They’d chosen the cafe. A cute place in midtown, just outside of the business district. You’d circled it twice out of caution and once out of nerves — snagging an expensive-looking gold watch off a distracted salary worker during the final lap just to calm yourself down. You spent twenty minutes watching the doors from a measured distance, as if trafficked weapons or prohibited substances would be carted through the front doors. You checked your phone twenty-seven times.

Finally, you forced yourself to actually enter the building you now knew better than your own apartment. You considered counting exits or scoping the perimeter, but at that point, further distractions were useless. Your eyes found them as soon as you crossed the threshold, which might’ve been more impressive if Dick hadn’t already been looking directly at you.

It was a testament to your self-restraint that you didn’t turn around and run immediately. He was smiling that big, golden-boy smile — the one that used to be reserved for reporters and police detectives and Bruce, after the two of you had broken something expensive. He was sitting in a corner booth on the far side of the cafe and waved you over with a level of excitement only a touch too suppressed to be called childish. Barbara sat across from him, her wheelchair pulled up to the quarter of the table the rounded bench didn’t occupy. He didn’t have a drink, but she was nursing two separate cups of coffee. A binder-thick laptop sat closed to her left, which hurt to see. You couldn’t remember the last time she’d let herself leave the house with less than three disparate pieces of technology.

Dick greeted you with a bone-crushing hug. Barbara, a pursed-lip frown.

“Where is it?” she asked.

You laughed. “What are you talking about?”

She didn’t respond, only holding out an open palm to you. Dick nudged your side, pointing to your bulging pocket. “She’s been watching you reached your station,” he explained, his grin taking on a more sheepish note. “To make sure you didn’t get lost.”

You glowered, but fished out your stolen watch and handed it to Barbara, who turned it over in her hand analytically. “I’ll get it back to the owner tonight,” Dick went on, already playing damage-control. “Babs already has their details, and you can come with me to say—”

“Don’t bother,” Barbara cut in. She drew her nail along the back of the timepiece. The gold flaked away like nail polish — the cheapest gilding you’d even seen. “It’s worthless.”

Dick grinned. “Should’ve guessed. No one would be—”

“—stupid enough to wear real gold in Gotham,” you finished, leaning forward to snag one of Barbara’s mugs. “Not with people like me in town.”

You and Dick broke into obnoxious, irrational laughter. Barbara scoffed — her equivalent to your hysteria.

And just like that, you were home again.

The afternoon passed quickly. You’d told yourself you wouldn’t stay for long — one, two hours tops — but the sun sank low in the sky and suddenly, getting out of the city before dark didn’t seem to matter. Dick prattled on about Bludhaven’s many woes and the newest job on his every-expanding carousel of careers. Barbara buried her face in her arms as she complained about Bruce’s newest fledglings and swore that three of you had never been so incompetent. When it was your turn, you made up a pleasing, if not entirely true story about a young woman in the big city with a steady office job and only the occasional bout of kleptomania. It was hard to tell if either of them really believed you, but they were kind enough to let you pretend.

When you were done, Dick moved to the edge of his seat, laying his hand over Barbara’s. Somehow, you’d failed to notice the matching silver bands on either of their ring fingers before then. The sight alone was enough to make you choke on your coffee. You spent a few humiliating seconds hacking into your elbow before managing to spit out something halfway intelligent. “You’re married?”

“Two years ago,” Dick explained. “It was a spur-of-the-moment thing. There wasn’t really time to send out invites.”

“He got me drunk and carried me to a courthouse.” Her tone was chiding, but she was smiling more brightly than she had all day. “Didn’t even get a honeymoon.”

She leaned back, pecking her husband’s cheek. The word seemed incomprehensible. Husband. The last time you’d seen Dick and Barbara in the same room, they’d been half an inch away from tearing out each other’s throats. The time before that, they hadn’t been able to keep their hands off of each other long enough to tell you whether or not they gotten back together. ‘Marriage’ seemed like an ill-suited title for their on-again-off-again, love-to-hate-and-back-again relationship. You’d never pictured them falling into such a permanent state of being. You’d never pictured them doing something you so clearly weren’t a part of.

But they were happy. They looked happy, at least. Dick pulled Barbara into a more substantial kiss and you stared at your drink, desperate to focus on anything else. Finally, they separated, both giggling like teenagers. You rolled your eyes. “Okay, I get it. You invited me back to bask in your matrimonial happiness. Can I go home now?”

They exchanged a glance. Dick’s grin took on a softer undertone. “We, uh— There was something we wanted to ask you for, actually. A favor."

You hummed. “A threesome?”

“Well, that’s not far—”

“Shut up, both of you.” She looked to you, resting both elbows on the table and propping her chin on her clasped hands. “We’re looking for a surrogate.”

It abruptly seemed much, much later. You really should’ve gone home when you had the chance.

Twelve years ago, you would’ve climbed over the table to hug them. Ten years ago, you would’ve still been overjoyed, if a little more skeptical. Five years ago, part of you might’ve been flattered. Now, though, after so many years of so little contact, the only thing you could seem to dredge up was ice-cold dread. You did what you could to hide it behind a sheepish smile, a light drumming of your fingertips against the tabletop. “A baby’s a lot of work. Especially for two parents on the night shift.”

Dick was almost too fast. “You don’t have to worry about that. Turned in my resignation last week. Barbara’s too valuable to lose so suddenly, but I made her promise to slow down before the baby gets here.” Your disbelief must’ve been apparent. He shrugged and added, “What can I say? You set a good example.”

The dread deepened into a frigid, bottomless pit. You shook your head and began to stand up, but Barbara caught you by the wrist before you could so much as get your feet underneath you. “Look, we’ve been taking it over, and neither of us can picture it being anyone but you. We want a family, obviously, but—” She paused, letting out an unsteady breath. “—not unless you’re part of it.”

It was unfair, really. In all your time apart, you’d forgotten how cruel she could be. Of course you were going to say yes, if she pulled that card.

The only thing you’d ever wanted to be was a part of their lives.

You didn’t trust yourself to speak, so you didn’t try to. You nodded wordlessly, and Dick laughed — the sound like wedding bells and sunshine and cloudless sky. To your surprise, Barbara reacted just as strongly. She hauled you closer, dragging you into a bone-crushing hug. It squeezed the air out of your lungs and bruised your ribs, but a quiet, selfish part of you hoped that she would never let go again.

~

Dick insisted that the three of you go about the insemination in the traditional way. You and Barbara spent the better part of an hour berating him for being a filthy pervert before she admitted that it would save you all a lot of time (and you, in particular, a mountain of paperwork) and the idea began to seem much more reasonable.

Arrangements were made swiftly. They wanted you close, but you made it clear that you wouldn’t be spending the worst nine months of your life in the hallowed, haunted halls of Wayne Manor or moving back to Gotham. A travel schedule was made, a small fleet of doctors assembled using Bruce’s name, and about a week after your initial conversation, Dick and Barbara invited you over to their uptown apartment for dinner and a few drinks. What would follow was left implied.

Your anxiety was mitigated by Dick’s surprisingly edible cooking and Barbara’s insistence that your wine glass never be less than half full, even if you could’ve done without the muttered reminders that this was the last drink you’d have in a long, long time that accompanied every refill. You could only be glad you’d quit smoking when you were sixteen. All it’d taken was Selina mentioning that she’d been able to smell it on your clothes from a block away and you’d kicked the habit overnight. You doubted having to store your best friends’ baby for a few short months would have served as such powerful motivation.

As you savored your last drops of freedom, Dick and Barbara celebrated the beginning of theirs. They’d been pawing at each other all night, too giddy to remember how to act like adults, but it was only as dinner wrapped up and you sipped your nth glass of wine that their too-bright eyes turned to you. Dick pushed forward, more brazen in his eagerness. Barbara, as always, was more than happy to sit back and watch the love of her life make yours that much more difficult.

“It really hasn’t been the same since you left.” His words were slurred at the edges, blending together at the breaks. You hadn’t seen him drink anything, but he must’ve been drunk. You had to believe he was drunk.

You nodded sagely. “You wear pants now, for one.”

“Hey. The robin shorts were sick as fuck.” He sighed heavily, his head dipping low. “I just mean— I miss having you on the field. Barbara’s in my ear, which is great, but since Jason—”

He caught himself, breaking off immediately. Barbara grit her teeth. You let your eyes fall to your lap. You loved Dick. You loved Barbara. But there were some things you just couldn’t stand to talk about, even with them. Jason Todd would always be at the very top of that short, terrible list.

It was a small mercy that Dick, for all of his failings, knew when to change the subject. He forced a smile, letting out a breath of a laugh. “It’s probably for the best. You must be so out of practice — you probably couldn’t even keep up with us, now.”

This topic, you liked. You offered a demure shrug, emptying your glass with one more long swig. “I don’t know. Ten years isn’t that long.”

“It’s long enough.”

“Wanna test that out?”

Barbara sighed. “If you two do this in my dining room, I swear to—”

But it was too late. Dick was already vaulting himself over the table and into you. You let him take you to the floor, locking your arms to the side with an iron-clad bear-hold around your midriff. Once you’d landed, you jerked back and drove your knee into his stomach. Dick let you go on reflex, and you rolled to the side, using the momentum to spring yourself into handstand then cartwheel onto your feet. Your back ached from the rough landing, your muscles throbbing from disuse, but that was fine. If Selina had taught you anything, it was how to ignore the parts of you that valued comfort over survival.

Dick was stammering to his feet. He was acrobatic compared to the average civilian, sure, but years of training under a man more muscle than not had left him your inferior in all-but raw strength. You pounced on him before he could fully regain his balance, catching him under the shoulder and swinging upward so that your thighs locked around his head. You twisted and, sure enough, Dick went down hard. You unlatched at the last second, pulling away just far enough to land with a knee planted on either shoulder — pinning him underneath you. He grunted as he hit the floor, only just managing to keep his head from cracking against the tile. The two of you stayed like that for a moment, then another, both panting shallowly. Then, you cracked a smile. Dick grinned back, and a second later, both of you had dissolved into drunken laughter.

The room spun. You shut your eyes, letting your head dip low as you tried to catch your breath. At the same time, Dick reached up, grazing over your cheek and cupping the back of your head. Before you could brace yourself, he pulled you down, his mouth crashing into yours.

It wasn’t that you’d never kissed him before. No, you and him and Barbara had spent too much time together as hormone-addled teenagers not to have awkwardly pecked each other during rounds of truth-or-dare once or twice. But he’d never kissed you like this. Hungry and messy and deep. His tongue was in your mouth before you could think to draw back, his nails digging into your scalp when you flinched away on instinct. He was warm against you — too warm. Suddenly, their sprawling apartment felt too small, too stiffing. You would’ve given anything to be somewhere. Outside, walking the empty city streets at night, or better yet, on a rooftop, safe in the knowledge that you were the only person around for miles.

Except, you weren’t somewhere else. You were kissing Dick Grayson. And you were supposed to be enjoying it.

You glanced towards Barbara through your eyelashes. If she was jealous, you couldn’t tell. Her shoulders were relaxed, her smile fond and self-satisfied. With her unspoken blessing, you melted against Dick, moaning absently as his lips moved against yours. You let your knees slip off of his shoulders and a moment later, he was sitting up, looping an arm under your thighs and hauling you against his chest. Barbara was hauled onto his free shoulder with the same easy strength, laughing as she batted at his back. You let the world around you blur and fade as he began to move.

You really were drunk. Reality only came back into focus as your back hit a cloud-soft mattress. You moved reflexively to burrow into the sheets, but a pair of delicate hands corrected you — Barbara’s, taking you by the underarms and hauling you towards her. She was sitting against the headboard, drawing you close so that your back rested against her chest. Your head lulled to the side, but she caught your chin, tilting it up so that you faced her properly. She kissed you as Dick settled between your open legs. Your panties were torn off at the waist, your dress irreparably wrinkled as he pushed it up to your waist. Two minor inconveniences, better off discarded quickly.

Your vision swam. Blearily, with no real understanding of what was going on, you watched a head of dark hair dip low, felt warmth and wetness drag over your cunt. It took you a long moment to realize it was Dick’s tongue and even longer to realize that your best friend (and your best friend’s husband) was eating you out. You tried to close your legs on reflex, but Barbara caught your knee. “Calm down,” she whispered, her voice as strict as it was patronizing. “You have no idea how long he’s been waiting to do this.”

Dick moaned in agreement. The vibration shot straight to your core, drawing a warbling noise up from the base of your throat. The pleasure was there, but it was hot, alien. You’d never quite lived up to your mentor’s femme fatale reputation. Taking off your clothes around anyone, ally or enemy, had never come naturally to you. Somehow, even with the two people you trusted most in the world, it still didn’t feel right.

If Dick sensed your discomfort, he didn’t seem to care. His tongue traced aimless patterns over your pussy, always finding its way back to your clit. You shut your eyes, burying your face in Barbara’s shoulder as his attention dipped lower, his tongue slipping inside of you and curling. You writhed, bucking into his face, and she cooed, running a hand over your hair. You had the brief and nauseating thought that, one day, she really would make a good mother. The only tragedy here was that she needed your help to be one.

The flat of Dick’s nose ground into your clit, and suddenly, it was all you could do not to think at all. Your vision burnt white. Your legs twitched by means beyond your control, your hands finding his hair and tearing. Dick only groaned, leaning into your touch. That was fair. It wasn’t like you could hurt him, not now, not like this. That kind of strength — the resolve it took to do real, lasting damage to another living thing — was beyond you. And that scared you more than anything.

You forced yourself to blink, to breathe. Barbara was still cooing at you, stealing kisses from unresponsive lips. Dick heaved himself up to your height, catching your chin and pulling away from Barbara. There was a long, shallow kiss, and then he kneeling in-between your legs, dragging his shirt over his head and shrugging his pants low on his hips. It hadn’t occurred to you that both of them were still fully dressed. You were the only one exposed.

“Can’t wait any longer,” Dick said, as he pulled away from you. Barbara clicked her tongue, but he only grinned. You could feel the head of his cock pressing into your entrance, his breath on your skin. “Can’t wait to knock you up, kitty.”

