting this castle." He makes me hug him, so our faces are closer.

"I know, my love, but I gave my word." I say firmly, "I'm staying. Stop worrying."

He sighs, he kisses me then looks mw dead in the eyes.

"If I hear... that something happened... I will burn each one on them. You hear me?" He tells me.

"I do." I give his lips a peck, "I know you will."

--------------

I managed to sneak into my chambers before someone could notice me spending the night with the Princess and her husband. We said our goodbyes before they left too.

I also managed to get some more sleep before a bad feeling woke me up suddenly.

I decide to just sit by the window and take some time to think. I feel like something wrong, but I can't seem to put a finger on it.

It could be the conversation with Aemond yesterday, but it doesn't seem to be all.

There's some tension in the air too, I look out the window, down to the stairs, there's no one. It's empty.

My eyes catch movement, I quickly look up noticing I can see Rhaenys' chamber from mine. She too is looking out and she too looks tense.

We lock eyes. There's some warning in hers, she even motions me to look down, to pay attention. Like on cue, people start to walk down those stairs, taken somewhere by the guards.

I look up at Rhaenys again.

"Check your doors." She tells me, a sense of dread invades my body as I immediately rush to the doors. I try to open them.

Locked.

I rush back to the window.

"Locked." I tell her, "what's going on?"

"I have my theories... and I think you'll agree." She says, with heavy tone.

I nod and look down one last time, and when I notice Rhaenys is not there anymore I go back to the doors, giving it another shot at opening them.

I push and pull with all my strength, but unfortunately it definitely, definitely locked.

"Fuck." I curse. I go to my own luggage and look through my things. I must have something to help me open the doors.

Something must've happened to the king. It's the only explanation I can think of. But those people being moved somewhere... something worse is happening.

I stop my movements as I hear the doors opening. Finally.

I turn around, my eyes landing on Alicent, and her look is enough to explain everything to me.

"Lady Y/n." She says, I can hear the grief in her voice.

"Your highness..." I nod, "don't tell me."

"I'm afraid I can't accommodate you." She says, she tries to keep a strong appearance as she gets closer, taking my hands, "lady Y/n, I have a favour to ask."

I see her desperation, I squeeze her hands to reassure her.

"Anything." I say softly.

"I... I'm..." she stutters, "I'm here to ask your support."

"My... support?" I ask, the dreadful sensation is back, so I retreat my hands.

"Your support for Aegon's claim to the throne." She finally says.

"Aegon..? What... what are you talking about?" I say putting distance between us.

"Y/n, please..."

"No." I shake my head, "what..?"

"It was Viserys' wish." Alicent states.

I look at her, shocked, I don't believe her words. It can't be.

"I don't believe you." I say.

"It's true." She insists, walking to me, forcefully grabbing my hands, "please, you have-"

"I don't have to do anything." I grit out, "you want to usurp Rhaenyra's birthright. Are you listening to yourself? That's your father's idea, isn't it?"

"Y/n, in memory of our past friendship, I'm asking you for help." She squeezes my hands, almost scared I could run away, "your marriage to Aemond wou-"

"What?! Marriage?" I finally get my hands free from her grasp and once again distance myself, "I'm not marrying your son. And especially, I'm not supporting an usurper."

Alicent collects herself, takes a deep breath and fixes her dress.

"I'm..." she clears her throat, "I'm sorry, I didn't want it to come to this, but you leave me no choice."

I look at her confused, not having the faintest idea of what's going through her mind.

"What are you talking about?" I ask, putting myself on guard.

"The wedding will take place after Aegon's coronation, I'm sure we could find a dress that will fit you." She says, emotionless. I scoff, loudly.

"Why are you so adamant to make me marry your son?" I ask, "is this a way to make your children love you?"

"It's a good way to show your support in front of the people." She explains.

"I will not be used to support, basically, a robbery." I say, walking to stand in front of her, "I'm not a pawn in your conspiracy."

"You leave me no choice, Y/n." She whispers, forcing herself to move back to the door.

"You always had a choice, Alicent." I tell her before she exit the room. Having it locked. I could hear her say something to a guard, probably to stay put and not letting me leave.

"Fuck." I curse as I pace around the room, trying to find a solution, and maybe not to panic. I want to hit myself for not listening to my bad feelings about Aemond, and for not leaving with Rhaenyra.

--------------

I don't know exactly how long it's been since I've been locked in my chambers, I haven't seen Rhaenys either at the window, I don't if she was let out or not.

Maybe the moment they let me out for the wedding I can take the chance and run. Unlikely. Too many guards. Also, I can't wait that long.

I look out the window for the millionth time probably, and it's still to high for me to jump.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck." I mutter under my breath, "why haven't the gods gifted me with wings?"

It's dark outside, if I manage to get out I could easily escape, but I need to exit this room first.

"Fuck!"

Before I can start to panic again, the commotion from outside my chambers startles me. I move closer to the doors, cautiously, to get a glimpse of what might be happening when suddenly the door opens and one of the twins of the King's guard enters, cloak in hand.

"Come, lady Y/n. We don't have much time." He tells me handing me the cloak, I take it confused.

"What... what's going on?" I ask, and in that moment Rhaenys comes into my view.

"Ser Erryk is helping us." She says.

I nod and put the cloak on and follow them out, noticing as I walk out the passed out guard near the doors.

--------------

Morning comes rather quickly as we walk through King's Landing.

"I won't leave Meleys" the Princess declares, "if I could get to the Dragon pit, then..."

"No." Erryk is quick to shut her plan down, "they'll expect you there, princess. You won't get past the gates."

"He's right." I agree, "he's right, and we can't risk losing you like this. Meleys knows you're not abandoning her, and they won't lay a hand on her for sure."

She looks at me, sadness filling her eyes. I can't understand the bond between a dragon and its rider, but I can understand it's strong. I gently take her arm and lead her with Ser Erryk, letting her squeeze me to get some comfort.

"Come, you must make for the riverfront and find a ship. Before they know you've gone." Erryk explains and I nod my head in understanding.

As we walk through the stroll of the city we hear guards screaming, ordering people to move. A sea of people almost surrounding us, we try to find another way, Erryk takes our hands to safely lead us away, but the amount of people pushing and walking separate us.

"Stay close to me." Rhaenys tells me, grabbing my arm painfully tighter. I don't intend on losing her here among the people so I ignore the pain. I try to look back and see if I can catch a glimpse of the Knight, but he's too far and too stuck to get to us.

We have no choice but to follow the people.

"Where are we going?" I ask and Rhaneys looks up and around.

"Dragon pit." She says, I looked at her, sensing the determination in her and I sigh.

"The coronation..." I say, "well... maybe we can use the distraction then."

"Indeed."

So we walk with the rest of the people towards the Dragon Pit. Once we get there almost the entire building is filled with people, curious to hear what happened, what the news is.

"People of King's Landing." Otto's voice resound inside, "today is the saddest of days. Our beloved king, Viserys the Peaceful, is dead" everyone in the audience lets out sad and surprised noises, but Otto continues, "but it is also the most joyous of days, for as his spirit left us, "I roll my eye, always the theatrical one, "he whispered his final wish: that his firstborn son, Aegon should succed him.

I sigh and look at Rhaneys, her having the same confused look as me. The audience is just as confused, but eventually starts to applause while the guards enter, creating a path for Aegon to walk through.

I take an attentive look at him, he seems nervous, almost reluctant too. One thing was certain: he himself didn't ask for it. Though, I'm afraid of what power could do to him. What scares me the most is how easily his dear Grandfather could manipulate him.

"It's our chance." I feel Rhaenys pulling me to the sideand down the stairs to where the dragons are kept.

Not being very familiar with the place I let the princes lead me down and once we get to Meleys I can't help but freeze.

"Come." She tells me as she gets ready to ride her dragon.

"I..." I stutter a little, "is that okay? Will she be okay with me riding with you?"

"You sell yourself short, my lady." She tells me, "you got an affiliation with dragons, they can feel it. Now come, we have no time to waste."

I take a deep breath as I follow her up on her dragon.

"Let's go, Meleys, fly." She orders in Old valyrian and her dragon immediately complies, "hold tight."

The dragon takes off and I close my eyes waiting to be out of the caves... out in the Dragon pit.

The dragon's roar is mixed with screams of terror from the people taken by surprise as they run to safety.

I open my eyes, I look down the the royal family standing there.

"Open the doors!" Otto screams.

"We have to go." I tell her.

She doesn't respond, only stares at them. I loom down again, my eyes catch Aemond's. He looks furious, hurt too, but there's something more sinister in him now, something that makes my skin crawl.

I see Alicent stand in front of Aegon, expecting Rhaenys to burn them all. Instead Meleys only roars loudly, making them tremble in fear, then she turn around and flies out.

Aemond smiles at me, and I take a moment to fully observe him. He's taller, that's for sure, his jaw is more defined than I remembered, hair longer too.

"Am I that unrecognisable?" He jests.

"No... well.. yes," I say, completely at loss for words, "I left you a boy and now look at you."

He shyly smiles as he nears, nearly towering over me.

"I heard about your arrival and wanted to say hi myself." He admits, he keeps hid hands behind his back, soldier stance.

"That's nice of you, Aemond." I smile at him and can't help but look at the scar on his face, "did you put those oils like I told you?"

"Of course." He nods.

"That's good to know." I raise a hand to gently touch the scar and check it, "you did good."

He briefly leans into my hand and I take it back immediately.

"Thank you." He says, "I always kept your advices at heart. Like not taking whatever people say about me as truth."

"What do you mean? Did anyone say anything?" I ask, incredulously, "about your scar? That's absurd."

"Called me a monster and all that." He explains, stepping a little closer.

"I do hope you didn't listen to any of it then." I tell him, putting the book I was reading away, to have an excuse to put some distance between us. There's something not right, but I can't quite place it.

"I tried my best," he simply replies, following me, "I kept repeating your words. The ones you used to comfort me after I lost my eye. Do you remember?" He asks, looking closely my reactions, he doesn't wait for an answer to continue, "you told me small people need to make others feel just as small, in order to feel big, because most of the time they're so ashamed they need to make someone else feel just as miserable."

"Glad you kept that in mind." I chuckle, a hint of nerves getting to me from the way he's looking at me.

"I found it." He tells me, out of nowhere, in fact, I can't help the confused look I give him.

"What?" I ask.

"The book you used to read to Haelena." He clarifies, "the one about the meaning of flowers."

"Oh really?" I excitedly smile, "that's amazing. Thank you so much."

"I have it in my chambers, I can give it to you tonight." He tells me, "after supper, father wants to dine as a family apparently."

"Uhm... of course." I say, with a little bit of uncertainty.

"I'm actually finishing an interesting chapter." He specifies.

"It's fine, Aemond." I say, trying to wave away my own worries. I think this whole tension is merely caused by being back here after so much time.

He smiles, I see him opening his mouth to say something, but the noise outside catches our attention.

"The council is starting." He states and hums, "let's hope justice stays strong today."

"Yes..." I mutter.

Something about what he said makes me stop, he's not the boy I once knew.

Without saying a word I walk out, him close behind.

"Do you promise?" I hear him ask.

"Promise?"

"To meet me here tonight..." he says, eyes hopeful.

"O-of course." I force a smile, and once he smiles too, satisfied, I head to the throne room with other nobles.

I'm quick to lose Aemond as I look for Rhaenyra and Daemon, and I find them upfront with their sons.

"Toon you long enough." Daemon whispers as I stand behind them, with Jace and Luke.

"I was in the library, have mercy." I tease him, after I see his smirk I turn to Rhaenyra, "are you okay?"

"I'll be." She shortly answers.

I deeply sigh, I catch with the corner of my eye the nervous stance of Luke beside his mother, so I give his arm a reassuring squeeze.

"Don't be nervous, Luke. Don't show them they have any power over you." I softly say, he doesn't answer, but I know he heard me and is trying. "And you," I turn to Jace, "keep the fury at bay, uh?"

He gives me an annoyed but understanding look, lets out a puff of breath and straightens his shoulder.

The chatter quickly dies down as Otto Hightower starts to speak.

"Though ot is the great hope of this court that Lord Corlys Velaryon survive his wounds, we gather here with the grim task of dealing with withe succession od Driftmark. As Hand, I speak with the King's voice on this and all other matters." He sits on the throne, " the crown will now hear the petitions."

"Hope he's comfortable." I mutter, hearning a grin from Daemon.

"Ser Vaemond of House Velaryon." Otto announes and Vaemond immediately takes stand in the middle, after sending a glare in our direction.

"My Queen, "he greets Alicent, "my Lord Hand, the history of our noble houses extends beyond the Seven Kingdoms to the days of Old Valyria. For as long as House Targaryen has ruled the skies, House Velaryon has tuled the seas. When the doom fell on Valyria, our houses became the last of their kind. Our forebearers came to this new land, knowing that were they to fail, it would mean the end of their bloodlines and their name." I see Daemon giving Rhaenyra a look and her nodding, "I have spent my entire life on Driftmark defending my brother's seat. I am Lord Corlys' closest kin, his own blood. The true, unimpeachable blood of House Velaryon runs through my veins."

"As it does in my sons, the offspring of Laenor Velaryon." Rhaenyra interferes, I mutter her name in warning, "if you cared so much about your house's blood, Ser Vaemond, you would not be so bold as to supplant its rightful heir. No, you only speak for yourself and for your own ambition."

"You will have chance to make your own petition, princess Rhaenyra." Alicent stops her, scolding her almost, "do Ser Vaemond the courtesy of allowing his to be heard."

That's when Vaemond turns around to smirk in Rhaenyra's direction.

"What do you know of Velaryon blood, princess?" He asks, "I could cut my veins and show it to you and you still wouldn't recognise it."

"Cut deep, please." I can't hold myself, it's a whisper and I don't think he heard me, if he did he didn't show.

"This is about the future and survival of my House, not yours." He finishes with a look at Luke that I didn't like one bit. If he needs any help in showing his blood I'd gladly help, " my Queen, my Lord Hand." he continues, "this is a matter of blood, not ambition. I place the continuation of the survival of my house and my line above all. I humbly put myself before you as my brother's successor. The Lord of Driftmark and Lord of the Tides."

"Thank you, Ser Vaemond." Otto says and Vaemond goes back to his place, "Princess Rhaenyra, you may now speak for your son, Lucerys Velaryon."

Rhaenyra, with quite a defeated face, takes stand in the middle too.

"If I am to garce this farce with some answers, I will start by reminding the court that nearly 20 years ago, in this very..."

She can't continue due to the doors suddenly being opened. All eyes are on the sudden interruption.

"King Viserys of House Targaryen, the first of his name, king of the Andals and the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kindoms, and protector of the Realm." The guard announces.

Hope fills my heart as I watch the king walking to his throne, I quick take a look around seeing the surprise on Otto and Alicent's faces. Vaemond is almost scared to see him, he looks at Otto for answers, but he got nothing.

I share a look with Daemon, to reassure him.

"I will sit the throne today." Viserys breathes out to Otto who can't to anything but nod his head.

The King is visibly weak, but he send the guard away, not wanting their help. He makes his way to the throne, with difficulty, he's leaning on his cane for support. When the crown falls and clatters, I see Daemon walking to his brother, retrieving the gold on the ground.

"I said I'm fine." Viserys says before seeing it's Daemon helping him, so he allows it. Daemon after helping his brother to the throne, puts the crown on his head then walks back to us.

"I must... admit... my confusion." He starts, taking back his king stance, " I do not understand why petitions are being heard over a settled succession. The only one present... who might offer keener insight into Corlys Velaryon's wishes is the Princesa Rhaenys."

All eyes set on her.

"Indeed, your grace." She confidently nods and takes place in the middle of the room like Vaemond and Rhaenyra did, "it was ever my husband's will that Driftmark pass through Ser Laenor to his true born son, Lucerys Velaryon, his mind never changed. Nor did my support of him." As Rhaenys speaks I feel relieved, almost tension melting away. "As a matter of fact, the Princess Rhaenyra has just informed me of her desire to marry her sons Jace and Luke to Lord Corlys' granddaughters, Baela and Rhaena. A proposal to which I heartily agree."

I smile at Luke and Jace, finally seeing they're a little more relaxed, Luke for sure, I can see him breath again.

"Well..." the king starts, "the matter is settled. Again." He's almost bored, understandable, "I hereby reaffirm Prince Lucerys of House Velaryon as heir to Driftmark, the Driftwood Throne, and the next Lord of the Tides."

"You'd be wonderful, Luke." I assure him, as Rhaenya goes back next to Baela.

"Ypu break law..." apparently Vaemond still has something to say, "and centuries of tradition to install your daughter as heir. Yet you dare tell me... who deserves to inherit the name Velaryon. No. I will not allow it."

"Allow it? Do not forget yourself, Vaemond." Viserys warns him.

There's a pause, Vaemond almost shaking with rage.

"That is no true Velaryon," he shouts pointing at Luke, "and certainly no nephew of mine."

"You had your turn, ser Vaemond." I say out loud this time, Vaemond glares at me.

"Lucerys is my true-born grandson. And you.. are no more than a second son of Driftmark." The king reminds him for his place.

"You... may run your house as you see fit... but you will not decide the future of mine. My house survived the Doom and a thousand tribulations besides. And gods be damned... "he turn to look straight at Luke, "I will not see it ended on the account of this..." he holds himself back.

"Say it." Daemon encourages him.

There's a long tense pause, Vaemond grins almost as he looks at Rhaenyra.

"Her children..." he starts," are bastards!" He shouts, "and she... is... a whore."

The nobles in the room gasps, I put a hand on Jace shoulder to keep him calm, and squeeze Luke's hand.

Viserys stands, weakly, but he stands up and draws out his dagger.

"I... will have your tongue for that." He threatens.

But Daemon is quicker and as soon as Viserys finishes his sentence, Daemon slices Vaemond's head, making everyone either scream or gasp.

Daemon casually leans on his sword looking down at the body.

"He can keep his tongue." He says.

"Disarm him!" Otto orders.

"No need." Daemon calmly says, cleaning his sword and walking back to Rhaenyra's side.

Viserys groans in pain probably.

"Call the maesters!" Alicent orders.

"Father?" Rhaenyra wants to walk to him,but stops before the stairs, she looks at me, silently telling me to check on him myself.

I make my way to Alicent holding the King with the guards help.

"Let me help, Alicent." I almost plead.

"The maesters help him just fine, we managed without you this whole time." She waves me off as she lets the guard take him to his chambers.

I helplessly look at them go, and send an apologetic look at Rhaenyra, she shakes her head to let me know it's not my fault, but her worried face remained.

--------------

"You asked for me, princess?" I ask as I join Princess Rhaenys at one of the balconies looking at the sea.

"Yes, my lady," she nods, "I wanted to ask you something and I need you to be honest with me."

"Me?"

"You're the only person who can clarify my doubts at the moment." She answers me.

"If I can be of help, princess, ask." I say, getting a little nervous.

"Did the princess Rhaenyra and Prince Daemon take any part in my son's death?" She looks straight into my eyes as she asks.

I take a moment, never braking eye contact, I can't decipher what she might think. I do know everyone thinks they killed Laenor, maybe she does too, but the question...

"I know Daemon might be reckless, and enjoys killing, you know him too. Yet, he's never been one to kill so lightly as everyone think, and Rhaenyra's wish for peace doesn't agree with such hypothesis. Don't you think?" I answer.

"You love them?" That question makes me lower my eyes, "I can see it. And I want to believe a soul like yours wouldn't fall for ill ones."

"I want to believe so too, princess." I look up at her again, seeing her soft and sad smile, "my best wishes to Lord Corlys' recovery. I do have a feeling he's too stubborn to leave us all like this."

That makes her smile a little more.

"Thank you, lady Y/n." She bows lightly and I do too, leaving her on the balcony.

--------------

I enter Rhaenyra and Daemon's chambers hoping they haven't left for supper yet.

"Where were you?" Daemon asks, fixing himself.

"Princess Rhaenys asked for me." I answer.

"Why?"

"She just wanted a clarification." I smile at him, "nothing to worry about."

"We thought you already headed for supper." Rhaenyra tells me.

"It's for the family why woul-"

"You're family too." She comes closer to hold my hands, "my father considers you like a daughter."

"After all this time.. I mean... I'm just your lady-" I try to say but her lips on mine stop me.

"You're more than that, and you know it. Stop your thoughts." She smiles.

"Are you sure he wants me there?" I ask, nervous.

"You're more than welcome at that table." She assures me.

"Besides... I'm not leaving you here on your own, I saw the guards sending you looks today." Daemon comes beside us, a possessive hand find its way to my waist.

"No guard was looking at me, Daemon." I roll my eyes.

"Oh yes, they were." He fully wraps his arms around me, "can't blame them, though."

I look at Rhaenyra for support, but she just smiles rolling her eyes and goes to the vanity to put her earrings on.

"Are you satisfied with the cutting?" I ask him, as he holds me to him.

"Very." He leans down to kiss my forehead, then before I could say anything more he kisses me deeply.

"Behave, we don't want to be late." Rhaenyra tells us, well, more to Daemon than me.

"I haven't kissed her in so long, let me enjoy her for a moment." He complains and leans down again to kiss me, but I turn my head, not that it prevents him to put his lips on me in any way.

"She's right." I say and he groans, complaining, "we don't want to be late."

"Don't we?" He asks against my skin.

"No." Rhaenyra smiles, but she's stern in her answer.

"Fine." He says, kissing my neck one last time, "but after supper," he takes my chin in his hand, "all mine." He winks.

"Let's go, my loves." Rhaenyra calls us, and takes my hand as we together head to the dining room.

--------------

There definitely tension in the room, despite the chatter. Chatter coming from the young ones, because at the table Rhaenyra and Alice don't say a word to each other, it's like they're keeping and eye on the other but without even looking.

I stand beside my seat, next to Luke by the head of the table, talking to the girls, when the doors open and the king enters and takes his place in the middle, between his daughter and his wife.

"How doo it is... to see you all tonight... together." He starts, I can see this really makes him happy.

"Pray before we begin?" Alicent asks and once Viserys agrees she starts, "may the Mother smile down on this gathering with love. May the Smith mwnd the bonds that have been broken for far too long. And to Vaemond Velaryon, may the gods give him rest."

At that Daemon rolls his eyes and I send him a look to tell him to behave.

"This is an occasion for celebration, it seems." Viserys declares, "my grandsons, Jace and Luke, will marry their cousins, Baela and Rhaena, further strengthening the bond between our houses. A toast to the young princes... and their betrothed." He offers.

"Hear hear!"

And everyone raises their glasses, I smile at Luke and Rhaena, who are closer to me. I slightly see the glare Baela send to Aegon, but I can't tell why.

"Let us toast as well Prince Lucerys... the future Lord of the Tides."

"You'll be great." Rhaena tells him, after seeing the slightly flustered face of his betrothed, and I gently nudge him.

My eyes find their way on my left, Baela having the same glare as before, and this time I see clearly Aegon whispering something to Jace.

"He's not worth it, my dear." I whisper to her, and she lets out a big annoyed breath.

Thankfully, Viserys standing makes everyone silent, he looks at everyone at the table.

"It both gladdens my heart and fills me with sorrow to see these faces around the table. The faces most dear to me in all the world... yet grown so distant from each other... int he years past." He speaks, breathes with difficulty. He then removes the mask on his face revealing his almost rotten side, "my own face... is no longer a handsome one... if indeed it ever was. But tonight... I wish you to see me.. as I am. Not just a king, but your father. Your brother. Your husband... and your grand sire. Who may not, it seems...walk for much longer among you. Let us no longer hols ill feelings in our hearts. The crown cannot stand strong if the House of the Dragon remains divided. But set aside your grievances. If not for the sake of the crown... then for the sake on this old man who loves you all so dearly." His voice breaks and my heart follows, he does care about the house being one.

He weakly sits again with a groan and Rhaenyra stands up, golding her glass.

"I wish to raise my cup to her Grace, the Queen." She declares, Alicent looks up at her a mix of surprise and confusion on her face, "I love my father. But I must admit that no one has stood... more loyally by his side than his good wife. She has tended to him with... unfailing devotion, love and honor. And for that, she has my gratitude... and my apology." As she sits back down I genuinely smile at her.

I look at Alicent, who looks speechless, she definitely didn't expect Rhaenyra to say such things to her.

"Your graciousness moves me deeply, princess." She says, uncertain, but with honesty, "we're both mothers... and we love our children. We have more in common than we sometimes allow." She stands as well with her own glass, "I raise my cup to you... and to your house." She takes a breath, "you'll make a fine queen."

I can't hold the smile on my face, Rhaenyra softly smiles too. It might've never seemed like it, but hearing Alicent's support now means a lot to her. Everyone raises their cups and drinks.

I send Alicent a grateful look and she kindly smiles in return.

Aegon stands up, wanting to fill his glass again, but it's clear he looked for an excuse to get to Baela, so I keep my attention on him.

"I, um..." he starts whispering, filling his glass, "I regret the disappointment you are soon to suffer. But if you ever wish to know what it is to be well satisfied, all you have to do is ask." He 'offers', making Jace hit the table harshly and stand up.

"Jace." Baela calls softly.

Aemond too stands and they stare at each other, a hint of a challenge flashes in Aemond's eye.

Jace then grabs his glasses ans raises it.

"To Prince Aegon and... Prince Aemond. We have not seen each other in years, but I have fond memories of our shared youth. And as men, I hope we may yet be friends and allies. To you and your family's good health, dear uncles."

"Well done, my boy" Viserys proudly smiles at him.

"I would like to toast to Baela and Rhaena," Haelena stands too, which warms my heart, "they'll be married soon. It isn't so bad. Mostly, he just ignores you... except sometimes when he's drunk." She says, and that earns some laughs around the table, then she sits down.

I decide it's my turn to say something so I stand up with my own glass.

"I guess I'll say something too, if you let me." I say, and once Viserys nods his head, I continue, "I owe so much to this family, I probably wouldn't even be alive if it weren't for your kindness, my King. I want to raise my glass to you and all of your house, as thank you for letting me be a part of this family, may the gods protect you all." And I sit back down, Rhaenyra smiles at me fondly. Viserys nods, and a soft smile makes its way on his pained face.

"Let us have some music." Viserys says, and immediately a lively tune can be heard in the room.

Jace stands and goes to ask Haelena for a dance, and as they dance and maids bring more food and wine, the chatter at the table starts, laughter too. I chat with Rhaena, and Luke and Baela chimes in every now and then.

After a while, the guards are called to bring the king away. He's probably too weak to even stay up so much, I let out a shaky breath, feeling helpless.

"I'm afraid there's not much more to be done, don't trouble yourself." Baela soft says to me, noticing my powerless expression, I nod, understanding her words, but still feeling bad, I couldn't be of help.

Suddenly there a bang in the table and the music stops.

We all look up to Aemond standing and harshly grabing his glass.

"Final tribute." he declares, I don't know exactly why, but there's tension in the room again all of a sudden,"to the health of my nephews: Jace... Luke... and Jeoffrey. Each of them handsome, wise... hm... strong."

"Aemond." Alicent says his name as a warning, but he ignores her.

"Come... let us drain our cups to these three...strong boys."

"I dare you to say that again." Jace loudly challenges.

"Why? 'Twas only a compliment." He walks towards him, Luke stands too, "do you not think yourself strong?"

Jace punches Aemond as Aegon grabs Luke, preventing him from getting near them.

We all stand up, Baela's temper can't take it anymore and needs to be held back by Rhaena. Aemond pushes Jace to the ground, and before Jace tries to attack him again, a guard seizes him and Luke too.

"It's okay, calm down." I stand close to Baela and Rhaena, helping her calming her sister.

"Why would you say such a thing before these people?" I hear Alicent ask her son.

"I was merely expressing how proud I am of my family mother. Though it seems my nephews aren't quite as proud of theirs."

I go stand with Rhaenyra, as Jace manages to wiggle free from the guard.

Fortunately, Daemon stops him.

"Wait, wait." He tells him, making him back away.

"Go to your quarters. All of you go, now." Rhaenyra tells them all.

I sigh, disappointed, I shake my head, looking at Aemond.

Daemon stands behind her, in front of Aemond, then when he leaves, too, Daemon walks the young ones out.

"Rhaenyra." Alicent calls, and the Princess hold my hand, to make me stay.

"It's beat, I think, if we go back to Dragonstone." She sighs.

"You've only just arrived." Alicent takes her hamd gently, "you both."

"Lete see the children home." She starts, "I'll, um... return on dragon back."

"The king and I would both like that." The queen nods, "You as well... I hope." She adds, looking at me.

"I... I could stay here and wait for her." I say to Alicent, nodding to Rhaenyra, who smiles at me.

"That would be nice, my lady." She smiles and bow my head slightly before walking put with Rhaenyra.

"Do you feel alright in riding Syrax in your condition?" I ask her as we walk.

"I'm more than fine, don't worry about me." She assures me, "Are you sure to stay here?"

"I am, princess." I assure her as well.

"Promise to tell me if anything happens." She says, squeezing my hand.

"Of course."

--------------

I'm helping Rhaenyra brush her hair, and Daemon is taking off his boots when we hear a knock on the doors.

The maid opens it and a guard makes his way inside.

"Apologies for the intrusion, princess. I was sent here to fetch lady Y/n." He explains.

"And why's that?" Daemon stands, ready to rush to his sword.

"Prince Aemond asked for her presence in the library." He replies, getting a little nervous after seeing Daemon's reaction.

"Oh, thanks, I almost forgot." I say.

"Forgot what?" Daemon immediately asks.

"I'll be there shortly." I nod to the guard, who nods and walks out of the room, after bowing to the couple.

"Forgot what?" Daemon repeats the question, more sternly.

"I promised him I would've met him in the library after supper. He found a book I was looking for for ages, and he wants to give it back to me." I explain, simply.

"Yes, I know what he wants to give to you." He mutters under his breath.

"Daemon." Rhaenyra scolds him.

"What? Haven't you seen how he looked at her at that table?" Daemon's shocked.

"Gods..." I sigh, "he wasn't looking at me in any way, Daemon."

"Yes, he was." He insists.

"Like what then?" I question.

He moves towards me until he's towering over me, taking my chin and making me look up at him.

"Like I look at you before I grab you and throw you on the bed, my love." He tells me, making my face heat up.

"Don't..." I warn him.

"I like seeing you flustered like this." He smirks, leaning closer.

"You enjoy torturing her. It's different." Rhaenyra's amusement is clear as she speaks.

"I do." He admits, proudly. "That's why I recognise when someone is looking at what's mine."

"He wasn't." I insist

"He was."

"He was not." I tell him, "really. Now let me go. The sooner I retrieve the book, the sooner I'll be back." I manage to put some space between us and grab my shoes.

"I'm not letting you go to him alone." He sternly tells me.

"It's just Aemond." I remind him, "I cared for him a lot when he was younger."

"Yes, but he's not a child anymore. He's twenty, isn't he?" He pretends to wonder, "he has one thing in mind."

"Don't be ridiculous." I sigh. "Listen, I'll be quick, alright? Stop worrying. Rhae, help."

"She's capable of defending herself, my love." She supports me, "and she's right. The sooner she goes, the sooner she's back into our arms."

Daemon sighs deeply, not agreeing one bit, but recognises he's being outnumbered.

"Fine. But be quick."

"Of course." I give him a kiss, "Do not worry." I go kiss Rhaenyra and walk out towards the library.

I follow the guard to the library, softly thanking him as he lets me in.

"Aemond?" I call, and once I hear his voice, I follow it until I find him, standing by a table casually reading the book, a hand behind his back."There you are."

He looks up to me and smiles.

"I know it's late, my apologies for that, my lady." He says.

"It's fine, Aemond, do not worry." I assure him, I look at the book, "was it interesting?"

"Very." He nods, "I particularly enjoyed the chapter about the secret messages."

I walk cautiously closer, more so I can grab the book rather than to him.

"Oh, yes, apparently in Old Valyria, they used flowers and plants to send messages instead of ravens." I say, looking at the page Aemond was reading a few moments ago, "ah, yes, they used them also so propose marriage, to express their deepest love to one another."

I can sense him moving around me, I try to ignore the creeps down my spine as I feel him closer.