Your skin crawled. He shouldn’t call you that, not here. He should say he was going to—

Oh, god.

What were you doing?

The panic set in all at once. You kicked and thrashed, trying to get away, but your body felt so weak and Barbara’s arms were so strong and Dick was so heavy on top of you. He hummed, beginning to ease into you, and you shook your head violently. “No, no, I changed my mind, I don’t want to—”

“Hey, now, we don’t need to do that.” Dick’s voice, smooth and easy. You could feel him inside of you, now, spreading you open. It hurt. “We’re taking it slow, alright? We’re— fuck—” His hips stuttered, thrusting too far too quickly. Tears pricked at the corners of your eyes. Barbara’s hand fell past your stomach, rubbing quick circles into your clit by way of apology. “We’ve been needing you for years. Can’t make it without you. So you’ll be good for us, right?”

“Don’t talk to her like an animal.” Barbara let out a huff of a laugh. “An animal would be able to respond.”

“Aw, now you’re just being mean.” With a groan, Dick bottomed out. He was too deep, too big, filling in parts of you that you hadn’t known were empty. You felt his cock twitch inside of you as he leaned forward, resting his forehead against yours. The gesture might’ve been sweeter — nostalgic, even — if you hadn’t wanted him to get away so badly. “You want this, don’t you, kitty? Go on — that’s all you have to say.”

You didn’t. You didn’t want to be pregnant. You didn’t want to ruin your body. You didn’t want this.

But Barbara was so warm against you and Dick’s smile was so wide where it cut into your lips. They were so happy. And you wanted them to be happy more than anything.

You could barely nod. Your head hardly moved. But Barbara kissed your temple and Dick began to move — pulling away from you as far as he could without slipping out of you cunt entirely.

You could only be thankful that you were far, far away by the time he thrust back in.

~

You took your first pregnancy test three weeks later. In their apartment, again, with the most expensive kit you and Dick could find at the nearest twenty-four-hour pharmacy. They waited outside the bathroom door while you struggled to stop crying long enough to piss on the goddamn stick.

Selfishly, you didn’t run back to them as soon as you were finished. Instead, you sat in a corner and counted out the seconds until the test had processed your results. Even then, you spent another precious minute hyperventilating before you could bring yourself to pick up that stupid plastic wand and find what you knew you would: two thin red lines, terrible and feeble and certain.

You were pregnant.

It went without saying that Dick and Barbara were overjoyed.

~

The first three months were the worst of your life.

You’d been beaten, broken, burnt, drowned, electrocuted, forced to go to a karaoke night with Dick and Titans, and yet, no form of torture you’d ever endured compared to morning sickness. You gained ten pounds, then lost fifteen. Your boobs hurt. You were tired all the time. All food smelled terrible, and you weren’t even allowed to eat half of it anymore. Your boobs really fucking hurt.

But Barbara and Dick’s legion of doctors had assured you that your symptoms, while unbearable, were completely run-of-the-mill. Most of your time was spent in Gotham, letting Barbara take you to obstetric appointments or helping Dick set up the nursery or generally trying to keep your head while they both fawned over you like a blue-ribbon breeding sow. You insisted on staying in Metropolis, but after your bump started to show, Dick made it clear that you wouldn’t be using public transit after dark. You tried to laugh off his paranoia, but for once, he wasn’t joking.

“You’re giving us everything we’ve ever wanted,” he told you, waving to Barbara as he grabbed his coat and started for the door. “Let us give something back, every now and then.”

Of course, you’d given in. As if you’d even stood a chance against him.

The drive was long and quiet. You stared pointedly at your lap as he passed through the sparkling sky-scrappers and shining storefronts of downtown, past the tranquil sprawl of uptown and midtown, and into the decaying residential district that didn’t get featured on tourist-trap billboards and brochures. Shame formed a knot in your throat as Dick’s shiny new sports car idled in front of the crumbling concrete corpse that was your apartment complex. He eyed the bars over the front door wearily, then asked, “You said you were on the top floor, right? Do you want me to walk you up?”

You shook your head. “I’m good, I just— The outside makes it look worse than it is. Thanks for the ride.”

“It’s no trouble.” He was already throwing the gear shift into park, easing his key out of the ignition. “Like I said, we want to—”

You didn’t stay long enough to hear the rest. You were out of your seat and rushing towards your building before he could convince you to make any more bad decisions for his sake.

The inside was, in fact, not a lot nicer than the outside. Cheap grey paint peeled off cheaper grey walls. The lobby stunk of cigarette smoke and mold, and the elevator had been broken since the day after you moved in. You had long, agonizing minutes to contemplate the depths of your embarrassment as you hiked up the stairs, even longer to wallow in your own self-loathing as you undid the three rusted deadbolts on your apartment door (none of which had been installed by the landlord). By the time you stepped into your flat and found Dick riffling through a drawer in your kitchenette, you almost didn’t have it in you to feel betrayed. Almost.

It was pointless to ask how he’d gotten in. The window on the far wall was cracked open and Dick had always been a good climber. Besides, even if you wanted to play detective, he was faster. Angrier.

“You don’t have an office job.”

“I’m on maternity—”

He pulled the drawer out of its socket, letting its contents scatter across the tile floor. It was jewelry, mostly. Pearl chains, diamond rings, earrings studded with gems that would’ve paid your rent twice-over for the next year — if only the money you’d get for selling them to your broker was clean enough to use so recklessly. “Stolen art in the closet, antiques under the bathroom sink…” He exhaled shallowly. “What happened, kitty? You used to fight crime.”

Only so there’d be less competition for you and Selina. Protecting Gotham’s innocents had never been as important to you as it had been to the Bat’s fledglings. You’d only ever really cared about yourself.

Well, yourself, Dick, and Barbara. But they didn’t need anything you could give.

“I don’t have a lot of other options,” you said, eventually. “I was raised in Crime Alley, Dick. I’m a middle school dropout. I had a record longer than Selina’s by the time I was seventeen. I don’t know if I’d even be able to get a real job, if I wanted one.”

“That’s not the problem.” Of course it wasn’t. Not from his perspective. He’d never had to work a day in his life. “If you were going to stay active, you could’ve been active in Gotham. Bruce would’ve helped. You could have—”

“And end up like Jason?”

His expression hardened, then broke open into raw hurt. It was a low blow, but it was true.

Things had already been getting bad, but Jason’s death had been the final nail in the coffin. Dick and Bruce had always argued, but at the time, they couldn’t say two words to each other without getting into a screaming match. A bullet to the base of her spine had paralyzed Barbara from the waist down less than a year before, and she was still swinging wildly between fits of mania that saw her locked in her clocktower for days at a time and depressive episodes so intense, she might as well have been comatose. Jason reminded you of yourself — pulled out of a bad neighborhood, dressed up in a costume he’d never quite grown into, and made to feel as if he could earn the love he was suddenly being drowned in. You used to beg Dick to let him patrol with the two of you, sneak him candy under the table while Barbara lectured you both about the importance of an upcoming mission. Jason was a balm. Jason was the light at the end of the tunnel, just bright enough to make you actually believe it might all get better for your little family.

And then, Jason was dead and the world was dark again. You got out of Gotham about a week later — permanently, this time. Between Barbara’s frustration, Dick’s anger, and your own grief, there just hadn’t been room left for anything else. Anything worth living for.

The wound was a decade old, but time had done little to heal it. The pain on Dick’s face was proof enough of that. He held onto it for a long moment, then another before letting his shoulders drop and stepping towards you, resting a hand on your arm.

“I can’t do anything to bring back Jason,” he said, squeezing gently. “But I can make sure we don’t lose you again.”

A knot formed at the base of your throat. You did your best to speak around it. “I’m doing fine on my—”

“Please, kitty,” he cut in. “You promised to let us take care of you.” And then, letting his hand slip from your bicep to the curve of your stomach, “Besides, you’re not exactly on your own anymore, are you?”

You swallowed dryly. “I can’t promise I’ll stay.”

Dick’s smile was too quick, too wide. “That’s alright. Just stick around for the next few months. Until the baby’s here.”

“Just until the baby’s here.”

By the time you got back to their apartment, Barbara had set up the guest room. She pulled you down to her height for a lung-flattening hug as soon as you stepped through the door, the few possessions you had worth keeping in a duffle bag on your shoulder. Dick stood behind you all the while, his smile bright enough to blind.

~

Living with Dick and Barbara was, admittedly, comfortable. You perched on their marble counters while Dick cooked and argued with Barbara about reality dating shows. You went shopping in a real, honest-to-God grocery store and didn’t mug anyone in the parking lot on your way out. One night, about five months in, you fell asleep on the couch while Dick was at work and Barbara was in her clocktower, and woke up in Dick’s arms as he carried you to the master bedroom. The next morning, you woke up tucked between the two of them, safer and happier than you’d ever been before.

At seven months, you were no better than a spoiled housewife. It felt like your stomach was ten times the size of the rest of you. It’d been weeks since you’d last cooked, cleaned, stole, or done anything remotely productive. On a particularly hospitable Gotham evening, half out of boredom and half out of domestic delirium, you decided to visit Barbara’s favorite coffee shop and waddle down to the clocktower to surprise her. Dick was working late that night, so there was no one home to talk you out of it. Had there been, you might have been able to save yourself a lifetime’s worth of devastation.

You arrived about an hour or so after sunset, carrying a tray of four black coffees with three shots of espresso each. Her workroom was a testament to the Bat Clan’s paranoia. Monitors formed grids of static and surveillance footage across three out of four walls. A holographic map of Gotham was projected into the center of the room, color-coordinated dots of light tracking the active vigilantes in the area and their movements — whether or not they knew they were under Bruce’s management. Barbara sat in front of one of two dozen keyboards, glaring at a black screen filled with incomprehensible code. Her headset was pulled down to her neck, but you could hear voices buzzing faintly on the other side. She nodded by way of greeting as you stepped out of the elevator, gesturing to a relatively empty patch of desk next to her. You did as you were told and leaned onto the back of her chair. “Slow night?”

“It’s not about to be.” She sighed, leaning back. “There’s an arms shipment coming into the port in a couple hours. Tim thinks he can handle it alone, but Damian—”

You chuckled. She pursed her lips.

“And you aren’t taking this seriously.”

“It’s not that,” you assured her. “I just can’t wait to be out there again. I haven’t done a backflip in, like, three months.”

Her frown deepened. “That number should really be—”

“An eternity, Babs.” You sighed dramatically, bowing your head low. “It’s too bad. I was thinking about staying in town for a little while after the baby’s taken care of, but B probably won’t even want the help. Not when I’m so out of practice.”

She grinned. “You’re already thinking about how to leave us?”

“Oh, absolutely. You should tell your kid that I went out for cigarettes and never came back. It’ll be kinder than the truth — that I died trying to jump between rooftops three days post-natal.”

Barbara threw her head back as she laughed, and you were abruptly aware of just how close her face was to yours. If the proximity made her uncomfortable, the way her smile widened as she stared up at you did very little to communicate it. “You don’t have to make excuses, you know,” she said, reaching up and tracing a thumb over your cheek. “You could just stay.”

You hummed. “And what? Live in your guestroom for the rest of my life?”

Something moved across Barbara’s expression — not amusement, but close. “You really don’t get it, do you?”

You opened your mouth to ask what she meant, but it was already too late. Barbara tugged you down another inch, pressing her lips softly against yours. You froze on reflex, but this wasn’t anything like Dick drunkenly shoving his tongue in your mouth, wasn’t at all like the way either of them had touched that night. She was being gentle. She was being loving.

It almost hurt more.

The moment was mercifully cut short. Something chimed on one of her many screens and Barbara pulled away, sending you an apologetic smile as she pulled on her headset and began to bark orders. Wasps stung the inside of your stomach, their wings beating against the inside of your throat. She loved you. Dick loved you. That was all you’d ever wanted. You were a part of their family and they loved you.

Why, then, did it feel so wrong?

In a daze, you retreated back to the elevator. On your way, you passed a monitor unlike the others — set to a passcode rather than left blank or idle. A smile tugged at the corner of your lips. You tapped Dick’s birthday into the nearest keyboard, only half-expecting it to work, and when that failed, another date. The day the three of you met. You used to celebrate it annually with gas station ice cream, then later on, cheap drinks at whatever dive bar was open late enough to hit up after patrol. To your surprise, the code was accepted and the monitor flickered to life. After a moment of squinting at the grainy security camera feed, you realized you were looking at Dick.

Except, that wasn’t right.

You were looking at Nightwing.

He was in an alleyway, his suit torn. Several unmoving bodies littered the ground around him. He was bleeding, but that wasn’t the part you were worried about. You’d been told that he was at his office. You’d been told that Nightwing had retired.

Come to think of it, you’d been told that they were both retiring. Another glance towards Barbara, as deep into the Oracle as she’d ever been, was enough to prove that on its own.

The inside of your mouth was abruptly dry. The parasite in your stomach suddenly felt a great deal heavier than it had before.

You hauled yourself into the elevator without saying goodbye to Barbara. Panic formed a thick fog over your mind, blurring your vision and softening the edges of your conscious thoughts. A single, desperate idea clawed its way to the surface, rooting itself at the forefront of your mind. Try as you might, you couldn’t seem to stamp it back down.

You needed to get to Wayne Manor.

~

Your initial plan was to vault the wrought-iron gate, scale the west-facing side of the main house, and let yourself in through a balcony door on the third floor. After realizing Bruce’s security measures might’ve changed in the past ten years, you briefly entertained the idea of tracking down one of the tunnels littered across Gotham and hiking back to the Bat Cave on foot. Finally, you looked down at your incredibly pregnant body, bit the bullet, and called Selina.

Half an hour later, you were in the passenger seat of her violently red convertible, watching the lights of Gotham fade as the distant specter that was Wayne Manor grew ever-taller. Beyond the initial pleasantries, you both had yet to speak. It wasn’t until you were out of the city that she looked at you and sighed.