"They used dahlias to propose, didn't they?" He asks. There's something in his voice that makes me tense.

"Yes... um... yes, they did." I nod, controlling my voice so he doesn't see my nerves.

"Like this one?" He asks, and a dahlia appears in front of me.

"Oh! Where did you find it? I thought they couldn't grow here." I wonder, still not taking the flower.

"I had the servants plant them," he starts as he gets even closer, almost against me, "once I read that chapter, I had them plant tons of these. It's for you... from me."

I immediately turn around, and take a few steps away from him.

"Excuse me?" I ask.

"Marry me." He tells me.

"Aemond... uh... why?" I ask again.

"The flower speaks for it, doesn't it?" He gets closer, not caring that I'm backing away.

"I'm too old for you." I make him reason.

"Not true, you're perfect." He shakes his head. He's quicker than me and stands in front of me again, forcing me to back up against the bookshelves.

"Aemond... listen..."

"Since I can remember," he interrupts me, putting his hands on my waist, "you've been the only one understanding me, the only one who truly saw me.

"No..." I carefully move his hands away, "Aemond this, whatever you think you're feeling it's-"

"I know what I feel." He snaps, but his features soften immediately, "I know what I feel. I want you, and I know you feel it too."

"No." I push him off, "no, Aemond, I don't. This is... very sweet, but I don't share these feelings. I'm sorry."

He looks at me, without saying a word, without a single expression on his face.

"There would be time, my love." He finally says, "You just need to get away from my dear sister in order to properly see."

"What's that supposed to mean?" I ask, irritated.

He simply hums, retrieves the book, and hands it to me, and without any more words, he walks away.

I take a moment to catch my breath. What just happened? I can't believe Daemon was right, like this. When he put his hands on me, there was something in his eye that made me fear for myself.

I walk as quickly as I can, trying to hide my excitement and eagerness from the eyes of the courts, towards Rhaenyra's chambers.

The maesters apparently needed more ointments right this morning, adding to Rhaenyra not wanting me to help her through labour, I suspect I'll be the last one to see the baby. Once I notice I'm alone, I literally rush to her door and knock softly on it.

"It's me." I softly say, "may I, princess?"

"Come in." Her muffled voice comes from beside the door.

I open the doors, quick to close them again when I see Harwin Strong holding the newborn. I fondly smile at him then my eyes fall to Rhaenyra's tired figure.

"How are you feeling, princess?" I ask, walking to stand next to Harwin looking at the baby.

"You already know the answer." She weakly chuckles.

"He's so pretty." I say and look at the guard nodding his head, "he got your nose."

"And the family's insolence, apparently." Rhaenyra adds and I chuckle, "I believe he might have your mouth."

"I'm afraid that's not possible, my dear." I sadly tell her, smiling nonetheless.

"You know you're his mother just as I am." She tells me firmly.

"She's not wrong." Harwin agrees and I playfully glare at him.

"It's a nice thought." I say, caressing the little boy's cheek with a finger.

"Well, Jace and Luke consider you like a second mother." She insists.

"It's not the same thing."

"You love them like they were your own. They can feel it." Harwin says softly, making me look up at him catching his loving gaze on me.

"Don't look at me like that." I jokingly scold him.

"You know, I think he took her insolence." He teases, talking to the Targaryen princess.

"She's part of the family, my statement remains truthful." She smiles brightly and I decide it's time to join her on the small couch.

"Are you okay?" I check on her.

"I am."

"Why are you all dressed?" I ask, just noticing her wearing one of her dresses.

"The queen wanted to see the baby." She sighs, I'm at loss for words, briefly looking at Harwin.

"Right after you gave birth?" I ask and she nods, "gods... couldn't she come herself?"

"And give her the satisfaction?"

I sighs deeply, shaking my head.

"Let's just hope he won't take after you in stubbornness." I softly smile at her, caressing her cheek with my hand, she moves hers to gently grab mine and hold it to her. "Do you need anything?"

"I promise you, I'm fine." She nods, letting my hand go.

"So... does he have a name already or?" I ask, standing up again to walk to the baby in Harwin's arms.

"Jeoffrey." Rhaenyra answers.

"Jeoffrey?"

"Laenor chose it." She tells me. That gives me everything I need to understand, I nod my head and go back at looking at Jeoffrey.

"So so pretty."

"You two would look amazing as parent." I hear Rhaenyra's soft voice commenting. I sadly smile at Harwin, he returns it.

"May I?" I ask him to hold the baby.

"Oh of course, my lady." He says, carefully passing the baby into my arms, "I have duties to attend to anyway."

"Go and protect us, Commander." I smile at him.

"Princess." He nods at Rhaenyra, "my lady." He nods at me, I see him linger for a moment before exiting the room.

I walk to Rhaenyra, rocking the baby in my arms to keep him asleep.

"He's really pretty, love." I say.

"After all the effort I put, I hope so." She smiles.

"Did Alicent say anything?" I ask.

"Nothing... as always she merely implies things." She winces slightly sitting up.

"Careful." I scold her, "get some rest."

"Yes, yes," she dismisses me, "I meant it, you know."

"What?" I absently ask, smiling at the baby as I put him in his crib.

"You and Harwin would make amazing parents."

"Rhae... you know I can't..." I sadly say, sitting with her.

"You never tried again..." she gently takes my hand.

"The maesters said it's impossible... and I don't see it happening with Harwin... not after all these allegations, at least." I squeeze her hand, "it's okay, you said Luke and Jace consider me like a mother... that's enough."

"But..." she sighs, determined, I admire how even in her tired condition she's still stubborn as always, "maybe your condition changed and..."

"Rhaenyra," I stop her, "I've never bled... I've never... before your parents took me in, there have been situations in which I could've... fallen pregnant, yet... I never did, in those cases thankfully, but still... I don't think it will ever happen" I sadly explain to her, "it's okay. And, I mean, marrying the commander would probably imply me moving away from here. Him becoming lord and me his lady wife... would you want me away?"

"I would never, you know that. I just see you with Jace and Luke... even with Alicent's children. And you deserve it." Her smiles warms my heart.

"I'm happy as I am. I promise you." I lean to kiss her softly.

She kisses me back, I can feel she's still tired from labour, so I let her lay a little more.

"If it ever becomes too much for you, I want you to tell me, please?" She tells me, firmly but keeping a hint of sweetness in her tone.

"Is that an order, princess?" I tease.

"It definitely is." She grins, "and just you wait until I'm fully recovered."

"Ooh is that a threat?" I grin too, standing up.

"It depends on how wet it gets you." She winks and I open my mouth to answer, but nothing comes out. Her grins only widens, "I got my answer."

"Oh, fine... let me get you to bed so you can rest and stop teasing me." I offer my arm to her, she gladly takes it and let me guide her to her bed.

"Just you wait." She teases.

"I'll wait." I smile, "do you need anything? Want me to call a maid?"

"I'm fine, my love." She reassures me, "I'll see you later."

"Alright. Rest, princess." I say before leaving her chambers.

--------------

I got announced by the guard, not that I care much to wait as I enter the room, glad to have found Alicent.

Before I could start speaking, I notice Aemond's hurt expression.

"What happened?" I ask, confused as I also notice the boy's state.

"He went into the caves to... claim a dragon." The queen sighs deeply.

"Again?" I ask, turning to Aemond, his hurt expression turns slightly into one of shame, almost, and I too sigh, "what did they do?"

"What do you think they did?" Alicent slightly snaps at me. "Those kids made fun of him again.."

"I'm not asking you." I state, firmly, "you weren't there, were you? Tough, I'm pretty sure your oldest son was." I glare at her accusations, "you were too busy summoning a woman who had just given birth to show you the baby."

"I didn't as-"

"We can talk about it later, your highness." I cut her off, "that is not the pressing matter right now, don't you think?"

"It is not." She reluctantly agrees, "that's why I need to speak with the king about it." She then adress her son, "remember what we said."

Aemond nods, not exactly convinced, but he does. Alicent gives me a look before exiting the room.

I let out a long sigh, then I cross my arms in front of me and look at Aemond, who keeps avoiding my eyes, looking down at the floor.

"So? Should I try to guess or you want to tell me?" I adress the matter again, the boy briefly looks at me before letting out a puff of breath.

"They made fun of me again." He simply says.

"Yes, your mother said so." I nod, "but what happened?"

"They dressed a pig like a dragon... they made wings and all." He explains, looking at the ground.

I face soften, now noticing a small bruise on his forehead.

"Come, let's put something on that bruise." I motion for him to go sit by the table.

I walk to him as I take out a small bottle from the bag I always carry around, and a small tissue.

"Why do you think I don't have a dragon?" He suddenly asks, before I could raise the tissue, I stop my movement and sigh, lowering my arm.

"Well, I'm afraid I'm not the right person to ask that."I say softly, raising again my hand and finally cure his small wound.

"You can't stop it anymore." I hear Haelena mutter, I pay her no mind for now, I instead focus on Aemond.

"I don't understand it." He says.

"Maybe you're destined to claim one of the famous unclaimed dragons. Or maybe you just need to wait a little longer than them." I sigh, softly, hoping to make him feel at ease, "regardless, do not listen to their mockery. You all are still kids, nothing you say or do is always what you truly mean. Don't take their action to heart, you are not what they claim."

"And what am I?" He asks, almost defeated. I out down the tissue, and I make sure he looks at me.

"You are a smart kid, I've never seen anyone learning old valyrian as fast as you. You understand things on a deeper level, you're not defined by a dragon. Remember that, okay?" I urge him, he nods and I sweetly smile at him, patting his shoulder and standing up, "and never say never, maybe you'll claim a dragon tomorrow," I walk to the door, " or the day after, or the day after that. Now c'mon, I believe you have training with Cole."

"Yes, I do." He nods and he walks towards me.

"I guess I'll try," I whisper, "Haelena, would you like to join me in the gardens?"

"I'd like to, but I'm needed here." She says, flatly.

I look at Aemond who shrugs and shakes his head.

"If you change you mind, send for me." I wait a moment for an answer that never comes, and with Aemond walk out towards the training ground.

--------------

As soon as I heard what happened with Cole, I went looking for Harwin, hoping to find him alone.

I'm lucky enough to find him alone, I saw his father walking away, understandably upset. I walk to him and, silently, I tell him to follow me.

Once we're in a more secluded area, I check one more time in case there are unwanted ears nearby. Then I turn to him.

"What were you thinking?!" I whisper yell at him.

"I'm... I'm sorry, I couldn't see anymore." He softly says, looking down.

"Clearly." I sternly reply.

"I just... he treats them with less respect then the queen's, he-"

"I know that. He's always done that, what the fuck happened for you to hit him?" I ask, frustrated, I'm scared something bad could happen to him.

"He wasn't giving them any useful instructions, cruelty instead of tactics, then the insinuating started..." he explains.

"Harwin..." I sigh, "people's been insinuating since Jace was born, why lose your temper for something Cole ever said? He's just a bitter man, finding comfort in humiliation and cruelty."

"He tried to subtly call you a whore." He finally raises his eyes to meet mine, "tried, because I didn't let him finish the sentence."

His proud smirk make me chuckle a little, but I recollect myself quickly.

"Everyone has called me that at some point, Harwin, it's not the worts I've heard." I take him hands in mine, "they've called me worse than that." When I catch his questioning look I go on, "I've been called an opportunist, I've been called a snake, a non-woman, broken or contagious... whore is just... nothing."

"I couldn't stand him saying it." He grits his teeth in frustration, "and you're not broken, you-"

"Harwin, while I appreciate it when you compliment me and are so sweet to me, this is serious. You could be sent away." I remind him.

"My father was kind enough to explain it again." He rolls his eyes.

"Well he's right, your outburst will be used as fuel to all the rumours." I scold him, "it's treason, Harwin."

"He said that too." He look away again, annoyed, annoyed because he's know we're right.

I sigh, closing the distance between us, to make him look at me.

"I don't want to lose you, Harwin." I say, "I can't."

I see his eyes softening, he leans his forehead on mine.

"You won't." He pulls back a little to look at me, "you know, I've always dreamed of running away with you."

"You've said that, maybe once... or twice." I cheekly smile at him, trying to hide my own fear.

"Taking two horses and run ride away, just us." He softly whispers, "but I never asked."

"You know I-"

"You couldn't leave her." He finishes for me, "I know, and I couldn't ask you to leave her behind. I wouldn't ask you to."

He lifts my chin just enough to leave a small kiss on my lips.

"Don't ask me to say goodbye to you either." I warn him, "I won't."

"I know." He kisses me again.

--------------

I didn't say goodbye.

I didn't. I simply watched Harwin leave with his father. I cought for a moment his eyes on me as he left, and I wanted to go to him, but I couldn't.

The days after that have been... caotic to say the least. After Harwin departure Rhaenyra decided to move the whole family to Dragonstone and Rhaenyra and I tried to comfort each other. The news of Harwin's death, still fresh, broke something in me.

"I'm really sorry, my love." She told me one night as we sat in front of the fire.

"It's not your fault in any way, Rhae. Do not blame yourself." I tell her.

"If I let you marry Harwin, maybe you-"

"You didn't force me to stay by your side, Rhae, I wanted to. Harwin understood that, if anything, he deserved better than me." I sighed, "he deserved better."

"You chose to stay with me, like he chose you. He wanted to be with you, and see you happy, that's what he cared about." She told me, sternly, to avoid me entering a bad place in my mind.

We didn't say more, we just held each other in front of the fire.

But the days after that were even crazier, Laena's death was like a thunder while the sky is clear, unexpected and shocking, and so was Laenor's "death", at least to Rhaenys and Corlys. A cruel, but necessary mean to an end.

But I still remember the incident so well...

I remember hearing noises outside my chambers, I arrived to a room where Jace and Luke's bloodied faces greeted me.

"What happened?!" I exclaimed kneeling in front of them and checking their wounds.

"Ask them." Alicent furious tone told me.

I looked up at her, just then noticing Aemond sitting with a Measter close to check him. I walk to see why he deserved more care than the others and saw his wound.

"Gods..." I exhaled, "how..?"

"I told you to ask them." Alicent repeated.

I watched Alicent closely, then I looked at Jace and Luke, Rhaena and Baela scared close to them.

I looked back at Aemond and the Maester's work.

"Leave it, you're butchering his eye." I tried to shove him to take his place.

"He was-" Alicent started.

"Butchers do cleaner jobs, I assure you, my queen." I said, taking the needle and started to stitch the wound myself, along with my oils, "just hang on a little longer, my prince."

"How could you allow such a thing to happen?" King Viserys demanded "I will have answers."

"The princes were supposed to be abed, my King." Harrold answered.

Alicent came right next to me to check in on his son, I let her because I understood her anxiety.

"Who had the watch?" Viserys kept his interrogation going.

"Young Prince was attacked by his own cousins, your grace." Criston chimed in and I forced myself to contain a scoff.

"You swore oaths to protect and defend my blood!" The King exclaimed, furious.

"The kings guard has never had to defend princes from princes, your grace." Criston tried to defend himself.

"That is no answer." Viserys shouted at him.

"It will heal, will it not?" Alicent asked, "will it not, lady Y/n?"

I could feel all eyes on me.

"I..." I sighed, keeping my hand as steady as possible, "the flesh will heal. Yes. But, I'm afraid, the eye is lost."

"Where were you?" Alicent stood up abruptly to ask Aegon.

"Alicent.." I tried to calm her, since I finished with Aemond's wound.

"Me?" Aegon couldn't even ask before Alicent slapped him, "what was that for?"

"Thay was nothing compared to the abuse your brother suffered while you were drowning in your cups, you fool"

"I'll get you some oils to keep on in to make it heal faster," I told Aemond, "and you just lost an eye, your life is not over. Remember that."

In that exact moment, Corlys and Rhaenys arrived demanding explanation.

I stood to better check on Luke and Jace, when Rhaenyra came in too, followed by Daemon. When I met his eyes, his usual smirk made its way to his face, and he winked at me.

"Are they okay?" Rhae's voice was what got me our of staring at Daemon.

"Uh, yes, yes, just a few scratches, princess." I assured her.

"Who did this?" She asked.

"They attacked me!" Aemond immediately answered, starting a chorus of children shouting to be heard.

I deeply sighed, and looked again at Daemon, the smug expression ever present, I looked at Rhaenyra as they all fight back and forth, alost tuning out their voices. I suspected they did... something. Rhaenyra always felt a pull towards her uncle, not that I couldn't blame her, but I was worried said something could've had consequences.

When my eyes landed on Alicent's hand holding Visrys' dagger walking directly to Rhaenyra, I snapped out my dazed state wanting to put myself in between them, but Rhaenys' hand held my elbow.

"Do not mourn me, Mother." Aemond started to speak earning the attention of all presents, "it was a fair exchange. I may have lost an eye, but I gained a dragon." He finished, proud of himself.

"This proceeding is at an end." The King commanded.

Just then, Rhaenys let me go, letting me walk by her side to check on the cut the dagger left.

Daemon joining our side of the room as well.

Something that night shifted, not in the best way.

--------------

The sun coming from the big windows puts a smile on my face as I watch Daemon walking back to the castle, the hard look on his face creates a confused frown on my face.

"Something happened?" I ask once he's close enough, "the eggs?"

"Three healthy eggs," he assures me, caressing my cheek briefly.

"Then what's troubling you?" I ask.

"A raven." He answers, handing me said raven, "Vaemond wants to question Luke's claim to Driftmark."

I groan in frustration.

"I always hated that man." I say, following him inside.

"Makes me want to test the sharpness of my sword on him." He grins, clearly annoyed by the news.

"That's a wonderful idea." I agree.

"Don't agree with me on this, it turns me on." He playfully warns me, to which I respond with a little shove.

"It seems we have a message to report, my prince." I remind him.

"We sure do, my lady." The seriousness is back on his face and together we join Rhaenyra in the map room with Jace.

"Leave us." Rhaenyra commands as soon as she sees us.

Jace takes Jeoffrey and with the maesters and the handmaid, exits the room.

Daemon and I walk closer to the Princess, she looks at us with a mix of intrigued and perplexed expression.

I give her the message and she reads it. Me and Daemon waiting patiently.

"He means to call into question Luke's legitimacy," she realises, in disbelief, "and by extension Jace, and by extension my own clain to the throne."

I gently grab her hand to reassure her.

"Vaemond cares only about Driftmark and the Velaryon line." Daemon explains, "not about out politics. Has he made common cause with Otto Hightower yet?"

"Mh, this is what I fear." Rhaenyra humms, re-reading the letter, "Rhaenys has flown to court." She looks at me, her own gear moving in her head.

"She can't be planning to uphold his intentions." I assure her.

"No, exactly," Daemon agrees with me, "whatever disagreements we may have had, she's not cruel... or stupid enough to do that."

"Disagreements?" Rhaenyra questions, "she believes we had her son killed so that we might marry." She specifies.

"Yes... and yet, she's taken Baela to ward." Daemon tries to reassure her.

"Yes. It is Laena's memory she honors. She has no love for us."

"Has the vipers' venom spread so far?" He smirks, almost challenging.

"Those vipers rule in my father's name, and my father..." she sighs, defeated, "what choice do I have?"

"We defend." I tell her.

Daemon gently strokes Rhaenyra's belly with one hand, and with the other brush a finger on my cheek affectionately.

"To King's Landing, then."

--------------

Letting Rhaenyra and Daemon arrive a day before me was my intention, they're married, I'm just her lady-in-waiting to the court's eyes, so I insisted on them arriving on their own.

When I do arrive I sense immediately the tension in the air, symbols on the Sevens are hanged around the castle, instead of the Targaryen's crest. I try to ignore this feeling of uneasiness as I walk the vaguely familiar corridors.

"Y/n." I hear a familiar voice calling from behind me.

"My queen." I say as soon as I turn around, bowing to her. She gets closer, followed by Criston Cole as always.

"It's good to see you again." She kindly greets me, gently taking my hands.

"I share the sentiment my queen, these years have been kind to you," I smile at her, "beautiful as always."

Seeing her here, in front of me again after that night, all memories of us three together years and years ago making their way to the surface.

"You're still too kind," she smile, almost forced because she's not used to it anymore, "you're even more beautiful than I remember, my lady."

"Thank you, your highness," I thank her, quickly glancing at Cole beside her, "I was heading to the King's chamber, I wish to say hello."

"I'm afraid he's resting," she quickly tells me, "princess Rhaenyra's arrival was a lot for him."

"Is his condition that severe?" I ask, worried.

"I'm afraid so." She apologetically replies, "maybe after the council today."

"Will he be present?" I ask, hopeful.

"The masesters are opposed to the idea," she explains.

"Let me see him, maybe I can help." I insist.

"He does need his rest, my lady," she sternly says.

I swallow my tongue and cease my questions.

"Very well, my queen." I bow once again, "I'll go visit the library then, the gods know I missed King's Landing's library."

Alicent merely nods and lets me go without any more words.

I can't help all the suspects forming in my mind, I try to shake then out of my head, maybe I'm just exaggerating. I focus on remembering the route to the library instead, and thankfully I find it pretty easily. Juste as easily I get lost in the books.

I find a book I used to read all the time, a book about herbs and art in ancient times.

I get so lost in the book, I get startled when I suddenly hear footsteps behind me, turning around immediately.

"Apologies, my lady, I didn't mean to stratle you." The man in front of me says.

No one comes to visit you for some time, not Alicent and, you're thankful for it, not Aemond.

It's almost nighttime and you're by the window, you should rest but the last this you want is to lay on the bed. Your leg is bouncing nervously when the doors burst open.

"What do you know of this?" Aegon enters the room, fuming beyond imagination, demanding an answer.

"Of what?" You ask back, feeling a headache forming.

"Don't play games with me, slut."

"I honestly have no idea what I should know."

He stares at you, you would expect smoke to come out of his ears at any moment. With a nod he motion towards you, a guard nears you and smacks you.

"Tell me."

You hold your pulsing cheek, soothing the skin, you keep yourself from giving them any satisfaction, you simply let out a sigh.

Seeing you're no answering, Aegon snaps. He grabs the chain connected to your foot and pulls. The action is so sudden you don't have time to react, you're already hitting the ground, painfully hard. Not a good way of recovering.

"Fuck.." you groan.

You see Aegon standing over you.

"Don't think that just because you're marrying my brother, I wouldn't just kill you, like I killed all the ratcatchers."

"I've been here for days, unconscious for more, I can't control ravens with my mind, nor I have ink or paper here. How am I supposed to know anything about this?" He doesn't answer, "I can assure you, Rhaenyra would never wish for such a tragedy to happen to someone like Haelena."

"I'll make sure you have a good seat, so you'll see the moment I kill her." He warns you and kicks you in the stomach, before leaving the room, "she won't eat, nor drink until she starts cooperating." He says to a guard.

You stay there, curled up on the ground, breathing heavily to wait for the pain to alleviate. You decide to stand, letting out a groan as you push yourself up with your hands. You curse when the door opens again.

You can't help but flinch as you feel hands on you.

"Let me." Alicent's voice only manages to frustrate you more, if your body wasn't so weak, you would slap her.

"I can manage." You groan, though her hands don't leave you and help you stand. You push her away and lean against the wall instead.

"Clearly..." she sighs, "I'll have the maester check on you."

"Don't bother." You hold your stomach, feeling another bruise forming.

"Y/n... please." Alicent whispers, "this situation is not easy for me either."

"You're not forced to marry a psychopath." You grit out.

"I need to ask you something." She tells you, "I... she surely would've told you at the time, if there is one person who can confirm it, it's you."

"What are you talking about?"

"I..." she looks around, anxious to be sure you two are the only ones in the room, then she takes a breath, "the Conqueror's dream."

"What of it?" You carefully ask, "and speak plainly."

"Rhaenyra met me in the..."

"What?!" You exclaim and Alicent shushes you, instinctively taking your arm and pull you closer.

"Lower your voice." She urges you, "she sneaked into the sept and... well she did try to negotiate peace, but..."

"you couldn't do anything." You scoff, "what else?"

"I told her what Viserys told me before he died: that Aegon was the prince that was promised and she..."

"Oh no..." you breathe your realisation, needing to sit down to actually came to term with what created this whole mess, "Alicent..."

"So it's true..." she sits next to you.

"You really thought he was talking about Aegon? Honestly." You interrogate, you rub your face with your hands before adding, "just admit that you were wrong."

"I can't. Not now." She's scoffs, helpless by her own mistake, "they won't listen to me anyway."

"Who? The council that agreed on usurping the throne to prevent a woman from ruling is not listening to the only woman in the council? What a surprise..." your sarcasm makes Alicent groan.

"I know, I know..." she sighs, "it's not only that, my father is gone from court, Cole is marching towards Rook's Rest and both Aegon and Aemond are... eager to prove themselves, let's put it this way."

"Wait... your father is not Hand anymore?" You ask, absolutely oblivious to this information.

"I know not much, he was dismissed... Criston took his place." She explains.

"We're fucked." You groan, leaning your head back against the wall, Alicent does the same.

There's not much to say, the both of you are helpless, you have no allies and you're stuck.

Your self pitying gets interrupted by someone entering your room.

Immediately you grab Alicent hand, without even noticing yourself, as soon as Aemond enters.

"Mother..." Aemond nods towards his mother, "I'd like to talk to my betrothed. Alone."

You grab her harder, silently telling her, more pleading her, to not leave you alone with him.

Alicent hesitates, for just a moment, before standing up, making your hand fall in your lap. You feel disappointment like never before. It should prove you how powerless Alicent is, yet you can't help but think she could've done more.

"Lady Y/n..." she says as she walks out, not before giving her son a look, fear in it, which he ignores. You catch her eyes before she closes the door.

Leaving you with Aemond.

"It should've been me." He stares at you, waiting for you to react.

You remain stoic and don't show any emotions.

"You did killed Luke." You say.

He hums and starts taking his eyepatch off.

"Come to bed," he tells you, "I leave for Rook's Rest tomorrow morning."

"You don't have your own room anymore?" You ask, pinching the bridge of your nose.

"Come to bed, before we have a repetition of the other night." He smirks, "I wouldn't mind."

You're in no condition to oppose yourself, you know that, you take a shaky breath and weakly stand, using all your strength to prevent your legs to give out. He notices, of course he does, and walks to you.

"I can walk." You firmly say, holding a hand out I'm hope to stop him, he doesn't. Instead he moves it away and stand in front of you.

"When will you realise I don't want to hurt you, that I'm not your enemy?" He asks, looking at your face, committing it to memory, he's itching to hold your face when you don't raise your eyes to him, "since I can remember, I've been waiting for this moment." He finally decides to take your face in his hands, the gesture is too gentle it makes your skin crawl.

You don't even know what to reply, you don't even understand what you did in the first place for him to develop such infatuation.

"I should've just ignored you."

He smirks and leans his forehead on yours, his hands on your face prevent you from pulling away, all you could do is wait and let him.

"You would've never done that." He informs you, his eyes closed as he enjoy the proximity, "you did love me at some point, you only need to find it again."

"I never loved you like this, Aemond... this is not..."

"It is." He interrupts you, moving his hands to your waist and hold you to him, taking advantage of your weakness, "it is, just give up and let yourself feel it."

He holds you so tight, so desperate, it's starting to hurt, so you attempt to push him away from you.

"Stop... you're hurting me..." you whisper hoping he would let go of you, "please.."

He stills, it gives you an opening and you manage to push him, at least a little, away from you.

He stares at you, eye dark as the night unfolding outside.

"Say it again." He tells you, you can feel the way his voice lowered. You shake you head no.

He then grabs your face again, not roughly, but firmly, with his lips so close to yours you share the same breath, he sighs, tiredly, "it's... so hard to wait until our wedding night."

He lets you go and move to the bed, taking the rest of his clothes off.

You're still by the window, dumbfounded with eyes glistening in fear.

"Just go..."

"Get in bed, don't make me come get you."

Your request gets cut off and you have no choice, you force your legs to move until you lay on the bed. You still try to at least put some distance between you two, it merely last a moment because Aemond's arm is around you instantly, pulling you against him. He nuzzles his face into your hair, inhaling deeply, holding you close.

You lay awake the whole time, flinching at every slight movement from him, all night, until he wakes up to leave.

"I heard my brother's intentions to deny you food and water." He hums as he dresses, "I'd say it is a good incentive to help you accept the situation sooner. Though, you need to arrive to the wedding day alive, so, I will send someone with water for you."

"Fuck you."

"I promised you that." He smirks and then he nears the bed and leans over you, holding himself up with his arms, close to you, "I also suggest you to sleep, my love, you'll need it." He stands up and head to the door, "I'll come back sooner than you expect." And with that he leaves.

--------------

The day that followed was a blur, you drifted in and out of sleep. Dreams merging to reality is what makes it harder for you to ease your nerves. Alicent visited you a few times, you weren't conscious enough to have a coherent conversation with her and remember it.

The lack of food is slowly getting to you, fatigue slowly taking possession of your bone and unfortunately you feel a headache already forming.

It's early morning when Alicent visits you again, she finds you curled up by the wall close to the window.

"How are you feeling?"

"Stop asking me that." You grunt, hugging yourself.

"I brought you something to eat." She tells you.

You bitterly laugh.

"Your sons won't be happy about it." You turn you face away from her and the small plate she brought.

"How many times will I have to tell you I'm sorry?" She sighs, exhausted, you don't answer her you just stare at the floor, "please, come eat something."

You sigh and force yourself up. She hands you a plate of fruit once you're close enough. You two sit on the bed as you look down at the plate.

"Thank you." You whisper and Alicent let out a relieved sigh.

"It's the least I could do..." she murmurs, "they don't listen to me anymore. I have no way of... fixing it."

"It's a little late for that."

"What happened between us?"She suddenly asks, catching you off guard with the question.

"What do you mean?" Plate forgotten beside you.

"All three of us were so close when we were younger..." she shakes her head, "and then..."

"Then you marry Viserys." You finish for her, "but it wasn't that. I can't speak for Rhaenyra, she never even wanted to adress it, but it's how you took on the role so quickly."

"I didn't have much of a choice."

"I know, you could've done some things differently though." You look at her, you sigh deeply and take her hands, "I'm not saying we are without fault, know that."

"I was jealous at some point of how you two were still close, I have to admit." She squeezes your hand, almost unconsciously, "I wanted to send you away."

"Oh did you now?" You can't help the chuckle, "how?"

"I don't know." You see her smile slightly, "I had thought about having you marry my brother. He sure would have accepted."

"Would he?" You're quite skeptical, you never actually talked to Gwayne Hightower, maybe once or twice at a tournament.

"Oh yes." She nods, her body relaxing, the memories of you as girls resurfacing by the minute, "he even asked for your favour at the tournament we had for Aegon's first name day, don't you remember?"

"Oh! Yes, I do." You chuckle a little.

"I think you talked for not even a minute and he was so taken, he asked me so many questions about you."

"Really?"

"Really, though I know you would've never accepted." She sighs again, defeat lacing her tone.

"Well, if it were for me, no, I wouldn't have." You reply, "Unfortunately, if the king himself ordered it, I wouldn't have had much of a choice."

"He would've never. I'm not sure how much he knew about... you..." she says the last part firmly, clearly referring to your relationship with Rhaenyra, "he knew his daughter was happier when you were with her, he only cared about that."

Grief overcomes you all of a sudden, you look away blinking away the tears forming in your eyes. All that happened hitting you like a brick in che face.

"I... I can't marry Aemond, Alicent." Your voice is unstable as you choke out the words, "I just can't. You can believe what you wish, but he killed Luke... and I can't..."

"Y/n..." she can't even finished her sentence, the door opens.

"Your grace, they're back from Rook's Rest." The guard informs Alicent, "the king is..."

"What?" She demands and you see the hesitation is the guard's eyes.

"Injured."

--------------

"Y/n would know." Rhaenyra sighs, the search to a valid candidate to claim a dragon still at the beginning, "she would know how to do it."

"She would know how to calm you, mother." Jace smiles and Rhaenyra looks at her son with a mix of surprise and affection, "she would know how to calm us all."

"Have I ever told you that she delivered you?" She asks, gaining a surprised look from Jace, "yes, you're my first child, obviously I was terrified and the midwife wasn't very helpful. Y/n had been studying as a healer since she came to the Keep. When she found out I was pregnant, she spent those months, day and night, studying as a midwife."