“Oh, my dear,” she said, her lips pursed in the smallest possible pout. She looked older, but not by much. It was hard to imagine Selina as anything other than what she was — selfish, sharp and beautiful. It was hard to imagine anything in Gotham ever changing, no matter how much time you spent away. “What have they done to you?”

You sank into the leather of your seat. “I’m just the surrogate.”

“The acrobat and the ginger?”

You nodded. She clicked her tongue. '

“Those two were always so clingy. Don’t you remember how many times I told you to make better friends?”

“I remember you ditching me mid-heist to seduce their father.”

“Oh, no, I forgot that they’re practically siblings. No wonder adoption was off the table.” She batted her hand against the wheel in mock-frustration. Another time, you might’ve laughed. Now, you only bit your cheek and glared into your lap.

Selina, for all of her many flaws, was not one to rub salt in the wound. Her shoulders fell, her voice taking on a more somber note as she went on. “I didn’t raise you to sulk.”

“You didn’t raise me at all.”

“Now you’re just being hurtful.”

“I think I’m being lied to,” you admitted, finally. “They keep talking about— about what it’d be like if I stayed. I just don’t know if that’s what I want.”

Her answer came automatically. “Then leave.”

“I want to, but I just—” You broke off, shaking your head. “I couldn’t do that to them. Not after Jason.”

Selina cocked her head to the side. The manor’s gates came into view. They opened automatically while you were still a mile away. She didn’t even have to slow down.

You watched the tangled gardens of your childhood drift past. Too quickly, you arrived at the end of the driveway — a flight of white marble steps looming cold and callous in front of you. Selina held her tongue as you fumbled with the handle and hauled yourself onto your feet. She only bothered to say anything once you were out of the car and no longer her problem.

“East wing, third story, first bedroom on the left,” she dictated. “I hope you find what you’re looking for, kitten.”

You couldn’t be sure what she meant, but her tone was warm, affectionate. You found yourself smiling despite yourself. “I always do, thanks to you.”

She spared you a glance, a barely-there smile, then peeled off — disappearing in a cloud of dust and diesel. You were still beating the gravel out of your coat when you made it to the top of the steps and, against your better judgment, rang the bell.

The door swung open in less than a full minute. Bruce Wayne stood on the threshold, dark eyes wide and mouth open. He blinked at you several times, then seemed to recover. “(Y/n),” he managed, clearing his throat and stepping aside. “Please, come in.”

You did as you were told — following him silently down the long, narrow entryway. The manor was just as you remembered it, all bare stone and cathedral ceilings and strange, ebbing shadows. As a child, you’d been in awe of it, still too happy to be anywhere but Selina’s crowded apartment to mind the cobwebs. As a teenager, you’d found it mysterious. Romantic, even. The perfect place to spend your downtime whispering secrets into Barbara’s ear or hiding from Dick in the rafters. Now, it was hard to feel anything but caged-in.

Eventually, you reached the parlor where you had spent more hours than you could possibly count playing terrible board games and stitching up wounds and watching Dick and Barbara do their homework, pretending all the while that you were grateful not to have the obligation. Bruce helped you into an overly plush lounge, then retreated to an armchair on the other side of the room, never one to hover over what he would rather keep at arm’s length.

Once settled, you spared a glance in either direction. Bruce nodded sympathetically.

“Alfred passed last year. Natural causes,” he tacked on, because you were both unfortunate people who led unfortunate lives. And then, more delicately, “I didn’t expect to see you.”

You paid him your best sheepish smile. “Why’s that, Mr. Wayne?”

It seemed to catch him off-guard — being asked so directly. But Bruce wasn’t the type to lie, not in his own home, not to the woman pregnant with his son’s child. “Dick let me know early on that you wouldn’t feel comfortable at the estate. Of course, I asked him to make it clear that you were always welcome here, but—” He laughed, shrugged. “Admittedly, I wasn’t ecstatic to find out that you’d taken up Selina’s line of business. I suppose it would be hypocritical to get all high and mighty about a little petty theft at this point, though.”

So Dick and Barbara had known you were still stealing. Early enough to warn Bruce away before he could reach out, at that.

“He’s been a little sensitive. They both have.” You rested a hand modestly over your bump. “It’s restlessness, I think. Now that he’s given up the mantle and all.”

Now, there was a lapse. Not a long one — half a second at most — but long enough. You could see him doing the math, weighing the options, before finally coming to the sum you knew he would. “Of course,” Bruce said, shaking his head. “The restlessness. Gotham needs protection, but I can’t say I’m sorry to see him go.”

Right. Because Bruce Wayne would never lie to the woman pregnant with his son’s child.

Not unless he was doing it to help his son.

You opened your mouth as if about to speak, then closed it again, letting your expression fall as your head lolled forward. Bruce was at your side in a moment — a calloused hand on your back and the other braced against the arm of your chair. You rallied with a ragged inhale, waving him off. “I’m sorry, it’s the dizzy spells — They’ve been getting worse, lately.”

Panic flashed across his expression — there and then gone in the space between seconds. Of course. You were the vessel carrying his grandchild. Had that not been the case, he likely would’ve watched you collapse and left you there to suffer. As a lesson in discipline, if not merely out of petty spite.

“Is there anything I can do?” he asked, instead. Like you knew he would.

You smiled softly, feigning bashfulness, before wincing, shutting your eyes, and performing surrender. “Water, please,” you mumbled. “If that’s alright.”

There were a few words of muttered assurance, and then he was off — disappearing into the endless halls of his labyrinthine home. You waited five more excruciating seconds, then pushed yourself out of your seat and started for the east wing.

You followed Selina’s directions like your own misplaced north star. Up four flights of stairs and down the third hall. Recognition sparked as you made your way through the manor — slowly, then all at once. Even before you reached the first room on the left, you recognized the furniture, the carpeting, the tear in the wallpaper where you and Dick had once gotten too confident while juggling pocket knives. You knew where you were going.

Jason’s room.

Anger overshadowed horror. Why was she doing this to you? You knew what you would find — a shine, a tomb, the remnants of a boy who had been dead longer than he’d ever been alive. Or worse, there might be nothing at all. Four blank walls and a bed Jason had never slept in. Emptiness where Bruce’s resolve hadn’t left room for grief. Your chest was tight by the time you reached the door, your vision fogged with tears as you took up the handle. With the last of your loyalty to Selina, the last of your love for Dick and Barbara, the last of your patience with Gotham, you took a deep breath and shoved inward, stumbling across the threshold and finding—

Finding Jason.

All the warmth, all the fight left you at once. Jason — except, this wasn’t your Jason. This was a grown man, mid-to-late twenties, more scars than not. His bare chest was covered with bandages, and he sprawled across not the Wonder Woman-themed twin cot of your memories or the white-sheeted placeholder of your nightmares, but some terrible, unknown middle-ground. There was a shock of white in his dark hair, and his nose looked as if it had been broken, healed, and broken again. Still, reality was undeniable. You were looking at Jason Todd, all grown up and very much alive.

He must’ve heard your footsteps. He was propped on his side, facing the door, his jagged features contorted in horror and disbelief and so, so much pain. You could only assume that you were mirroring the same expression back at him.

There was a long beat of silence, then another. Somehow, he was the one to break it — his voice deeper but agonizingly familiar. “(Y/n).”

“Jason,” you echoed back. “Shit, man. You’re alive.”

He coughed out a laugh. “And you’re—” His eyes slid from your face to your stomach, and any levity there might’ve been drained out of his tone. “Jesus Christ. They actually fucking did it.”

Your heart dropped. You opened your mouth, started to ask what he meant by that, what everyone except you seemed to know, but his eyes widened and a second too late, you heard those padded footsteps, remembered just how many security cameras Bruce kept in every corner of his home. You lurched forward, but a hand caught the collar of your jacket and hauled you back against a broad chest. There was a flash of silver in your peripheral, a prick to the curve of your throat, and then you were gone.

~

You woke up to Dick’s mouth on your chest and a bluebird mobile spinning slowly above your head.

Somehow, in your confused state, the latter seemed like more of a concern. You couldn’t seem to turn your head, but you could make out the baby blue walls of the nursery — the room you deliberately hadn’t stepped foot in since starting to show. Stuffed birds and plush bats filled the empty crib in the far corner. A rug you didn’t recognize dominated most of the floor space — toting a pattern of black cats chasing balls of yarn in a series of concentric rings. It was that last part that turned your stomach — the break in motif, the implication that you had anything to do with this. That you were anything more than the host of an obligation you would abandon as soon as it no longer needed you.

…as if you could really do that. With your luck, Dick and Barbara would be as good of parents as they were older siblings. In another decade, you’d still be in Gotham and there’d be a new Jason to—

Jason.

The thought of him was sobering. Slowly, you started to come back to yourself. You were on a bed, which was strange because you couldn’t think of a single reason why a nursery would need a bed, or why that bed would have a pair of handcuffs draped neatly over its headboard. Dick was behind you, holding your body in his lap, his head bowed to better latch onto your nipple while his free hand massaged your other breast. He’d hauled your shirt up to your neck and shoved your bra down below your tits, clearly prioritizing efficiency over elegance. You could feel something shifting inside of you — not lactation, it was too early for that, but not far from it, either. The same pressure, the same rhythm, the same suction. He was trying to nurse.

Barbara, at least, had a little more dignity in her perversion. She was lying on her side next to you, her face half-hidden in a mess of red curls as her hand skirted over the curve of your distended stomach. Her palm pressed against the taut skin above your naval, a smile spreading across her lips. “I felt a kick,” she whispered, looking toward Dick. “She gets that from you. Probably won’t sit still a day in her life.”

You felt Dick’s grin bite into your chest, then the reverberation of his voice as he spoke into your skin. “Me or kitty.”

“Or both.” Her hand drew back. Through your eyelashes, you saw her check her watch, then heard a sigh. “Elevated heartrate. Abnormal breathing pattern. You awake, sleeping beauty?”

You didn’t move. You didn’t want to move. You didn’t want any of this. But then Dick was pulling away and nestling into the side of your neck, his hand drifting from your chest to your stomach to the space between you—

You jerked away, gasping. The inside of your lungs suddenly felt solid, as if you were trying to suck air into a concrete block. You might’ve scrambled off the bed and found some tight, dark space to hide in had it not been for the strong arm barred across your midriff, the lead weight that was Dick’s body underneath yours. He groaned as you writhed on top of him. Barbara clicked her tongue, reaching past you and flicking Dick’s forehead. “Give it an hour, at least. The poor thing’s still in shock.”

“But she’s so sweet like this,” he whined, rolling his hips against your ass. You could feel his cock pressing into, already hard. Shockingly, the sudden awareness did little to calm your panic, not that Dick seemed to care. “You didn’t see her in the manor. She was so cute — storming around, sulking like she used to when we caught her cheating at hide n’ seek. She even lied to Bruce. I didn’t know she knew how to do that!”

“You don’t think he actually bought it, do you?”

“Hell if I know. Alfred always used to—” You felt him tense. “Hey, what if we named the baby—”

“Stay focused.” Barbara sat up, propping herself on her elbows and coming to sit at eye-level with you. You tried to look away, but she brought a hand to your chin, gently easing you back in her direction. As always, you melted into her palm in an instant. “I’m sure you have questions,” she started, slowly, as if talking to a very young and very poorly behaved child. “This wasn’t how I thought we would have to do—”

“How long?”

Your voice was hoarse, frail. Barbara’s smile broadened. “More specific, please.”

“How long have you known that Jason was alive?”

“Oh.” She seemed unimpressed. “He came back six years ago. We’ve known it was him for five.”

Five years. The timeline was sickening. You’d been letting guilt over nothing eat you alive for half a decade when a phone call, a text, god-forbid a visit could’ve put an end to your self-inflicted penance. Your devastation must’ve shown through. Dick cooed, rubbing his cheek against the crown of your head. “Don’t be mad, kitty. If you’d known, you wouldn’t have felt so bad for us. You wouldn’t have come back.” He paused, laughed. “And you definitely wouldn’t have let us knock you up.”

“That’s not—”

“—fair?” Barbara finished. She let out a breath of a laugh, leaning towards and pecking your lips. You felt Dick’s cock twitch against your ass. “We didn’t have another choice, baby. We had to bring you home.”

“I would’ve come—”

“For a while, maybe.” She was barely listening to you. Her eyes fell to your exposed chest, to the way her husband’s saliva glistened on your skin. “But you would’ve left again. Found an excuse, caught a bus, moved onto another town where you could rob museums and steal jewelry from single mothers. We had to wait a little longer, sure, but—” Her gaze settled on your stomach. You braced yourself for another platitude on family, on how much she and Dick both loved you — even it could never be the same way they love one another. Somehow, what actually made it off of her tongue was so, so much worse.

“It’s better this way. You were never really going to make it on your own.”

Dick’s head lulled forward, his cheek pressing into your temple. He let out a long, pitchy whine, only partially muffled by his closeness. “You’re killing me here, Babs.”

She sighed. “Can you believe what I have to do with?” The question was directed to you, but clearly rhetorical. Even had it not been, your only answer was a wide-eyed look, a pleasing shake of your head. Barbara drank down your panic, then shot Dick a brilliant smile. “Be gentle. And keep her off her stomach.”

You felt him pout into your scalp. “I’m not stupid.”

“Really? Could’ve fooled me.”

“You’re both insane.” Whatever sense of defeated resignation you might’ve been overwhelmed by was immediately replaced with raw, jagged panic. You dug your nails into Dick’s forearm, thrashed your legs in a clumsy effort to kick Barbara away, but his arm was an iron bar across your torso and all she did was laugh — placing her hand on your knee and pinning you down with as much effort as she might’ve used to swat a fly or brush the hair out of her eyes.

Any other time, you would’ve been able to think of a million ways to escape. Any other time, you would’ve driven your heel into her nose, twisted around, and scratched his eyes out. Any other time, you wouldn’t have let yourself fall into this trap at all, but you were so groggy and so fucking pregnant and so scared of the lunatics that you used to think of as friends that it was all you could do to clench your eyes shut and choke back a mangled sob as Dick lifted you just high enough to turn you in his lap and slot your hips against his. Barbara was behind you in a moment, a pair of toned arms wrapping around your midsection as her forehead came to rest against the nape of your neck. Like her husband, her hand gravitated to your chest on instinct, cupping and groping at your swollen breasts. Enjoying the fruits of her labor.