"Did she?"

"Absolutely." Rhaenyra smile sadly at the thought, missing you like air, "she said she wanted to be as helpful as she could in case something happened."

"And they let her tend to you?"

"No, she was only allowed to help." Rhaenyra then lets out a small chuckle recalling the events, "she protested, of course.when it was finally time I was growing nervous by the minute, pain like I never felt before was all I could sense and the midwife at the time, she was... a cunt." That makes Jace smile fondly, "I was getting too agitated. Y/n noticed, like always, so... she literally pushed the midwife out, started barking orders to everyone there and tended to me herself."

"I can believe it." Jace chuckle, imagining the scene vividly.

"She was the first to hold you." Her eyes get watery, Jace hand her a handkerchief.

"You don't think she's marrying Aemond willingly, do you?" Jace tentatively asks, he knows the answer, he just needs to hear it.

"No." The reply is immediate, certain, "not at all. She would never. I know that."

"We should get her back then." There's determination in his voice, "I miss her hugs too."

You noticed it.

The first time was when she was addressing her small council; you peeked under the thick arm of her personal guard, a gold cloak that wouldn't be permanent. He held Daemon in high regard, only succumbing to his Queen at the behest of the Rogue Prince, so you always kept him in the corner of your eye as you watched Rhaenyra move through the Red Keep.

She didn't jump out of her skin as the rat scurried across her foot, just raised her leg up and slightly yelped. You noticed the disappointment etched onto her face as she walked from the room and into the great hall.

When her monthly bleeding came, the words she uttered frightened you half to death. Being around your Queen was tense—she was tense—leaving Dragonstone ushered a sense of normalcy with how true this was for not only you, but for Rhaenyra, too.

As the pressing issues continued to quell your Queen, her distance from you grew.

You weren't far when you heard lord Corlys' outburst, calling out not only Rhaenyra's honor but the legacy of her boys, her dead boys who she loved and cherish all the same. Corlys kept his head, along with his life; Rhaenyra seemed horrified but you saw more within her eyes. You saw a lingering grievance aching to be let out, with an anger stuck deep within her heart.

It appeared again after another small council meeting. She called it off, claiming it to only be because of cramps.

It came up again when a disheveled dragon keeper rushed towards her, delivering unfortunate news. You couldn't follow it all, since you couldn't understand High Valyrian too well, and you were in the middle of throwing half of the Greens banners into a flaming pile.

You did catch Rhaenyra skulking around the flames with an intense eye contact that made your stomach pool with want, eager to give her whatever prophetical wish she wanted granted within those flames.

No. She was officially Queen now. She kept you in the dark; you had to respect her wishes. Regardless of how much you wanted to hold her, regardless of how drab Dragonstone was, it was a different realm than Kings Landing. Rhaenyra was different now.

"Y/N?"

You glanced up at the flames, finding Rhaenyra next to you. She was always captivating, although the nearby flames gave her silver Targaryen locks a yellow twinge, accentuating like the tip of a lit fire.

You bowed your head. "Y-Yes, your grace?"

Rhaenyra smiled, a quick quirk of her lips. She gently took your wrist as she got in your space to whisper. "Come with me."

You had no time to follow as she marched you all the way to her private chambers. Once you got to the door, Rhaenyra let you go in order to talk to her personal guard, who followed close, akin to loud shadows.

"Give me my privacy, ser," she ordered. "I'm more than capable for an hour of peace."

The guard nodded, bowed and left.

Rhaenyra pulled you inside, the tenderness she had seeped away, just a bit due to the tension at her fingertips.

Her room was neat, up kept due to the constant tending you and her other ladies-in-waiting do for her throughout the day. Once the door was closed, sealing you and Rhaenyra alone together for the first time since she sat the iron throne as queen.

She paced the room, played with her rings; the sight had slightly dizzy, the fire from earlier exhausted you. You sat and watched her.

"Why must the Gods test me so?" she muttered. "Should I rule as my father did or bring down fire and blood as my ancestors did, they wouldn't challenge me. They wouldn't deceive and--"

"Your grace."

Her head snapped up to you, stopping her mid sentence. She stalked over, eyeing you heavily like the dragon she commanded, forcing you to slide away from her.

Rhaenyra caught you by the arm before you could completely leave her reach. She stroked your arm delicately, all while staring at you, entrapping you in those purple, valyrian eyes.

You knew what it meant, thighs pressing together at the attention. It's all you truly wanted, moreso, you desired to break away from that thich mast of depression that clung to your Queen since she lost her daughter--now lingering more since the loss of her sons.

"Y-Your grace?" you asked again.

Rhaenyra twitched. She brought up at hand, stroking your face. "My sweet girl, you've been more than loyal to me for the past few years," she said, lips quirking up in a tiny grin. "Maybe I should have sought your council."

Being able to finally lean into her touch again was glorious. She hadn't been this careful in days, focused on anything without a slip of that mask she formed to hide her fear and grief.

"What should I do, hm?" she said. "Should I remain civil to Alicent, appease and get ready for whatever game Ormound Hightower is playing in Tumbleton, or should I just burn it all. Burn all of my enemies as Daemon wished, as what my heart bellowed since my own daughter and father were taken from me? As did the sons who perished for me to sit on that accursed throne of swords?"

Rhaenyra clasped your hands in her own now, squeezing tight. She spoke to you, clearly, yet you still believed they were geared to herself and her personal council. You weren't completely sure what she should do. Tumbleton shouldn't burn, yet Alicent being in her ear only brought her trouble. Rhaenyra was queen however, she didn't need your council or anyone else's to do what she thought was true and absolute. She did need to grieve though; she need to remove that mask.

"Y/N?" she tilted your chin up with her finger. "Are you listening?"

You nodded. "O-Of course, your grace. But do you really need my council?"

Rhaenyra chuckles humorlessly. "I wouldn't be asking so if I didn't."

You bit your lip and decided to be honest. "You should do what you think is right, my queen--"

Rhaenyra blinked. "What I think is...right?" she spoke slow, like the words were foreign on her lips.

You unwound your hands from her own and pressed one of them against her chest. The beats of her heart were steady, as it was when you laid with over the past few months.

"Your father made you heir and, as you said, you need not want your sons--your children dead for nothing," you explained.

Rhaenyra's gaze stayed on you, narrowing while her hand worked up and around your arm, caressing your shoulder. She said nothing else, prompting you to do the same as she silenced you with a deep kiss. She was rough, body flush on yours, pushing you to lay on your back.

"Would you feel a way of me, hm?" she whispered. Your queen laid a trail of kisses down the base of your neck. "If I incinerated our enemies, would that scare you?"

Her words carried a heavy weight, though cavalier in her tone; it was as if Daemon spoke them, not the woman who only ever offered you sweet words, tender touches.

At your hesitation, Rhaenyra's hand went up to take your throat, lightly, but still there.

"Tell me, sweet girl," she commanded.

Her voice went deeper, hoarse, a definite command; your thighs pressed together again. Rhaenyra noticed this time, smiling slyly.

"Does that excite you?"

You swallowed and shook your head. "N-No your grace--"

Rhaenyra pressed her finger tips on your throat, still slight but you felt her more. "Don't lie, please, don't lie."

You hadn't dared to, not with the desperation in her voice or the way her purple eyes searched your face for an answer.

"Yes. Yes, it does, my queen."

Rhaenyra growled, the act akin to Syrax as she tapped your side. "Turn around."

You flopped onto your belly and Rhaenyra's hands clung to your hips before clawing and tearing at your dress. Her mouth found your neck again, kissing and nipping at the back of your neck while her hands moved lower, dipping into the fabric of your undergarments.

"Please," you groaned.

"Mmh, all you have to do is tell me, sweet girl," Rhaenyra whispered. She paused to suckle at your pulse point, forcing you to jerk in her arms. "Tell your queen what you want, otherwise, I'll take my sweet time...I missed these breasts on purpose."

Her hands moved to cup your breasts, squeezing and twirling the nipple slowly.

"Please! Touch me!" you moaned.

Rhaenyra grinned against your skin. "I am, Y/N. As you wanted," she said, accentuating each word with a roll of her finger across your nipple. "Perhaps you should be clearer with your demands."

She played with your chest more, making it difficult to answer. With a huff of breath at your ear and those familiar fingertips at your throat, Rhaenyra whispered. "Perhaps I wasn't clear enough myself."

Her voice went to those deep depths again, hitting you straight to your core. "Y-Your fingers my queen. I need them inside," you said, nearly sobbing.

Rhaenyra kissed your ear. "Rina syz."

Your hips jerked involuntarily at the valyrian being spoken so close. Rhaenyra chased, dipped her hand below the fabric, moaning at your already dampened cunt.

"Ah, dreje ilzyna iksa," she groaned, moving along your slick.

She was slow like before when she had you against the table at Dragonstone, eliciting noises from you that would rival any common whore of Kings Landing while she fingered you to release.

This time was different. Once she pushed in, she found your clit and rubbed there fast, hard and in a dizzying rhythm that nearly brought you to release. Your hand found her wrist to signal the building towards your peak.

"Not yet," Rhaenyra purred, switching back to the common tongue. "Face me, now."

You faced your queen again.

A deeper kiss was pressed to your lips. "Beautiful," she said, pulling back to take in your frustrated face. She moved from over top of you aback to the beds center, bunching up her gown and skirts to reveal her toned thighs. "Ride me."

You kissed her, now being the one to rip and tear, pull at her dress until it was pooled to the floor.

Rhaenyra shook her head, smirking as she tipped your head up to kiss you once again. "Ajorraelenka."

You straddled her thigh, wrapped your arms around her neck and watched your cunt glide on her porcelain thigh. She flexed it gently, the quick move taking the breath from the base of your throat. Your queen did it again, rougher this time, bouncing her leg while trapping you in her arms, groaning at your scent.

All you felt was Rhaenyra. She hit your center perfectly; with each bump, you threw your head back, clutching the skin of her neck tight, sighing. You hid the loud sounds in Rhaenyra's silver locks, hoping not to alert any of her guards or the ears of the Red Keep.

"Is this not enough, sweet girl?" Rhaenyra said against your skin. She pulled back from your neck to snake her hand down, pushing two fingers inside. "I want to hear all your noises."

Her fingers curled while her thumb tapped your pulse just right, eliciting a louder moan. You cut it off though, burying your face into her chest.

"Toli jaelan," she growled, pushing you back against the bed. She sunk to the edge, pulling off your soaked underwear. "Moan as much as you need."

Just the visual of your queen positioned between your legs had you jolting up towards her. She chuckled lowly, mouth meeting your succulent mound. She wasted no time in lapping at your sweet folds, groaning at the taste while her fingers worked beautifully at your center.

"Rhaenyra!" you moaned, gripping her hair.

Rhaenyra pulled back, your essence coating a string connecting her mouth and your cunt. "There's my sweet girl," she groaned. "Fuck, you tightened up at that. Maybe if I..."

Your queen shifted up, pressing her body against you while one hand fingered you and the other laced around your throat, slightly curling. A gasp broke from you. The heat that pooled in your belly grew tighter at Rhaenyra's rapid succession until...it exploded.

"Fuck," you yelped, cumming all over Rhaenyra's fingers.

Usually Rhaenyra's hands would gather up your face, pampering you in sweet words and caresses after while cleaning you up.

Instead, Rhaenyra lifted your leg slightly to pin it against her hip, driving her own cunt against your own; her own juices mixed in a dangerous sympathy along your own to prompt more noises from the both of you.

"I'll take Tumbleton," she moaned. The sensation of her wetness, the sound of it moving along blurring your vision. You shut your eyes, only for Rhaenyra's hand to squeeze along your throat. "Look your queen in the eye while she's speaking."

You did as you were told: hypnotized by the passions Targaryen's were known for. Rhaenyra's mouth agape, purple eyes scrutinizing every detail of your body; your breasts that flopped with each move of her hips, your pulse that kept just under her fingers. You were at the mercy of Queen Rhaenyra and you adored every moment of it.

"I've been too lenient with my enemies, my subjects," she said, rutting harder against you. "I've forgotten the blood that runs through my veins, I do have six dragons. More than the conquerors before me."

Her fingers slipped against your cunt again, finding you tighten around her fingers again.

"Ah, my sweet girl," Rhaenyra whimpered. "This excites you, doesn't it? A Targaryen fucking you. Your Queen commanding your body as she does her entire realm?"

You nodded, lost in the sensation; her words brought you towards the brink yet again.

"So pliant under me," she purred. "If I were a man, I'd fill you just like this. You'd accept, wouldn't you? The realm would have something to fear then, I'll raise an army of bastards, as many as I want."

The thought got you there, cumming yet again; Rhaenyra gasped at the wetness that squirted across her own mound and tummy. Her movements hadn't let up as her hand moved from your throat and into your hair.

"Answer me," she commanded, tilting your head up. "Would you carry your Queen's babes? Join me and my husband in our quest to rule the entire realm for centuries?"

"Y-Yes!" you moaned. "Yes, your grace!"

Rhaenyra's body tensed up, connoting her release.

She fell atop of you, exhaustion melding well into your body. It gave you time to ruminate on her words; had she really believed her boys to be bastards? You turned over to watch your queen as she rolled off your body to sit on the bed's edge.

The mask was back, albeit, a new one. This one had heavy regality with ridges of self confidence that drained her days after the death of her eldest.

"They would be yours regardless," you said, wrapping your arms around her waist. "They would be loved, just as you loved your other boys. They are yours, no matter what the realm would say."

As the Blacksmith's daughter, your hands knew every secret of fire. Not the roaring, dragon-fed kind that haunted the cliffs of Dragonstone, but the patient sort—the embers that bent iron to your will. You could forge a nail blindfolded, mend a broken hinge with your teeth clenched around the hammer, and once, when the village boys dared you, shaped a dagger so sharp it split a falling apple midair. None of that mattered now.

The forge-fire still licked at the edges of your dreams when the queen's men came. They didn't kick in the door—dragons don't need to break what they can simply burn—but the blackened parchment they pressed into your hands might as well have been a torch to your life. Your father's debt to the crown, the scratchy ink read, paid in service or steel. You knew which one he'd choose before the cough rattled his lungs that final night, before your mother followed him into the dark rather than face the Stranger alone in a world without him.

They dressed you in grey wool that smelled of lye and other girls' sweat, the rough weave chafing against wrists still patterned with soot from the last blade you'd tempered. The castle steward had snorted when you asked after your tools—"The queen needs chambermaids, not blacksmiths"—but you'd stolen a nail from the armory anyway, its cold weight sewn into your hem like a second heartbeat.

The nail in your hem grew heavier with each passing day, like a ship’s anchor dragging through wet sand. You learned to scrub floors without bending your knees too much—lest the metal tip poke through the threadbare fabric and betray you—and to empty chamber pots with your face turned just enough that the stench wouldn’t linger in your nostrils. The other maids whispered that you were too quiet, your hands too rough for proper ladies’ service, but they kept their distance after you snapped a bread crust between your fingers like kindling.

Dragonstone’s halls were a different kind of forge. The stones here held heat like a smith’s anvil, but instead of shaping metal, they seemed to shape people—bending spines into bows, softening voices into murmurs. You missed the honest ache of a hammer’s handle, the way your palms would blister and heal until they were tougher than boiled leather. Now your fingers grew soft, pruned from lye soap and lukewarm wash water. At night, you pressed your stolen nail into your palm until the half-moon imprint matched the calluses you’d lost.

The castle steward caught you staring at the armory door one morning, your hands twitching at your sides like they’d forgotten their purpose. "Still dreaming of hot iron, girl?" he asked, tossing a rusted hinge into your apron pocket. "Fix that by supper, and I won’t tell the queen you’ve been eyeing her knights’ swords like a cutpurse." The hinge was a child’s puzzle compared to what you’d forged at home, but your pulse jumped anyway—not at the challenge, but at the word "queen." You’d never seen her, only heard the drag of her gowns against stone, the way servants scattered like sparks before her footsteps.

The hinge burned in your apron pocket all morning, its rust flaking against your thigh as you knelt to scrub the flagstones outside the queen’s chambers. You’d learned the rules by rote now—three knocks before entering, never lift your gaze higher than the hem of her skirts, breathe through your mouth when changing the rushes so the scent of mildew wouldn’t make you cough. The other maids had shown you how to fold the linens just so, how to pour wine without letting the goblet clink against the decanter’s neck. "She likes quiet things," Ellyn had whispered, her chapped lips brushing your ear as you both tucked fresh straw into the bedframe. "Quiet hands, quiet steps. Like you’re not really there at all."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The scent of burnt amber and myrrh still clung to the back of Rhaenyra’s throat, nineteen centuries later. She could still see the prophet’s milky eyes rolling back as the words slithered out between blackened teeth: *"Your fire will consume you, princess, unless tempered by the one who bears the mark of the forge."* The memory curled around her ribs like smoke—how she’d laughed then, how the prophet’s gnarled hand had seized her wrist with surprising strength. *"You will know her by the soot in her veins,"* the crone had hissed, *"and on the day she steps into your domain, you will want to devour her whole."*

Nineteen centuries had not dulled the memory—the way the prophet’s breath had smelled of rotting figs and damp earth, how her fingers had dug into Rhaenyra’s wrist like roots seeking water. *"Your fire will eat you alive,"* the crone had croaked, her milky eyes rolling back until only the whites showed. Rhaenyra had laughed then, tossing a silver stag at the woman’s feet. *"I am fire,"* she’d said, and the hearth flames had roared as if in agreement. But the prophet’s grip had tightened, her nails drawing blood. *"Even dragons choke on their own smoke. You will know your tamer by the soot in her veins, by the way your teeth ache to sink into her throat."*

The wine in Rhaenyra’s goblet had long gone cold, its surface reflecting the flickering torchlight like a pool of stagnant blood. She traced the rim with a fingertip, remembering the prophet’s cracked lips parting around those damning words nineteen centuries ago. *"You will know her by the soot in her veins."* A laughable notion, back then—as if the heir to the Iron Throne could be tamed by some soot-stained peasant.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The day you first stepped into Dragonstone’s shadowed halls, Rhaenyra was mid-sentence in a council meeting, her fingers drumming against the carved armrest of the Seastone Chair. Some lordling from the Stormlands was droning on about tariffs when the scent hit her—not the usual mix of salt and damp stone, but something deeper, warmer. Like iron left too long in the coals, but laced with honey. Her nostrils flared. The lordling’s voice became distant, muffled, as if she’d plunged her head underwater.

Her knuckles went white around the chair’s arms. The scent coiled around her, thick as smoke from a forge, and her gums ached with the sudden urge to bite down—on what, she didn’t know. Only that the craving was *physical*, a pulse in her teeth that matched the hammering of her heart. She barely registered the way the lords exchanged glances as she abruptly stood, her chair screeching against stone. “This audience is over,” she managed, her voice strangled.

The guards at the door stiffened as she strode past them, her gait too quick to be dignified. She could still smell it—that damned *scent*—threading through the castle’s usual odors of torch oil and wet wool. It clung to the back of her throat, sweet and metallic, making her swallow convulsively. By the time she reached her chambers, her fingers were trembling. She slammed the door behind her, pressing her forehead against the cool wood. *Breathe*, she commanded herself. But every inhale only filled her lungs with more of that intoxicating heat, like swallowing embers.

In the dim light of her room, she caught her reflection in the polished bronze mirror—eyes blown wide, lips parted. Her own pulse thudded in her ears. The prophet’s words slithered back to her, unbidden: *"You will know her by the soot in her veins."* Rhaenyra’s laugh came out jagged. Absurd. Impossible. And yet—her fingers dug into her own thighs as she fought the urge to turn back, to hunt that scent through the corridors like a wolf after blood.

The door groaned under Rhaenyra’s weight as she threw herself against it, her palms scraping against the wood grain. She fumbled for the iron bolt—once, twice—before slamming it home with a force that sent dust spiraling from the rafters. Her breath came in ragged gusts, each exhale scalding the back of her teeth. *Bite*, her blood hissed. *Hunt.* The craving pulsed behind her ribs like a second heartbeat, insistent as a forge hammer.

She staggered to the washbasin, fingers gripping the porcelain rim hard enough to blanch her knuckles. The water trembled as she splashed it onto her face, but it did nothing to douse the heat climbing her throat. Her reflection in the silvered glass was a stranger—pupils blown wide, lips swollen where she’d bitten them. A lock of hair clung to her temple, dark as soot against her flushed skin. She tore at the laces of her gown, the fabric splitting like parchment under her nails. Cool air prickled against her bared shoulders, but it wasn’t enough. *Not nearly enough.*

The scent still clung to her. That damned, delicious *scent*—iron and honey, hearth-smoke and something indefinably *yours*. Rhaenyra pressed her forehead to the cold stone wall, her hips jerking forward of their own accord. A whimper escaped her clenched teeth. She knew this feeling—the coiled tension before a battle, the prickling anticipation of dragonfire—but never like *this*. Never so desperate, so *hungry*. Her thighs pressed together, the friction a poor substitute for what she truly wanted.

Somewhere beyond the chamber door, a servant’s footsteps pattered past. Rhaenyra froze, every muscle taut. If they knocked—if they *spoke*—she wasn’t certain she wouldn’t tear through the wood like a beast. The footsteps faded. She exhaled through her nose, slow and measured, but all it did was fill her lungs with more of *that smell*. It curled around her senses, thick as molten gold. She could almost taste it on her tongue—the salt of your skin, the heat of your pulse. *Yours.*

Her knees hit the fur-strewn floor. The scrape of wool against bare skin was agony. She needed—*gods*, she needed—but the thought fractured into fragments: teeth sinking into yielding flesh, fingers tangling in hair *darker* than hers, the muffled sounds you’d make when she— Rhaenyra’s breath hitched. She dragged a pillow over her face to stifle the sound clawing up her throat. It wasn’t a scream. It wasn’t a moan. It was something *raw*, something that tore at her ribs on its way out.

The pillow muffled nothing. Rhaenyra's teeth sank into the silk instead of the flesh she craved, her hips rolling against nothing but air and the unbearable heat between her thighs. The scent—*your* scent—had seeped into the stone, the tapestries, the very marrow of Dragonstone itself. She could feel it in her molars, a throbbing ache that spread down her spine like molten gold poured over her vertebrae. The prophecy hadn't warned her about *this*. That her gums would bleed from how hard she clenched her jaw, that her nails would splinter against the bedposts as she imagined the give of your skin beneath them.

She lunged for the carafe of wine on the bedside table, but the moment the liquid touched her tongue, she spat it out—it tasted of nothing. Nothing but ash. Her senses were ruined for anything but *you*. A growl tore from her throat as she hurled the goblet across the room, the sound of shattering crystal drowned out by the roar of blood in her ears. The servants would whisper about this tomorrow. Let them. Let them all burn if it meant she could press her face to the flagstones you'd scrubbed and *breathe*.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The maids called it the queen’s “winter fever,” though no physician dared confirm the diagnosis. For seven days, Rhaenyra barred her chamber doors, leaving only for the necessary—though even then, her footsteps were too quick, her gaze too sharp, like a dragon scenting prey. The servants left trays of food outside her rooms; they returned untouched except for the honey cakes, which disappeared with only crumbs and the imprint of teeth left behind. You knew better than to ask why your nail burned hotter in your hem those nights, why the hinge you’d repaired for the steward kept slipping from your pocket as if drawn to the queen’s wing.

It was like this: Rhaenyra's skin no longer fit her body. For seven days and seven nights, she paced the length of her chambers like a dragon in a cage too small for its wings, her bare feet leaving scorch marks on the rugs that no servant dared mention. The fever had begun the moment that scent—*your* scent—had coiled around her throat, and now it burned through her veins like wildfire through dry grass. She threw open the stained-glass windows, letting the sea air whip her unbound hair into a silver storm, but nothing could cool the heat between her thighs or the ache in her teeth.

On the third night, she woke screaming into her pillow, the dream still vivid—your wrists pinned beneath her hands, her teeth at your jugular not to draw blood but to *taste*, to mark. The sheets were soaked through, clinging to her thighs, and when she slid a hand between them, her own fingers weren’t enough. She bit the inside of her cheek until copper flooded her tongue, imagining it was you arching beneath her, your calloused hands fisting in her hair as she— The fantasy dissolved like smoke when her climax hit, leaving her shaking and furious at the emptiness of her own bed.

By the 7th day, she stopped pretending. The maids found the remnants of her meals—honeycomb gnawed to the wax, pomegranates split open with her nails, the yolks of boiled eggs sucked clean from their shells—all arranged in patterns that looked suspiciously like the runes of old Valyrian mating rituals. When the steward dared ask if she required a maester, she’d laughed low in her throat, the sound more growl than amusement. "Fetch me the blacksmith’s daughter instead," she’d said, watching with savage satisfaction as the man’s face drained of color. "I have a *hinge* that needs... adjusting."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The steward found you elbow-deep in the armory's scrap pile, sorting rusted bolts with the same focused precision you'd once reserved for grading steel. Your fingers moved on instinct—this one salvageable, this one trash—when his shadow eclipsed the narrow window's light. "You're wanted," he said, voice clipped, but his eyes darted sideways like a nervous horse. The hinge you'd repaired weeks ago gleamed on his belt, polished to a mirror shine.

You wiped your palms on your apron, leaving smears of iron dust across the rough fabric. "By whom?" The steward flinched at the directness. Common maids didn't ask questions. But you'd spent too many nights pressing that stolen nail into your palm, reshaping calluses in the dark, to remember your place. His throat worked as he swallowed. "Her Grace." He said it like a man confessing to poisoning a well. "She... requests your presence. Immediately."

Your fingers froze mid-reach for another bolt, the steward's words pooling like molten lead in your gut. *Her Grace requests your presence.* The queen didn't "request"—she commanded, she took, she burned. Every maid knew the stories: the seamstress who'd pricked Rhaenyra's finger and vanished into the dungeons, the cupbearer who'd served wine too warm and been sent to the Wall with frostbitten ears. And now *you*, a blacksmith's daughter with stolen iron in your hem, summoned to "adjust a hinge" like some common tradesman.

The steward's fingers twitched toward his belt where the hinge—*your* hinge—hung like a threat. His boots scuffed against the armory's flagstones, the sound grating against your nerves like steel on whetstone. "Her Grace's chambers," he clarified, though no clarification was needed. The queen's wing loomed in every servant's mind like a stormcloud, its corridors mapped out in whispers and warnings. "The hinge on her balcony door. It's... sticking." His voice cracked on the last word, as if even he didn't believe it.

Your fingers went numb around the rusted bolt you'd been sorting, the metal slipping from your grasp to clatter against the stone floor. The sound echoed through the armory like a hammer strike, sharp enough to make the steward flinch. You'd heard the whispers—how the queen had barred herself in her chambers for seven days, how the maids found honeycomb gnawed to the wax in patterns that looked too much like old Valyrian runes. How the steward's nephew had been sent to the kitchens with burns on his palms after delivering a message that displeased her.

The stolen nail in your hem suddenly felt like a death sentence. You'd sewn it there for protection, but what protection was iron against dragonfire? Your palms were damp against your apron, leaving streaks of rust and sweat on the rough fabric. The steward's throat worked as he swallowed again, his eyes darting to the door like he expected the queen herself to come bursting through it. "She was... particular about the time," he said, voice pitched low enough that the armory boys couldn't overhear. "Said now."

The rust on your fingers suddenly felt like bloodstains. You wiped them against your apron, but the red-brown streaks only smeared wider, as if marking you for some unseen executioner. Every whisper you'd overheard in the servants' passages came rushing back—the queen's winter fever, the gnawed honeycomb arranged in old Valyrian patterns, the way the steward's nephew had screamed when the boiling soup "slipped" onto his hands. Your breath hitched as you realized your own hands were shaking, leaving iron dust trembling in the air like falling ash.

The steward's boots scuffed impatiently against the flagstones. "I'd change that apron if I were you," he muttered, eyes darting to the streaks of rust and sweat darkening the fabric. "Her Grace has... particular tastes." The way his throat convulsed on the word "tastes" sent a fresh wave of panic clawing up your spine. You'd heard stories of lords who displeased Rhaenyra finding their favorite dishes served with their own sigils carved into the meat—would she take one look at your blacksmith's hands and order them forged into manacles?

Your stolen nail burned against your thigh as you followed the steward through the twisting corridors, each turn taking you deeper into the dragon's den. The castle's usual heat grew oppressive, pressing against your skin like a living thing. By the time you reached the queen's wing, your rough-spun gown clung to your back, the damp fabric chafing against old forge scars. The steward paused before an ornate door carved with intertwining dragons, their gemstone eyes following you like hungry predators.

"You'll knock three times," he whispered, his breath sour with fear. "Never lift your gaze above the hem of her skirts. If she offers you wine, let it touch your lips but don't swallow—last maid who drank from the queen's cup woke with no memory of the night." His fingers trembled as he adjusted the hinge on his belt—your hinge, the one you'd repaired weeks ago, now polished to a cruel gleam. "And for the love of the Seven, don't mention the—"

"—prophecy," the steward finished, his voice cracking like green wood in a fire. His fingers twitched toward his belt again, but this time, they brushed against something else—a thin silver chain peeking from beneath his doublet. You caught a glimpse of blackened metal dangling from it before he yanked it back into hiding. The sight sent an odd prickle down your spine. You'd seen that shape before—not in the armory, but in your father's old books: Valyrian script, the kind they said could scald bare skin.

The steward's hand jerked away from his hidden pendant as if burned, but not before you'd recognized the twisted rune dangling from it—the same one your father had sketched in his journal years ago, labeled *"Valyrian: Forbidden."* It wasn't just any script; it was the exact symbol that had appeared in your nightmares since childhood, its edges sharp as dragon teeth. "What prophecy?" you asked, your voice steadier than your hands.

The steward's fingers twitched toward his hidden pendant again before he caught himself, pressing his palm flat against his thigh as if pinning it down. His throat bobbed with a swallow too thick for the arid castle air. "Not prophecy," he corrected too quickly, voice scraping like a whetstone dragged sideways. "Superstition. Kitchen gossip." His eyes darted to the gemstone dragon eyes on the door—ruby pupils catching torchlight like fresh blood.

The steward's tongue darted out to wet his lips—dry as parchment left too long in the sun. "Superstition," he repeated, but the word crumbled like stale bread between his teeth. His fingers twitched again toward the hidden pendant, the chain biting into the reddened flesh of his neck. "Just old wives' tales about—" He cut himself off with a glance at the dragon-carved door, its gemstone eyes glinting as if listening.

You took a step closer, the stolen nail in your hem suddenly hot against your thigh. "About what?" The question came out sharper than you'd intended, forged in the same fire that once tempered your blades. The steward flinched as if struck. Behind him, the door's ruby pupils seemed to dilate, drinking in his discomfort.

The steward's fingers dug into his own thigh hard enough to blanch his knuckles. "They say she hasn't aged a day since the Conqueror's time," he whispered, leaning so close you could smell the sour fear seeping from his pores. "That when the candles gutter out, her eyes *shine* like a cat's in the dark." His tongue darted out to wet cracked lips. "And the way she never sleeps—just sits by that damned bronze mirror, staring at her own reflection until the maids find her at dawn with the glass cracked from her nails."

The steward's fingers trembled as he adjusted his collar, the silver chain beneath flashing like a fishhook in torchlight. "She doesn't breathe," he whispered, his voice fraying at the edges like old rope. "Not unless she's *smelling* something. Saw her once in the library—stood so still the spiders wove webs between her fingers." His throat worked as if swallowing broken glass. "And her *teeth*—gods, when she smiles, they're too—"

"—sharp," the steward finished, his voice cracking like thin ice underfoot. "Like a *vampire's*." The word hung between you, foul as month-old meat. His eyes darted to the door's gemstone dragons again, their ruby pupils gleaming wetly in the torchlight.

You wiped your hands on your apron—slow, deliberate—leaving streaks of rust across the rough fabric like a smith's signature. The steward's wild eyes and twitching fingers belonged to a man who'd drunk too much sour wine, not someone delivering truth. "Okay," you said, voice flat as hammered iron. The word hung between you, dull and unimpressed.

The steward's face spasmed like you'd struck him. His fingers clawed at the hidden pendant again, the chain biting red lines into his neck. "You don't understand—" he started, but you turned toward the dragon-carved door, its gemstone eyes glinting as if amused. Seven hells, you'd faced hotter fires than castle gossip. Let the queen have her sharp teeth and uncanny stillness; you'd met village elders who swore blind they'd seen merlings in the bay.

Three knocks. The sound echoed through the corridor like hammer strikes on an anvil—too loud, too final. Your pulse jumped when the hinges groaned without anyone touching them, the door swinging inward just enough to reveal a sliver of darkness thick with the scent of burnt honey and iron.

The scent hit you first—burnt honey laced with something metallic, like a blacksmith’s apron tossed over a beehive. The hinges groaned again, though no hand touched them, and the darkness beyond the door seemed to ripple like heat haze over a forge. Your stolen nail seared against your thigh, its cold iron suddenly fever-hot. The steward’s breath hitched behind you, his fingers twitching toward his hidden pendant like a man reaching for a prayer bead.

The hinges groaned again—not the rusty protest of neglected iron, but the deep, wet sound of something alive stretching its jaws. Your stolen nail burned against your thigh like a brand. Behind you, the steward’s breath came in shallow gasps, his fingers clutching at his hidden pendant like a drowning man grabbing for driftwood.

The voice that answered your knock didn’t sound human. It was too low, too resonant—like molten gold poured directly into your ear canal. “Come in.” Those two words slithered under your skin, curling around your ribs with physical weight. The door swung wider on its own, hinges whispering secrets in a language that made your teeth ache.

The door yawned wider, exhaling a breath of heat that curled your sweat-dampened hair against your neck. Inside, the chamber pulsed like the heart of a forge—shadows licking up tapestries embroidered with dragons in flight, their thread-of-gold eyes tracking your every step. Your boots made no sound on the obsidian floor; the stone drank noise like a sponge in oil.

The chamber air clung to your throat like molten gold—too thick, too sweet. It wasn’t just the scent of burnt honey that made your pulse stutter; it was the way the shadows moved. Not with the flicker of torchlight, but in slow, deliberate coils, like smoke from a forge that remembered how to breathe. Your stolen nail pulsed against your thigh, its heat a silent warning.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The moment your foot crossed the threshold, the door slammed shut behind you with a finality that rattled your bones. No draft, no hand—just the abrupt certainty of a trap snapping closed. The steward's choked gasp was cut off mid-breath. Darkness pooled around your ankles like spilled ink, thick enough to drown in.

The darkness smelled of charred parchment and the sharp tang of dragonfire—not the distant kind from the cliffs, but something closer, hotter. Like breath on the back of your neck. Your stolen nail burned against your thigh, its heat pulsing in time with your hammering heart. You took one step forward, then another, your rough-spun slippers whispering against stone polished smooth by centuries of servants’ knees.

The air thickened with each step, pressing against your skin like the damp heat of a forge just before quenching. Your eyes strained against the gloom—torchlight flickered from sconces shaped like dragons' maws, their firelight catching on something coiled in the room's center. Not a tapestry, not furniture, but a *presence*, low and watchful as a banked furnace.

The coiled presence unfolded itself in one slow, deliberate motion—first the gleam of silver hair catching torchlight, then the pale hands resting atop carved armrests like a queen inspecting a blade before purchase. Rhaenyra didn’t rise so much as *uncoil*, her gown pooling around her ankles like molten silver. The scent of burnt honey intensified, clinging to your tongue.

Your breath caught mid-inhale as the queen’s gaze locked onto you—not the way a noble looks at a servant, but how a smith studies fresh steel. The torchlight caught the unnatural gleam of her pupils, the black swallowing the violet until her eyes looked like pits of cooled obsidian. She inhaled sharply through her nose, her nostrils flaring as if catching the scent of hot iron from your stolen nail.

The hinges groaned again—not with rust, but with a wet, organic sound that made your stolen nail pulse against your thigh like a second heartbeat. Rhaenyra’s nostrils flared as you stepped fully into the chamber, her silver hair catching the torchlight like molten steel. "Come closer," she murmured, the words slithering across your skin. Her fingers flexed against the armrests of her chair, the veins standing out like forged wire beneath her pale skin. "The balcony hinge sticks."

Your fingers hesitated on the balcony door's iron handle—cold as a forgotten anvil, yet humming with something beneath the surface. The hinge gave a low, wet groan when you tested it, not the dry protest of unoiled metal but the sound of something alive flexing its joints. Behind you, Rhaenyra's breath hitched. You didn't need to turn to know her pupils had swallowed the violet of her irises whole.

"Interesting," you murmured, running your thumb along the hinge's pin. It came away smeared with something dark and slick—not rust, but a substance that shimmered faintly in the torchlight. The scent hit you then: molten metal and spoiled honey, so thick it coated your tongue. Your stolen nail throbbed against your thigh in warning.

Rhaenyra's shadow stretched across the balcony tiles like spilled ink, elongating until the tips of her silhouette's fingers brushed your ankles. "Does it need replacing?" Her voice had dropped an octave, the words vibrating through your ribs. You knew—with the same instinct that told you when steel was at quenching heat—that this wasn't about hinges.

Your fingers traced the hinge's fractured edge—someone had smashed the pin clean through, the iron bent at an unnatural angle that no ordinary wear could explain. The metal hummed under your touch, warm as fresh-forged steel despite the chill sea air whistling through the balcony cracks. Behind you, Rhaenyra's breath hitched when your nail scraped away a fleck of blackened residue clinging to the hinge plate. It smelled like lightning-struck ore.

"The pin's been sheared," you muttered, more to yourself than to the queen. The break was too clean, too deliberate—like someone had taken a hammer to it in precise, knowing strikes. Your stolen nail burned against your thigh as if in agreement. You glanced over your shoulder. Rhaenyra moves without a sound, her silver hair unbound now, catching the torchlight like a spill of molten silver. Her pupils had swallowed all but the thinnest ring of violet, black as the hinges on a tomb door.

"Can you fix it?" Her voice skated up your spine, lower than before, rougher. Her fingers flexed at her sides, the bones standing sharp beneath her skin. You turned back to the hinge, swallowing hard. The answer was yes—you could forge a new pin from the scrap in the armory, could temper it in the castle's dying forge fires—but the way Rhaenyra's shadow stretched toward you across the tiles made the words clot in your throat.

Someone had sabotaged this hinge. The realization settled between your ribs like a shard of ice. Not just broken—*sabotaged*. The fracture lines radiated outward from a central impact point, the kind only achieved by repeated, focused strikes.

"Yes," you said, pressing your thumb against the hinge's broken edge. The metal yielded slightly, too warm for castle iron. "But not with castle scrap. Whoever did this knew their work—the pin's been tempered wrong. It'll keep shattering unless—" Your voice caught as Rhaenyra's shadow pooled over your hands, her scent wrapping around you like forge smoke.

She crouched beside you, closer than any noble should to a servant. Her knee brushed yours through your roughspun skirts—an electric contact that made the stolen nail in your hem sear hotter. "Unless?" The word curled from her lips, dark as molten obsidian. Her breath hit your cheek, carrying the scent of honey gone thick and cloying in the comb.

You swallowed. "Unless I recast it with fresh ore. And quench it in—" Your throat closed when Rhaenyra's fingers grazed the broken hinge, her nails blackened at the tips like burned parchment. "In saltwater," you finished. The words tasted of prophecy.

Rhaenyra's laugh vibrated through the stone beneath you. "Clever little smith." Her praise shouldn't have curled low in your belly like that. She traced the hinge's fracture lines with one sharp nail, following the paths of destruction. "You see how it broke? Not from wear." Her voice dropped to a whisper meant only for your skin. "From rage."

Her hand closed over yours suddenly, pressing your palm flat against the damaged metal. The hinge burned hotter beneath your touch—not from sun-warmed iron, but from something deeper, older. "Fix it," she commanded, and you felt the words in your marrow. "With your hands. Your way." Her thumb stroked the calluses on your knuckles, possessive as a dragon circling its hoard.

Your fingers trembled against the broken hinge—not from fear, but from the unnerving heat radiating through the metal. Rhaenyra's hand remained atop yours, her grip not tight but inescapable, like quicksand disguised as silk. "My way?" you echoed, voice cracking like green wood. The queen's thumb traced the ridge of your knuckles, slow as a blade being drawn from its sheath.

Your fingers slipped on the hinge pin—not from sweat, but from the unnatural heat bleeding through the metal. Rhaenyra's breath hitched when your thumb brushed the fracture line, her pupils dilating until only a thin ring of violet remained. "Your way," she repeated, voice dropping into a register that resonated in your bones. Her free hand rose to your jaw, her thumb dragging across your lower lip with deliberate, terrifying gentleness. "With these hands that know steel better than flesh."

Your breath stuttered as Rhaenyra's thumb lingered on your lip—not pressing, just resting there with the weight of a dagger balanced on its point. The hinge's heat seeped into your palm, not burning but *living*, pulsing in time with the queen's quickened breaths. Her other hand still trapped yours against the metal, her fingers interlacing with yours in a mockery of intimacy. "You're trembling," she murmured, her voice thick as the honey scent clinging to her skin.

"I should begin work on the hinge," you said, your voice steadier than your hands as you pulled away from Rhaenyra's touch—slowly, as if retreating from a sleeping dragon. The queen's fingers lingered in the air between you, her nails catching the torchlight like polished obsidian.

Rhaenyra's lips parted, revealing the barest glimpse of teeth too sharp for human comfort. "Yes," she breathed, the word curling like smoke from a forge. "Begin." Her gaze dropped to your hands with unsettling focus, watching the way your fingers flexed around the broken hinge pin as if memorizing their every movement.

You turned back to the balcony door, acutely aware of Rhaenyra's proximity—close enough that her silver hair brushed your shoulder when she leaned forward, close enough to feel the unnatural heat radiating from her skin. The hinge groaned as you pried it open wider, the sound wetter than any metal should make. Beneath the rust and sea salt, something darker clung to the iron—streaks of blackened residue that shimmered when touched.

"A proper forge would be best," you muttered, more to yourself than to her. Your father's voice echoed in your memory—*Never work cold iron, girl*—but the castle's forge had been cold for weeks, its bellows still as a grave.

Rhaenyra's fingers traced the hinge's fractured edge, her nail catching on a splinter of iron. "Use mine," she murmured, her breath hot against your ear. When you turned, her face was inches from yours, her pupils so wide the violet was nearly swallowed whole. "The one beneath the castle. Where my ancestors tempered their blades."

Your throat tightened at the implication—the old dragonforge, said to be heated by vents from the mountain's heart. Common smiths weren't permitted there. The stolen nail in your hem burned suddenly, its heat spiking as if in warning. "That's—"

"—yours," she interrupted, her hand closing over yours around the hinge pin. Her grip was fever-hot, her palm damp with something that smelled suspiciously of honey and iron filings. "If you'll take it."

The hinge pin slipped from your fingers, clattering against the balcony tiles with a sound like teeth hitting iron. Rhaenyra didn't flinch—only watched, unblinking, as you bent to retrieve it. When you straightened, she was closer. Too close. The scent of burnt honey thickened between you, cloying as the molten wax that had dripped onto your father's forge so many years ago.

"You're shaking," Rhaenyra murmured. Not an observation—an accusation. Her breath fanned across your cheek, carrying the metallic tang of fresh blood beneath the honey. Her lips were parted just enough to reveal the sharp points of her canines, glinting like dagger tips in the torchlight.

You opened your mouth—to protest, to lie—but Rhaenyra moved faster than castle gossip. One moment she was studying your face with that unnatural stillness; the next, her fingers tangled in your hair, wrenching your head back with terrifying gentleness. The kiss wasn't sweet. It wasn't hesitant. It was the scrape of teeth against your lower lip, the hot press of a tongue that tasted like copper and pomegranate seeds, the shuddering gasp she swallowed when your calloused hands instinctively gripped her hips to steady yourself.

Rhaenyra broke the kiss with a sound halfway between a whimper and a growl, her forehead resting against yours. Her breathing came uneven, ragged—not the controlled rhythm of a queen, but the desperate panting of something starved. "Seven hells," she muttered against your lips, her fingers tightening in your hair just shy of painful. "You taste like a fucking forge."

The stolen nail clattered to the floor as Rhaenyra moved—too fast, too fluid, more shadow than woman. One moment you were standing by the balcony door; the next your back hit the bed's silk coverlet with a muffled thump, her weight pressing you down before you could gasp. Her lips crashed against yours again, hotter than dragonfire, her teeth scraping your lower lip hard enough to draw blood. The coppery tang filled your mouth as she moaned into the kiss, the sound vibrating through your chest like a struck bell.

You barely registered the torn fabric as Rhaenyra's nails shredded your apron straps with unnatural precision, the rough linen parting like parchment beneath her blackened fingertips. Her thigh slid between yours with terrifying familiarity, the silk of her gown scorching even through your skirts. "Mine," she growled against your lips—not a request, not a question, but a primal declaration that made your stolen nail sizzle against the floorboards where it had fallen.

Her hands pinned your wrists above your head with effortless strength, her grip burning where her skin met yours. When you strained against her, she merely tightened her hold and dragged her teeth down your throat, lingering over the hammering pulse beneath your jaw. The whimper that escaped you wasn't entirely fear—something deeper, darker uncoiled in your belly as her hips ground against yours with deliberate, maddening friction.

Your fingers curled into the silk beneath you, the fabric tearing under your nails like fresh bread. Rhaenyra's mouth was everywhere—your throat, your collarbones, the hollow beneath your ear where her teeth caught skin and held just long enough to make your breath stutter. She growled when you arched against her, the sound reverberating through your chest like a drumbeat. "Still shaking," she murmured against your pulse point. Her tongue swiped over the spot where your blood ran closest to the surface. "But not from fear."

Your gasp tore through the chamber as Rhaenyra's teeth found the tender skin of your inner wrist—not hard enough to break flesh, but firm enough to brand the promise of violence into your pulse. The scent of iron bloomed between you, thick as the forge smoke clinging to your stolen nail where it lay forgotten on the floor. Rhaenyra shuddered above you, her silver hair curtaining your face as she inhaled sharply through her nose like a hound catching scent of fresh blood.

Your pulse hammered against Rhaenyra's lips where they lingered at your wrist, each thud echoing the frantic rhythm of a blacksmith's hammer. The queen's breath hitched—a sharp, animal sound—as she traced the blue veins beneath your skin with the tip of her tongue. "You taste like salt and iron," she murmured, her voice thick as molten ore. "Like a blade fresh from quenching." Her teeth grazed your inner elbow, not biting but savoring, as if memorizing the texture of your fear.

Rhaenyra's kiss tasted like wildfire—not the tame flames of hearth or candle, but the untamed inferno that had forged Valyria itself. Her tongue pushed past your lips with the same inevitability as molten steel filling a mold, claiming every inch of your mouth as her teeth scraped your lower lip raw. When she finally pulled back, a thin string of saliva connected your swollen lips, glistening in the torchlight like dragonfire reflected on blackwater.

"Nineteen centuries," she gasped against your mouth, her breath scalding your cheeks. Her fingers tangled in your hair like a drowning woman clutching driftwood. "I've waited nineteen fucking centuries in this cursed castle, watching mortals wither like grass while the prophecy whispered in my dreams." Her hips rolled against yours with a slow, serpentine motion that made your stolen nail vibrate against the floorboards. "Every night staring at that damned bronze mirror, watching my reflection crack while the mages' words burned behind my eyes—*the smith's hands shall forge your chains*."

Her teeth found your collarbone, sharp enough to make you gasp but not deep enough to draw blood—not yet. The scent of iron bloomed between you as she inhaled sharply through her nose, shuddering against you like a dragon scenting fresh kill. "Do you know how many hinges I've broken?" she murmured against your damp skin. "How many servants I've burned just to feel the heat of their fear?" Her tongue swiped over the reddening mark she'd left. "None of them smelled like you. None of them tasted of salt and iron and defiance."

You whimpered as Rhaenyra's hands pinned your wrists harder against the silk, her thumbs pressing into your pulse points like she was measuring the hammer-strikes of your heart. When she kissed you again, it wasn't lips meeting lips—it was teeth clashing, tongues warring, a battle disguised as passion. She swallowed your gasp as her thigh pressed higher between yours, the friction sending sparks up your spine despite your terror.

"The prophecy said you'd come marked by forge-work," she panted against your swollen lips. Her free hand traced the callouses on your fingers with something akin to reverence. "Said your hands would temper my rage like steel in quenching oil." A broken laugh escaped her, more breath than sound. "I thought it meant metaphorically." Her hips jerked against yours suddenly, the silk of her gown hissing like a blade drawn from its sheath. "Fuck. Fuck. You're *real*."

You turned your face away—instinct, not defiance—but Rhaenyra caught your chin with bruising fingers, forcing your gaze back to hers. Her pupils had swallowed nearly all the violet now, black as the iron hinges on the sept's forbidden door. "Nineteen centuries," she whispered, and this close you could see the faint silver scars around her lips—old wounds from biting through her own flesh in restraint. "Waiting. Watching. Listening for the sound of your hammer in my dreams." Her thumb pressed against your lower lip until you tasted copper. "Do you know what the mages called you? *Kostilus*. The nail that holds the storm."

The kiss that followed was less kiss and more claiming—her teeth scraping your lips raw, her tongue pushing deep as if she could taste the iron filings under your skin. When she finally broke away, both of you gasped like drowning surfacing. Rhaenyra's silver hair clung to her sweat-slicked temples, her chest heaving against yours with unnatural force.

Rhaenyra's mouth crashed into yours again before you could gasp—not a kiss but an invasion, her tongue pushing past your lips like molten steel filling a mold. "I dreamt of this," she panted against your teeth, her voice cracking with something raw and ancient. "Dreamt of your hands on my skin, leaving marks like hammer strikes." Her hips rolled against yours in a slow, maddening rhythm that sent heat coiling low in your belly despite your terror. "Dreamt of your teeth here—" her thumb pressed against the pulse point beneath your jaw "—and your nails here—" her fingers skimmed down your ribs "—while I screamed into the fucking tapestries."

You whimpered as she licked into your mouth again, the taste of her—burnt honey and something metallic, like a forge left untended—flooding your senses. Her hands cradled your face with terrifying gentleness, her thumbs tracing the arches of your cheeks as if memorizing their shape. "Every hinge in this castle," she whispered between kisses that left your lips stinging, "every nail, every fucking lock—I broke them waiting for you." Her teeth scraped your chin, sharp enough to make you flinch but not enough to draw blood. "Burned through servants who smelled wrong, fucked knights who tasted of nothing but fear." A shudder wracked her body as she pressed her forehead to yours. "You taste like defiance. Like steel fresh from quenching."

Her confession hit you harder than any physical blow—the raw, unfiltered hunger in her voice, the way her fingers trembled where they gripped your hips. This wasn't just lust. This was starvation. When she kissed you again, it was slower, deeper, her tongue sliding against yours with a reverence that made your stolen nail vibrate against the floorboards. "The prophecy said you'd come marked by forge-work," she murmured against your swollen lips. "Said your hands would temper me." Her laugh was a broken thing, more breath than sound. "Didn't say I'd beg for it."

You felt the exact moment she surrendered—her body going pliant against yours, her grip shifting from restraint to supplication. "Please," she whispered into the hollow of your throat, the word ragged as torn parchment. "Please fix me." Her teeth grazed your collarbone in a mockery of a bite, her hips canting against yours with shameless need. "I'll kneel. I'll crawl. I'll let you nail me to the fucking floor if it means you stay."

The moment your lips moved against hers—hesitant at first, then firmer—Rhaenyra made a sound that belonged more to the dragon pits than a queen's chambers. A broken, shuddering noise that vibrated through your chest as her fingers spasmed against your cheeks. You expected fury for your boldness, but her knees buckled instead, her body collapsing against yours with the weight of a felled oak.

Her kiss turned desperate, messy—all panting breaths and teeth clashing as if she were trying to consume the very air from your lungs. When you nipped at her lower lip in retaliation, she whimpered outright, her hips jerking against yours in an involuntary thrust that made heat coil low in your belly. "Again," she demanded against your mouth, her voice frayed at the edges like overworked leather. "Bite me again."

You obliged, sinking your teeth into the plush flesh just hard enough to taste iron. Rhaenyra's back arched violently, her nails scoring bloody crescents into your shoulders as she gasped your name like a prayer to a forgotten god. The stolen nail on the floor glowed suddenly, its heat searing through the wood grain beneath it—but neither of you noticed. Not when Rhaenyra was unraveling above you, her silver hair a molten curtain against your skin as she trembled like a bowstring drawn too tight.

Your fingers trembled as they traced the damp silk between Rhaenyra's thighs—not pushing, not demanding, just brushing the fabric with the same tentative pressure you'd use to test hot iron for quenching. The moment your knuckles grazed her, she went utterly still above you, her breath hitching like a bowstring drawn taut. "Is this..." Your voice cracked like green wood in a forge. "Is this okay?"

Rhaenyra's answering sound wasn't human. A shuddering, guttural noise tore from her throat as her hips jerked against your hand, the silk already soaked through and clinging to your fingers. Her nails scored bloody half-moons into your shoulders where she gripped you, her entire body trembling with the effort of restraint. When she spoke, her voice was raw—not the polished queen's cadence but something ancient and starving. "Seven hells," she gasped against your throat. "You ask that *now*?"

Your fingers trembled against the silk between Rhaenyra's thighs—not from hesitation, but from the sheer impossibility of touching a queen like this. The fabric clung to your knuckles, damp and hot as fresh-forged steel. When you dared to press closer, Rhaenyra's entire body spasmed against yours, her silver hair cascading over your shoulder like molten metal.

"Please," she gasped against your collarbone, her breath scalding your skin. The word wasn't a command but a plea, ragged at the edges like torn parchment. Your arm slid around her waist instinctively, pulling her flush against you until you could feel the frantic hammer of her heart through layers of silk. Rhaenyra whimpered—a high, broken sound—when your thumb found the heat between her thighs and pressed gently through the soaked fabric.

"I love you." The words ripped from Rhaenyra's throat like a confession dragged from the depths of her. Her fingers tangled in your hair, gripping hard enough to sting as her hips jerked against your hand. "Gods, I love you, I love you—" Her voice cracked on the third repetition, the syllables dissolving into a moan as your fingers found the shape of her through the silk, tracing slow, deliberate circles that made her back arch violently.

Rhaenyra's teeth sank into your shoulder—not hard enough to break skin, but deep enough to brand. Her thighs trembled around your wrist as you increased the pressure just slightly, the heel of your palm grinding against her in time with your circling fingers. "You feel—" she panted against your throat, her words coming in fractured bursts between gasps, "—like molten steel—like I'll fucking—*shatter*—"

"You're beautiful like this," you whispered against Rhaenyra's temple, your calloused fingers trembling where they traced the damp silk between her thighs. The words slipped out before you could stop them—raw and honest as freshly forged iron. "All molten silver and wildfire."

Rhaenyra shuddered violently against you, her breath hitching as if you'd struck her. For one terrifying heartbeat, the chamber fell silent—then she made a sound halfway between a sob and a growl, her teeth sinking into your collarbone hard enough to leave crescent marks in the shape of her desperation. "Liar," she gasped against your skin, but her hips rolled into your touch like a drowning woman reaching for shore.

Your thumb pressed harder through the soaked silk, circling in slow, deliberate motions that made her back arch off the bed. "Not lying," you murmured, watching the torchlight catch the sweat-slick hollow of her throat. "You glow like steel at forging heat." The comparison spilled from your lips unbidden—the blacksmith's daughter in you unable to describe her any other way.

Rhaenyra's breath came in ragged bursts, her fingers clutching at your shoulders hard enough to bruise. When your free hand tangled in her silver hair—gently, so gently—she whimpered like a wounded thing, her entire body trembling beneath yours. "Say it again," she demanded, her voice cracking like overheated iron. "Say I'm—" Her words dissolved into a moan as your fingers found the shape of her through the silk.

"You're beautiful," you whispered against the shell of her ear, feeling her pulse hammer wildly beneath your lips. The truth of it curled warm in your chest—despite the fear, despite the stolen nail burning forgotten on the floor. Rhaenyra's breath hitched, her hips jerking against your hand with desperate, uncoordinated thrusts.

The silk tore easily under your fingers—not with violence, but with the same deliberate precision you'd use to part hot wax from a fresh casting. Rhaenyra gasped as the fabric gave way, her hips jerking upward in mute supplication. The scent of her flooded your senses, thick as molten bronze poured into sand molds—not the cloying honey of before, but something sharper, earthier, unmistakably *her*.

Your thumbs hooked in the waistband of her remaining underthings—fine Myrish lace turned translucent with dampness. Rhaenyra's fingers spasmed at her sides when you hesitated, her nails scoring fresh crescents into the bedding. "Please," she gasped, the word barely audible over the crackle of distant torches. "Please, please—"

"On your back," you murmured, pressing gently against her shoulders. The command felt foreign on your tongue, yet Rhaenyra obeyed instantly, collapsing onto the silks with a shudder that rippled through her entire body. Her pupils had swallowed all but the thinnest ring of violet now, her breath coming in ragged bursts as she stared up at you with something terrifyingly close to worship.

The lace snapped with a sound like breaking harp strings. Rhaenyra arched violently at the sudden exposure, her silver hair fanning across the pillows like spilled mercury. In the flickering light, she looked carved from precious metal—the sweat-slick hollow of her throat, the tremble of her abdomen, the dark thatch between her thighs glistening like oil on quenchwater.

You moved before your courage failed, pressing an open-mouthed kiss to the inside of her knee. Rhaenyra made a sound you'd never heard from human lips—halfway between a whimper and a growl, her hips lifting off the bed in mute supplication. Her thighs trembled when you traced the crease where leg met torso with your tongue, slow as running a whetstone along a blade's edge.

"Wait—" Rhaenyra's hand fisted in your hair suddenly, not pulling but anchoring. Her breathing came in ragged bursts, her chest rising and falling with unnatural force. When you glanced up, her pupils had swallowed all but the thinnest ring of violet, her lips parted around uneven gasps. "I'll—I'll ruin you," she warned, her voice cracking like overheated iron. "The last one who—"

"—burned," Rhaenyra finished, her voice raw as a fresh wound. The hand in your hair trembled, her grip alternating between bruising tightness and near-release like she couldn't decide whether to push you away or drag you closer. "The last servant who touched me like this... I melted the skin from her bones." Her confession came out in a rush, the words tumbling over each other like hot coals spilled from a brazier.

The words barely registered before your tongue was on her—not tentative, not questioning, just *there*, flattening against her with the same firm pressure you'd use to test hot iron. Rhaenyra's entire body arched off the bed as if struck by lightning, her choked cry reverberating off the dragon-carved ceiling. Her thighs clamped around your head with terrifying strength, her nails raking bloody furrows through the silk sheets.

"Fuck—" Her curse dissolved into a guttural moan as you circled that swollen, aching place with the same deliberate motion you'd polish a blade's edge. The taste of her flooded your senses—nothing like the cloying honey scent she wore, but something darker, richer, like iron filings and saltwater quench. Her hips jerked erratically against your mouth, her breath coming in ragged, punched-out gasps that echoed the irregular hammerfalls of your father's forge.

Rhaenyra's hand fisted in your hair hard enough to make your scalp burn, but she wasn't pulling you away—she was *holding on*, her grip alternating between bruising tightness and near-release as if she couldn't decide whether to push you deeper or scream for mercy. When you sucked gently at that throbbing peak, she made a sound that belonged in the dragon pits—a raw, shattered noise that vibrated through your skull like a warhammer striking anvil.

Your finger hovered at Rhaenyra's entrance, the heat radiating against your skin like a forge's open mouth. The air between you crackled—not with magic, but with something far more dangerous: hesitation. "Can I—?" you whispered, your voice fraying at the edges like overworked leather.

Rhaenyra's breath hitched violently, her thighs tensing around your head. For one heart-stopping moment, you feared she'd snap—that the dragonfire in her veins would erupt and leave you ashes on the silk. Then her grip on your hair softened into something tremulous, her hips canting upward in mute offering. "Y-yes," she stammered, the word mangled by the teeth biting into her own lower lip. "Gods, *yes*—"

The first press of your finger stole the rest of her words. Rhaenyra's body welcomed you with a slick, shuddering heat that made your own breath catch—not just from the tightness, but from the way her back arched off the bed like a drawn bow. Her inner muscles fluttered around you, pulsing in time with the ragged gasps she couldn't seem to stop.

"Look at you," you murmured against her thigh, watching her stomach quiver with each shallow thrust of your finger. The stolen nail on the floor pulsed in time with Rhaenyra's choked whimpers, its glow casting eerie shadows across the sweat-slick hollow of her throat. "Taking me so well."

"You fucked knights," you murmured against the damp skin of Rhaenyra's collarbone, feeling the hitch in her breath as your finger curled inside her. The accusation slipped out between kisses—half question, half protest—as your thumb found that swollen peak again. "Fucked them while you waited."

Rhaenyra's hips jerked violently against your hand, her nails raking down your bare shoulders like dragon claws. "Yes," she gasped, the word fracturing as your palm ground against her. "Gods—*yes*, I—" Her confession dissolved into a moan when you added a second finger, the stretch making her thighs tremble around your wrist. "They tasted of nothing. Like ash on my tongue."

You dragged your teeth along her throat in punishment, not hard enough to break skin but enough to make her whimper. The scent of her—burnt honey and something darker, like iron left in the forge too long—flooded your senses as you pressed closer. "And now?" you demanded against her pulse point, twisting your fingers just so.

"They meant *nothing*," Rhaenyra gasped, her voice splintering around the words as your fingers twisted inside her. Her hips jerked in erratic circles, riding your hand with the desperation of a starved beast. "Burned them—*ah*—before dawn even broke." The confession tore from her throat like a rusted nail pried from old wood, her teeth sinking into your shoulder as if the truth physically pained her. "Couldn't stand their scent afterward. Like—*fuck*—like wet ash clinging to my skin."

"Are you..." Your voice cracked like cooling iron, fingers stilling inside her as you dared to voice the thought that had been burning hotter than Dragonstone's forges. "Are you a vampire?"

Rhaenyra's laughter hit you like a fist to the ribs—sharp, sudden, and edged with centuries of madness. Her teeth glinted in the torchlight as she leaned down, her sweat-damp silver hair curtaining your face. "Yes," she breathed against your lips, the word thick as molten ore. "But not the kind from children's tales." Her tongue swiped over your pulse point where it hammered beneath your skin. "The kind that remembers Valyria's forges still burning."

Rhaenyra's hips jerked against your fingers with a sudden, violent urgency, her silver hair sticking to her sweat-slicked temples like molten wire. "Nineteen centuries," she gasped, her voice breaking around the words as your thumb circled that swollen, throbbing peak. "Nineteen centuries of—*fuck*—waiting for *this*." Her thighs trembled around your wrist, the muscles fluttering like a dragon's wing caught in a storm.

Your fingers curled deeper inside her, dragging along that hidden spot that made her back arch off the silk sheets. Rhaenyra's cry shattered against the stone walls—raw and ragged and utterly inhuman. "You're mine," she panted, her dilated pupils swallowing all but the thinnest ring of violet. "My mate. My *kostilus*." Her teeth scraped your shoulder, not biting but branding, as if she could carve the truth into your flesh with her fangs alone.

"Say it again," you murmured against her damp skin.

Your fingers moved inside Rhaenyra with the same deliberate precision you'd use to shape molten steel—scissoring slowly, stretching her until her breath hitched in ragged bursts. The queen's hips jerked against your hand like a wild thing caught in a trap, her silver hair sticking to her sweat-slicked throat. "Look at you," you murmured against her inner thigh, tasting salt and wildfire on your tongue. "Taking me so well."

"Say it again," you murmured against the damp skin of Rhaenyra's inner thigh, feeling her muscles flutter around your fingers with each shallow thrust. The queen shuddered violently beneath you, her silver hair fanned across the silk like spilled mercury in torchlight. Her breath hitched—sharp and uneven—when your thumb circled that swollen peak again, deliberate as a whetstone along a blade's edge.