Dick’s satisfaction was not so meditative. He grinned up at you, messy hair partially obscuring his bright, burning eyes. You realized with a wave of revulsion that he was still wearing his Nightwing suit — or most of it, at least. The mask and gloves had been removed, the upper half unzipped and allowed to pool around his waist. Dick and Barbara’s betrayal, you could process. Nightwing and Oracle’s, Robin and Batgirl’s — that was more difficult to grapple with.

But it was happening. He ground into you once, twice before freeing his cock, already stiff and leaking underneath layers of Kevlar and vinyl. Barbara took care of your skirt — dragging it up and out of the way before slipping a hand into your panties. Her clever fingers rubbed quick, repetitive circles into your clit until your self-control lapsed and your hips jutted into her hand. She let out a breath of a laugh and drifted, dipping lower to drag the seat of your panties to the side. Immediately, Dick was there, dragging the fat head of his cock over the length of your slit, smearing arousal over your entrance. Even now, you couldn’t help but admire how fluidly they worked together. You’d always assumed that you were the odd one out, the unnecessary competent, the self-aware third wheel to their otherwise claustrophobic relationship. Now, it seemed glaringly obvious that they’d never mistaken you for a part of their double act at all. The only reason Barbara and Dick had ever kept you around was to fill the role of victim.

And yet, Dick was cruel enough to look at you like something more precious than a scared, bloodied thing they’d found in an alleyway and decided to take home. He held your stare as he thrust into you — moving slowly, drawing it out for seconds longer than it would’ve been kind to. Once again, your body betrayed you. The combination of your wrecked hormones and the sudden overdose of smothering affection had left you wet and malleable, too needy not to welcome their abuse. Warmth you didn’t want flooded your system, pooling in your core and eating away at the inside of your throat like acid. The only mercy was that you were already too far gone to moan.

Dick wasn’t suffering from the same malady, though. He let his head roll back, groaning as he bottomed out inside of you. The wrongness — of seeing him this way, of hearing him make that kind of noise, of finding yourself in this situation at all — was sickening, but your disgust alone wasn’t enough to stop it. There was a moment of stillness, and then Barbara’s hands were cupping his on your waist. It was less an attempt to guide you and more a feat of puppeteering. Your body was unable, your spirit was unwilling, but for all that you lacked, she was there to make up for it. She pressed open-mouthed kisses into your neck as she bounced you on Dick’s cock, muttering nearly incoherent praise every time some small, pathetic noise slipped past the veil of your dissociation. When she bothered to speak out loud, it was to him. Of course. As if you would be worth the effort.

“Maybe we should retire,” she said, nipping at the tender flesh above your jugular. “Imagine spending every day of the rest of our lives like this.”

Dick laughed. “‘d be easier for you than for me. The way it feels to be inside of her— I can’t even—” His voice broke off. His eyes never left you. “Promise, Babs. At least for a few months. At least until the baby gets here.”

You could feel her hesitation. She stilled for a second, but no longer. There was a shallow sigh, a loose smile pressing into your skin. Acquiescence and fond exasperation. This was not a new request. “Of course,” she whispered. And then, squeezing your hip, “We have a new housecat to train.”

Her voice was low, the words barely audible, but Dick moaned and bucked into you. He bit down hard on his lower lip, then reached up and dragged you towards him. Flush against you, he came hard, filling you to bursting. Barbara’s hand fell back to your clit, forcing you to the same end seconds later. There was a blissful moment of detachment, exhaustion and over-stimulation blending together to form a perfectly thoughtless climax, but it was only a moment. When you recovered, you found yourself still trapped between them just as inescapably as you’d been before.

Even in your own mind, your voice was despondent — far away and badly faded. “After the baby comes,” you started. Barbara all-but purred behind you. “Do I get to leave?”

Barbara cooed, but Dick answered. “Oh, kitty,” he sighed, the pity in his voice thick enough to choke.

"You're late." Ormund spoke, his hands clasped behind his back and a displeased look on his face.

You curtsied, walking closer to him. The echo of your boots bouncing off the wall of the sept.

"I am sorry, my lord. I did not intend to—"

"It does not matter what you intended, darling. You were late and lateness is not tolerated."

Your eyes were fixed on the floor, your green gown shifting against your body.

"Yes.. yes, I apologize. Please forgive me."

He stepped forward, bringing his fingers to your face— lifiting your chin so that your eyes could meet his.

"I forgive you, It would be wrong for me not to."

You nodded, still holding your breath and waiting foe the other shoe to drop.

"Thank you." You mumbled.

He gave a half smile, moving his fingers away from your face.

"Do not do it again. It is unbecoming of you and me as your guardian. Punctuality is important to me and to the very gods that you've come to pray to this morning. Sloth behavior is a sin, a sin that I will not tolerate."

"I understand, my lord."

He nodded and usehered you to the altar.

Both of you knelt at the altar, the candles and candlelight overtaking it. You brought your palms together, glancing into the flames.

Ormund glanced at you, his eyes raking over your appearance, the thing that he had the most control over. He stared at you often, his face unreadable— but deep down you knew that it was disdain. You knew that your your silver hair, violet eyes, your formidable dragon, your vulgar tongue—all of it angered him. An anger that was boundless and grew by the day.

Just as you were about to begin you your prayer, Ormund leaned closer to you— his lips near your ear.

"You will be punished for your lateness."

You felt your stomach drop at his words, a chill running down your spine.

He wasted not a moment longer as he began his prayer. A prayer that you knew all too well and had practically memorized word for word. He asked for strength in the brewing war, for understanding, for patience while being your guardian, for forgiveness in his sins.

You however stared off into the distance again, a tear running down your cheek. You always prayed for different things, some things within your grasp and others not. That morning, you prayed for love— the one thing that you wanted so badly and could never reach.

You wanted a husband or even a betrothed like your siblings would have. You wanted to be like the other noblewomen around the realm, singing praises about their husband. You wanted it so badly and Ormund constantly denied you of it.

Ormund always finished his prayers before you did, leaving you in the sept with the two knights that were tasked with watching your every move, Ser Bronn and Ser Humfrey.

The cool air in the sept crept up your skin, the sadness flowing through your veins like an aged wine. You did nothing to deserve the fate of being forced to live in Oldtown, seperated away from your mother and siblings for most of your life.

It was truly an accident, you didn't mean to hurt Aemond on purpose. You only wanted to defend Jace, but your grandsire saw this as a necessary course of action.

It was an accident that you had been paying for ever since, an accident that would rob you of any joy that you could've had.

When you first came to Oldtown, all of it was unfamiliar to you. Your mother had never forced the faith onto you, it was at your discretion whether or not you'd follow them. She gave you a choice, the one thing that you would not have under Ormund.

After praying in the sept, you went back to your chambers— waiting to break your fast at the usual time. You sat at the at the seat near the window, looking out into the distance— thinking of home and what you had missed. Being under Ormund's thumb meant that you did not receive messages from them often, if you did, they were read by him beforehand to make sure that they were suitable for you to read.

He did not want you ingesting more of their heretic words or ideolgies, you were already too far in when you came to him and he had to fix you. He had to make you better, show you that what you knew was wrong and improper.

Living in Oldtown was like a beautiful, specially crafted cage that was wrapped in gold. The bars would have just enough of an opening that you could imagine being free, you could feel the freedom on your fingertips and the fresh air against your skin. You watched as everyone walked around your cage with a smile, their smiles often making you forget about the cage altogether. It was when the night would settle in and you'd want to spread your wings, when you'd realize that you were still in a cage. A rare bird that lived in a beautiful gold cage.

Fed, bathed, loved, but punished when you would chirp too loudly and grab the attention of the people around you. Always reminded that you were just merely a bird, his bird, his pet.

Despite your grievances, you did not hate him. You should've, you should've hated every fiber of his being— but some part of you found him to be the closest thing to your home. He protected you from yourself, from unruly men, unsuitable marriage proposals, from sin, from your incestous ways. He was your guardian and he had your best interest in mind, at least that's what you'd tell yourself.

You repeated those words over and over again, "He is protecting you."

"It's for your own good."

That was why he'd have your feet or hands whipped when you were caught misbehaving, when he'd make you sit in the tub and scrub your skin raw if he thought that you had sinned, make the maester check your sex to see if you'd betrayed him, hurl vile insults at you when you overstepped.

It was love and his protection, just as he'd said.

You were an uruly girl, made with tainted blood and in vile sin. You needed his guidance or you'd be doomed like the rest of your family.

Your food was brought to you on a tray, set on the table near the chair. You glanced over it, bowing your head before indulging.

"Mother above, I ask you for mercy in this war. Not for me, but my family. I ask that you keep them safe and whole in the pursuit for my mother's throne. I ask for mercy, because they might not and I know that they will need it. Warrior, I ask that you give my father and brothers strength in battle. I ask that you guide them to victory." You whispered to yourself.

"Your mother's throne?" A voice questioned.

Your head snapped the direction of the voice, your heart stilling in your chest.

"Forgive me.. my lord. I did not hear you come in." You stammered.

He stood across the room from you, his eyes fixed on you.

"The throne does not belong to your mother, which you know. The true king and rightful heir is your uncle, Aegon."

"Grandsire named my mother his heir, he defended it publicly and privately." You replied softly.

Ormund nodded, his head slightly tilted.

"Stand up."

You stood up, your palms sweaty and your heart racing in your chest like a rabbit.

He walked closer to you, his steps slow and calculated. He stood in front of you with his hands clasped, the pomander swinging at his hip.

"Your mother is a treasonous bitch, along with the rogue fraud that she is married to."

Your face twitched instinctively, his words wriggling under your skin like a worm in soil. He knew how much his disparaging remarks about your mother bothered you, yet he still made them. Perhaps, it was because they were true and you needed to hear them, or because he was cruel. Somedays it was hard to tell.

You kept your eyes on the wall instead of looking at him, because if they looked at him then he might see how your eyes had become glassy and that would be troubling. It would be troubling for your guardian to see you crying over the people who opposed the rightful heir, crying over the people that had you living in sin.

"You've been served a delicious meal by the servants here in the home of your guardian, yet you waste a prayer on those traitors. Why? Do you still not understand their actions and the gravity of this war?"

"I do understand, my lord." You replied.

"Look at me." He commanded.

Your eyes slowly shifted from the wall, glancing over his frame as he stood in front of you.

"Why would you pray for traitors to the realm?"

You hesitated, your mind racing for an answer.

"I prayed for them.. because in the eyes of the seven there is no person that cannot be prayed for. No one is perfect, which means that all of us sin and have sinned. In the eyes of the seven there is no such thing as treason or a rightful heir, just people who have strayed and should pray. No one is above being prayed for and this war is the will of men, not the gods."

Ormund smirked, stepping closer— bringing his hand to your face. You leaned into his touch, his hands holding your face as if it had always belonged there.

He began to grip your chin.

"Do you like disappointing me?"

Your eyes stared into his, "no, my lord."

"Do not let me hear you saying prayers for those bastards again. It is beneath me and you.. you are an extension of me."

"Yes.. my lord."

Ormund smiled, letting go of your chin and placing a kiss to your forehead.

"Good girl—"

"Now, eat your food before it gets cold. I would not want it going to waste."

Ormund walked to the door, leaving you standing there— the door shutting with a thud behind him.

A bird trapped in a beautiful cage.

Instead of eating, you sat back down in your seat. You tried so hard to fight back tears, but they came out anyway. It felt hard to breathe, your fingers gripping the fabric of your deep green gown. You wanted to tear it, feel it rip between your fingers. Higtower green, the colors of the people that betrayed your mother and stole her throne.

The gown felt tight against your skin, constricting your movements. The pins in your hair dug into your scalp, pinning up your silver locks up to make you fit the look of a proper noblewoman in Oldtown. The seven pointed star rested against your chest, the necklace rubbing against your skin. Every part of you was precisely picked and constructed by him. You were his and the worst part was that some part of you liked it.

You liked him and the control that he had over you, because control was all that you knew. It was a cage, but it was your cage and it could've been worse.

You wiped the tears that painted your cheeks and began to pick at the food on the tray, most of your appetite being lost after his visit.

While you sat in your chambers an emotional mess, Ormund was in his solar continuing a conversation with Gwayne.

"I'm glad that you have cleaned yourself up and began to settle in here." Ormund mentioned, blowing out the candle in front of him.

The smell of citrus and sandalwood drifted through the air.

Gwayne sat in the chair, his hands in his lap as he stared around the room. His eyes took notice of the tidiness in the room, how everything had a specific place, how everything was nothing less than perfect.

"Yes, it was nice to get a warm bath." Gwayne nodded in agreement.

"How is Daeron?"

Ormund leaned back in his chair, "he is fine. He's learning the fundamental importance of his new role as king."

"King?" Gwayne questioned, his brows furrowing.

"Yes, king. Aegon is dead and it seems as if Aemond is too, or he's willfully abdicated. Which means that it would be him that is next in line. He must be prepared."

"Rhaenyra sits the throne." Gwayne reminded him.

Ormund scoffed, "the bitch with dragons? that will not last long and it is being handled as we speak."

"She will not abdicate, you are setting him up for failure."

"She will, if her own people are starving and cannot trust her. There are still plenty that do not support her and that will be used to help us." Ormund protested.

"What of my sister? My nieces?"

Ormund's lip twitched at his questions. There were two things that Ormund could not stand, rotten smells and people who questioned his decisions. A lack of faith made his skin burn hot.

"You are full of questions it seems. Perhaps, it would've been wise for you to stay with Cole and finish out what you were tasked with."

Gwayne tilted his head, his face filled with confusion.

"Cole was on a suicide mission. He has no intention of coming back at all from battle, he intends to die in this war even when it is not necessary."