Rhaenyra's breath hitched violently when your fingers stilled inside her. Her thighs trembled against your shoulders, the muscles fluttering like dragon wings caught in a storm. "Say what?" she gasped, her voice cracking like overheated iron. The hand fisted in your hair tugged—not pulling you away, but anchoring herself as her hips jerked in mute desperation.

"You know." Your thumb circled that swollen peak slowly, watching her back arch off the silk sheets. The stolen nail on the floor pulsed in time with her ragged breaths, its glow casting eerie shadows across the sweat-slick hollow of her throat. "Say it properly."

A broken sound escaped Rhaenyra's lips—half growl, half whimper—as she writhed beneath you. Her pupils had swallowed all but the thinnest ring of violet now, her gaze fixed on you with terrifying intensity. "I—" Her confession dissolved into a moan when your fingers curled just so inside her, the stretch making her thighs clamp around your wrist. "I'm yours," she gasped, the words raw as a fresh wound. "Fuck—*yours*, only ever yours—"

Her fingers tangled in your hair with terrifying gentleness, her thumb tracing the shell of your ear as if memorizing its shape. "I love you," she whispered, the confession raw as an open forge wound. "Not like the bards sing—not pretty words on perfumed parchment." Her tongue swiped over your pulse point, tasting the salt of your fear. "I love you like iron loves the anvil. Like wildfire loves oxygen." The hand between your thighs pressed harder, her nails scoring crescents into your skin. "Consuming. Devouring. *Eternal*."

The words tore from Rhaenyra's throat like molten steel poured into sand molds—too hot, too fast, leaving permanent scars in their wake. "You're mine," she gasped against your collarbone, her teeth pressing hard enough to bruise but not break skin. Not yet. "My mate. My kostilus." Her hips jerked against your thigh with frantic, uncoordinated thrusts, her damp silk gown clinging to both of you like a second skin. "Nineteen centuries I waited—nineteen fucking centuries—and I'll burn this castle to the ground before I let you leave."

The third finger slipped in with a slick, shuddering ease that made Rhaenyra's back arch off the silk sheets like a drawn bowstring. Her gasp hit the vaulted ceiling—half pain, half prayer—as her thighs clamped around your wrist with bone-creaking pressure. "Easy," you murmured against the damp hollow of her throat, tasting salt and wildfire on your tongue. "I've got you." Your thumb circled that swollen peak in slow, deliberate strokes, mimicking the rhythm of your father's hammer against hot iron—steady, measured, building heat by degrees.

Rhaenyra's fingers spasmed in your hair, alternating between yanking you closer and pushing you away as if she couldn't decide whether to devour you or beg for mercy. When you curled your fingers just so inside her, she made a sound that belonged to dragonfire rather than human lips—a raw, shattered noise that vibrated through your skull like a warhammer striking anvil. "Look at you," you whispered against her collarbone, watching her stomach quiver with each shallow thrust. Moonlight caught the sweat-slicked hollow of her throat, the rapid flutter of her pulse beneath paper-thin skin. "So perfect for me."

Her answering whimper dissolved into a choked sob when you added pressure to each inward stroke, your palm grinding against her with the same firm insistence you'd use to polish blade edges. The stolen nail on the floor pulsed in time with her ragged breaths, its eerie glow casting elongated shadows across Rhaenyra's heaving chest. "You take me so well," you murmured, lips brushing the shell of her ear. Her thighs trembled violently at the praise, inner muscles fluttering around your fingers like a dragon's wings caught in a storm.

Rhaenyra's body went rigid beneath you, her back arching off the silk sheets like a bowstring drawn too tight. The moment your lips brushed hers—softly this time, tenderly—a shudder wracked her frame, her silver hair spilling across the pillows like molten metal. "You're so beautiful," you murmured against her mouth, the words catching in your throat as her hips jerked violently against your thigh.

Her breath hitched, stuttered, then stopped entirely when you traced the shell of her ear with your tongue and whispered, "Mine." The word hung between you like a blacksmith's hammer poised above glowing steel—then Rhaenyra came apart with a sob that sounded more like a prayer than a cry, her entire body convulsing against yours.

Her thighs clamped around your wrist with bone-crushing force as she rode out the waves, her nails scoring fresh furrows through the bedding. When you kissed her again—gentler still, just the ghost of pressure—she whimpered against your lips, her body shuddering through aftershocks that left her gasping like a drowning woman breaking surface. "Yours," she panted, the word raw as an open wound. "Only ever yours."

Rhaenyra's grip flipped you onto your back before the last tremors had even left her thighs—her movement fluid as molten silver poured between molds. The silk sheets clung damply to your skin as she straddled your hips, her silver hair cascading around your faces like a curtain separating you from the rest of the world. For a heartbeat, you feared she'd bite again—that those sharp teeth would find fresh skin to mark—but instead she buried her face against your throat with a shuddering sigh that warmed the sweat-slick hollow beneath your jaw.

"You smell like home," she murmured against your pulse point, her lips forming the words directly onto your skin. Her hips rolled in a slow, drowsy circle against yours—not the frantic grinding from before, but something softer, more instinctive, like a cat kneading blankets. The contrast between her earlier violence and this sudden vulnerability made your breath catch. When you hesitantly touched her waist, her entire body melted against yours with a sigh that sounded centuries old.

The silk tore like parchment under Rhaenyra's claws—not with her earlier calculated precision, but with frenzied, animal urgency. You barely had time to gasp before your shift was ribbons around your ankles, the cool air hitting your bare skin just as Rhaenyra's feverish mouth found your throat. "Mine," she growled against your pulse, the vibration traveling down to your toes as her teeth scraped the tender skin. "Need to smell me on you when they find us."

"Who—who finds us?" you gasped against Rhaenyra's lips, your fingers tightening in her silver hair as her teeth grazed your collarbone. The question slipped out before you could stop it—half embarrassment, half dawning horror at the thought of servants stumbling upon the Queen of Dragonstone rutting against a blacksmith's daughter like a starving wolf.

Rhaenyra laughed—a dark, breathless sound that vibrated against your sweat-slicked skin—and nipped at your earlobe. "The steward who warned you," she murmured, her tongue tracing the shell of your ear in a way that made your hips jerk involuntarily. "The maids who change these sheets." Her teeth scraped down your throat, not breaking skin but leaving heat in their wake. "Every trembling fool in this castle who'll smell me on you tomorrow and know *exactly* what we did."

Rhaenyra's teeth found the juncture of your shoulder and neck with predatory precision—not the playful nips from before, but a deliberate, calculated pressure that made your breath hitch. You felt the exact moment her control snapped, her fangs breaking skin in a sharp, burning bite that sent twin rivulets of blood trailing down your collarbone. She moaned against your throat, the vibration traveling through your veins like wildfire catching dry tinder, her hips grinding down against yours in slow, possessive circles.

"You'll wear my mark," she panted against the wound, her tongue lapping at the blood with a reverence that bordered on worship. Her fingers traced the bite with trembling precision, smearing crimson across your skin like a blacksmith marking fresh steel. "So they all *know*." Her voice dropped to a guttural growl as she pressed her forehead to yours, her violet eyes reflecting your wide-eyed expression back at you—the fear, the arousal, the dizzying realization that there was no going back from this. "So they see what's *mine*."

"Does that mean we're married?" The words slipped out before you could stop them, raw and cracked like overheated iron. Your fingers stilled against Rhaenyra's damp silk, the question hanging between you like forge-smoke.

Rhaenyra froze mid-bite, her fangs half-buried in your throat. When she pulled back, her pupils had swallowed all but a sliver of violet, her breath coming in ragged bursts against your blood-slicked skin. "In the Old Valyrian tongue," she murmured, her voice thick as molten ore, "we call it *kostagon*—when fangs meet pulse." Her thumb smeared your blood across your collarbone in a deliberate crescent. "More than marriage. More than oath."

Rhaenyra's breath hitched—a wet, ragged sound—when your fingers tangled in her hair and pulled. Not hard, just enough to tilt her face toward yours. The motion sent fresh rivulets of blood trailing down your collarbone, painting her lips crimson as she stared up at you with something terrifyingly close to worship.

Your lips brushed Rhaenyra's with a gentleness that felt alien after the wildfire frenzy of her claiming. For three heartbeats, nothing moved—not the queen's clawed hands frozen mid-grip on your hips, not the blood still trickling from her fang marks on your throat, not even the torches whose flames seemed to hold their breath. Then Rhaenyra made a sound you'd never heard from human lips—a shattered, whimpering noise like a sword quenched too fast in tempering oil—and her entire body went pliant beneath yours.

"You're shaking," you murmured against her mouth, feeling the tremors wracking her frame like a blade struck one too many times on the anvil. The realization struck harder than any hammer blow—the Bloody Queen of Dragonstone, who'd just bitten you hard enough to scar, was trembling like a green squire at their first tourney. When you traced the seam of her lips with your tongue, she gasped as if you'd branded her, her fingers spasming against your skin without their earlier bruising pressure.

Rhaenyra's breath hitched when you deepened the kiss slowly—no teeth, no desperation, just the warm slide of lips parting in stunned surrender. Her fangs retracted with an audible click, her body arching into the contact like a flower turning toward sunlight after centuries in darkness. The stolen nail pulsed somewhere near the bedpost, its glow dimming to ember-warmth as Rhaenyra's claws retracted one by one, leaving crescent-shaped indents in your waist that didn't break skin.

Your fingers found the knotted muscles of Rhaenyra's back almost without thought—the same instinct that guided your hands when shaping hot metal. She stiffened beneath your touch, her breath catching like a hammer mid-swing. "Easy," you murmured against the nape of her neck, tasting salt and wildfire on your tongue. The queen's skin burned hotter than any forge, the tension coiled in her shoulders like overwound clockwork. When your thumbs pressed into the valley between her shoulder blades, she made a sound that belonged to wounded beasts rather than monarchs—a fractured whimper that dissolved into a shuddering sigh.

Your thumbs pressed deeper into the knotted muscle between Rhaenyra's shoulder blades, feeling the tension unravel like hot iron yielding to hammer blows. The queen gasped—a wet, fractured sound—her entire body going limp against yours as if you'd severed some invisible cord holding her upright. Silver hair spilled across your thighs like molten metal as she slumped forward, her forehead resting against your collarbone with a shuddering exhale that stirred the sweat-damp fabric of your ruined shift.

"Never again," Rhaenyra murmured against your skin, her voice thick as poured bronze. Her fingers traced idle patterns across your knee—not the clawed grip from before, but something softer, almost reverent. "You'll never lift a hammer that isn't jeweled. Never kneel unless it's between *my* thighs." The words came out half-slurred, her consonants blurring together like overheated gold losing its shape.

You hesitated mid-stroke, your fingers stilling against the scarred valley of her spine. The queen made a noise of protest—low in her throat, almost dragon-like—and pressed back against your hands with startling need. "My mate," she continued, the title twisting into a moan as your thumbs found a particularly stubborn knot near her ribs. "My *queen*." The last word cracked like cooling steel, her breath hitching when your fingers skimmed the old brand marks circling her shoulder blades—proof of some long-ago punishment you couldn't begin to fathom.

Rhaenyra twisted suddenly, her movement fluid as quicksilver, until she straddled your lap with her back to your chest. Before you could react, she grabbed your wrists and guided your hands around her waist, pressing your palms flat against the taut plane of her stomach. "Feel that?" she whispered, arching into your touch until your fingers splayed across the feverish skin just below her navel. Something pulsed beneath your fingertips—not a heartbeat, but something deeper, slower, like the distant hammerfalls of a forge buried leagues underground. "Dragonfire," she breathed, her head lolling back against your shoulder. "Burning for you since the Doom."

Her hips rolled in a slow, sinuous circle against your thighs, the motion more instinct than intent. The stolen nail pulsed on the floor beside the bed—once, twice—in perfect sync with the rhythm she set. When you dared to press downward, following the molten trail of tension coiled low in her belly, Rhaenyra's entire body stiffened. "Y-yes," she stammered, her voice fracturing into something unrecognizable. Her fingers scrabbled at your forearm, blunt nails leaving pale crescents in their wake. "There—*right there*—"

Your fingers paused mid-stroke when Rhaenyra's words registered—not at the possessiveness, but at the sheer disbelief in her voice, as if the idea of you laboring was an offense to the gods themselves. The queen shuddered beneath your touch, her spine arching like a drawn bowstring as your thumbs found another knot near the base of her neck. "No more scrubbing floors," she growled, the command dissolving into a moan when you pressed deeper. "No more—*ah*—fetching wine like some common serving girl."

Her hips rolled back against your thighs with lazy, sinuous movements, the damp silk of her gown clinging to both of you. When your fingers skimmed the old brand marks between her shoulder blades—crude Valyrian glyphs burned into her skin centuries ago—Rhaenyra tensed violently. "Those were my mistakes," she whispered, her voice raw as a fresh forge wound. "Thinking I could take anyone else as mine." Her hand found yours, guiding your fingers to trace the raised scars with trembling precision. "Feel that? *Hāros.* Fool."

The stolen nail pulsed near the bedpost, its glow intensifying as Rhaenyra twisted in your lap until she faced you, her silver hair spilling over your bare shoulders like molten metal. Her pupils had swallowed nearly all the violet now, leaving only thin rings of color around bottomless black. "You'll have silks from Lys," she murmured, her claw-tipped fingers tracing your collarbone where her bite still oozed faintly. "Jewels from the ruins of Old Valyria." Her thumb smeared your blood across your throat in a deliberate crescent. "A crown of dragonbone and obsidian."

Your lips brushed the jagged scar along Rhaenyra's shoulder—not a kiss of pity, but one of slow, deliberate worship. She went rigid beneath you, her breath catching like a blade mid-swing. The scar tissue was rough against your mouth, textured like forged steel left to cool unevenly. When you traced its length with your tongue, tasting salt and something faintly metallic, Rhaenyra made a sound no mortal throat should produce—half snarl, half sob—her clawed hands spasming against the torn silk sheets.

"Just this," you murmured against her heated skin, feeling the rapid flutter of her pulse beneath your lips. Your fingers skimmed the matching brand on her opposite shoulder—crude Valyrian glyphs you couldn't read but understood instinctively. "Give me this. Only this." Your teeth grazed the raised flesh lightly, not biting but sealing the unspoken vow. "An eternity with you."

Rhaenyra's fingers dug into your hips with bruising intensity as she pressed her forehead against yours, her breath coming in ragged bursts that smelled of iron and wildfire. "An eternity," she whispered, the words scraping against your skin like a blade being drawn from its sheath. "But never a step beyond my reach." Her lips brushed yours—soft, reverent—before she pulled back just enough to let you see the dragonfire swirling in her violet eyes. "Swear it."

"Swear it," Rhaenyra growled against your lips, her clawed fingers tightening possessively around your wrists. The scent of iron and wildfire clung to her sweat-damp skin, her violet eyes reflecting torchlight like polished dragon-glass. When you hesitated—just a breath too long—her pupils dilated until only thin rings of violet remained, her grip shifting to cradle your jaw with terrifying gentleness.

Your pulse hammered against her palm as you whispered, "I swear." The words tasted like molten steel on your tongue—too hot, too permanent. Rhaenyra's breath hitched violently, her entire body trembling as if you'd driven a nail through her chest.

"Good." Her fangs grazed your lower lip, drawing a bead of blood that she licked away with reverent slowness. "Because if you ever leave me..." The threat dissolved into a shuddering gasp as your fingers traced the old brand marks between her shoulder blades. Her hips jerked forward instinctively, her damp silk gown clinging to your thighs. "I'll carve out your heart and wear it around my neck," she finished, her voice cracking like overheated iron.

The moment your fingers stilled against Rhaenyra's branded skin, her entire body went rigid—not with pleasure this time, but with something darker, more desperate. Her claws dug into your thighs hard enough to leave crescent moons blooming beneath the silk. "If you leave," she whispered against your lips, her breath scorching like dragonfire, "You won't do it alive." The words weren't a threat but a confession, cracked open like a forge-heated ingot splitting under the hammer.

"Why would I ever leave my soulmate?" you murmured against Rhaenyra's collarbone, feeling her pulse stutter beneath your lips. The queen went perfectly still—not the predatory stillness from before, but something fragile, like a sword balanced on its point. Your fingers found the sodden laces of her ruined gown, tugging with the same deliberate patience you'd use to untangle hot metal from forge tongs. Silk parted like dragonwing membrane beneath your calloused hands, pooling around her waist as you guided her down onto the sweat-damp sheets.

Rhaenyra resisted for half a breath—muscles tensing like a bowstring—before collapsing against you with a shudder that traveled through both your bodies. You dragged the heavy fur blanket over her trembling form, tucking it around her shoulders with a tenderness that made her breath hitch. Her claws retracted with audible clicks as she curled into your chest, her forehead pressed to your sternum like a knight paying homage.

"You're cold," she accused weakly, her voice muffled against your skin. The queen who'd burned servants for spilling wine now trembled against you like a newly forged blade quenching too fast. Her fingers clutched at your hips—not with bruising desperation, but with the hesitant urgency of someone gripping driftwood in a storm.

"Then warm me up," you murmured against the damp curve of Rhaenyra's shoulder, feeling her breath stutter against your collarbone. The command hung between you like a blacksmith's hammer poised above glowing steel—simple, undeniable.

"Can you turn me?" The question slipped out between panting breaths, your fingers still tangled in Rhaenyra's silver-streaked hair as she nuzzled the fresh bite mark on your throat. Her entire body went rigid against yours—not the predatory stillness from before, but something coiled tight with centuries-old pain.

Rhaenyra's laughter came out sharp as a blacksmith's chisel, her fangs gleaming in the torchlight when she pulled back to stare at you. "Sweet fool," she murmured, tracing the curve of your jaw with one claw-tipped finger. "You think this is some bedtime story where a bite makes you immortal?" Her thumb pressed against your pulse point, feeling the frantic flutter beneath skin still damp with sweat. "Valyria didn't work that way."

The queen's hips rolled lazily against your thigh, her movements now more liquid than desperate, as if she'd been remade in these last hours. "We were *forged*," she whispered against your collarbone, her tongue darting out to taste the lingering salt on your skin. "Dragonfire and blood magic and screams loud enough to crack the Fourteen Flames." Her fingers splayed across your sternum, pressing hard enough that you felt the echo of her own heartbeat—slower, deeper, like distant war drums. "Not bitten. Not begged. *Made*."

You arched beneath her when her nails scored delicate lines down your ribs—not deep enough to bleed, just enough to brand the sensation into your memory. "Then how—" The question dissolved into a gasp when Rhaenyra's teeth grazed your nipple, her tongue swirling in a slow circle that made your back lift off the silk sheets.

"Shhh." Her palm pressed flat against your stomach, pinning you with terrifying gentleness. "First lesson," she murmured against your skin, her breath scorching as she moved lower. "Never ask a dragon for secrets while she's hungry." The sharp nip to your inner thigh drew a hiss from your lips, but Rhaenyra soothed it with a kiss that lingered just a heartbeat too long. When she lifted her head, her lips gleamed crimson—your blood or hers, you couldn't tell. "The ritual requires three things," she confessed in a voice gone thick with want. "A dragon's heart. A willing sacrifice. And—" her tongue traced the hollow of your hipbone—"a queen mad enough to spill her own lifeblood into your veins."

The stolen nail pulsed violently near the bedpost, its eerie glow casting jagged shadows across Rhaenyra's sweat-slicked back as she straddled your hips. "I burned seven castles to the ground searching for you," she admitted, her fingers tracing the fresh bite marks on your throat with something like reverence. "Drank three maesters dry trying to decipher the prophecy." Her hips ground down in a slow, sinuous circle that drew a moan from both of you. "Do you truly think I'd let something as trivial as *death* keep you from me now?"

You gasped when her claws pricked the skin over your heart—not breaking it, just pressing enough to make the threat tangible. "When the time comes," Rhaenyra whispered against your lips, her breath tasting of iron and wildfire, "you'll scream louder than Balerion did when they ripped his wings off." Her tongue swiped across your lower lip, savoring the faint copper tang. "And I'll kiss you through every second of it."

Rhaenyra's kiss hit you like a hammerstroke—all scorching heat and brutal precision, her fangs catching your lower lip just hard enough to make your blood sing. You moaned into her mouth, the sound ripped from somewhere deeper than your lungs, vibrating against her tongue as she swallowed it whole. She whimpered in response, high and broken, her hips jerking forward against yours with bruising force. The noise you made then was obscene—raw and ragged, torn from your throat as her claws scored fresh crescents into your waist.

Rhaenyra's fingers trembled against your eyelids, her claws retracted to blunt crescents as she pressed down with impossible gentleness. "Sleep," she whispered, the word ragged as torn silk. Her breath hit your cheeks in uneven bursts—warm as forge embers, scented with blood and something darker. The stolen nail pulsed dull crimson near the bedpost, its glow throwing jagged shadows across the sweat-slick hollow of her throat.

You caught her wrist mid-stroke, feeling the rabbit-quick pulse beneath paper-thin skin. "I'm not tired," you murmured, though your limbs felt heavy as freshly poured iron. Rhaenyra made a wounded noise low in her throat, her free hand fisting in the ruined sheets. Moonlight caught the tremble of her lower lip, the desperate way her hips still rocked against your thigh in absent, seeking motions.

The command left Rhaenyra's lips like a blade sliding from its sheath—sharp, inevitable. "Sleep." Her clawed fingers skimmed your eyelids with improbable gentleness, the retracted tips leaving phantom pressure as they traced the curve of your brow. Beneath the furs, her thigh pressed flush against yours, radiating heat like banked forge coals.

"I will still be here when you wake," Rhaenyra murmured against your collarbone, her voice thick with drowsy possession. The words weren't a question—they were a command woven into the warmth of her breath against your sweat-slicked skin. Her arm tightened around your waist, fingers splaying across your hipbone with the same territorial urgency as a dragon curling around its hoard.

The weight of exhaustion finally pulled you under, your breathing slowing against Rhaenyra's collarbone where your face had come to rest. She held herself impossibly still beneath you—not the predatory stillness from before, but something fragile and deliberate, like a sword balanced on its edge. Only when your fingers went slack against her ribs did she dare to exhale, her breath stirring the damp hair at your temple with unbearable tenderness.

Moonlight carved hollows beneath Rhaenyra's eyes as she watched you sleep, her claw-tipped fingers hovering millimeters above your parted lips. The stolen nail pulsed erratically near the bedpost, its glow dimming to ember-warmth as the queen traced the shape of your mouth without touching—memorizing the curve as a blacksmith might study a masterwork blade. When you shifted in your sleep, her entire body tensed like a drawn bowstring, her violet eyes reflecting the erratic flutter of your eyelids as you dreamed.

The first light of dawn crept through the high windows of Dragonstone like a thief, painting the rumpled sheets and tangled limbs in hues of pale gold. You stirred against Rhaenyra’s chest, the warmth of her body a furnace even in sleep. Her arm tightened around you instinctively, fingers twitching against your hip as if to ensure you hadn’t vanished in the night.

Rhaenyra didn't sleep—not truly. She watched the rhythmic rise and fall of your chest with the intensity of a dragon guarding its hoard, her violet eyes tracing every flutter of your eyelids, every soft exhale that stirred the hair clinging to your damp forehead. The moment your breathing deepened into sleep's embrace, her claws retracted with audible clicks, the sharp points withdrawing into trembling fingertips that ghosted over your collarbone without touching.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The prophecy proved true—just not in the way either of you expected. That first violent claiming had been wildfire and desperation, but what grew between you in its aftermath was something slower, deeper, like molten silver cooling into something enduring. Rhaenyra's claws retracted first, then her fangs, until the only marks she left on your skin were the crescent-shaped bruises from her fingertips and the single scar at your throat—a relic worn with perverse pride.

The first time you noticed the change, it wasn't in Rhaenyra's violent hunger—but in the absence of it. Dawn bled through Dragonstone's high windows as you woke to find her watching you with an expression that lacked all its old razor-edged desperation. Her fingers traced your collarbone where her fang marks had once bled freely, now just silvered scars beneath her touch. "You're still here," she murmured, the words catching like a prayer in her throat. Not an accusation. Not a demand. Just wonder.

The prophecy was wrong—but also right in ways no maester could have predicted. Rhaenyra's bloodlust didn't vanish so much as transmute, the wildfire in her veins cooling to embers whenever your fingers laced through hers. You learned this on the third morning, when she woke you by pressing your palm to her throat, her pulse hammering against your fingertips like a caged bird. "Again," she'd rasped, her voice raw from screaming your name into the pre-dawn darkness. Not a command, but a plea—the first of thousands.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The first time you truly understood the prophecy hadn't been about bloodlust at all was on a storm-lashed night when Rhaenyra pressed your palm flat against her racing heart. Not in passion, not in violence—but because the distant roll of thunder made her flinch like a spooked horse. The mighty Bloody Queen of Dragonstone, who'd once burned castles for looking at her wrong, now trembled beneath your touch over something as simple as bad weather. Her claws pricked your wrist—not enough to break skin, just enough to tether herself—as she whispered, "Again," against your collarbone like a prayer.

Simply, Your presence brought her comfort, patience, and peace, while she offered you a place where you felt valued and seen. As the years passed, the bloodlust that had once threatened to consume her faded into the background, and many came to believe the prophecy had been fulfilled. Whether it was fate, love, or simply the bond you shared, one thing was certain: Rhaenyra had found her peace, and you had found a home beside her.

The first time Rhaenyra didn't wake you with fangs at your throat came on an unremarkable morning—no different from the thousand before it, save for the way her lips pressed against your pulse point with nothing sharper than devotion. You blinked awake to find her watching you with an expression that lacked all its old desperation, her fingers tracing idle patterns across your collarbone where her bite had scarred silver. "You taste like sunlight now," she murmured, the admission slipping out like a confession too fragile for daylight.

she hasn’t looked at you once since the doors shut. you watch her reflection instead. 

“homelander likes symbols,” she says. her voice is flat enough that it could mean nothing. but she is the smartest woman on the planet, so it doesn’t. 

you tilt your head slightly, watching the numbers climb. “does he?”

“he likes completion. loyalty. visible gratitude. people who understand their place before he has to explain it to them.” 

you smile a little, because the cameras in the elevator don’t even pretend to be hidden. “good thing i’m very grateful.” 

sage’s reflection looks at you then. her posture doesn’t move entirely, just her eyes. “are you?”

“i’m here, aren’t i?”

that’s not the same thing. you know it. she knows it. somewhere above you, homelander probably knows that too. he chose you. that matters. not in the sweet way vought will sell it tomorrow morning, with your face lit gold on every screen in the lobby and some expensive headline about a new dawn for the seven. it matters because homelander is not making choices as a leader right now—he’s making them as a man trying to build a room where no one can leave him.

that makes you useful. that makes you dangerous. that makes you careful. 

“he wants the seven to have seven members,” sage continues. “the joke got old.” 

“must’ve been a very painful time for branding.” 

“branding survives pain better than people do.” 

you almost laugh, but you don’t. the elevator keeps climbing, and for a second, in the reflection of the doors, you catch yourself the way the world is going to catch you: clean hair, warm skin, mouth soft enough to trust, eyes bright enough to make people nervous if they look too long. 

the suit helps. vought has never met a woman it didn’t want to turn into a product first and a person never. yours is golden and cream and fitted close to the body without tipping into firecracker’s cheap little flag-bikini theater. elegant, they called it. aspirational. high-necked but not modest, with a sculpted bodice that catches the light when you breathe and a deep, curved line across the chest that makes a point without begging for one. the fabric hugs the waist, your hips, the tops of your thighs, tailored and expensive and just armored enough to pretend it’s practical. 

sage notices you looking at yourself. “don’t overplay it.” 

you drag your gaze back to the doors. “my face?”

“your devotion.”

that one lands. the bitch is smart. her words aren’t a warning, but they don’t land cruel, either. they’re just enough to remind you she didn’t get her place here by missing things.

you turn your smile into something smaller, sweeter, easier to swallow. “i would never.” 

“everyoen says that before they do.” 

the elevator dings and sage steps forward first. you follow. 

the hallway outside is colder, brighter—the kind of white that makes everyone look a little guilty. the seven’s meeting room waits at the end of it behind massive doors. 

homelander stands when you enter. that’s the first thing everyone notices. not you. not the suit. not sage’s hand gesturing lazily in your direction as if she’s presenting a weather update instead of the newest member of the most powerful team on earth. 

homelander stands, and the room changes around him. firecracker’s smile sharpens in a way that shows she’s trying to decide whether she hates you or wants to be photographed next to you. black noir says nothing, which makes ridiculous contrast with whatever the deep is thinking while his eyes briefly dip below your face. you let him look. then you meet his eyes. he looks away immediately, straightening up in his seat. 

soldier boy, seated with one boot braced against the base of the table, doesn’t move at all. he just looks you over with the bored entitlement of a man who has survived too many decades of being told he’s the prize. 

he’s bigger in person. uglier too—but not in the face. the face is unfortunately good. it’s the rest of him that’s ugly: the easy arrogance, the bored set of his mouth, the old-world confidence sitting on his shoulders like a coat he has never had to take off. 

homelander smiles warmly at you. 

“there she is,” he says, and the room listens because he says it like a benediction. “halo fever.” 

you dip your chin just enough. not a bow. not submission. appreciation wrapped humbly. “sir.” 

his smile deepens. “no, no, none of that.” he gestures you closer, palm open, inviting. “we’re family here.” 

you walk further into the room, heels quiet against the floor, and stop near the empty chair at the end of the table. the seventh seat. the one vought has probably been polishing for a press release before they knew what name would be attached to it. 

“everyone knows who you are,” homelander continues, still watching with that bright, hungry pride. “but i wanted to do this properly. after all the betrayal… after all the instability… after people treating this team like some kind of revolving door…” his jaw tightens for half a second—there and gone. “we are moving forward. together.” 

firecracker nods vigorously. “amen.” 

the deep nods a beat too late. 

sage continues watching the entire room. 

and soldier boy snorts. not loud, exactly. it doesn’t need to be; in a room trained around homelander’s breathing, even disrespect has a spotlight. 

everyone looks. homelander’s smile doesn’t drop, but something behind it tightens. so many daddy issues. 

soldier boy is either too stupid or too committed to being himself to care. his eyes remain on you, amused, unimpressed, dragging over the gold of your suit before landing on your face with a little curl of his mouth. 

“sorry,” he says, not sounding sorry at all. “just thought the seven was supposed to be superheroes, not a beauty pageant.” 

the room goes quiet. it honestly wasn’t the worst thing he could’ve said. and no one in the room is innocent enough for shock. but there is that pause people take around a loaded gun when someone taps the barrel for fun. 

you feel homelander’s attention shift to soldier boy first. then to you. waiting. measuring. the situation just turned into a fucking test. 

you could be offended. maybe you are, somewhere under the polished surface. maybe some part of you recoils at how casually he spits in your face—how easily men from his century and yours dress contempt up as charm and expect you to laugh because they smiled while cutting. but offense is not useful unless you know where to put it. 

so you smile. soft. lovely. almost forgiving. “that’s okay. i know it’s hard when new things happen.” 

the deep makes a noise that dies instantly when soldier boy’s eyes flick toward him. 

the cheaper version of captain america’s grin widens, meaner now. “new? sweetheart, i’ve seen plenty of girls with pretty lights.” 

“oh, i’m sure.” 

“most of ‘em didn’t need a cape to get attention.” 

firecracker’s mouth twitches. sage’s face doesn’t move. 

homelander is simply enjoying the spectacle. “halo fever,” he calls you. 

it’s not a warning, yet you turn immediately. you don’t ignore him. you don’t make him repeat himself. you look at him the second he calls; almost like his voice has weight in your body. here, it does. it has to. 

“yes, sir?”

his eyes search your face, pleased by your attention, curious about your restraint. “you alright?” 

“of course.” you let the warmth enter your expression before the room can mistake your calm for weakness. “i just think soldier boy might benefit from a demonstration. if you think that’s appropriate.” 

you ask. not because you need permission from a man to defend yourself, but because this room doesn’t belong to you. not yet. and because homelander chose you, and that means every public move you make in front of him has to confirm his choice—not compete with it. 

homelander’s gaze flicks between you and soldier boy. for one thin second, he looks almost boyish. a little kid, pocking with a wooden stick at the weird gooey thing he found on the floor. 

“a demonstration,” he repeats, tasting the idea. 

soldier boy scoffs and leans back in his chair. “oh, please.” 

homelander turns his smile on him now. “scared?” 

the word barely changes soldier boy’s face. it would be easy to miss if you weren’t already looking for the seam. you are always looking for the seam. 

“of her pretty party trick?” soldier boy laughs once. 

homelander looks back at you, lifting a hand in invitation. “go ahead.” 

your pulse answers before you do. the power awakes under your skin, golden and warm, sliding up through your chest, your throat, the backs of your hands. you keep it low.

the room brightens by half a shade, as if the sun has shifted closer to the windows, and the deep blinks too many times. noir tilts his head. firecracker’s fingers curl around the armrest of her chair. and soldier boy doesn’t move. 

his mistake. 

you take one step toward him. 

“that’s close enough,” he says.

“is it?”

his mouth opens, probably to say something filthy and outdated and deeply impressed with itself. you touch the air between you instead. not him. not his body. not even the edge of his chair. just the feeling sitting behind his ribs. 

it’s almost embarrassingly easy to find. 

soldier boy has been exposed in public too many times now. america knows his face, his legacy, his son, his failures. vought can polish the story all they want, but the wounds are not buried—they are barely even covered. a father returned to a world that no longer bends for him. a legend introduced as someone else’s bloodline. a weapon thawed out and placed beside the thing that replaced him. he has so much pride packed over the damage that all you have to do is press where it shines. 

the gold under your skin flares. 

soldier boy’s breath catches. it’s small… but oh, it’s everything. his boot drops from the table with a dull thud, one hand clamps around the armrest; the other curls into a fist so tight the leather of his glove creaks. for half a second, his face stays locked in that arrogant mask, jaw set, eyes hard, mouth ready to sneer. 

then his chest starts to glow. not the violent red everyone has seen on shaky footage and classified clips. not the nuclear burn. this is different. gold, faint at first, spreading beneath the dark green of his suit from the center of his sternum, warm and pulsing, like something inside him has been caught answering you before he could stop it. this is the party trick—the glow. the real show is about to present itself.

his pupils widen. you feel it spill up in him: anger first; humiliation right after it, sour and hot; then the thing underneath, the old bruised need to matter so badly it almost feels young. it hits the air between you in a rush he cannot hide from anyone in the room—not with your power wrapped gently around the truth and pulling.

his chair scrapes back an inch. “cut it out!” his voice is lower now, strained. 

you tilt your head, still smiling, still sweet enough for every camera in the room. “i thought it was a party trick.” 

his lips part. nothing comes out. that is it. not the glow. not the heat. not the way the deep stares with his mouth slightly open or the way firecracker’s expression flattens into something sharper, threatened despite herself. it’s soldier boy, america’s first great brute, suddenly silent because his body has betrayed him before his mouth can save him. 

you could push harder. that’s the ugly truth. you could make him choke on the rest of it. make him feel every scrap of envy, want, loneliness, resentment, make him burn gold from the inside out until the whole room understands exactly how much of his swagger is just exposed scar tissue. you could make him look at homelander and feel it—the son, the mirror, the replacement. 

your fingers twitch once. then you stop. the warmth snaps back into you so cleanly it almost hurts. 

soldier boy inhales hard through his nose. the glow in his chest fades under the suit, leaving nothing but the brutal rise and fall of his breathing and the furious look he pins to your face. 

You give him your prettiest smile. “cute party trick, huh?”

no one laughs except for homelander. just a pleased little breath, this private sound of satisfaction, and somehow it’s worse than the whole room mocking soldier boy. 

homelander looks around the table as if waiting for everyone else to understand what he already has: you’re not starlight. you’re not a trembling moral lesson in a white cape. you’re not here to cry under fluorescent lights and beg the machine to become kind. you are the machine’s newest favorite blade. 

“see?” homelander says, spreading his arms slightly. “that. that is what i’m talking about.” 

soldier boy says nothing. his stare promises several forms of retaliation. you look away first because you can afford it. 

homelander moves to the head of the table, energized now, shining with the glow of a man who has mistaken control for love and found a room willing to play along. “this is the team,” he says. “this is what we were missing. strength. loyalty. purpose.” 

sages watches him with the faintest turn of her mouth. firecracker nods again, but this time her eyes cut toward you with something new in them. wariness. 

soldier boy leans back slowly, recovering inch by inch, but you can still see it in the tightness around his mouth. he felt it. he knows you felt him feeling it. that is worse than pain for a man like him. 

homelander places a hand on the back of your chair. “sit.” he commands, gently enough for the word to sound like a gift. 

and you do. the seventh seat is cold beneath you. 

homelander keeps his hand there a second longer than necessary before pulling away, and you keep your face open, grateful and bright. you play the part because the part keeps you alive. because this whole building runs on performance and fear and the kind of devotion people offer when they’re smart enough to know worship is safer than honesty. 

“now,” homelander continues, smiling wide enough to make the room obey. “no more empty seats. no more betrayal. no more jokes.”

his eyes land on you again. chosen. that is what he wants ypu to feel. so you let the gold warm under your skin, just enough to make the room soften around him, just enough to make his smile stay beautiful and terrible. 

“the seven,” homelander murmurs. “is complete.”

the room empties in pieces. 

firecracker is the first to stand, heels clicking against the floor as she collects herself with that too-bright smile still stuck to her face, all gloss and teeth and badly disguised insecurity. she gives you one last look before she leaves—not hatred, not yet. this is thinner. something that says she understands attention as a limited resource, and you have just made a show of stealing some of hers. 

“welcome to the family,” she says, syrupy sweet. 

you smile back. “thank you.” 

her eyes flick toward homelander, then away again. “you’ll fit right in.” that one is not sweet. 

noir passes behind her without a word. the deep almost trips over his own chair because he’s still trying not to look at you and somehow making the effort more obvious than just looking would have been. homelander notices—he notices everything here. his mouth twitches with something between amusement and disdain before his attention returns to you. 

that’s the thing about homelander—when he looks at you, it feels less like being seen andn more like being selected from a shelf. “big day,” he says. 

you stand beside the seventh seat because staying seated after he rises feels stupid. “yes, sir.” 

his expression warms again at the title. he pretends to dislike it. you’re beginning to understand he likes pretending almost as much as he likes obedience. 

“you did well.” not good. not great. well. a measured thing. a reward, not a compliment. 

you lower your eyes just enough to make the gratitude visible without making it pathetic. “i’m glad you think so.” 

“i do.” he steps closer, and the whole room seems to tighten around the movement. “what you did with him—” his eyes cut toward soldier boy, who hasn’t moved from his chair. “that was impressive.” 

soldier boy gives a humorless little breath through his nose. 

homelander hearts it and lets it live. “controlled,” homelander looks back at you. “tasteful. strong.” 

“i didn’t want to overstep.” 

“no.” his smile brightens. “you didn’t.” 

and he shows it again—the pleasure. not because you were kind or harmless. because you understood the order of the room and acted inside it. because the show happened under his hand, with his blessing. because you asked. 

homelander likes loyalty, sage had said. you disagree. homelander likes proof. 

“your suite is already prepared,” he says. “sage will show you. anything you need, you can ask. we take care of our own here.” 

our own. you know better than to buy into the fantasy.

“thank you. that means a lot.” 

“it should.” 

and then he smiles like he has given you something sacred—a place in the seven, a family, a new beginning. like you are supposed to feel reborn because he decided you are useful enough to keep close. 

you let yourself glow. only a touch beneath the skin, a warmth that softens the air around him, gentle enough that it can pass for admiration if anyone in the room is foolish enough to believe in clean things. homelander’s shoulders ease by a fraction and his smile steadies. some deep, hungry part of him accepts the warmth and calls it devotion because that is what he needs it to be. 

sage watches from the doorway as homelander leaves, cape sweeping behind him in a ridiculous bright flash that would look stupid on anyone less terrifying. the room keeps his shape for a moment after he’s gone. then, sage speaks: 

“this way.” 

you turn from soldier boy without looking like you’re turning from soldier boy. he has been watching you since the glow faded from his chest. not speaking during the rest of the meeting. not moving. just sitting there with his jaw tight and his eyes ugly, furious in a way that feels almost clean compared to everyone else’s careful performance. anger is easy to read. anger tells you what door to open. 

you follow sage into the hallway. she doesn’t ask if you enjoyed yourself and you almost respect her for it. 

the walk to your suite takes longer than it needs to. vought tower has always been designed to make distance feel ceremonial. halls that shine too much, walls lined with screens, employees who glance up, recognize the suit, recognize sage, and immediately learn the floor again. 

your face is already on one of the monitors near the elevator bank, a still from an interview you gave, gold light washing across your cheekbones under the headline: halo fever joins the seven: a new dawn for america’s heroes.

you nearly laugh. they work fast. 

sage notices without looking at the screen. “they had drafts prepared.” 

“for me?” 

“for everyone.” she presses her thumb against a private access panel beside a set of double doors. “you were just the first one homelander wanted this week.” honest. cruel. useful.

the lock clicks open. 

your suite is beautiful. so much so that it becomes a problem—so beautiful that, for one second, your body wants to trust it completely. cream walls, gold accent, floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city in glittering indifferent pieces. a pale sofa curved around a glass coffee table. fresh flowers on the sideboard. a vanity lit soft and warm, covered with unopened products in your colors, your shades, your approved scent profile. a garment rack waits near the bedroom door with press outfits steamed and arranged by occasion—daytime interviews, evening events, crisis appearances, charity softness, televised grief. 

they have made you a home out of costumes. 

your boxes sit near the far wall, ordinary and brown and almost embarrassing against all that glass. 

sage stops beside you. “security is internal. external press access is controlled. household staff comes through twice a day unless you request otherwise. anything private should not be assumed private.” 

your lips press together as you absorb the information. “sweet.”

“nothing about this is sweet.” 

“i didn’t mean it literally.” 

“i know.” 

you look at her then. sage’s eyes move over the suite with the same bored precision she gives everything else, but there is something almost human in the corner of her mouth. not kindness. that would be pushing it. maybe recognition. maybe the dull amusement of watching another woman learn the shape of her cage. 

“he’ll test you,” she says. 

“homelander?”

sage’s gaze shifts toward the hall behind you. “both of them.” 

you don’t answer, because nothing is private and she doesn’t look like someone you can trust fully. 

she turns to leave, then pauses at the threshold. “soldier boy doesn’t like being made small.” 

you glance toward her. “does anyone?”

“no. but most people don’t have decades of national mythology rotting under the skin.” her eyes settle on your face. “don’t confuse humiliation with victory. it’s noisy. victory is quieter.” 

“is that advice?”

“it’s information.” then she leaves. 

the doors shut behind her with a soft, expensive click.

for the first time since the elevator, you’re alone. 

you exhale and let your shoulders drop. not all the way. never all the way. but enough to feel the ache under the suit, the pinch fo the bodice, the place where the fabric presses too perfectly at your ribs. your reflection catches in the dark window, all gold and cream and vought-approved radiance, and for a second you stare at yourself the way you stared in the elevator. 

the world is going to love this version of you.

you start with the boxes. the first one has books, framed pictures wrapped in sweaters, a small ceramic dish you bought because it was pretty and useless and nobody at vought would have picked it for you. the second has clothes. actual clothes—soft ones; the kind no stylist has touched; folded shirts, worn jeans, a cardigan you have no business owning now that you are supposed to be a golden national asset; and three little perfume bottles stuffed inside socks so they wouldn’t break. you set one on the vanity and watch it look immediately out of place. 

the door opens behind you. you don’t even need to turn around. 

“didn’t hear a knock.” 

soldier boy steps inside anyway. his reflection appears in the window first: broad shoulders, dark suit, mouth set in that tired cruel line, eyes moving across the room with open judgment. he doesn’t look ashamed to be there—men like him rarely do—shame would require manners.

“door was open.” 

“no, it wasn’t.” 

“it wasn’t locked.” 

you glance back over your shoulder. “that’s not the same thing.” 

he closes the door behind him. slowly. the soft click sounds louder with him in the room. 

you go back to unpacking because reacting too fast would make him happy, and soldier boy looks like he has already had a difficult enough day without you handing him a present. 

“nice place.” 

he walks farther in, boots heavy against the polished floor. vought’s pretty little suite looks different with him inside it. he picks up the ceramic dish from the vanity, turns it over once in his hand, then puts it down in the wrong place. you correct it immediately. 

his mouth twitches. “you always this particular?”

“you always this invasive?”

“usually worse.” 

he moves to the garment rack next, flicking through the outfits with two fingers. cream dress. gold blazer. while silk blouse. fitted trousers. a gown with a slit cut high enough for vought to call it empowering in a press memo. 

he gives that one a second look. “they dress you up nice.” 

“that supposed to be a compliment?”

“depends on how sensitive you are.” 

you fold a shirt and place it into a drawer. “you came all the way here to find out?”

he looks at you then. not the way deep had done—not at the suit, or boobs, or your mouth. at you. it’s the first quiet thing he’s done.  for half a second, the air changes, and you understand sage’s warning differently. 

he’s not here because he thinks you’re pretty—though, he does. he’s here because, in that meeting room, you reached into him and found something he didn’t give you permission to touch. for soldier boy that wasn’t intimacy—it was trespassing. 

“what the hell did you do to me back there?” he asks. 

you keep folding. “a demonstration.” 

“don’t give me that shit,” he spits out. 

“then don’t ask questions you already know the answer to.” 

he steps closer. “you think because homelander let you play with your little light show that means you can do it again?”

you smile down at the drawer. “let me?” you repeat. 

“you heard me.” 

“i asked because he enjoys being asked. not because i need him to hold my hand.” 

his jaw shifts. 

you slide the drawer shut and turn to face him fully. “and i didn’t play with anything. if i had, you would’ve known.” 

soldier boy’s eyes narrow. he’s too close now. not touching yet—but close enough that you can smell him beneath the tower’s clean air: leather, smoke, whiskey buried under mint, something warm and metallic that might be his suit or his skin or the violence he carries without thinking. his anger has settled since the meeting, but not disappeared. it sits in him low and restless, circling the same bruised place you pressed.

you could touch it again. but you don’t. 

that restraint seems to irritate him more than the threat would. “you like doing that? digging around in people’s heads?”

“it’s not mind control.” you scoff. “i’m not in anyone’s heads.” 

“whatever.” 

“and no.” you pause. “not always.” 

“bullshit.” 

you lean back against the dresser, crossing your arms. “you’re very committed to having a bad time in my room.”

“your room.” he looks around, unimpressed. “you been here five minutes.” 

“still mine.” 

he lets out a low laugh. “everything in this building belongs to vought.” 

you smile. “careful. that includes you.” 

his expression goes flat and it’s beautiful and dangerous. then, he looks away. he’s choosing not to reach, which is different and somehow more telling.

he walks past you, deeper into the bedroom area, where the boxes are messier, where the suite begins to lose its showroom shine. he looks at the framed pictures waiting on the bed, the small pile of personal jewelry, the open suitcase with soft cotton and lace peeking through. 

“don’t touch my thing,” you warn. still, he picks up a framed photo. you sigh. “selective hearing. great.” 

he studies the picture longer than you expect. not because he cares who’s in it, maybe. more because he’s looking for something he can use. something normal. something soft. proof that the woman who made his chest glow in a room full of monsters still has people in frames and old sweaters in boxes. 

“this your boyfriend?” he asks. 

you cross the room and take the frame from his hand. “no.” 

he picks another one. “girlfriend?”

“no.”

“fan?”

“are you always this desperate for personal information?”

“are you always this defensive?” he argues back. 

“only when strange men walk into my bedroom and start touching my things.”

his eyes drop briefly to your hand on the frame. then to your face. “strange?”

“would you prefer elderly?”

his mouth curls. there he is again. meaner when amused. easier to deal with when he’s trying to insult you than when he’s trying to understand you. 

“you’ve got a mouth on you.” 

“and yet you keep inviting it.” 

the words land before you can decide whether you meant to say them exactly that way. soldier boy’s eyes darken a fraction. not much. but definitely enough. 

you turn away first this time. heat is useful until it starts making decisions for you. then it’s just stupid. “i have things to unpack. you can go brood somewhere else.” 

“brood?”

“sulk, then.” 

“i don’t sulk.” 

“you followed me across the tower because i embarrassed you in front of your son.” 

the silence after that is immediate and ugly. you definitely reached too far. maybe not far enough. you feel the room tighten around his body with a violence that doesn’t require performance because everyone’s seen what he’s capable of. 

when he speaks again, his voice is lower. “watch it.” 

you look back slowly. this is the line—where a joke stopes being a joke and becomes a hand near a trigger. 

you don’t apologize. you also don’t press. smart is knowing the difference between fear and timing. 

“then stop acting like i chased you here,” you say, and there’s a drop in your tone—softer now, almost bored. “you came into my room, soldier boy. not the other way around.” 

his stare holds yours. then, because he’s either incapable of leaving well enough alone or allergic to losing the last word, he turns and opens the nearest drawer. 

you move instantly. “hey!” too late. 

his hand disappears into lace. soldier boy looks down and then he smiles—slowly. “well.” 

“put it back.” 

he lifts a pair of panties from the drawer like he has discovered classified intelligence. they are pretty—pale gold with delicate lace at the edges, soft enough to look innocent if he wasn’t holding them in his big, careless hand. the sight of it does something irritating to your stomach—not embarrassment, exactly. 

you refuse to name it. 

“these vought-issued too?” he asks. fucker. 

“put. them. back.” 

he rubs the lace between his thumb and forefinger, inspecting it with the kind of obscene focus that makes your jaw tighten. “nah. i’m gonna keep ‘em.” 

you step toward him. “i’m not joking.” 

“neither am i.” 

“soldier boy—”

he looks up at your voice. “ben.” the correction is sudden enough to catch. 

you stop half a step away. 

he watches you register it, and his smile changes. smug again, but not only that—there’s something underneath it, too, now. a hook thrown into the water just to see what bites. 

“if you’re gonna threaten me in your underwear drawer,” he taunts, “you might as well use my name.” 

you hate that your pulse reacts. you hate it more that it’s so visible he sees it. 

“ben,” you say, clipped and sweet. “put them back.” 

his gaze drops to your mouth for one heavy second. then, he lifts the panties higher. you reach for them, which only causes him to raise his arm above his head—easy, lazy, infuriating—using every inch of height and strength. you step closer without thinking, hand catching at his wrist, and suddenly there’s no polite distance left between you. just him—solid and warm and too close.

his chest is right there. no longer glowing now, but you remember how it looked. gold blooming under the green. his breath catching. his silence. the place beneath his ribs where pride turned soft and furious when you touched it. 

he remembers, too. you can tell by the way his smile thins when your eyes flick down. “don’t you think about it.” 

“what?”

“using that little power of yours.” 

you look back up at him. “i’m not using it.” 

“sure about that?” the question is quieter than the rest. 

for all his arrogance, all his filthy little games, there is a piece of him that genuinely doesn’t know. not fully. he doesn’t know where your powers ends and his reaction begins. he doesn’t know whether the pull in the room belongs to you, to him, or to the ugly private thing you made visible in front of everyone. 

good. let him wonder. 

“i don’t need it for this.” 

his eyes hold yours and you see something shift across his face, almost imperceptible, like he likes the answer and resents you for giving it to him. 

your fingers tighten around his wrist. “last chance.” 

“or what?”

you lift your chin. the move brings you closer—close enough that the front of his suit brushes the sculpted gold of yours; close enough that you feel his breath warm against your cheek when he laughs under his breath. not much of a laugh. more of a dare learning how to stand on its own two feet. 

you keep your voice calm. “don’t make me ask again.” 

soldier boy looks at your hand on his wrist; then at the lace dangling above your head. his smile comes slow as his eyes finally meet yours—mean, curious, hungry in a way he probably thinks he’s hiding. 

“or what?” he asks again. “you gonna make glow, doll?”

you look at him for a second too long. his arm is still raised above your head, your panties caught in his fist, his body too close for this to be funny anymore. it stops being a game between his breath touching your cheek and your hand closing tighter around his wrist. the room is quiet around you, all cream walls and gold light and vought-approved luxury, but he has made the space feel less decorated. 

“no,” you breathe out, gaze flickering down to his mouth then back up. “i want you to know this is you.” 

his smile fades by a fraction. 

you reach higher, fingers tightening on his wrist, not really trying to win anymore. you both know you can’t overpower him that way. that’s not the point—it’s the way his pulse kicks under your fingers. it’s the way his eyes don’t leave your face. it’s that his body has already started answering, and there is no glow in the room expect the faint warmth under your skin. 

“put them down,” you tell him. 

for once, he does. the lace drops to the floor between your feet, soft and forgotten immediately, because his freed hand comes to your jaw before you can breathe. his palm is rough against your cheek, thumb pressing under your chin to tilt your face up, and the touch is not gentle. it’s too sure of itself. too familiar for someone who has no right. 

“tell me to leave,” his voice is lower now. still arrogant; still him—but stripped of the perfomance sitting around it before. no audience. no homelander smiling from the head of the table. no firecracker watching for weakness. no sage quietly filing away every reaction. just him. just you. just the bad idea already breathing between you. 

you hold his stare. “if i wanted you gone, you’d be.”

his jaw flexes once. then he kisses you. his mouth hits yours hard enough to make your back brush the dresser, his hand still on your jaw while the other catches your waist and pulls you into him. 

you make a sound against his mouth, sharp and surprised, and he swallows it before it can become anything useful and sane. 

soldier boy kisses like he fights—direct, hungry, impatient with anything that isn’t surrender. 

you don’t surrender. not in the way he’d want. you kiss him back with your fingers fisted in the front of his suit, dragging him closer even as every smart part of you starts listing reasons to why this is a terrible thing to let happen. he’s soldier boy. he’s homelander’s father. he’s angry because you exposed him, and you’re turned on because he came back anyway. there’s no soft moral angle to polish this with. no clean explanation. just his tongue in your mouth and your body going hot under his hands. 

his hand slides from your waist to your hip, gripping hard, testing the give of you through the fitted gold fabric. the suit is too tight. it looks made for cameras, not for the way his thigh presses between yours, breaking your breath when he forces your stance open. the edge of the dresser bites lightly into the backs of your legs. 

“all that control,” he murmurs against your mouth. “and this is all it takes?”

you bite his lower lip and he groans. you feel it in his chest where it presses against yours, and the sound goes straight through you, low and ugly and satisfying. 

“don’t talk.” 

his mouth drags to your jaw. “make me stop.” 

you tug at his hair hard enough to pull his head back. his eyes flash—dark and bright—furious that he likes it. you can feel the heat coming off him now, the hard press of him against your stomach. no power needed. no trick. no excuse left for him to hide behind. 

“you came to my room,” you remind him. “touched my things.” 

“mhm.” 

“you wanted this before i did.” 

his grip tightens on your hip and the gold under your skin flickers. his eyes drop to it. “there she is…” 

“i’m not using it.” 

“you’re glowing.” 

“because you’re pissing me off.” 

he leans close enough that his mouth brushes your ear. “then you’re gonna light up the whole damn tower.” 

your breath catches before you can stop it, and that gives him the opening he wants. his mouth finds your throat, teeth scraping over the sensitive place under your jaw, then lower—rough kisses pressed down the side of your neck while his hands start working at the back of your suit. 

he finds the zipper too fast. his knuckles graze your spine as he pulls it down, and the sound is obscene in the quiet room, the slow parting of fabric, the private little surrender of something designed to make you untouchable. 

cool air touches your back. then his mouth. you close your eyes. 

“look at that,” he murmurs, voice rougher now. 

you open them because there is a mirror above the dresser and he has turned you toward it, one hand spread against your stomach, the other peeling the suit down your shoulders. you see yourself flushed and bright-eyed, the gold fabric loosing over your body, your mouth swollen from him. you see him behind you—bigger, his face close to your neck, his eyes lifted to the reflection—watching you watch. 

the suit slips lower, catching at your waist, and your breasts spill free into his hands. 

his breath changes. that tiny break in him is better than a compliment. 

his palms cover you, heavy and warm, thumbs brushing over your nipples until your body arches despite every ounce of pride you still have left. 

“sensitive.” 

“you like it.” 

his hand closes more firmly around your breast—enough to make your head tip back against his shoulder. “i like this.” 

his other hand slides down your stomach in a slow treacherous pace. you grip the edge of the dresser as his fingers move under the loosened suit, beneath the lace at your hips, and when he touches you, when the rough pad of his finger drags through the wet heat of you, both of you go still. 

his forehead lowers briefly to your temple. “fuck.” 

you part your thighs without meaning to, and his fingers follow the invitation immediately, stroking you with a confidence that makes your knees loosen. your glow pulses brighter in the mirror, gold threading over your collarbones, down your arms, blooming where his hands touch you. 

“all this from a kiss?” he asks, but the arrogance is fraying at the edges. 

“don’t flatter yourself.” 

he pushes on finger into you. your answer breaks into a moan. 

his hand tightens on your breast. “say that again.” 

you can’t. not cleany. 

his finger works into you slow, then curls, and the pleasure lands low and sharp enough that your hips press back into him on instinct. he makes a rough sound against your neck, then adds a second finger, stretching you open while his thumb circles your clit with dirty, unhurried pressure. 

his name comes out before you can stop it, “ben—”

his mouth opens against your shoulder, teeth pressing there as if he needs somewhere to put the reaction. “again.” 

you shake your head once, stubborn even with his fingers buried inside you. he trusts them deeper. 

your fingers slip against the dresser. “ben.” 

“there you go,” his voice drops, thick and pleased. “knew you could ask nice.” 

“i’m not asking.”

“you will.”

you should hate him. you should shove him back, pull the suit over your chest, kick him out, and let him spend the rest of the night wondering if he imagined how close he came to losing himself in your room. 

instead, you reach behind you an grab the back of his neck, pulling his mouth to yours. the kiss turns filthy, all tongue and teeth and broken breath. his fingers are still moving between your legs, your hips rocking into his hand now. he groans into your mouth when you grind back against him, when your ass presses against the hard length of him throuhg his suit. 

he pulls his fingers out suddenly and you actually whine. 

“pretty,” his eyes sharpen. 

then he turns you around. your back hits the dresser again, and he’s on you before you can catch your balance, one hand gripping your thigh and hauling it up around his waist. his mouth drags down your chest—hot and rough—and when he takes one nipple into his mouth, you nearly unfold. his tongue works over you, teeth grazing just enough to make you gasp, while his hands keep your thigh high against his hip. 

the suit hangs around your waist now, half-off, ruined. your vought-approved armor turned into a mess of gold fabric bunched between your body and his. 

“this thing cost them a fortune,” you manage.

he lifts his head, mouth wet, eyes dark. “then they can buy you another.” 

his hand moves between you, fingers finding you again, slickinmg through the wetness he already pulled from you. you bite your lip hard, but not fast enough. the sound slips out anyway, and soldier boy looks at you with a satisfaction that makes heat twist through your stomach. 

“don’t hold back now,” he says. “room’s probably soundproof.” 

“probably?”

his smile is brief and wicked. “guess we’ll find out.” 

you pull at the front of his suit. “off.” 

that’s all you say. it works better than any long, clever line would have. 

something in him snaps into focus. he strips down only as much as he needs to—impatient and rough with the fastenings—his mouth finding yours between movements because apparently even underessing is too much distance. when his cock is finally in his hand, thick and hard and flushed at the head, your mouth goes dry. 

he tears open a condom with his teeth, rolls it on, and steps back between your thighs. one hand settles at your waist; the other grips your thigh higher, opening you for him. 

he pushes in slow enough that you feel every inch. the stretch is immediat and deep and almost too much—your body forced to open around him while your fingers dig into his shoulders. he curses under his breath, head dropping forward, mouth near yours but not kissing. not yet. he watches your face instead—watches the way your lips part, the way your brows pull together, the way your glow flares hot under your skin. 

“fuck,” he groans. “you’re tight.” 

you let out a shaky breath that turns into his name halfway through. 

he stills when he’s fully inside you. 

your leg tightens around his waist, pulling him closer even though there’s nowhere closer to go. the dresser presses into your back. his hand presses into your hip. the room narrows to the heavy fullness of him inside you and the sound of both of you breathing. 

“look at me,” he says. 

you do. which is a mistake. his face is wrecked in the most brutal way—jaw clenched, eyes blown dark, sweat starting at his temple, control held together by spite and not much else. you can feel him trying not to move; the restraint in the tremor of his hand on you. 

“ben,” you whisper. 

his hips snap forward and your head falls back with a cry. 

there's no gentle build after that. he fucks you hard agaisnt the dresser, one hand under your thigh, the other braced beside you, each thrust driving the air out of your lungs. bottles rattle behind you. the mirror shakes. your suit slides lower on your hips and he watches every inch of you come apart under him with a hunger that makes your skin burn. 

“take it,” he manages. 

you mean and his rhythm falters for half a second. enough for your power to answer. gold light spreads across your chest, down your stomach, over the hand he has on your thigh. his own chest flickers against yours, faint at first, hidden under the loosened suit, but you feel the heat of it. 

so does he. 

his mouth crashes back to yours before you can say anything. 

you kiss him through it, messy and desperate—fingers in his hair, nails scraping the back of his neck. he groans into your mouth when you clench around him, and the sound does something vicious to you. makes you tighten again just to hear it. 

“shit,” he breathes. “you feel that? squeezing me every time i make a noise.” 

“i’m the one making you—” 

he thrust deeper. you cry out. “me too, sweetheart.” 

his mouth moves over your throat, your collarbone, the top of your breast, leaving heat wherever he touches. one of his hands slides between your bodies, thumb finding your clit, and the pleasure spikes so sharply your nails bite into his shoulder. 

“oh, god.” 

he lifts his head, eyes on your face. “wrong guy.” 

you almost laugh, but his thumb presses harder and the laugh breaks into a moan. he watches it solemnly; watches you lose the shape of the response; watches your mouth open and your eyes go unfocused, and something about that seems to hit him harder than the glow ever did. 

“that’s it,” he murmurs. “that’s what you need.” 

“don’t get smug.”

“too late.” 

“ben—”

“i know,” his voice drops. “i can feel you.” 

he can. there’s no hiding it now, your body is tightening around him, pleasure building fast and hot, your glow bright enough to wash the room in soft gold. his chest answers more strongly this time, pulsing against yours with every deep thrust, and you feel a vicious little thrill at the evidence of it. he’s not untouched. he’s not above this. he’s not standing outside the fire making jokes about it. he’s burning too.

“you’re glowing again,” you whisper. 

his hand moves to your throat, applying just the right amount of pressure to hold your attention in place. “so are you.” 

your lashes flutter. he feels that too. 

“you like that?” he asks, voice darkening. “like my hand there?”

you don’t answer, holding onto the faintest shred of pride you’ve got left. 

his thumb strokes once along the side of your throat, almost tender if not for the way his hips keep driving into yours. “tell me.” 

“yes.” 

his exhale is rough. “good girl.” 

the words land low in your stomach. 

he kisses you again, and this time there’s less fight in it. his mouth stays on yours while his thumb works you faster, while his cock drags deep and thick inside you, while your leg starts to tremble around his waist. you’re close. too close. embarrassingly fast, maybe, but there’s nothing neat about this. he has a hand at your throat, his body between your thighs, his chest glowing because of you, and the entire rooms feels fever-warm from the power spilling off your skin. 

“come on,” he mutters against your mouth. “let me feel it.” 

you shake your head, breathless. it’s not because you don’t want to—but because the edge comes too fast and too bright.

“yes,” he squeezes once. “don’t pull away from me now.” 

your body obeys before your mouth agrees. pleasure snaps through you, sudden and blinding, your glow flaring so hard the mirror catches nothing but gold for one broken second. you come around him with a cry you can’t swallow, hips jerking, fingers locked in his hair, body clenching down until he curses and buries his face against your neck. 