Ormund's brow raised, "do you suppose that you will get your nephew on the throne without bloodshed?—"

"It might be a bit too late for that sentiment."

Gwayne gritted his teeth, shaking his head in disbelief. It felt as if everyone around him had lost their senses, no one was interested in listening to his reason.

"What of the girl?"

Ormund sat up in his chair at the mention of you, his facial expression changing within an instant.

"What of her?"

"If this half-baked plan of scaring Rhaenyra from the throne does not work, what then? Her and Daemon will come for their child, Gods help us when they do." Gwayne noted.

"What makes you so sure that she will want to go with either of them? She has spent years here in Oldtown with me as her guardian, both her and Daeron growing up under my wing. They have been cared for and taught the proper things."

Gwayne hung his head in defeat, "that is her mother, Ormund! Do not be a fool and let your feelings for her cloud your judgement. She is not your wife and she's not required to stay at your side."

Ormund's brows furrowed, the lines on his forehead deepening as he leaned closer to his desk.

"What is that supposed to mean? She is my ward."

Gwayne chuckled, bringing his eyes to Ormund's.

"I have been here merely three days and I have heard the whispers. I will spare you the indignation of asking whether the two of you have been intimate, but she goes beyond being your ward—"

"I beg your fucking pardon?" Ormund interrupted.

"Whispers of you sharing a bed with her on some occasions, bathing her or with her, dressing her in some of your late wife's gowns. It is wrong."

"Those are vile insinuations." Ormund Argued.

Gwayne laughed bitterly, "insinuations are they?"

"You come here to Oldtown with your tail tucked after abandoning your men, yet you want to lecture me on my ability to be a guardian to my wards? This pursuit of the throne is for our blood and yet, you are too craven to see it through. It is a disgrace, you are a disgrace." Ormund spat, his patience thinning.

Gwayne nodded his head, listening to his words.

"As you say, cousin. I just hope that she is not truly aware of what has happened in this war thus far or you shall have an even bigger war to fight."

Ormund shrugged, "she is only aware of what I tell her and the same goes for Daeron."

"How do you suppose that he can be king, if you only tell him small tidbits of information?" Gwayne pried.

"He does not need to know everything at this moment, only what is necessary. I cannot guarantee that he will not share certain pieces of information with her as they are close. We need them on our side, that gives us two extra dragons."

"You truly believe that she'd get on dragonback and fight her own blood, kill them if need be?"

Ormund smirked, "you have far too little faith."

"Or maybe I have seen enough." Gwayne countered.

There was a silence that lingered between the two of them, not that they were at a loss for words— but there was truly nothing more to say. It was clear that Ormund had his mind made up and was not going to budge on the ideas that he's constructed in his mind.

"I must attend to something else, but I will talk to you more during supper." Gwayne spoke as he stood up from his chair.

"Very well." Ormund replied, watching Gwayne leave his solar.

Once Gwayne left the room, he could feel the anger brewing inside him. How dare he question him about you? about what he does for you? About his efforts in this war?

Ormund yelled, knocking everything off his desk and onto the floor in a bit of rage.

Once you had finished your food, you spent time with your septa as you tended to your studies.

That day, Septa Lyra had you working on needlework. Septa Lyra was nice, but you found needlework to be fatally dull. You would've rather spent your time reading or sneaking off to see your dragon, Vermithor.

Ormund had Vermithor chained as soon as you arrived, but not before he burned three dragon keepers. You pleaded for him to keep him free, because he would not like it— but you were scolded and chastised for your feelings regarding it.

Ormund hates dragons, he hates feeling inferior to them, and he hates knowing just how powerless he is because of them.

"Pay attention to what you are doing, you don't want to poke yourself." Septa Lyra spoke.

You adjusted how you held your needle and snapped back into the moment.

"Apologies." You mumbled.

She glanced at you, placing down her fabric in her lap.

"What has gotten into you today, child? You've barely spoken, not even a snide remark about your disdain for needlework."

You kept your focus on the fabric, guiding the needle through it—poking your finger to take your mind off of him.

"I was late to meet Lord Ormund in the sept for prayer this morning and then, he caught me praying for my mother and family in this war. He was not pleased."

The sound of the bells tolling clouded your mind for a small moment, reminding you that it would soon be time for you to pray again.

"Hmm.. Lord Ormund can be strict about people's commentary on this war. It has everyone worried, wondering what shall come the next day. I don't think that you should be too hard on yourself about a prayer."

You brought your eyes to hers, "he said that it was wrong of me to pray for them. I want them safe, but I don't want him harmed either. I just do not like being in the middle of this."

Septa Lyra's facial expression softened, reaching her hand for yours.

"Lord Ormund might be in charge here, but he cannot control what you pray for as that is yours and your relationship with the gods. He might find it to be in poor taste, but that is merely his own opinion."

"But, he was right. It is ungrateful of me, he has been too kind and good to me."

She sat back in her chair as she gave a half smile, one that didn't reach her eyes all the way.

A look of pity for Ormund's caged bird.

You began working the needle into the fabric again, your mind thinking of him. Thinking of things that weren't appropriate. He was your guardian, but why did he make you feel weak? Why did he make you want to be close to him, in his bed with his lips on yours?

Your skin felt warm, the memories flooding your mind.

For the rest of the time that you were in the prescence of Septa Lyra, you were quiet. You had hoped that being quiet would've changed the thoughts that consumed your mind, but it didn't. He consumed you, plagued your mind.

Once the time with Septa Lyra came to an end, you said your goodbyes and made your way to the sept for prayer. As Ormund wished, you visted the sept twice a day to pray and prove your devotion. In his mind, if he kept you busy with prayer then that meant less time for you to sin and cave into your innate herectic desires.

You walked to the sept, your stray hairs blowing in the wind with Ser Bronn and Ser Humfrey behind you. During your walk, you saw Gwayne— his eyes lingering on you for only a moment before he averted his gaze. He seemed like he was afraid to look at you, like he'd been ordered not to.

Your guards were merely one step behind you, almost on your heels— walking you to the doors of the sept as they stood outside of it. You weren't able to say anything to Gwayne, but even then you doubted that he would've held a conversation with you. You knew that Ormund would've forbid it.

At that hour, the sept was almost empty as most came to pray in the early hours of the morning or later in the afternoon before supper.

The sound of your boots clicking against the floor consumed the sound of the faint prayers that could be heard from the two nearby septa's.

You knelt at the altar, lighting a candle and pressing your palms together. With a bowed head and closed eyes, you began whispering your prayer in high valyrian— something that Ormund would never allow.

"Please, Mother above, I beg that you grant me peace. I cannot carry the burden of these feelings any longer, they fill my body and linger within me. Lord Ormund is my guardian, he is not mine to have and yet some part of me craves him. I think unsavory things, even after his punishments.."

"I am a rotten girl, a girl who does not deserve him and his leniency. Please, take away this feeling. I don't want to sin, I don't want to disappoint him. I want to be good, I want to be proud and I cannot be that with those thoughts." You begged silently, tears flowing down your cheeks.

Praying normally didn't bring you to tears, but that day it did. It brought out something in you that you had refused to admit for years.

After prayer, you went back to your chambers. You had hoped for a nap before supper as you had nothing else to fill your time.

You took your boots off and walked back over to the window to glance out, when you saw it or rather, them. Two large shadows flew over Oldtown, they looked to be Caraxes and Sunfyre. It was clearly a message being sent to Ormund, something meant to rattle him.

They hadn't forgotten about you, something that had brought you more hope than you had ever experinced. One day soon you could be leaving your cage. You could finally be free.

Even though you had thought about it plenty, you truly had no idea what it would mean to be away from him. Would you be happy? Would you miss him? Would you regret it? Would you mourn him, if he died?

You shook your head, stopping the questions as they entered your mind. You'd be lost without him, because who would teach you the proper things? Punish you when you were being a rotten girl?

The sound of panic and chaos could be heard from below with the dragons startling everyone, you even heard roaring from Vermithor and Tessarion. People rushed into their homes and knights cleared through the alleyway's.

You sat there, wondering if they'd fly over again.

The sun had dipped low in the sky as you sat in the window seat, blissfully unaware and deep into your accidental nap. It was the sound of a servant entering your chambers that startled you awake.

"I'm sorry to interrupt, my lady. I've come to prepare your chambers for the night." The woman spoke softly.

Your eyes fluttered open, a yawn escaping your lips.

"I can return in a few minutes, if necessary?"

You stood up, "no, that will not be necessary. I did not intend to fall asleep anyhow."

The woman came in and lit the fire in the fireplace.

You noticed that you still had his book on your desk, the book that you borrowed to advance your knowledge. It was supposed to have been returned, but it had slipped your mind. You grabbed the book, immediately rushing to bring it to his chambers, Ser Humfrey and Ser Bronn following in tow.

The shilouette of your dress moved along the wall as you passed the lit sconces. Servants gave half smiles and quick nods as they passed you.

It didn't take long before you reached his doors—the tall, heavy, oak doors with two knights standing outside of it.

"My lady, I do not think Lord Ormund wishes to be bothered at this moment." Jon Roxton spoke, standing on the left side of the doors.

"I came to bring something that belonged to him, that is all. It shall only take a moment." You mentioned.

All of them shared a look, both of them sliding out of your way. You rose your hand with a bit of dread, lightly knocking against the door.

"You may enter." Ormund called out.

You opened the door, shutting it behind you with a loud click.

His chambers smelled of a hint of vanilla with a deep wood smell, a smell that you knew all too well. The fireplace crackling with a small fire.

You turned to face him, holding the book in your hand— when you realized that he was in the middle of bathing.

"Oh.. I am sorry for the interruption, my lord." You stammered.

He gave a troublesome smile, the kind that made knots form in your belly.

"It is not interrupting if I told you to come in. To what do I owe the visit, sweetling? —"

"Supper will be happening here shortly."

Your eyes lingered on the tapestries in his room.

"Look at me, I will not tell you to do so again." He commanded harshly.

Your eyes darted to him, staring at him in the tub as the steam curled around him. He looked even better when he was relaxing and undone. He looked like a piece of art, the kind that takes years to paint, the paintings that you can't look at for too long without getting lost in them.

"I still had your book in my room and I had forgotten to bring it to you, my lord."

"Ah, you seem rather forgetful today. Forgetting when to arrive at the sept for prayer, forgetting who you should be praying for, and now my book."

Your palms began to sweat as you held the book, standing there in front of his judgement.

"I apologize.. forgive me. I don't know what has gotten into me. I will not make habit of such behaviors."

He motioned for you to set the book on the nearby table, which you did with a quickness. You didn't want to upset him more than you had nor did you want to remain in his chambers.

You curtsied and began to walk back towards the doors.

"I didn’t dismiss you, did I?"

Your fingers dug into your palm, your tongue poking your cheek. Just a few more steps and then you would've been out of his room, instead you found yourself scared for what could come next. Out of respect, you turned to face him.

"You did not, my lord."

He stood up in the tub, the water falling off of his body as he stepped out. Your heart stilled in your chest, your eyes immediately finding the floor as he stood bare in front of you.

"I see that on top of not remembering, we must also have issues with listening?" He questioned.

You immediately knew that he was referring to you keeping your eyes on him. You slowly brought your eyes over him and his body, every inch of it. It wasn't your first time seeing him bare, but it was wrong. He wasn't yours to admire.

He put his green robe on, tying the fabric in the front and keeping his eyes on you the entire time. Neither of you spoke as you were at a loss for words, trying to fight the image of his length in your mind.

His footsteps pattered against the rug as he walked over to his desk, opening one of his drawers.

"Come here."

You blinked hard and gulped even harder, a pit in your stomach.

"My lord?"

"Do not.. make me repeat myself, girl." He gritted.

You slowly walked over to his desk, standing in front of it— trying to see what he had in his hand.

"Hands on the desk, palms up." He instructed.

Your lips started to quiver, tears threatening to fall from your eyes.

"Please, Ormund. I am sorry."

He laughed, walking around the desk with a small, black whip in his hands. It was the same one that he had used for punishment before. The same one that he had Jon Roxton use on your feet when you were caught sneaking to the kitchens with Daeron late at night.

He hovered over you, his body just barely touching yours as he leaned in to whisper in your ear.

"Sorry is not good enough."

You closed your eyes, your cheeks already wet from tears as Ormund walked away from you.

The whip hit your left palm first, a cry escaping you.

"Make no mistake, I take no joy in punishing you and making you cry. You must learn to listen and be obedient as you've been taught—"

He struck your right palm.

"What kind of guardian would I be if I didn't punish disobedience? Would you rather live in sin and insolence?" He lectured.

The whip came down again. Your cries getting louder with each instance.

"You will learn, it doesn't matter if it takes until my last breath. You will do better, you will learn, you will be an exact reflection of me as your guardian." He reminded.

The whip came across your hands several more times, your knees wobbling with each hit as he forced you to stand still and take each one. If you cried too hard, interrupted him, or pulled your hands away— it was worse, always worse.

When he finished, he put his whip away and walked over to you with a smile. You took deep breaths as you fought through the pain, your hands still on his desk.

He wiped your tears with his thumb.

"Why must you make this so hard? Disappoint me so greatly?" He questioned.

You didn't answer, because you didn't have one and anything that you could've said would've gotten you another punishment. Your left hand had began to bleed, blood seeping into your palm.

"I shall have the Maester come attend to this wound, stay in here while I go fetch him. I want you to eat supper in here with me tonight—"

"I will inform Gwayne that I will be busy."

Of course you weren't perfect, but why did he punish you so harshly? You listened to him, followed him and that still did not spare you his ire. You submitted to him, you were his in your mind and heart, even when you didn't want to be. Why wasn't it enough?

A few moments later, the Maester came in and cleaned your wound, applying a bandage to it. He didn't ask questions as he knew what had happened and he knew better than to ask.

Ormund came back into the room, while you sat in one of the chairs. He came in with a good mood as if nothing had happened, but maybe nothing had happened in his mind. Punishment wasn't something to linger over, especially when he found it necessary.

"There has been great news these last few days about how this war is progressing."

You stared into the fire, thinking over the right words to say. You knew that his very statement was a trap, another lecture waiting for you. The best thing would be to acknowledge it and change the subject, but you couldn't.

"Was that mother on Sunfyre, flying over Oldtown with Caraxes?" You asked before you could stop yourself.

He pursed his lips and you could see the irritation all over his face within an instant.

"That bitch—"

His words were interrupted by the servants bringing supper into the room. They placed your trays on the table and left quickly, the door shutting behind them.

You glanced at the food and back at the fire in the fireplace while he prepared to dig in.

"Are you not going to eat?" He asked.

"I'm not hungry."

His fork tapped against his plate, a deep breath escaping his lungs.

"Do not be wasteful, eat."

"I am not hungry, my lord."

He did not bother to hide his irritation, " if you do not eat this food tonight, then you will not eat at all tomorrow. How does that sound?"

You caved as you didn't have much of a choice. You sat there silently, taking a few bites from the meat and vegetables on the plate.

"Back to talking about your bitch mother as you couldn't help but to bring her up, that was her on her dragon earlier. She was lucky that we did not have the scorpions ready to shoot the two of them down."

"You would dare kill a dragon?" You responded, your brows furrowed.

"Those filthy beasts are just that, something that you incestous aliens should've never trifled with." He griped, taking a sip of wine.

"Those beasts are loved by most of the small folk and made in the eyes of the gods. They would not be happy to witness such acts."

His eyes looked as if they could've popped from his skull, "made in the eyes of the gods? You know better than anyone to say such a thing, that is not true. It is odd that you could even suggest the mere notion."

Your fork scraped the plate, a blank look on your face.

"The gods would not will them to live if they were such abominations, yet they continue to live and thrive."

He dropped his fork onto his plate, his fists slamming against the table.

"You will cease this nonsense and heretic talk! I am in no mood for this, you rotten girl."

You scoffed in your mind, but you knew better than to do it outwardly.

"I am sorry, please forgive me. I have just had an overwhelming day, my lord."

Ormund nodded his head and resumed eating. His ability to regain control over his anger was something that you hadn't seen before. It was a perfected skill.

"All is well, just do not say those things again."

The rest of supper was quiet on your end, while Ormund complained about small things here and there. It wasn't anything that was of importance or that would matter to you, because the last thing he needed was for you to get to curious.

Once he finished eating, the servants came into his room— taking the leftover food and emptying the tub. The sun had gone down, the moon sitting in the sky.

You stood from your chair, "it is getting late and I should get to my chambers."

"Sleep in here tonight, it's been a while since you've last laid with me."

The last servant glanced at you, her face saying everything her mouth couldn't as she grabbed the empty pitcher and left the room.

"Okay." You agreed with a nod.

He brought over the silk nightgown that he kept of yours in his room. You took it from his hands with a small smile, watching as he walked to the window to look out while you changed.

You stripped out of your clothes and put on the nightgown, "you can turn around now."

He looked at you like it was the first time that he'd ever seen you, a look of possibly adoration. It was hard to understand, because you didn't know what it meant to be adored, not genuinely.

The servant had put out the fire in the fireplace, leaving the room to just the small slit of moonlight that came from the now closed shutters. You crawled into bed beside him, sleeping in the spot his late wife slept in, wearing a nightgown identical to the one that he had made for her years ago.

He pulled you close against him, his arms wrapping around your waist, his warm breath grazing against your ear. It felt as if you belonged in his arms, a home away from your true home. He kissed your head, a low hum in his throat.

"I've missed you sharing a bed with me, sweetling. It pains me to keep you away from it." He whispered.

He kissed your head again, taking in the scent of your hair. You could feel his cock hardening against you, a wetness forming in between your own legs.

His fingers would find your wet folds, gliding between them and rubbing your sensitive bud. His breaths ragged as he chased friction against your skin through his thin breeches. You were still unwed and his ward, it was wrong. It was a sin, something that would ruin you for any suitors.

Sometimes you'd pull away, but he pulled you closer and whispered sweet nothings in your ear.

When he fell asleep, you laid awake— staring at the ceiling. Even when you felt most at ease in his arms, that night you found yourself questioning it all. Was any of it real? Did he truly care about you or did he pretend that you were her? His do over, his chance to mold you into what was desirable. Had you lost your senses for feeling that way?

The next morning as the sun crept in, Ormund was already awake and had left his chambers. The maids came in at the time that they always did, bringing your gown for the day and preparing a bath. When they came in, they had hushed voices and low eyes, never allowing themselves to ask questions about the obvious.

You took your bath, sitting in the water for longer than you normally would. It was hard to place how you felt that morning, but you didn't feel happy. 

After your bath and getting dressed, you had time before you were to meet Ormund at the sept for prayer.

The maids had left the room, leaving you to yourself. You opened the door to peak outside and you had no one standing guard. Your heart raced in your chest as your eyes scanned the hall and you walked out of his room, shutting the door behind you. You walked quickly through the hall, hoping not to be noticed by anyone.

Once you were outside, it was easier with everyone beginning to get up for the day. It created a distraction for you to effortlessly blend in. You finally reached it, the dark pit where the dragons were being held. It was dark, the sound of your breathing almost loud enough to echo, the dim firelight from the sconces guiding you.

There he was, sleeping peacefully— chained like an undeserving animal. It pained you to see him chained, he was the bronze fury, a formidable dragon, a good dragon and yet he was punished. When you walked closer to him, you stopped in your tracks as you noticed Daeron near Tessarion.

"I won't tell." He spoke in a hushed voice.

Neither of you were supposed to be in there with your dragons and you could only hope that you hadn't been spotted.

You walked to Vermithor, his eyes opening as he nudged against you. You rubbed his head, bringing yours close to his.

"I've missed you." You whispered, your eyes watering.

Being away from your dragon was a special kind of torture, feeling so connected to something and not being allowed to be close. 

"Are you alright?" Daeron asked.

"I would be, If me and him could fly again."

He glanced down at your bandaged hand, "what happened?"

You looked down with confusion like you had forgotten what had happened, until you realized. Daeron saw the hesitation on your face and he immediately understood. 

"It is easier, if you just listen." He murmured.

You scoffed.

"It is easier, because he treats you differently. You are not a child that was born by his enemy, he protects you."

Daeron shook his head in disagreement.

"It is not me that he protects so fiercely. In your years here, you've grown to take over the spot of his late wife and he's turned down every marriage offer for you."

You gave a blank stare, a lump in your throat.

"Can I ask you something?" You replied, your voice wavering.

"What is it?"

"Do you know if my family is okay during this war? Do you know what has taken place?" 

He rubbed Tessarion's head, his eyes looking elsewhere instead of at you.

"You know that you shouldn't ask that." He gently reminded you.

"I know, but—" you started and then stopped. 

Daeron walked over to you, looking to make sure the two of you were still alone.

"You should just drop it, while you're ahead. It is truly best if you do not know."

You grabbed his hand, your eyes widening into a look of desperation. 

"Please, Daeron. I have lived here for years, completely in the dark. I can count on one hand the letters that I've been able to read from them. I just want to know."

Daeron was conflicted as he understood your position all too well, but he also didn't want to anger Ormund. 

"Rhaenyra has taken King's Landing with Daemon, my uncle Gwayne said so once he returned." 

Your brow raised, "she has taken King's Landing? Are you sure?"

He nodded.

You felt genuine hope again, she did what she had set out to do. She was the queen of the seven kingdoms.

"Is everyone okay as well?" You followed up.

He shrugged. "I do not know, he doesn't tell me everything as I've told you before. Perhaps, you can get a raven out to ask?"

You rolled your eyes, biting back a sarcastic laugh.

"That would never work, the risk is far too great."

Daeron hesitated again, going back and forth on what to tell you.

"There's a box in his solar, in the bottom drawer on the right side of his desk. It's filled with all the messages that are correspondence about the war with your mother.. you should find your answers in there."

"How.. would I do that when he's always nearby?"

"Go after dinner, I shall stall him for a short time. Read as much as you can and don't get caught. If you get caught, I will deny my hand in this."

You hugged him, something that was foreign to both of you. Despite your families being on opposing sides, the two of you did look after one another when you could. You were truly all each other had in Oldtown, both of you under his thumb.

"Thank you."

"I would want someone to do the same for me." He admitted.

He started to walk towards Tessarion, "I cannot stress this enough, no matter what you read, do not tell him. Do not react, please."

The bell rang, which meant you only had a few moments to get to the sept. Both of you shared a look before you gave Vermithor a head rub and left to get to the sept.

You rushed through the streets, hurrying to get there in time. When you entered, Ormund was finishing up a conversation with Gwayne as he awaited your arrival.

Gwayne gave a nod as he walked past you, leaving the sept.

"I see that you have arrived on time this morning." He smiled as he approached you.

He pulled you into a hug, his body flushed against yours— his chin resting on the top of your head. He sniffed you a few times, an unusual smell coming from you.

He pulled back to look at you, his brows furrowed.

"You reek of dragon back."

You feigned ignorance, "I have no idea what you mean, my lord. I haven't been able to see Vermithor for a while now."

He brought his hands to your face, causing you to flinch. He pulled your closer, pressing his lips against yours in a kiss.

Ormund did occasionally kiss you, normally in situations where he was happy. You had no idea why he would've been so happy in that moment.

He pulled back from you, his lips curling into disgust.

"Do not lie to me, my love. I would hate to punish you again."

"I'm not.. I promise." You reiterated, your stomach turning.

He brought his pommander to his nose, taking a sniff of the citrus oil inside of it.

"Very well, let's not waste more time than necessary. Let us pray."

The two of you walked over to the altar and knelt, both of you praying as you always did. 

Instead of praying for love, you prayed to find the answers to your questions— even if the answers broke your heart in the process. You wanted to trust Ormund, be sure in the reasons that you cared for him so deeply— but you needed the truth.

The entire time that you were in the sept you felt unwell, your nerves had gotten the best of you. After prayer, the two of you stepped outside. While standing there, you threw up— catching Ormund off guard and getting vomit all over your gown.

"What is the matter with you?" 

You shook your head, your hand pressed against the wall as you leaned over.

"I just have an upset stomach, my lord."

He had you escorted back to your chambers so that you could change and be cleaned up, but not before he almost threw up himself at the smell.

You took another bath and upon further inspection, the maids noticed that your other gowns had been taken to be cleaned. You were left with only the gowns that your mother had sent to you a year ago, beautiful gowns in your house colors. 

As beautiful as the gowns were, Ormund had forbade you from wearing them. Hightower green was the color that you wore or he'd allow you to wear House Arryn's colors, since that was your grandmothers house.

You didn't want to disobey him, but you had no choice this time. Surely, he'd understand?

All throughout the day your nerves had been a jumbled mess, you could barely think straight— worried about what you'd find out. It was wrong of you to plan going through your guardian's belongings, but why couldn't he tell you what was going on? Did he intend to keep you in the shadows forever? If he cared about you to the lengths that he claimed, wouldn't the two of you share information and be one?

Luckily for you, Ormund was going to be busy for most of the day as he prepared for the small feast being held. Lord Borros had sent an envoy of Baratheon men to pledge his support for the greens during the war. You hoped that by the time the feast started at least one of your gowns would be cleaned and you could change gowns before he noticed.

You weren't going to see Septa Lyra that day as she had other duties to attend to. Instead of sitting in your chambers all day, you decided to go to the library. You didn't want to spend the day trapped in your mind with no escape until you got into his solar.

As you walked the halls, servants and maids gawked at the sight of you in your gown. A beautiful, silk gown with small dragons at the hem of it. House Targaryen colors, something they knew Ormund would never let you wear. They knew the punishment would be severe for even wearing such a thing.

It didn't stop them from whispering and commenting you on the gown.

You spent most of the day in the library, getting lost in the few books that they had on the histories of House Targaryen. It brought you comfort reading them and being left alone to your own thoughts, not having your thoughts controlled for you.

You loved reading about your family and Old Valyria, you wanted to embrace the side of you that made you proud. He could embrace embrace being a Hightower, a traitor to his queen— but you couldn't embrace being a Targaryen? It wasn't fair.

As the hours had passed on, you went to the sept and even returned back to the library. Ser Humfrey came in to ask if you were okay, if he needed to notify Ormund but you reassured him that you were fine. 

The halls outside of the library clattered with noise from the bustling of servants and maids. The Hightower would be in perfect condition as guests were due to arrive. 

You finished two books before you left the library. You peered down from the window and saw that guests were arriving. You knew that you needed to make an appearance shortly or you'd risk a conflict with him.

When you stepped out of the library, Ser Humfrey glanced at you again.

"Are you sure that you are alright, my lady?"

You nodded, twisting your fingers.

"I am fine, Ser Humfrey. However, I do appreciate your genuine concern." 

Him and Ser Bronn shared a look, but both decided that it was best to let you be.

While walking the halls, you could hear the faint sound of music being played in the dining hall. Guests lingered in the hall, talking amongst one another. A few of them saw you, even tried to approach to ask questions but they were stopped. You gave a half smile and continued on as you'd been told to.

When you walked into the dining hall, it was decorated beautifully. The feast was not a grand event, but just one to show appreciation— but it felt more than that. The Baratheon men would have no qualms with bending the knee and being shown such hospitality. That level of hospitality would certainly be rewarded.

The table that you'd be seated at was at the front of the room. Everyone at the table was present, but you. Ormund was in the middle of a conversation, his focus elsewhere. As you walked up to the table, Gwayne's eyes followed your every move in shock, while Daeron found you to be bold.

You approached Ormund as he stood near the table, preparing to take your own seat. His words paused in the conversation, his eyes raking over you and that gown.

"Please, excuse me." Ormund smiled, waking away from the man.

He grabbed your arm, his fingers digging into you.

"How dare you?—"

"What do you have on?"

"My other gowns had been taken away for cleaning at your request, so when I threw up this morning I had nothing else to wear." You admitted.

The scowl on his face only deepened, his grip growing tighter. He leaned closer towards your face, "you mean to make a mockery of me on such an important day?"