“fuck,” he groans. “that’s it. that’s it.” 

he keeps moving through it, slower but deep, dragging the orgasm out until your legs shake and your breath turns thin. 

his control is worse now. you can feel it slipping in the roughness of his thrusts, the way his hand tightens on your hip, the way his mouth presses hot and open to your shoulder because he has stopped pretending he doesn’t need somewhere to put the sound. 

when your body softens, he pulls out just enough to turn you. you’re still half catching your breath when he spins you around with that same blunt strength that makes your pulse kick. your hands hit the dresser. the mirror steadies in front of you, reflecting your flushed face, your half-undone suit, the gold light still shimmering under your skin. 

one hand spreads between your shoulder blades, easing you down until your elbows press to the dresser. the other grips your hip. you see him in the mirror, big and tense and behind you, jaw tight, chest glowing faintly beneath the open front of his suit. 

“watch,” he commands before he pushes back inside. 

the angle steals whatever breath you had left. 

you moan, louder this time, fingers curling agains tthe polished surface as he fills you again from behind. he pauses when he bottoms out, just long enough for you to feel the full weight of him, the heat of his body curved over yours, his breath at your ear. 

“look at you,” he growls. “taking me so good.” 

your eyes close from please.

his hand catches your jaw immediately, turning your face toward the mirror. “no. watch.” 

you do. you watch him start to move. you watch his hips snap into yours, your own body jolt forward with every thrust, breasts brushing the cool dresser, mouth falling open as the pleasure builds again too soon. it’s filthy seeing it this way—him behidn you, his hands on you, your gold suit shoved around your waist, his cock disappearing int you over and over while the room glows warmer with every broken sound you make. 

“ben,” you gasp. 

his eyes lift to yours in the mirror. that does something to him. 

his rhythm roughens. “louder, doll.” 

“ben.” 

“again.” 

you say it again, and he fucks you harder, one hand gripping your hip while the other slides around your waist and down between your thighs. your body jerks when his finger find your clit again, still sensitive. 

“i can’t—”

“yes, you can.” 

“fuck, no—” 

“you can.” his voice is low at your ear. “give me another one.” 

you push back against him, helplessly chasing and resisting at once—your body split between too much and not enough. he feels it. he feels everything. every clench. every tremble. every time your breath catches instead of becoming a moan. his hand works you through it, his thrusts deep and relentless, his mouth pressing against the side of your neck. 

“that’s it. c’mon, baby. one more.” 

the words hit before you can brace for them. your body clamps down around him. his hips stutter and you see it in the mirror—the way his mouth opens, the way his brows draw tight, the way the gold in his chest flares bright enough to paint the edges of your reflection. 

he sees you seeing it and he doesn’t have the breath to deny it. “fuck.” 

“there you are,” you taunt. 

he grips your jaw tighter while he drives into you hard enough to make the dresser knock against the wall. “don’t start.” 

he’s falling apart now. you feel it in the shape of his body over yours. in the rough drag of his breath. in the way his dirty mouth is actually loosing it’s stamina. 

“so damn tight,” he mutters. “fuck. you feel so good. knew you would. knew you’d take it.”

your second orgasm builds meaner than the first—dragged out of an already-sensitive body. the gold under your skin pulses wildly. your reflection blurs with it. you’re glowing everywhere—chest, cheeks, throat, the backs of your hands braced on the dresser. he looks ruined behind you. 

“come for me.” 

it takes a couple more seconds before your body locks around him. the orgasm tears through you hot and hard, your cry spilling into the room with no attempt to soften it. soldier boy groans behind you, hips driving deep as you clench around him. 

he comes with your name half-buried in a curse. 

his body shudders over yours, one hand braced beside yours on the dresser. the other still grips your waist hard enough to leave memory if not bruises. you feel every pulse through the condom as he stays buried deep, breathing hot against your shoulder. 

his forehead lowers to your shoulder for one heavy second after the worst of it passes. neither of you moves. the suite hums quietly around you. 

your skin is damp. your thighs tremble. your suit is ruined around your hips, your hair mussed, your mouth swollen, your body still clenching faintly around him as the last waves roll through. 

his glow fades before yours does. 

he pulls out carefully. you straighten slowly, palms still on the dresser, trying to gather yourself into something that looks less thoroughly taken apart. 

behind you, he deals with the condom, tucks himself away, closes his suit enough to look almost respectable if someone ignores the mouth and the hair.

you turn around. 

your panties are still on the floor and you watch as he bends and picks them up. 

for one stupid second, you think he’s going to hand them to you. then, he puts them in his pocket instead. 

you stare at him, an incredulous laugh escaping you. “seriously?”

his eyes move over you, slower now, less performative. “yeah.” 

“give them back.” 

“no.” 

your body is too tired for the argument, but your mouth is not. “you’re unbelievable.” 

“you were saying my name a minute ago.” 

you step closer, still half-dressed, still glowing softly where his hands had been. “next time you walk into my room without knocking, i’ll make you cry.”

his gaze drops to your mouth. then back to your eyes. “next time?”

you hate that your pulse reacts. so you smile, pretty and warm and mean enough to be useful. “get out, ben.” 

he watches you for one more second, hand still in his pocket around stolen lace. then he turns toward the door. 

at the threshold, he pauses. “i’m keeping these.” 

you’re glad he didn’t turn around to face you. the smile is on your face, stupid and a little naive. as he keeps walking, the door shutting behind him with a heavy click. only then do you let the last of the gold fade from your skin. 

Natasha’s hands move to grip your waist, gently keeping you in place so she can pass you in the kitchen without bumping into you as she makes her way toward the coffee maker.

You don’t startle or stiffen. You know who the hands belong to. You’re familiar with their hold, with the feeling of their fingertips on you.

“Just me,” she murmurs anyway, voice soft in the early morning, giving you an affectionate squeeze before she lets go.

You turn, offering her a smile in greeting, one of your own hands raising to lightly brush along her back as she walks by.

This is the norm: Natasha’s touch on you, your touch on her. Her knee always manages to bump yours underneath the table during meals, your hand for some reason always reaches up to push a strand of fiery red hair behind her ear.

You’ve been best friends for years, the comfort you two feel with each other something that doesn’t come to many. It’s always felt different with Natasha than with anyone else. Easy, natural, innate.

Natasha is a constant, steadfast and dependable, loyal to a fault. No matter what happens, you know you’ll always have her.

“Are they…?” Steve asks one day, watching how Natasha’s arm is draped over your shoulders as you both sit much too close to one another for it to be platonic on the sofa, some forgotten show, you both prioritizing chatting, playing on the screen.

“Nope,” Wanda replies, the witch only ever getting more and more exasperated at the affectionate behavior that neither of you capitalize on with each day that passes.

“But-”

“I know,” she cuts him off.

That’s the end of it.

The party is well underway, and Natasha is pressed up against you constantly. She keeps telling herself that it’s just due to the crowd.

But regardless of her reason, you’re relishing in it, soaking up her hand against the small of your back leading you as you make your way through the ballroom, basking in the feeling of her shoulder grazing your own whenever you two stand side by side. Natasha’s eyes are on you tonight, her focus never straying, never distracted, never diverting, and you can almost trick yourself into thinking that she likes you as more than a friend too.

“May I have this dance?” Natasha asks a few hours into the party, smirk on her face, her hand extended toward you as an offer.

With the playful tone, you know that you can’t take the question seriously, can’t presume that she means it in any other way than just two friends dancing, but as usual, hope makes a home of your chest anyway.

You bite your lip shyly and nod, accepting her hand, fingers interlocking as Natasha gently tugs you toward the dance floor.

The song is slow, and when the hand not tangled with yours comes to settle on your waist, its warmth bleeding through the material of your dress, you curse the universe yet another time for making you have a crush on your best friend.

You’ve been cursing the universe a lot lately. Every time you notice your gaze lingering a second too long as Natasha peacefully reads in the armchair by the window, every time you find your voice softening when you shift from talking to someone else to talking to her, every time you realize that the reason you touched her was simply an aimless excuse.

Despite it all, despite you knowing you shouldn’t—you shouldn’t long for more, you shouldn’t pretend, you shouldn’t fantasize that this is real—you tuck your head into the crook of Natasha’s neck, resting your cheek against her collarbone as you sway to the music. Natasha suppresses a shiver at your warm breaths puffing along her skin.

You spend the rest of the night glued to her, one dance leading to another and then another. And still, once you finish dancing, your closeness isn’t severed. You both walk over to the couches, Natasha pulling you onto her lap, her arms wrapping around you as she holds you in a way that no one without further intent ever should.

You lean back into her without thinking about it, the movement second nature as touching Natasha has come to be, and you spend the rest of the party there. You’re curled into her body, snuggled into her chest, legs stretched out over her lap. At a certain point, you somehow manage to push yourself even closer, shifting until your head once again finds a way to be nuzzled under her chin.

“I think I’m going to turn in,” you tell the redhead after another couple of hours, words mumbled against her before pulling your head away to look up at her face. You don’t want to end the night, to remove yourself from her arms, but you’re growing tired, yawning constantly, and you have an early start to tomorrow. The party is slowly coming to an end anyway, the sea of people diminishing as many attendees are also electing to go home.

“Want me to walk you to your room?” Natasha asks, slackening her hold just a fraction, “Just so you don’t get lost.”

“I think I can manage to find my way to my bedroom,” you tease.

“For protection purposes then,” she playfully changes course… anything to prolong her time with you.

You roll your eyes at her new reason, but it’s a cover for the way warmth blooms within you at her seemingly wanting to you to stay. “I’ve got it,” you reassure, and for a moment—brief but unignorable—you consider pressing a kiss to the apple of her cheek in goodbye, you imagine what her skin would be like under your lips. The gesture feels right right now, the action feels like it’d be natural, but you force yourself to hold back, not wanting to cross any lines even though they’ve perhaps already been crossed too many times before.

“Alright,” Natasha replies, giving you the adoring smile that causes your traitorous heart to flip flop with the belief that maybe she feels the same, “I’ll see you tomorrow?”

“Bright and early for training,” you answer her, nodding.

Her hand comes up to cup your cheek. Damn her hands for always wanting to touch you. “Rest well,” Natasha murmurs.

You give her one last sweet smile of your own before walking away, dress trailing behind you with each step, Natasha watching your form as you go. She forcefully pushes down the longing for something more that always seems to come about with every look at you, refusing to acknowledge it as usual.

Only moments after you head down the hallway, rounding the corner toward the elevator, Wanda is at Natasha’s side.

She doesn’t ease into the topic. “You have to know how she feels about you.”

“What are you talking about?” Natash feigns ignorance, not glancing over at the witch, gaze still locked onto where you just disappeared.

“Natasha,” Wanda admonishes, well aware that she doesn’t need to elaborate.

Natasha closes her eyes as she sighs, mentally preparing for the conversation she’s always avoided, even with herself. “We’re friends, Wanda. Just friends.”

“Friends don’t look at each other the way she looks at you,” Wanda pauses for a moment before adding tentatively, “Or the way you look at her.”

Natasha stiffens at the implication.

“We’re friends,” she repeats more firmly, shutting down any potential of more from this exchange.

Wanda purses her lips, growing tired of Natasha’s stubbornness and of you doubting your significance to her. “If you aren’t going to let yourself have this, then you need to stop and let her move on.”

When Natasha doesn’t answer that, Wanda sighs as well and turns on her heel to return to what’s left of the party. There’s not much more to say to the obstinate redhead.

You’ve already made it back to your room, your dress half unzipped, when you realize that you forgot your phone at the party, having given it to Steve for safekeeping when you danced with Natasha.

You let out a tired exhale and rezip your dress, smoothing out the material before striding to your door. Your stare drifts to your heels that you hastily discarded upon your return, your feet aching at just the sight of them, and you elect to throw on a comfier pair of sneakers. The elevator ride to the ballroom is short, your fingers tapping out an anxious rhythm on your thigh as the number goes down. You get to see Natasha again.

But what you see, you never expected.

Your stomach drops, your entire being faltering when you enter the ballroom and witness Natasha speaking to another woman. They’re close—too close—and Natasha has that look in her eye. You know that look; you’re well-acquainted with it. But it’s always been pointed at you every time you’ve seen it previously. It’s what made you feel like there was something between you two, and even though you’ve told yourself not to, you’ve always taken it as hopeful evidence that she returns your affections.

The woman’s hand comes up to brush against Natasha’s arm, the action blatantly suggestive, and Natasha doesn’t stop her. If anything, the redhead’s smile widens.

You turn around and quickly flee the ballroom, phone forgotten.

Natasha’s smile does widen at the woman’s advances, flattered, but what you fail to see after taking off is Natasha gently removing her hand from her bicep, Natasha politely turning her down, Natasha unable to bring herself to view anyone the way she views you.

You don’t make it to training the next morning, and you can’t find it in yourself to give Natasha a heads up. You can’t look at the text chain, can’t bear to see her name on your phone followed by the heart emoji that Natasha insisted you add. You can’t stomach the contact photo of her smiling.

Everything feels different now, your friendship—because that’s what this has always been despite you hoping that it was more, right?—feels tainted by the fact that you saw her with another woman. Everything’s changed. Has she always been talking to others, and you just never knew? Were you never special? Never significant? Never notable in her eyes?

What hurts the most is that, in spite of it all, you can’t villainize her. It’s not her fault you fell, it’s not her fault she doesn’t reciprocate, and it’s not her fault she was flirting with someone else. She doesn’t owe you anything. It only makes sense that others would want her like you do. There’s simply no way someone could see the redhead and not be in awe of her. The marvel that is Natasha Romanoff is unmissable.

But they don’t want her like you do, not really. Because they don’t know her like you do. You want her… every bit of her that you’ve already been given and more.

But that doesn’t matter now. It’s been months of pushing it off, but you’re finally telling yourself that you need to move on. It’s finally time. Your affections toward her are no longer able to be sheltered; your body is no longer a safe place for them now that your mind swirls with the newfound knowledge that Natasha doesn’t feel the same. Having confirmation that your feelings are unrequited—no longer in limbo like before when you were able to foolishly play make-believe that you two might’ve had a future—you can no longer remain just friends. You know you aren’t strong enough to handle the indirect rejections and constant heartbreak.

Natasha waits for you in the gym, warming up for longer than necessary, stalling until your arrival. But you never show, and her confusion and worry only grow with each passing minute. You’ve never stood her up before.

Eventually she abandons the pretense of working out, grabbing her towel and water bottle and leaving the gym, ending the session early when, after over an hour, there’s still no sign of you. With a puzzled expression on her face, she heads to your room.

She knocks. You know it’s her. You don’t respond.

She calls your name through the door. You pretend you don’t hear.

“You didn’t show up for training,” Natasha says, tone hesitant in a way it’s never been with you, “I just wanted to check up on you…” She trails off. “I don’t know if maybe you’ve just slept in, or…” There’s another pause. “Just, if you can hear me, come find me later?”

It’s phrased as a question. Your lack of response, your lack of acknowledgement, is throwing her for a loop. You’ve never ignored her before. Maybe you really are just still asleep, but she can’t shake the feeling that something is off.

And the feeling only furthers as time goes on.

You don’t find her later that day, or the next day, or the next.

You’re avoiding her. Not obviously, not enough to be called out on it yet, but breakfasts are cut short, and you take a seat on the opposite side of the table. You no longer attend movie nights, always giving the excuse that you’re too tired to make it through a film. During training with the team, you two used to immediately make eye contact and silently communicate that you’d be sparring partners—as if anyone was going to try and come between the two of you anyway—but now you’ve been voluntarily pairing yourself up with Wanda. And worst of all, you won’t let her touch you anymore.

There are no more late-night talks, no more sleepovers, no more lunches at the nearby cafe together, and Natasha feels as though a part of her is lost. She’s never been unsure of where she stood with you; you’ve never rebuffed her like this. The void you’ve left with her is not one she could’ve prepared for, not one she ever thought she’d have to fill.

Natasha doesn’t know how it could get any worse, but it does.

She arrives back from a mission, her body aching, everything in her begging for her to lay down. All she wants to do is to curl up on your bed, to have you run your hands through her hair just like you used to, her head in your lap. But for some still unknown reason, she’s lost her right to do that now.

As she trudges through the halls, practically dragging her feet in exhaustion, she passes by the common room on her way to her quarters and freezes at what she hears.

You’re laughing—giggling—at something some man sitting next to you said, and you’re leaning against him.

It’s the first time Natasha’s seen you in days, and you’re cuddled up next to some man? She can’t hold her tongue. “Who’s this?” she asks bluntly, announcing her presence.

You glance over the back of the sofa, eyes widening in surprise as you notice the redhead standing in the entryway. “Natasha,” you exhale her name, your voice softening involuntarily. You mentally berate yourself for that even though you know it was an inevitability.

You almost feel sheepish, almost feel guilty, like you’re doing something you aren’t supposed to, like you’re betraying her, but then the memory of the night of the party flits through your head, and your resolve strengthens along with the despair that has been a constant ever since seeing her with another. “I didn’t know you had gotten back already.”

She wants to say that that’s because you no longer wait for her in the landing bay like you used to, that you’re no longer there to greet her when she returns, your hands tracing over her body carefully, thoroughly checking her for injuries, worry radiating off of you until you’re certain that she’s come home unharmed, before you pull her into you for a hug.

But she doesn’t.

Her gaze flicks toward the man, a silent question.

“Oh,” you start awkwardly before introducing him. He’s still too close to you; his arm is still around you. If anything, he tightens his grip as if he can sense the unspoken feelings and tension in the air.

“He’s my-” You can’t finish. The word ‘partner’ feels wrong in your mouth. It feels like it’s getting stuck in your teeth. It doesn’t taste sweet the way thought it would, the way you know it would if you were talking about Natasha instead of him. You try to push that thought away.

“I’m her partner.” the man supplies next to you, finishing your sentence. If he picks up on your hesitation, your reluctance, he doesn’t voice it, and you nod in uncomfortable confirmation.

“My partner,” you agree quietly, and Natasha’s feels something in her break.

Natasha doesn’t like him. She doesn’t know him, but she doesn’t like him.

She doesn’t like the way he compliments you and the way you smile bashfully back. She doesn’t like the kisses he peppers across your face and how you ask for more. And fuck, she doesn’t like that he is always at the Compound, always near you, always touching you, always in the room.

She can never get a second alone with you anymore… not that you’d let her get close these days anyway.

Still, she tries. Her hand still reaches out for you habitually when you walk by, intending on skimming across your shoulder; her body still craves yours. She just wants to know where she went wrong.

She misses you.

She doesn’t realize that you miss her too—more than anything—that everything with the man is an act, an ultimately unsuccessful attempt to keep yourself away from the redhead who you’ve convinced yourself doesn’t love you the way you love her. Because that’s what this is, isn’t it? It’s not a crush. It’s love.

Natasha brightens one afternoon when she sees you walking alone. For once, he’s not here.

“Hey, wait up a sec!” she calls out from down the hall, long steps quickly letting her catch up to you, her expression a hopeful smile that won out even over her nerves. This is it. This is when she finally gets to talk to you, to tell you how much she misses you, to tell you how she thinks brunch is way overdue and that you need to catch up, to tell you how watching you with him has been killing her.

Her hand raises to touch your arm as it would on any other day like before, but, to her dismay, you sidestep the gesture… because this isn’t any other day like before. Things have shifted between the two of you as much as she wishes they didn’t. She wonders if, by now, the distance is irreversible. She wonders if, at this point, telling you how she feels would even make a difference.

You give her a returning smile, but it comes off more like a grimace. She falters. You don’t want to see her. “Hey, I really have to go,” you answer her weakly, “I have a date. He’s- he’s probably already waiting for me.”

And then you’re rushing off without letting her respond, not looking back behind you.

Natasha just stands there, her hand still raised midair, and Wanda sees the whole thing.

Despite being happy for you, despite knowing that you deserve to move on, Wanda can’t help but feel sympathetic toward the woman who is standing there in front of her looking beyond heartbroken at your retreating figure.

“Natasha,” she says gently, walking over, her hand coming up to rest on Natasha’s shoulder, “You chose to turn a blind eye. It’s only fair that she moves on. You have to let her.”

Days pass; weeks pass. Your relationship with Natasha continues to dwindle. She becomes an observer of your life, an outsider, no longer welcome to the day to day. You don’t come to her with your highs and lows. She has to assume that means you’re going to him.

It’s agony, being without you, not having you as a pivotal piece of her life anymore. She thinks about you with him at night when you’d usually be with her in her room, the two of you watching your favorite show before you eventually fall asleep with your head resting on her shoulder. She checks her phone periodically to see if you’ve maybe texted her, the two of you usually constantly sending messages back and forth, jokes or banter or updates throughout the day. She waits and waits for any sign that you may be coming back to her, may remember that she’s still there, still present, still cares for you, but she never receives one, and the loneliness is ever growing, ever pervading.

Until there’s a knock on her door one night.

Natasha, annoyed with whoever is knocking at this late hour, interrupting her wallowing, yanks open her door, ready to reprimand whoever is on the other side, but her demeanor changes when she sees it’s you, her face shifting from irritation to concern.

You’re crying. Tears are trailing down your cheeks.

She says your name, soft in the way that’s still only reserved for you even if you no longer know it.

Your bottom lip wobbles at the familiar sound of her voice, and it takes you a second to find your own, but when you do… “He broke up with me,” you whisper, and you suck in an uneven breath when you voice it out loud.

Natasha’s world screeches to a halt at your statement. You just said that he broke up with you?

“What?” she asks, needing you to say it again… because it can’t be true. It can’t.

You just nod sadly, another tear dropping. They’re not even because the breakup happened. Sure, it was out of nowhere, jarring, but for some reason, you’re not particularly torn up about it, and that’s the worst part. Your feelings regarding it—or lack thereof—only further cement the fact that you’re not actually over the redhead standing in front of you. You’ve been desperately trying to move on, but this only proves that you haven’t even come close to succeeding despite your best efforts.

“Are you okay?” Natasha questions gently, prompting, trying to tell you that you can talk to her if you need to… or that you can simply take comfort in her presence like you used to. She hopes that you still do even though it’s been a while.

“Y-yeah,” you stutter out, words interrupted by shaky breaths, “Yeah, I’m- I’m fine. I think that’s the hard part.”

Natasha frowns at that. “What do you mean?”

“I guess- I guess I just never really liked him anyway.”

“What?” Hope flares within her even though maybe it shouldn’t.

You can’t answer.

Natasha says your name another time, imploring, almost begging, longing for one answer in particular.

“Natasha, I-” you break off, “I can’t do this with you anymore.”

“Do what?”

“Pretend. Hide. Dance around it.”

The hope flares brighter.

“I like you. I love you. I’ve tried so fucking hard to ignore it, to move on, to-” You shake your head, frustrated at your words, at the situation, at yourself. “Look, I just- I just need you to tell me that you don’t feel the same. Maybe then I can-”

Natasha’s hand makes its way to your face, palm warm against your cheek, the action halting you in the middle of your sentence.

You look up at her questioningly, nervously.

“Can I kiss you?” she breathes out.

Your mind goes blank. You’re positive you didn’t hear her right. You don’t respond.

“Can I kiss you?” Natasha repeats again, and she can’t help the desperation that’s seeping into her tone.

Then you nod, slowly, dumbly, as if you can’t believe that what’s about to happen is about to happen.

And Natasha’s lips are on yours.

It isn’t short; it isn’t a gentle brush of the lips. It’s charged, all of the longing and desire and pain that’s been coursing through her these past weeks, all of the longing and desire and need that’s been festering these past years, coming out in the kiss.

When you break apart for air, both of your eyes still closed, Natasha leans her forehead against yours for a few seconds. She tilts her head to affectionately nudge your nose with hers before pressing one more kiss, much softer this time, to the corner of your mouth.

“You look like you need to catch your breath,” Natasha says when she finally opens her eyes to gaze at you again.

“I think I do,” you say, because you’re definitely breathless after that.

“Me too,” Natasha murmurs, but she doesn’t give either of you another moment to do so, her hands grabbing at your shirt, your body, and pulling you into her room, the door slamming closed behind you when you’re pushed up against it.

Your back hits the wood, and her lips reattach to yours. You shudder not only at the feeling of her tongue tracing your bottom lip but also her touch back on you after being so long without it.

Natasha’s hands are teasingly trailing up and down your side before moving under your shirt. Her fingers skim along your bare skin, and you can’t help but moan, the redhead taking advantage of your parted lips, her tongue now meeting yours.

But then you’re abruptly pulling back for some reason. “Wait, wait, Natasha, that woman-”

She pauses in her ministrations, her brain taking a moment to catch up to your words, her mind hazy from getting lost in you. “What woman?” she asks hoarsely.

“That woman from the party-” you try again.

It clicks in her head. She doesn’t know how, but you saw. “That woman from the party meant nothing,” she reassures you quickly, willing to give you more, to give you as much as you need, but hoping that that’s enough, because, fuck, she wants her lips back on yours as soon as possible.

You search her face, trying to gauge her sincerity, and you only find her gaze steady and unwavering, filled with earnestness and dedication. Your mouth reconnects with hers, tongue immediately requesting entrance again as you resume the kiss where it was at.

You’re too preoccupied with kissing her that you don’t realize her hand is traveling down to your thigh until she’s tugging it up and hooking it around her waist. Natasha swears her own core is overheating when you become flush against her in this way. She can feel you pulsing with need against her leg.

“Is this okay?” she asks, needing your permission despite your seemingly blatant desire, needing you to confirm that you’re just as desperate for her as she is for you.

“Yes, yes. Natasha, please.” It comes out a whimper, a beg.

Natasha then hurriedly shoves up your shirt at your consent, impatiently dragging down your bra, your breasts spilling out of it, and she whines when she gets her first look at you. Your nipples are achingly hard from both the chill in the air and her kisses, and her body thrums with something hot and sharp and dangerous as she takes you in. Your hair is a mess, your body is trembling, your clothes are rumpled from her rough handling. You’re beautiful.

She wastes no more time, unzipping your jeans and shoving her hand into them. She needs to touch you. Now.

And you’re absolutely soaked.

Your hips jerk like you can’t control them, and you can’t, your body moving completely on its own, following instinct, needing any and all stimulation that Natasha is currently willing to provide, and she doesn’t hesitate to press the tip of her middle finger to your clit, beginning to leisurely circle it. Your eyes slip shut.

“Tell me,” Natasha demands, voice low, “Did you think of me when he touched you?”

“He-” you stop, gasping, both pleasure and embarrassment stealing your words, “He never-”

“He never, what?” Natasha asks, her finger slowing further.

“He never touched me,” you finally choke out, voice breathy from a mix of need and shame. You’re grateful that your eyes are closed because you don’t want to see the look of pity on her face.

Natasha only just manages to catch and prevent herself from reacting when you admit that he never touched you, never brought you pleasure, never fulfilled you the way deserve. It’s not pity. It’s surprise; it’s anger.

“Well, then he’s a fool,” she answers quietly, “Leaving you untouched like that, letting his hands go to waste when they could’ve been on you, letting his fingers go to waste when they could’ve been in you.”

You shudder at the tone of her voice, and your hips buck off the door another time, your body restless, aching. You can feel yourself dripping, stickiness coating your thighs, and you know the woman is front and center to every response and reaction she receives from your body. You know she can feel just how much you want her. “Please, Natasha. Please touch me.”

“I’m going to make you feel so good, detka,” Natasha promises. It’s a vow. She’s determined to make up for every moment that the man neglected you, to replace them with love, with adoration, with her. Her touch was always made for you, after all.

Her finger abandons your sensitive bundle of nerves, and you whine, but your whine quickly transitions into a loud cry of her name when she suddenly shoves two fingers into your hole, your pussy immediately clenching around her digits.

Natasha’s breath stutters as she hears you. She wants to memorize every sound that escapes; she wants to press her mouth to your throat and feel them directly from the source. But she can’t. She needs to watch you, needs to see the way your brows scrunch up in focus, needs to witness the expression on your face when your entire body vibrates with desperation.

“Your body is mine. Your sounds are all for me,” she growls, but it’s not just possessive, and that’s what gets you. It’s worshipful in a way you’ve never experienced from anyone before. You’ve always wished for Natasha to be the one to show you what devotion truly is, and now that it’s happening, it feels like a dream.

Because her touch isn’t just dominating. It’s reverential. And you feel another gush of wetness leak from your pussy in response to the delicate way she’s holding you juxtaposed with the insistent way she’s fucking you.

You nod in agreement, irregular inhales and exhales leaving you nonstop, unable to do anything but plead for more, because… she’s right. You’re hers; you’ve always been hers.

“Say it,” she commands softly.

Her fingers speed up as well as if to prove her point, pistoning in and out of you, her pace quick and relentless as she waits for you to respond.

She fucks the words right out of you.

“I’m yours,” you moan, voicing the sentiment you’ve always felt but kept inside, “I’m yours. I’m yours, Natasha. I’m yours.”

Your vision is blurring with pleasure, your body is shaking, your pussy throbbing, and when you come, your back against Natasha’s door, your pants hastily pulled down, her fingers still plunging into you, caressing your walls with each stroke, her free hand everywhere, she doesn’t stop.

She makes you come again and again, until your body simply cannot handle another climax, until you fall limp against her chest, too tired to keep your eyes open, your knees giving out and you being held up only by her arms.

You wake the next morning in Natasha’s bed, curled into her sheets comfortably just like you’ve been hundreds of times before. Her mattress feels familiar, her pillow under your head feels familiar, but her arm around your waist feels different this time around, protective and securing. She’s holding you as if you’re still hers even in the light of day.

You roll over until you’re facing Natasha, your eyes fixated on her face, calm, relaxed from sleep.

You’re silent as you study her.

And her eyes flutter open slowly to find you staring. You don’t say anything, just gazing up at the woman who has stolen your breath away, but Natasha doesn’t take it as a good sign.

Her hold on you loosens. She begins to pull her arm away. “Are you regretting it now that morning has arrived?” she asks quietly, regarding you closely, watching your face as if it will give her an answer.

Her name carried weight across borders, spoken in council chambers and whispered in war tents alike. She was not merely a general, nor simply a noble. She was the kind of woman who reshaped territories with patience and force in equal measure. Trade shifted when she desired it. Alliances formed when she allowed them. Empires did not threaten her lightly.

You had heard stories, of campaigns won through strategy rather than numbers, of negotiations where seasoned diplomats left feeling as though they had been dissected and catalogued. She was not reckless. She was precise.

Which made your father’s tone that evening all the more unsettling.

He had summoned you to the council chamber just before dusk. The long windows cast gold across the polished floor, painting everything in warmth that did not reach his expression.

You expected a discussion of trade routes. Border tensions. Perhaps another tedious debate over tariffs.

Instead, he dismissed the servants. The door closed.

And he said, calmly, as though remarking on the weather, “You are to be married.” You held his gaze.

It was not unusual. Marriage had always been a political tool in your house. You had been raised knowing affection was secondary to alliance.

“To whom?” you asked. He did not hesitate.

“Ambessa Medarda.”

Silence followed, not explosive, not dramatic. Just heavy. You had prepared yourself for many futures. None of them included standing beside the most formidable woman in Noxus.

“She requires strengthened access to our ports,” your father continued, folding his hands behind his back. “In exchange, she offers military protection and expanded trade dominance. This union ensures stability.”

Stability.

Such a gentle word for something so binding.

You did not flinch. You did not protest.

You had been trained better than that.

“And my consent?” you asked evenly.

His eyes flickered, just slightly, surprised you would phrase it so plainly.

“This benefits our house.” That was not an answer. You inclined your head once. “I see.”

You did. You understood the logic. The strategy. The inevitability of it.

What you did not know was what kind of woman you would be expected to become beside her.

A silent ornament? A political extension? Or something else entirely?

Your father studied you for a long moment, as if expecting tears, anger, resistance. You gave him none.

“When do we depart?” you asked. His approval was subtle, but present.

“At first light.”

————-

That night, sleep did not come easily.

You sat by the window of your chamber, watching the torches burn low along the courtyard walls. The future felt less like a path and more like a shift in terrain, unfamiliar ground you would have to learn quickly.

You were not naïve.

You knew Ambessa did not marry for affection.

She married for advantage.

Which meant she would assess you the same way she assessed territory, for value. The thought should have frightened you.

nstead, it steadied something in your spine. If she intended to measure you, then you would give her something worth measuring.