You couldn't bare to look at him, you never could when he was angry. His anger made you feel small, made you feel worthless, it made you feel the exact opposite of what he'd whisper to you in bed.

"No, I didn't intend to do that, my lord. I could return back to my chambers, if you wish?"

"I do not fucking wish for you to go to your chambers, but this.. this will not go unanswered." He fumed.

You stared into his eyes, "what was I supposed to do? I would be punished for not attending, but now I am to be punished for what I had available."

"You could've put on one of Samantha's old gowns!—"

You pulled your arm back from his grip, your brows furrowed.

"Samantha? As in your late wife?—"

"You'd want me to wear one of her gowns? You kept them?"

He huffed, realizing that maybe he'd said to much.

"I did not mean to—"

Before Ormund could respond, Gwayne called his name and got his attention. He saw the way that he was with you and wanted to save him from everyone else seeing the same thing.

You took your seat in the chair beside his, a bitter taste in your mouth. 

Samantha was his late wife, she'd been long dead by the time you were brought to Oldtown. You'd heard that she was a beauty, that she was kind, and gentle. Ormund always said that despite everything, their marriage was merely a political match. 

It didn't matter much when you heard his words years ago, but now it struck a nerve— a nerve that you thought was neatly tucked away.

She was a ghost in the Hightower, someone seldom mentioned but fondly remembered. Ormund had only ever called you by her name one time, when he was yelling at you. An accident is what he claimed, but it didn't hurt you any less.

A place holder, a rotten girl, a mistake, tainted, someone that would never be Samantha.

A servant came around the table, filling your goblet with wine— which you happily accepted. Anything to make you feel even a fraction of less shame and the disappointment than you felt.

Ormund took his seat beside you as he finished his conversation with Gwayne. 

"We will talk more later." He mumbled.

You raised your brows, bringing the goblet to your face once more— the sweet wine gliding down your throat.

People approached the table, speaking with Ormund on different matters that pertained to the war. You watched silently, waiting for the moment that you could leave. Underneath the table, Ormund had his hand on your thigh— giving you a subtle reminder to behave.

The plates were brought out to everyone, forks clinking and scraping their plates. The smiles on their faces were big, bellies full, everyone in support of the greens. They gave Ormund looks of pity for having you as his ward, raising Rhaenyra's rotten seed must've been the hardest thing that he'd ever done in their eyes.

You toyed with your food, only taking a few bites and instead filling your belly with more wine.

As people finished their food, they began to get up and mingle again— some even dancing. Ormund sat beside you with a pleased look on his face, proud of the support that he'd rallied.

Daeron left his seat at the further end of the table, approaching him for a conversation. You scooted your chair back, getting his attention.

"I do not feel well, I need to step out for a moment."

"My lord." Daeron spoke, standing to the side of Ormund.

Ormund glanced at him and back at you, "very well. Do not stay gone for long."

Darron mouthed words to you as you stood up.

"Go now."

You walked away from the table, your feet stumbling some as you had indulged in too much wine. When you got outside the dining hall, you realized that all the guards were in the room. The hall was practically empty as you walked down it, everyone was so busy with the feast.

When you got to Ormund's solar, you took a deep breath and entered the room— quietly shutting the door behind you. 

The room was dimly lit with a small fire going in the fireplace.

"The bottom right drawer at his desk." You whispered to yourself.

You walked to his desk, kneeling behind it as you opened the drawer. There it was, a small brown box as daeron had described. 

Your hands trembled as you held it, walking closer to the fire so that you could read. With a click the box opened, filled to the top with letters. You decided to start at the bottom and then work your way to the top.

At first, most of the letters were just small and meaningless things— but it didn't stay that way.

Your breath hitched in your chest, tears falling onto the papers as you read most of them. You stopped reading them, pulling your knees to your chest as you sobbed on the rug.

Luke was dead, Rhaenys was dead, Jace was dead, Rhaena was believed to be missing, and Ormund was actively having gold cloaks killed in the city to sow discord.

He always said that your mother initiated the war when she heard the news of your grandfather's passing, but that was far from the truth. Aemond used Vhagar to chase down and kill your little brother, sweet Luke.

Your family had been falling apart while you slept in the bed with a man that celebrated it. You were a fool.

In a bit of rage, you took the letters and dumped all of them into the fire— placing the box back into the drawer.

You took longer than you should have, but you walked out of his solar with wet eyes and your stomach felt like you could vomit at any moment.

How could he betray you that way? You knew that he wasn't perfect, that he opposed your mother— but never to the scale of the letters that he had written. The letters were so cruel, cold, and just evil— far too evil for a pious man.

Drinking the multiple goblets of wine had caught up to you, you stumbled through the hall— your hands holding onto the wall for stability.

Your heart was shattered into pieces, everything that you thought that you knew faded into the wind.

When you walked back into the dining hall, Daeron was standing up from your seat that he had been sitting in.

"There you are, I was about to go looking for you." He spoke as you stumbled past him.

He noticed your red eyes and he could smell the wine on you, but his thoughts were interrupted.

"My lord, the envoy from House Baratheon has arrived to treat with you." The man spoke.

Ormund stood up, an even bigger smile than he had on his face earlier.

"Let the stormlands lead the way, HighGarden will have no choice but to follow."

Gwayne stood from his chair and approached Ormund, the rests of the guests still talking amongst themselves.

"Let me do the talking."

You stood near Ormund, almost swaying in place— causing Gwayne to stare at you for a moment.

The men walked in towards the table and Ormund, the stench of them stronger than cow shit. It was the kind of smell that made your lips curl. It was truly insulting that they were sent to treat and we're beyond filthy, tracking in mud.

"Lord Ormund Hightower, beacon of the south, defender of the citadel, and voice of Oldtown." Jon Roxton spoke, grabbing the attention of a few guests.

Ormund's face had turned a hint of red, the unexpected smell beginning to overwhelm him.

"Well met, Lord Ormund. I come as an envoy of Lord Borros Baratheon. Lord paramount of the stormlands." The man greeted.

Ormund coughed clearing his throat, clearly overwhelmed— but he wasn't the only one. The smell was making it harder to keep down what had went into your stomach.

"You are quite welcome, Ser—"

"Ser Arrion Baratheon, cousin to Lord Borros."

The men stared at you like they knew you, yet you could not place any of their faces. It could've been the wine, but they seemed off.

Ormund took a step back, standing closer to you.

"I most regret presenting ourselves in this state. The road was long and filthy, but I thought it best to speak to you immediately." Arrion admitted.

Gwayne stood there, his eyes scanning the face of Arrion. 

Ormund shook his head, "we are honored to receive you and what word from Lord Borros?"

"Well, House Baratheon bends the knee to his grace, Aemond Targaryen and offers it's many banners in alliance with House Hightower." 

Arrion struggled to keep his eyes off of you, his hands making a small movement for his sword.

"That is good news. Your lord has made a wise choice." Ormund claps, a miserable smile on his face.

There was a beat of silence amongst the men.

"I hope you do not mind the question, but is that Rhaenyra Targaryen's daughter?" Arrion asked with his head slightly tilted.

Gwayne grabbed the blade from Ormund's belt, lunging and slitting the man's throat.

Ormund stood in front of you, "no! Stop him." He yelled.

The dining hall got quiet, people starting to panic at the havoc that seemed to have come out of nowhere.

Your hands shook as you stood behind Ormund, terrified of what could happen next— to you and him.

"These are assassin's sent for you and me, from the Queen." Gwayne yelled, chopping a man in two.

You watched as Jon Roxton disemboweled a man with his valyrian steel sword, cutting through him like warm butter.

"Ser Arrion Baratheon has hair of light chestnut.. and he is far more comely."

Ormund leaned against the table, his face redder than before and his breathing ragged. He turned his gaze to you, "what did you do?" He gritted.

"I will cleave the bitch.. from crown to cunt—"

"She will die wishing she never dared.. dared."

Ormund started throwing up on the table, causing a few people to gasp around you.

Your day had just worsened as it continued… You stumbled from the table and down the steps towards the other tables. Servants rushed in to clean up the mess and keep the scene from being too much of a spectacle, but it was far too late.

Gwayne chased after you, helping you down the stairs as you almost fell. His hand held you up, his hand pressed against your backside but lower than it should've been.

Ormund saw, a rage taking over him.

While everyone else was too busy trying to understand what happened and preparing to leave, Ormund pulled you from Gwayne's hold— grabbing a fistful of your hair.

"Ow!" You cried out, your hands reaching for his as he dragged you into the hall with no shame.

"You filthy whore." He fumed.

"Ormund, you're hurting me." You cried out.

His grip on your hair was tight, it felt as if he could pull it from your scalp. 

Due to the fact that you had drank so much wine, you couldn't keep up with him— your feet tripping over eachother. 

You fell onto the ground, but that still didn't stop him. He walked you like a dog down the hall, a tight grip on your hair and unwavering level of anger. The few servants that saw it, closed their eyes and shut their mouths. If he'd do that to you, then he'd do far worse to them.

He opened the door to his chambers, slamming it shut behind him.

You struggled to stand up, tears falling from your eyes.

"Let go of me." You whined.

He brought his face closer to yours, pulling your hair and neck back— making you look at him.

"You dare flirt with Gwayne in front of me, allow him to put his hands on your body?"

"I almost fell and he helped me, it was not like that. I swear." You breathed.

His face twisted into something that you'd never seen before.

"You swear? You are the daughter of a whore, nothing more than the biggest mistake of her life. You probably would've sucked his cock in his chambers tonight, had he continued being nice."

You pushed against him, his grip loosening. 

"You lied! You fucking lied to me—"

"Praying to the gods and condemning my blood, yet you'd commit grievous atrocities and sins for yours?"

He pulled his shoulders back.

"What are you talking about?"

You laughed bitterly, tears rolling down your neck and chest.

"I saw all of the letters, all of them." You gasped, beginning to sob.

"They murdered Luke, Rhaenys, and Jace.. they murdered them and you praised them for their efforts."

"You went through my things? you ungrateful, sniveling bitch." He roared, his eyes dark with nothing behind them.

"I would've crossed oceans and mountains for you.. because I loved you. I believed—"

"I believed that you loved me too, but you Ormund Hightower are no better than a Dothraki savage."

He grabbed your arm, pinching it.

"I could never love someone so rotten and so utterly foul. If your mother loved you then she would've killed me to get to you, so I must not be the only one with that sentiment." 

You stared at him, unable to recognize the man that you'd known for most of your life. 

You spat in his face, his hands leaving you as he took a step back in disbelief. He wiped the spit from his face, his breathing deep and heavy.

Ormund reached forward, wrapping his hands around your throat.

Both of you stumbled back, your hands tapping at his as you couldn't catch your breath—your foot hitting the tub that was near the wall.

"Ormund.. I can't—" you gasped.

It felt like the room was closing in around you. Your chest felt like a fire consumed it, your eyes bulging as you tried pulling his hands off.

It felt like an eternity, but Ormund let go of you with a push—causing you to stumble back and fall.

There was a heavy thud as you hit the floor, your head hit the edge of the tub. 

You laid on the rug, blood streaming down your face from the small wound. You blinked and blinked, feeling as if you'd been in the same place forever. For a moment you'd sworn that you might've died, that those might've been your last moments in the world.

After a moment, you picked yourself up. Ormund watched you and slowly regained his senses. You touched the wound, bright red blood coating your fingers and dripping down onto your face.

He approached you, grabbing your face into his hands— his touch softer than a mere moment ago. A feeling of disgust overtaking you.

"It was an accident, I shouldn't have—"

"I'm sorry. I am so sorry, please forgive me."

"I'm going to leave you alone here one day and I'll never look back." You muttered, staring into his eyes.

His facial expression softened, maybe because he believed you more than he ever had before.

He let go of your face, grabbing your hand instead.

"I love you, I love you more than I can put into words."

It was the first time that he'd truly said it and it sounded like that, like he meant it— but he wasn't ready to say it. He loved you, but only when you were good and not rotten.

He pressed a kiss to your lips, your blood smearing onto his skin. He kissed you like he'd never get the chance to again and even after everything, you didn't deny him. You should've killed him on the spot, but instead your heart fluttered like it always did. He had a grip on you, one that you would never truly outrun and that grip was mutual.

"I am going to leave you." You reiterated, your lips against his.

"I will make you mine, I will not lose you. I cannot. I would go to war for you, sin for you. You are mine as you always have been."He mumbled against your lips.

You pulled back, a singular tear sliding from your eye.

"Bend the knee to my mother then and I will forgive you for your actions tonight."

He shook his head, his lips pursed as if your statement was painful to hear.

"I would never."

You scoffed, pulling away from him.

"Then, none of this—" you spoke, pointing around the room.

"Is good enough."

He sighed as if were out of options, "do not force my hand on this. I am begging you, because you will not like the outcome."

The stone hallway stretched ahead, your bare feet unsteady on the frigid flagstones. Each breath came in shallow gasps, your chest constricted, the roar of dragonfire still echoing in your skull. Tears blurred the dim passage. You pressed your palm against the rough stone for balance, the grit anchoring you, pulling you back from the smoldering wreckage that haunted your vision.

You reached his door and pushed it open without hesitation. No need to knock — you never did anymore. The room enveloped you in its familiar warmth — amber firelight, the scent of lavender, and there, at the table, Ormund sat hunched over his work, quill scratching methodically despite the late hour.

The quill's scratch persisted for a few beats before his free arm lifted from the table, opening to the side. A silent invitation. Come here.

You crossed the room on trembling legs and settled into his lap. Your arms wrapped around his neck, your face burying itself in the hollow between his shoulder and jaw. His arm encircled you, firm and sure, pressing you against the solid warmth of his chest. Neither of you spoke. The fire crackled, a log shifting, sending sparks spiraling up the chimney. His hand moved in slow, absent strokes along your back. Your tears soaked into his tunic, dampening the linen against your cheek, but you didn't care. You inhaled deeply, the clean scent of his skin grounding you — and the smoldering ruin behind your eyes began to recede.