The journey to Noxus was long enough to think. Long enough to understand that once you crossed its borders, you would not return as you had left.

The capital rose from the horizon like a declaration of dominance, black stone, red banners, walls that did not suggest defense so much as inevitability. This was not a kingdom that feared attack. It was one that expected victory.

You did not allow yourself to stare. Inside the gates, soldiers moved with disciplined precision. No wasted motion. No idle chatter. Even the air felt sharper here, thinner somehow.

You were escorted through towering corridors lined with war trophies and carved victories. Every inch of the architecture was intentional, a reminder that this was a house built on conquest.

And at its center, she waited. Ambessa did not sit on a throne. She stood. Armor dark and immaculate, gold catching the torchlight along its edges. One hand rested behind her back. The other at her side, relaxed but ready. She did not shift when you entered the hall. She did not need to.

The room belonged to her.

The guards announced your name. Your lineage. Your house.

You walked forward alone.

Each step deliberate. Measure with controll.

You stopped several paces away and inclined your head, respectful, but not submissive. Her eyes were already on you. They were sharper than you expected.

“You have traveled far,” she said.

Her voice was lower than rumor described. Controlled. Even.

“Yes,” you replied. “As have you, I imagine.”

A subtle pause. You had not answered as expected. Most would have expressed gratitude. Or flattery. Her gaze lingered on your posture. Your hands. Your expression.

“You understand why you are here,” she continued. It was not phrased as a question.

“I do,” you answered.

“And you accept it?”

There it was. The test. You held her eyes steadily.

“I understand the necessity of it.”

A muscle shifted in her jaw.

“Necessity does not imply acceptance.”

“No,” you agreed calmly. “But I was not raised to mistake duty for personal preference.”

Silence fell over the chamber. You were aware of every soldier in the room listening.

Ambessa stepped forward then, not quickly, not dramatically. Just enough that the distance between you shortened.

Up close, she was larger than life. Presence heavy, like standing too near a storm.

“Most,” she said quietly, “would tremble.”

“I was taught composure,” you replied. “Not fear.”

Her eyes narrowed slightly.

“You think you have nothing to fear?”

You considered the question honestly.

“I think fear is unhelpful if one intends to survive.”

For the first time, something shifted.

Not warmth. But some kind of interest.

She circled you slowly, boots echoing faintly against the stone floor. You remained still, though you were acutely aware of her proximity. The weight of her observation was tangible.

“You stand very straight,” she murmured behind you.

“It is how I was trained.”

“To obey?”

You turned slightly to face her again.

“To endure.”

That made her stop. There it was again, that pause. Small. But real. Ambessa did not pause often. When she faced you fully once more, there was something different in her expression. Not softened. But sharpened in a new way.

“You will kneel during the ceremony,” she said.

It was not cruel. It was fact. You inclined your head once. “As tradition requires.”

“And outside of tradition?” You met her gaze.

“I will show you respect,” you said carefully. “But I will not kneel in private.”

The air in the hall shifted. Not because you had challenged her. But because you had drawn a line without raising your voice. For a long moment, she simply looked at you.

A faint, almost imperceptible smile touched the corner of her mouth. “You are either very brave,” she said softly, “or very foolish.”

You did not look away.

“I have not yet decided.”

A quiet exhale left her, almost a laugh, but not quite.

“Good,” she murmured. “I have little patience for weakness.”

She turned then, dismissing the guards with a flick of her fingers. The chamber slowly emptied, leaving only the two of you beneath the vaulted ceiling.

When the doors closed, the atmosphere changed. Less political. More personal.

Ambessa stepped closer again, close enough that you could see the faint scar tracing her collarbone beneath the edge of her armor.

“You understand,” she said quietly now, “that this marriage will not be gentle.”

“I do not require gentleness,” you replied.

Her eyes flicked over your face once more.

“No,” she agreed. “I suspect you do not.”

And for the first time since you arrived, you felt it. Not dominance. Not threat. But the beginning of something far more dangerous.

Respect.

————-

The wedding hall was larger than the council chamber. Deliberately so.

Noxus did not celebrate quietly. It declared.

Red banners fell from the vaulted ceiling like rivers of conquest. Braziers burned along the walls, smoke curling upward in slow spirals. Nobles lined either side of the aisle, armored generals and silk draped politicians alike watching with sharp, calculating eyes.

You could feel it. They were not here for romance. They were here to measure you. At the far end of the hall stood Ambessa. Not in battle armor this time. Ceremonial.

Gold etched into dark steel, crimson fabric draped at her shoulders, every detail crafted to project strength. She did not fidget. Did not shift her weight. She stood like a monument carved into flesh. Waiting.

The music began, low drums, steady and unyielding. You walked forward alone. Each step echoed.

You felt the weight of eyes on your back. On your spine. Waiting for it to bend prematurely. Waiting for nerves. Hesitation. You gave them none.

When you reached her, you did not immediately kneel. You met her gaze first. Just for a moment. The faintest acknowledgment passed between you. This is the line.

The officiant spoke, voice echoing across stone. “This union binds house to house, strength to strength—”

You barely heard the words. Because this part mattered.

“Kneel.”

The word was ceremonial. Expected. You lowered yourself to one knee. You kept your head lifted. That did not go unnoticed.

A murmur rippled faintly through the hall. Tradition allowed kneeling. It did not require lowered eyes. Ambessa looked down at you. There was no cruelty in her expression. No satisfaction. Only scrutiny.

Her hand came to rest beneath your chin, fingers firm but not forcing. She tilted your face upward fully, ensuring every noble in that chamber could see it. You did not resist. But you did not soften either.

“You kneel for Noxus,” she said, voice carrying through the hall. Not for me. It was subtle. But intentional. You held her gaze steadily.

“For Noxus,” you echoed.

A flicker in her eyes. Approval.

She drew a ceremonial blade, not to harm, but to mark alliance. The flat of it brushed lightly against your shoulder, cool metal against skin.

“Rise.”

You stood smoothly. And when you did, you did not stand behind her. You stood beside her. That was not tradition. That was choice. Another murmur passed through the hall, sharper this time. Ambessa noticed.

She could have corrected you. Could have shifted you back half a step and reasserted dominance in front of her entire court.

Instead, she remained where she was. Shoulder nearly touching yours. The officiant declared the union complete. Applause followed, controlled and political. But Ambessa did not look at the crowd. She looked at you.

Low enough that only you could hear, she murmured, “You test boundaries boldly.”

You answered just as quietly. “You allowed it.” A beat of silence.

The faintest curve of her mouth. “For now.”

Her hand slid to the small of your back, not possessive, not crushing, but unmistakably claiming. The hall saw it. So did you. This was not affection. This was strategy evolving.

And as the court bowed in acknowledgment of your new title, you understood something vital. You had not been brought here to kneel. You had been brought here to endure.

And perhaps, to stand. The celebrations continued long after the ceremony ended.

Laughter echoed through the halls. Wine flowed. Nobles whispered behind jeweled fans and polished goblets, speculating about you, your posture, your composure, the way you had stood beside her instead of behind.

You felt their eyes even as the music swelled.

Ambessa did not acknowledge them.

When the final toast concluded, she dismissed the court with a single look.

“Enough,” she said.

No one argued.

You were escorted to her private chamber, not adorned in excess, but in strength. Dark stone walls. Weapons displayed with purpose rather than decoration. A war table positioned near the window overlooking Noxus’ burning torches.

She entered after you.

The door shut with a heavy, deliberate sound.

For the first time since your arrival, there was no audience.

No politics.

Just the two of you.

Ambessa removed her ceremonial cloak slowly, folding it with precision before setting it aside. She did not rush. She did not fill the silence.

She let it stretch.

Testing.

“You stood beside me,” she said at last, without turning.

“Yes.”

“That was not tradition.”

“No.”

She turned then.

Her gaze was sharper in private. Less curated. More direct.

“You are aware I could have corrected you.”

“I am.”

“And yet you did it.”

You met her eyes evenly. “You did not move me.”

A slow step forward.

“You presume much.”

“I observed.”

That made her pause again, just briefly.

“You do not fear me,” she said.

It was not a question. It was an assessment.

You considered your answer carefully.

“I respect your power,” you said. “But I do not fear being your equal in private.”

The words were dangerous.

You knew that.

So did she.

Ambessa closed the remaining distance between you until only inches separated your bodies. You could feel the heat radiating from her armor, the steady rhythm of her breath.

Her hand came up, not violent, not harsh, but firm as it settled at your jaw, tilting your face upward.

“If you mistake this marriage for equality,” she said quietly, “you will be disappointed.”

“I do not mistake it for equality,” you replied calmly. “I intend to earn it.”

Silence.

Her thumb pressed slightly against your skin, testing for tremor.

There was none.

“You speak of earning as though I am the prize,” she murmured.

“You are,” you said. “As am I.”

You found mutual recognition. Her grip loosened slightly.

“You kneel for Noxus,” she said again, echoing her words from the ceremony.

“Yes.”

“But you will not kneel for me.”

“No.”

A long pause. She stepped back. Not in rejection. In decision.

“You will stand beside me,” she said. “In council. In war. In court.”

It was not phrased romantically.

It was not gentle.

It was deliberate.

“And if I find you lacking?”

You held her gaze.

“You will correct me.”

The faintest hint of a smile touched her lips.

“You will be tested,” she warned.

“I expect to be.”

She studied you one last time, slower now. Not dissecting. Weighing. Then she removed her gauntlets, setting them aside with a quiet clink of metal.

“When I chose this alliance,” she said, voice lower now, less performative, “I expected a political asset.”

Her eyes met yours again. “I did not expect a spine.”

“You will do.”

It was not poetic. It was not a confession.

But from Ambessa, it was acceptance.

Her hand moved to the small of your back once more, firmer now. Not to push you forward. Not to force you down.

To position you beside her.

“Rest tonight,” she said quietly. “Tomorrow, we begin.”

Not as captor and ornament. Not as conqueror and prize. But as something far more dangerous.

Campaigns were calculated. Alliances negotiated. Even betrayals, when they came, were rarely surprising. She understood motive. She understood ambition. She understood desire.

What she did not understand was you.

You had been introduced to the council as an advisor, sharp minded, measured, far less intimidated by Noxian authority than most. The first time you spoke against one of her proposals, the chamber had fallen silent in a way it never did for anyone else.

“With respect,” you had said calmly, fingers resting against the edge of the war table, “that maneuver secures territory but destabilizes supply lines. The cost outweighs the gain.”

You did not tremble as you said it. You did not rush to soften your words.

You simply waited.

Ambessa had expected defiance to feel like a challenge.

Instead, it felt… refreshing.

She adjusted the strategy.

The room noticed.

So did you.

But where others would have interpreted that adjustment as favor, you treated it as professional acknowledgment. Nothing more.

That, perhaps, was where it began.

You did not seek her approval. You did not linger after meetings in the hope of praise. When summoned, you came. When dismissed, you left. Your composure never wavered into flattery.

And yet, over time, Ambessa found herself prolonging discussions unnecessarily. Requesting clarification she did not truly need. Asking for your assessment even when her own conclusion was already formed.

You answered every inquiry with the same steady tone. There was no reverence in your voice. No fear. And no flirtation.

You treated her not as a conqueror, but as an equal mind.

It unsettled her more than opposition ever had.

One evening, long after the council had dispersed, you remained at the war table organizing parchment maps into neat stacks. Candlelight cast long shadows across the chamber, softening the hard lines of steel and stone.

Ambessa had not left.

“You challenge me often,” she said at last.

You did not look startled. You rarely did.

“I challenge inefficiency,” you replied, eyes still scanning a map.

“And you believe I am inefficient?”

Your gaze lifted then, steady and unafraid. “No. But no strategist is infallible.”

There was no edge in your voice. No desire to provoke.

You were simply honest.

Ambessa stepped closer, boots echoing faintly across the stone floor. She had stood in battlefields drenched in blood without hesitation. Yet this quiet distance between you felt infinitely more precarious.

“You speak boldly,” she observed.

“I was invited here to think,” you said. “Not to agree.”

A corner of her mouth almost curved.

Almost.

You returned to your maps, unaware that her gaze lingered longer than it should have.

It was not admiration alone that grew.

It was the way you listened when she spoke, not in awe, but in engagement. The way you met her eyes without shrinking. The way you never reached for her authority as leverage in conversation.

You were not dazzled by her reputation.

You were not afraid of her power.

And most dangerously of all, you did not seem to notice the shift in her attention.

The first time someone else noticed, it was subtle.

A visiting noble, wine glass tilted lazily in his hand, glanced between the two of you during council.

“A curious dynamic,” he remarked lightly. “Our general seems particularly attentive to this advisor.”

The implication hung in the air like smoke.

Ambessa’s expression did not change. “I value competence.”

You, however, frowned slightly in confusion. “I assure you,” you added calmly, “I receive no special consideration.”

A ripple of restrained amusement moved through the chamber.

Ambessa did not look at you.

She dismissed the council shortly thereafter.

When the doors closed and silence reclaimed the hall, she remained still for a long moment before speaking.

“You are unaware,” she said.

“Of what?” you asked.

Her gaze settled on you, direct, searching.

“Of the effect you have.”

The words were deliberate. Controlled.

You blinked once, as if recalibrating.

“I had not intended to create any… misunderstanding,” you said carefully.

There was no coyness in your tone. No teasing denial.

Just genuine uncertainty.

Ambessa studied your face for signs of manipulation.

She found none.

You truly had not seen it.

Had not considered that her attention might extend beyond strategy.

A strange sensation tightened in her chest, something far less familiar than battlefield tension. Vulnerability.

“I do not mistake your conduct,” she said evenly. “Nor do I expect reciprocation.”

You seemed to relax at that.

“I respect you deeply,” you replied. “And I value our discussions. But I had not thought of them as anything beyond that.”

She appreciated honesty. Even when it cost her something. Ambessa inclined her head slightly. “Then we proceed as we have.”

Professional and measured, making the structure restored.

And yet, as you gathered your documents and turned to leave, you paused.

“For what it is worth,” you added quietly, “your presence is… grounding.”

It was not a confession. Not an invitation. But it was not nothing.

Ambessa watched you exit the chamber, posture steady, steps unhurried. She did not call you back, or press further.

She had conquered kingdoms through force and precision. This, however, would not be conquered.

If affection were ever to exist between you, it would not be taken. It would be chosen.

“You Bene Gesserit made me a freak! TAKE ME BACK!” You scream in the small room, knowing that no one would come back for you. But your body responds - a coldness follows in your body as you twist and see The Reverend Mother. 

The Reverend Mother. 

Standing straight, fabric around her shoulders, not at all how you had imagined her. 

The facial tattoos and blue eyes from spice made her ethereal. Those eyes, the eyes of Ibad. 

They sliced at your soul. She hadn’t yet used the voice, but she was assessing you now.

Lady Jessica was gorgeous, older, and more refined; small scars on her hands proved the stories weren’t fiction. She had truly fought all her life to be here. The prominent facial tattoos are a reminder of a life lived before you were even studying as a witch. 

You gulp dryly, inside of the great house, no one wears stillsuits. Though you’ve only had the pleasure a few times. 

It was looked down upon; you’d come from good stock, studied and mastered the teachings, learned the voice. Worked hard to be in the Bene Gesserit, to learn their ways. 

But you had been beaten physically, thrown aside by your own kind, you were too angry to lay and manipulate a ruler. Too powerful to be killed, truly a problem.

That’s how you’d been for a while now, until today, where you had been used as a gift, a bargaining chip. The Lisan Al Gaib, the Emperor, the great Paul Atreides, had accepted you. 

Only you were not meant to be his; the man had only helped aid in your travel to his front door, agreed to the bribe that came with your purchase. 

You found out quickly you were not Paul's gift, but The Reverened Mothers. 

With the long-dead Duke Leto, the strong ruler gone, it seemed for the first time - Lady Jessica would take a concubine. 

Whispers that she had waited for you to come filled the darkest corners of theImperium. 

You didn’t believe it, this was not to be love. 

You were to be ​​the Sayyadina’s young whore. 

Whatever strange things The Reverend Mother would require of you. To say the least, you were ready to die. Die before drinking worm piss. Die before bedding a Bene Gesserit. 

Not because the woman standing before you was a woman, not because you knew the horrible acts she’d delivered without mercy, the lies, the power she wielded as a witch, not even her age, no. 

You would not comply because you would not bend as a simple sex object, wouldn’t be anyone's concubine. A slick entrance for stress release. 

You had no choice, though. When the Bene Gesserit had whispered your name. Saying that you were to be in the thread - this was destined. You were a part of a much bigger plan. One that not even Paul Atreides would scoff at, once his mother commanded something to be. 

The Reverend Mother didn’t speak; you both stared at one another. You were wearing fabrics, and yet you felt completely bare in front of her now. 

Even now, you refused to believe the rumor. For you, this was a death sentence, proof the Bene Gesserit were full of shit. Your life meant nothing; you were a speck of sand in the grand Imperium. Not even spice, instead something common and forgettable. 

“Careful,” Jessica says, so stern that you work not to tremble, but so quietly you could have missed it. 

“Reverend Mother,” you say, doing the smallest of bows in her presence. A reminder from your elders, a formality that the older woman seemed to find entertaining. 

Though you could not read her microexpressions, she’d spent far too long learning how to make people perceive her. 

“In private, you will address me as Lady Jessica, or Jessica. In front of another soul, I am Reverend Mother. Do you understand?”

“Yes…….Lady Jessica…” You say, wondering who the last person to call her by her first name was. 

“You are just as I foretold.”

You scoff now, rudely in her presence, and Jessica arches an eyebrow. 

You turn cold, realizing that you had disrespected her, and that only punishment would follow such an act. 

“I-” You start but she turns her head to the right just so and you stop speaking.

Command so subtle yet so intense. 

 Her power comes off like waves, only to remind you of the heat of the sun. Or the bubbling on your tongue from a burn. 

“You will not lie. Not even when it suits the situation. Not to me, not ever.” The powerful woman waited for you to say something in retaliation. 

“You will not punish me?”

“You will find that my punishments are not the same as the walls of your haunted, stale childhood.” She says slowly, unblinking at you. 

You don’t want to run for some reason, and the idea makes you think that perhaps she has already started her manipulations.

“You are curious, aren’t you?” 

“When will it begin?” 

Now her lips curl, and you see it. 

“When will what begin?” Her voice is low.

“The torture, the breaking of my bonds, when will the pain start?”

Jessica steps forward, her footfall is silent, which only makes you more afraid. If a killer can command, can create war at the smallest flick of her wrist, and create not a single sound. What was to stop her?

“Pain?” Jessica repeats, you forget your training, you forget that The Reverend Mother is not to be enjoyed. Your eyes cast down her neck; it shouldn’t catch your attention. Such an embarrassing display of tattered self discipline. But who wouldn’t covet such beauty?

“Agony.” You replace the word, and Jessica comes closer, her hair normally away from view falls around her shoulder, just a strand, giving the illusion of softness. A lie.

“Is that how you enjoy things?”

“What?” You scrunch your face in confusion. 

“Do. You. Need. Pain?” Jessica punctuates every word, venom splitting, and you’re sure you’ve studied every language spoken with lips. But you don’t understand her now. 

Jessica closes the distance, her face comes to your own neck, you still, but you are sure she can feel your heart racing. 

The Reverend Mother does the unthinkable after being around fremen for so long, she extends her tongue long and flat. 

Then, like a mothering animal, she cleans you - only it has a very different effect on the the both of you. Arousal bleeding into both sets of your fabrics. 

Her long, wet tongue moves down your throat, sacred moisture used freely for pleasure. Just as you had longed to do to her moments ago. 

 like your eyes had presumptuously done to her own neck. You hate how your body quivers under her strong, damp muscle. 

She’d read you in mere seconds, and she’d figured correct. 

You work hard to suppress a moan as her mouth comes to your ear. 

“You’ve been taught how to lie with a man?”

“B-bene Gesserit insist on it for training.” You stutter like a fool and don’t see Jessica smile as her hot breath whispers against you. 

“That is a shame, I would have enjoyed the blood.” 

You moan now, and she moves calculated, your eyes do not track it, far too thrown off guard with enjoying this new type of pleasure, one that you’ve never known. 

The meeting of flesh had never evoked this chemical reaction inside of you, and it was almost akin to being taken by the voice. 

Control seemed without you. 

“You require control to be taken, pain to be pinpointed, then let us begin.” Jessica’s voice echoes in your mind, and now you are sure you two have been speaking telepathically like so many Bene Gesserit before you. Only you had no idea when she’d entered your mind.

The air on your wet neck has you trying to turn to see the offending object. 

“Shhhh, my, my,  you taste of something I have not tasted since my last love…Perhaps not even then.”

You can’t imagine what you taste like, the salt from your sweat, the oils and herbs you bathed with, what was this mighty seer tasting?

Jessica pushes you into an armchair, and you plop down unceremoniously. You ache for her to straddle you, but she looms over you, not touching. Holding power over you in every way. 

 You wish to rid her of all that material, to see whats underneath. 

Where had your mind gone?

Jessica licks the otherside of your neck, then along your jaw she moans at the flavor. 

You feel a headhigh that nothing could touch. 

“Your love?” You think for a moment, stupidly. The image passes through your mind, the history you’d known. You say her dead partner's name outloud-

“Duke-Let-”

Jessica does not want this, her voice is harsher now. 

“No, don’t speak of his name. Not here, not now. You know what I hold?” There is a strain to her now. 

Your eyes cast down to the right armrest of the chair you sit in, The Box. 

The Box. 

A needle at your neck. 

The Test, 

The one that you’ve already passed. Spending hours with your hand in that stupid box. Understanding what pain and control was, ‘"An animal caught in a trap will gnaw off its own leg to survive, what will you do?" You heard your teacher, you had spent far too long with your demons, with the Gom Jabbar only centimeters away from piercing you - killing you. 

How had you upset Jessica so intensely that she use these old tactics? 

Her spit still sits on your skin, you wanted that back, something deep inside of you was, was hungry for it - all of what Jessica could give you. 

How do you apologize?

“Lady Jessica-I-I have already passed the test, I am not a mere animal I hold the power, I wield the voice - You think me small-or-or weak-”

“No, none of those things. I think you need to be reintroduced to pain.”

You don’t breathe, but close your eyes, working to use your talents. 

What you do not expect is your clothes to be pushed aside, lifted to the side, then for fingers to cup your sex. 

You hate the knowledge that the licking and prospects of Lady Jessica taking your life and holding it in her hands…The intimacy of that, it had made you wet. Wetter than you’d ever willed your body to become while lying with someone. 

It seemed the carnal delight had spread without your consent. 

Making you an embarrassment as a Bene Gesserit.

You lose your concentration, Jessica inches your knees apart. Then, like the ruler she always has been. The Reverend Mother swipes at your sex with her fingers and brings the digits to her lips, then hums in delight.  

Drinking you from the source. 

“K'tah mélange” Jessica said once she’d savored your taste.

“W-what?” You were sure you hadn’t understood those words. You search your mind for the root of it and come up blank. 

Jessica smiled now, broad and delighted, you found her stunning. 

“It’s my name for you now,” the witch is so sure. 

“Why do you have or….need Gom Jabbar, the box, have I-”

“No, none of that, now listen to me, put your hand inside. You put your hand inside of the box. Then you’ll wear my mark - for all to know. No one will ever touch you again. Look at you, you want to fear the pain - but even now you want something you’ve never even dreamed of. But I know your dreams, my K'tah mélange. You want to put your hand in the box.”

“Lady Jessica,” part of you longs to tell her no. That you won’t, that you won’t perform for her. That you won’t put yourself through the grief. 

Your hand inches forward, finger curling into a small fist, but you hesitate. 

What sort of test for a concubine was this? 

“You want to belong to me. I don’t need to use the voice, you know that deep down. That is why you never fit with any placement. Because you needed to come home to me, you know this now.”

You fuss like an infant, lips curling sour, not about to let in. Her piercing blue spice eyes burrow into your mind like the sand splitting for a sandworm. 

Gom Jabbar stays in The Reverend Mother's unshaking hold. 

The box sits in front of you. 

This is wrong, this must be a lie, a trick, you shouldn’t feel this way. You won’t be used as a pawn, not for entertainment or a pound of flesh. 

“You cannot manipulate me just because I am your concubine. I’m not your concubine.” You want to shift backwards, back away and be sent away, another failed placement. 

“You forget K'tah mélange, I too was a concubine. Look at all I have become. You desire what only I can give. Look at your body now, bending forward, inching closer.” Jessica says it, and you realize she’s correct. You're drawn to her heat, her violence just under the surface, her knowledge, her touch. 

Even as her non-dominant hand holds the Gom Jabbar.

Holds your death so close. 

You exhale long and lost, a tear escapes your left eyeline, and Jessica holds herself back from licking it. Like she will so many of your tears in the future. 

“I can’t-Ican’t” You quiver under the pull that can only be reflective of bones snapping - breaking your ribs in your chest. 

“You must not fear. Fear is the mind-killer. Fear is the little-death that brings total obliteration. You will face your fears. You will permit it to pass over you and through you. And when it has gone past you will turn the inner eye to see its path. Where the fear has gone there will be nothing. Only I will remain.” Jessica tells you, words you’ve heard so many times. But never like that, not once like that. 

Your legs open further, making her smile so primal. 

The stray tear falls down your chin and onto the box. 

Your heart slows, synchronizing with The Reverend Mother, both of you breathing the same eerily calm breath. 

Your eyes stay on Jessica as you insert your hand. 

The needle at the side of your neck. 

The pain begins like tiny shards of glass slicing through your hand. Moving to bigger and bigger nerve pain, it crawls up your forearm, it spreads like all fear must. 

You remember this; no soul could forget this lesson. 

Your face shakes but you stay resolute; you don’t look away. 

“You speak of pain, my concubine. Is this what you know of pain? Is this all they’ve shown you?” Jessica seems to have her own need to bring shame upon the Bene Gesserit name. You don’t speak, can’t speak as pain has crawled into your chest. 

It’s tearing into the back of your skull. Worse than any physical slicing, this pain is deep, it’s breaking fibers of your every inch. Reminding you of your worst fears. 

Your eyes twitch, your breathing stays even, you do not know, as Jessica will never tell you, but she’s impressed by this. 

You stay in her rhythm, in her shadow, in her hold. 

You stare into those blue eyes, visions begin to thread through the pain. 

Visions: Your naked as Jessica stretches you by low light, covered in oils. Her fists find their home inside of you.

You see fire, bloodshed, ruin - it’s so real. 

Your eyes stay on Jessica, but she’s seeing you, your connection too easily open now. 

“This pain, is this what you know? Is this needle what keeps you alive just as it threatens your end? Did you see me all those hours spent with the box. When you looked into pains eyes, did my love glare back at you?” The Reverend Mothers fingers twitch, just a bit, just enough for her to know that you matter to her now, that sentiments have set in. 

You don’t see it, you’re in your body so deep. A meditative state as your body is burning from the inside out. 

You keep your hand in the box, Jessica keeps the Gom Jabbar at her concubine's pulse point. 

You refuse to shake, refuse to cry out, no - you will let the pain pass through you. Only Jessica will remain. 

“Is this the final lesson you were missing?” Jessica asks as her freehand once again dives into your gown. She enters you, two fingers easily penetrating the wet heat. 

Enough to make a Fremen think your cunt was the most sacred deep well of hidden sietches. 

You keep your hand in the ancient box, you think the pain has reached something new - but your attention instead turns to Jessica's rubbing of your insides. 

Her hand finds the rough spot inside of you, and you have never bucked your hips so fast. 

You don’t care about the box, don’t care about the Gom Jabbar promising instant death. 

You moan and throw your head back. 

“You are a wild thing, my concubine, my devious K'tah mélange. You feel no pain now, now that the control is laced with pleasure, you feel only me. As only I remain. 

You don’t feel the pain in your hand very much still in the box, but instead you are euphoric, ready for more. Your nipples strain in the fabric as your eyes grow glassy, hazed over with desire. 

“The whole of the Imperium will know what you are to me,” Jessica swears to you, as your mind teeters on the edge you try so hard to hold steady, denying yourself pleasure and managing your passion. Just as your elders had forced upon you. 

But that is not the way The Reverend Mother wants you to behave. 

The Voice cracked your eardrums. 

“Ejaculate down my hand, you cum on command, you are mine.”

You practically black out, eyes flipping visions of your face heavily tattooed, your eyes blue, blood everywhere. 

When you come back to your body, you are naked, in the bed, a very naked Jessica holding you, cradling your body. Something maternal and dominant, her hands hold no room for questioning what you are to her now. 

You breathe in slowly, body now trained to match hers.

For not wanting to be her concubine, you sure bent fast. 

You gaze disinterestedly around the room, and Jessica pushes your hair away from your forehead, she kisses your temple as though it, was a palace for her to roam free in. 

“You are trying to find the box.”

“Was it ever even here?” The answer only brings more questions. 

“Would it matter if it had been, you only needed permission.” Jessica said as though a hallucination you might have just had was trivial. Nothing in the grand scheme of the stars. Nothing in her plans for you. 

You had opened your legs, had soaked down The Revernd Mothers arm. 

Tomorrow she would hold you in that meditative state, she’d tattoo you, not just your face….but your body. Shaving the bit of hair over your cunt. She’d make ancient letters that spelled out only her name. Not only for her to trace in the early morning when the light touched the sand. But for Jessica to use as a reminder to you, and anyone who gazed upon you.

Ownership was a heavy hand in the  Imperium. Rumors and legends were as valued as any Spice. Lady Jessica had so many plans. 

You were still floating in a high, and the voice had tickled your whole being. 

Being Bene Gesserit made you immune to the voice, or so you’d thought. You suppose it might have never applied to Jessica Atreides.

You try to remember your life before but find even your name is like a distant memory, something that you could never see again. 

You think back to past sexual encounters, to the hard muscle of man, it makes your stomach churn with sickness. The soft body behind you that held you so close tightened, her breasts hanging lower still, reacted to your warm embrace. Jessica had not been touched with warmth in so long. That she made the decision there and then to have you in her bed every night. 

“Your mind is coming to, but I do not understand why the sickness?”

“Can’t you just read my mind?” You smile but turn your face to nuzzle against her cheek. 

“If you desire me to, but I don’t enjoy seeing you with past conquests. Merely business or not, it enrages me. A sensation I have not experienced in so very long.” Jessica’s voice is so calm and smooth that her words do not match up in the least. 

“There’s a sandworm joke about penises versus what we just did that I won't make.”

Jessica rumbles with what you realize must be laughter, but she’s out of practice. 

“For being a terrifying Mother, you cuddle like a sentimental young love.” You say, wondering if you’ll be cast to the floor and deprived of a meal for such words. But Jessica’s hand cups under your breast, her fingers brushing against your nipples like a queen would jewels in her treasure trove. 

“You thought me unable to have sentiment for you?” Jessica asks, and you blink open lazily, seeing her face tattoos so close now, your hand cups her cheek. Both of your hands are roaming without fear now. Such a simple change, yet so profound that you are a stranger to yourself. 

“K'tah mélange, what does it mean?” You ask instead, because how could you begin to answer her? 

Jessica pushes both of you down the bed further so that you are resting on her fully now. Her embrace keeps you safe from all the wickedness. 

“K'tah means…mm baby, or little. Because you’re such a young little thing. Mélange, well, that means spice. You taste spicy, but all-consuming like how our world weighs spice. So that is why I call you K'tah mélange. Your name before is null, for you and I have much to do. We will rewrite history- but first, I will teach you so much more about pleasure. About control….”

Jessica trails off, and you notice that you are inside of her mind, too. What a strange sensation to be with someones deepest darkness. You see more than you try to; it’s too easy, too close. 

“It is true, the visions, your- You are going to mark me tomorrow…” You whisper in the dark of the silence. Jessica runs one hand down your stomach to your pussy mound, already clear what you were looking like, full of ink. 

In a moment, you will learn how to swallow her own slick, because the idea or you marked only churns out Jessica to need release. 

Her other hand holds your face, your lips closer now, a second before your shared first kiss. Jessica stops to give you a promise to seal this meeting of lips.

“You and I have much to do.”