"What did you dream?"

His voice was low, the vibration of it resonating through his chest.

You shook your head against his shoulder. "It doesn't matter. I just — I need you."

The quill stilled. You heard it set down, the faint clink against the inkwell. Then his hand cupped your face, fingers tilting your chin upward so you met his gaze. His blue eyes traced the tear tracks, the reddened lids, the trembling of your lower lip despite your efforts to steady it. His thumb brushed your cheekbone, catching a stray tear.

"No. I cannot help you if you do not tell me."

You said nothing, your fingers tightening in the fabric of his tunic, your eyes locked onto his as if memorizing him. He leaned forward, pressing a dry, warm kiss to your temple. When he pulled back, his gaze held yours again.

"Poor girl," he murmured. "It's not fair, is it?"

You shook your head, another tear slipping free.

"Please," you whispered. "Help me."

His hand remained at your jaw, his stare unwavering. "Did you say your prayers?"

You nodded. "Yes."

"Are you certain? The gods would not have punished you today had you been dutiful."

You blinked, your brow furrowing as you replayed the day in your mind. You had risen early, knelt at the sept, spoken your prayers. You had attended your lessons, eaten modestly, spoken kindly, maintained your composure. The day had been ordinary. Devout.

"I was good today," you murmured, your voice cracking. The tears welled again, spilling over. "I was good."

He watched you, his expression unyielding, though his thumb moved across your cheek, wiping away the wetness with practiced patience. "What did you pray for?"

"I prayed for the Father to watch over me. Where my own father could not." You swallowed. "I prayed to be returned home. To my family."

His jaw tightened, the muscle along his cheek clenching. His eyes narrowed slightly. His hand dropped from your face.

"You wish to leave?"

"I —" You faltered. "I surely cannot stay here forever. My mother will be Queen one day, and I —"

He scoffed, the sound sharp, cutting through the warmth of the room. His hands gripped your waist, lifting you off his lap and setting you on your feet. The motion was not rough, but it was final. You stood before him, arms hanging at your sides, your sleeping gown loose around your frame, swaying against your calves.

"Perhaps the Father who delivered you to me finds your desire to abandon the care of a man who has given you everything, to return to a den of sin, offensive." His voice turned cold, the detachment settling over his features like armor. "As I do."

You reached for his shoulder, your fingers brushing the linen, trying to climb back into his lap. He turned his head away, his profile stark against the candlelight — straight nose, sharp jaw, the hard line of his mouth pressed flat.

"I can do nothing more for you," he said, still refusing to look at you. "Return to your chambers."

"I'm sorry." The words tumbled out, breathless. "I meant no offense — I wasn't thinking, I just —" You moved forward again, straddling him, your knees pressing into the chair on either side of his thighs. You leaned in, your nose nearly touching his, your breath warm against his lips. Your hands gripped his shoulders, fingers digging into the muscle beneath the linen.

"Please," you whispered. "Make them stop. The way you do."

His eyes met yours. You watched as his gaze dropped to your lips — just for a heartbeat — before returning to your eyes. Something shifted behind the cold blue, a flicker, dark and hungry. His jaw worked, his throat moving as he swallowed. You felt the tension in his thigh beneath you, and something else — the faintest twitch of his cock beneath the leather of his breeches, a swelling that pressed against your inner thigh.

"You need me?" His voice was rough.

"Yes."

He tilted his head slightly. "Say it."

Your fingers tightened on his shoulders. "I need you."

He stared at you, unsatisfied. You knew the words he craved. "I need you, Ormund. Only you."

His hand cradled the back of your head, fingers threading through your hair — firm, possessive. His palm warmed your nape. His gaze flicked to your lips, then back to your eyes.

"You shall have me," he murmured, "once you tell me what you saw."

You tried to lean away but his other arm wound around your waist, holding you fast.

"I saw dragons," you began, voice trembling. "Born from the same egg. They danced, their flames consuming everything." Your fingers dug into his tunic. "Then they fell from the sky. All of them dead."

Your eyes searched him for reassurance. Behind you both, the hearth crackled; beyond the window, a lone night bird cried.

"When you were young, you learned of the Great Doom, didn't you?" he asked. You nodded. "The Targaryens should have perished with the other dragonlords." His thumb traced slow circles at your hairline. "But your ancestor dreamt of that destruction and fled — her first act of cowardice."

You swallowed hard, your grip unyielding.

"But the gods do not forget," he said softly. "Balance must be restored. Your time approaches."

You brushed tears across your cheek. "Please. I do not wish to see more, or think of any of it." You pressed into him, as though you could vanish inside his warmth. "I only find peace with you."

"Peace, protection, salvation," he said. "I give it all to you."

He held your gaze a moment, then slid an arm beneath you, lifting you effortlessly. Your legs curled around his waist, your face pressed to his throat as he carried you to the bed and laid you down. Your white hair fanned across the dark linens.

He stood over you, slipping the straps of your nightgown off your shoulders.

"Isn't it a pity," he murmured, "that one so beautiful must endure such suffering?"

He leaned down, lips brushing the hollow of your collarbone — warm, dry. You whimpered, small and involuntary.

"How fortunate you are," he whispered against your skin, "that the gods in their mercy brought you to me."

Your hands gripped his shoulders. "Thank you," you breathed.

He had told you, when the dreams began, that they were divine punishment. To be a Targaryen was sin enough; to be a bastard, an affront the gods would not tolerate. You prayed morning and night for silence, for peace, for relief — but he said the gods had turned away, that your blood was too tainted by your ancestors' sins. You believed him.

One desperate night, you came to him weeping, clinging, begging. He knew he shouldn't, but he gave in. That night, you slept without dreaming. Every time after, when he took you, the nightmares stayed away. He told you that your union cleansed you — that through the sacrifice of his body, you found absolution.

He pulled the sleeping gown down your body, past your hips, your thighs, over your feet, tossing it aside. It landed in a crumpled heap on the floor. His hand moved up your calf, the calloused palm rough against your smooth skin. His fingers traced over your knee, along the outside of your thigh.

"What else did you pray for?" he murmured.

Your breath caught. "I asked the Mother for mercy. To save me from a marriage to a man I do not desire."

His hand stilled on your thigh. "Did you now."

"Yes."

His jaw tightened. "And why should it be your choice?" His voice was flat, hard. "You don't know what you need. You cannot protect yourself."

"I only meant —"

"You will marry whomever I see fit," he cut in, "and you will carry out your duty without complaint."

"Yes, sire." The words slipped out small and hollow. You stared at the bedclothes, your lashes brushing your cheeks.

He watched you — your downcast eyes, the slump of your shoulders, the tremor of your lip. He cupped your jaw, tilted your face up, and pressed his lips to yours with firm warmth. You sighed against him, fingers curling around his wrist.

He withdrew. "You think me cruel? Even though I do this for you?"

He guided you onto the bed and knelt above you, still in his clothes.

"No," you whispered. "I don't think you cruel."

"Then why do you wish to leave me?" His fingers slipped between your thighs, finding you wet and slick. You gasped as your body opened for him, your hips arching against his touch.

You reached for him, clutching his tunic. "I don't want to leave you."

"You do," he said, his voice quiet, almost sorrowful, even as his fingers pressed inside you. "You pray for your father. Pray for a husband. You wish for any man but the one who clothes you, feeds you, loves you. Me, you insult. Discard."He pushed two fingers into you. You cried out, your back arching off the bed, fingers twisting in the linens.

"I'm sorry," you choked. "I'm sorry —"

He bent to brush your lips with a delicate kiss while his fingers moved in a slow, deliberate rhythm. The wet sounds of your body filled the hush around you.

"Never pray to leave me again," he whispered against your mouth.

"I promise," you breathed. "I won't, I promise." You arched back into the pillow as he curled his fingers inside you, pressing against the spot that set your vision swimming. Your moan was long and unguarded; your thighs clamped around his hand, your hips rolling to meet each curl of his fingers.

He watched your face — lips parted, brow drawn in what looked almost like pain — and murmured, "Good girl. You're so beautiful like this."

His thumb found your clit, tracing maddening circles. You sobbed as your body clenched hard around his hand, your slick dripping down his knuckles and pooling onto the dark sheets.

He pulled his fingers free. You whimpered at the loss, your body clenching around nothing, empty and aching. Then he pulled his tunic over his head and dropped it to the floor.

He stood to remove his breeches, his hands working the laces unhurriedly as you watched, propped up on your elbows. He pushed the leather down over his hips.

His cock sprang free — thick, hard, the head flushed and glistening. "My girl," he said, his earlier coolness gone, warmth in his voice. "You are almost perfect. But these dreams — they are the physical manifestation of the stain upon your soul." He climbed back onto the bed, crawling over you, his cock hanging heavy between his thighs. You opened wider for him, your knees falling apart, your folds slick and swollen, glistening in the candlelight.

"It is not your fault," he repeated, his voice almost tender.

He knelt between your thighs and took himself in hand, dragging the head of his cock through your folds — slow, unhurried — parting you, coating himself in your slick. You felt him catch against your entrance, press there without pushing in, the broad head stretching the rim of you just enough to make your breath stutter.

"Please." The word was wrecked, breathless, barely a sound.

He gave you a soft smile, the line of his mouth easing. The candlelight caught the blue of his eyes, and for a moment he looked at you with a hunger that resembled adoration. You were shaking beneath him, your inner walls fluttering around nothing, your thighs trembling on either side of his hips.

********************************************

People whisper of a beast that lives in House Hightower.

A beast that bludgeons men who anger him, destroys rooms, and burns down buildings.

You hear the servants warn each other of it, their whispers reaching your ears during quiet spells in the night.

During your first months at House Hightower, you wondered if this beast actually existed, or if it was a mere horror story told between serving staff to keep them on their best behavior.

But slowly, as more time passed during your stay in Oldtown, you began to hear it.

Shouts carry through the hallways. You hear screaming from areas you did not know existed. You see servants running from something that you have not witnessed yourself.

Prince Daeron is the one to finally explain it to you.

The two of you sit together in the Hightower library reading through histories of the Gardening when you hear the sound of glass shattering on one of the floors above you. You then hear heavy footsteps, and a crash that is so loud it makes you flinch.

Two guards run past the library doorway, and you begin to fear something is wrong.

“It is only my Uncle Ormund,” Prince Daeron tells you, noticing your expressions. “You needn’t worry, he will not come down here.”

“Lord Ormund?” Your shoulders jump as you hear another crashing of glass. “Is he okay?”

“He must have received a letter he did not like.”

“It sounds worse than an ill-received letter.”

“It is actually quite tame for him.”

You don’t understand it.

Lord Ormund Hightower appears to be the very definition of prestige and class when you are near him.

He is a man that never slouches, never curses, never complains. He is a compass of what a good man should be, and he carries himself as if he is the role model for the world.

“He hides that side of himself from you,” Daeron once confessed to you. “He is easily angered, and is quick to react with violence. He tries to pretend he is well tempered but he is not.”

“I have seen him angry,” you tried to reassure him. “You have not seen him angry. You have seen him upset. He is different when he is angry. He will break everything in his path. He will destroy an entire room. He will wound servants that are near him.”

“It is a sin to harm an innocent in anger-”

“He is different,” Daeron insisted. “That is what I am warning. He believes you to be too gentle to see such a thing, so he hides it, but he is a beast at times. You must be careful.”

A beast. His word choice set you on edge.

It was difficult to believe the almighty Ormund Hightower was the beast everyone spoke of, and not the dragon that lived in the lowest level of the tower.

Even after all the warnings, you still thought people must have been exaggerating to scare you. For months you lived in Oldtown, and you never once saw Ormund raise a hand to anyone.

Until you reached your second year with the Hightowers.

That was when you first saw him physically punish Daeron with a slap to the face. It had been a petty crime Daeron committed, being caught having a taste of his uncle’s wine when he thought he wasn’t looking. It scared you so badly you could not look the Lord in the eye for a week.

By the time your third year here came around, Ormund would frequently discipline the Prince by striking the back of his hands with a leather rod.

Seeing such things made you…wary of him. But he never placed an unkind hand on you.

Daeron says he’s soft for you.

Now, as you neared your fourth year in Oldtown, you find yourself unsure of your attitude towards Ormund. He was a Lord, so you respected him. You try to remember how you have been raised, all the politeness you must show, so you put your personal feelings aside so that you can do your duties properly.

Your duties, which involve the education and faith of Prince Daeron, are difficult at times.

Especially today.

You have sat Daeron down in the library, and you are attempting to get him used to more diligent notetaking, yet he is fighting back with everything he has.

“We spend so many hours in this library,” he complains. “Can we not go somewhere else?”

“We can visit the Sept.”

He lets out an uninterested grunt.

“We can take a break once we reach mid-hour,” you offer. “We’ll take a walk through the gardens.”

Daeron fidgets in his seat. “I wish to visit Tessarion.”

“You know that is not allowed.”

“It’s not recommended. I am the Prince, I can order you to take me anywhere if I really want to.”

“It would be much easier if you just finish your notetaking.”

He sighs as he looks down at the paper. His quill finally starts moving again.

“Perhaps we can ask your uncle at dinner if he can take you down to Tessarion.”

“He would never agree to that, he dislikes her.”

“There is no harm in asking him. The worst he can do is say ‘no’.”

You hear Daeron chuckle, like you have made a joke. “Only you would say such a thing.”

You place down your book. “And why is that?”

“Because you are the only one he does not throw a fit in front of. He’ll hold his tongue for you.” Daeron risks another smile as his quill scrolls across the paper. He uses a mocking voice. “Uncle Ormund says that you are a proper woman, and should not have to bear witness to such foul, abhorrent language.”

You straighten yourself to better posture, surprised by the comment. Lord Ormund was one of the most prestigious, well-classed men you have ever met. To hear such a compliment from him was beyond meaningful.

“Well, that is true,” you say. “Foul language should not be said around ladies.”

“And what of your foul language?”

“I do not use foul language, it is a sin.”

Daeron’s smile turns to a smirk. “You do not think of the word ‘bastard’ as foul? Or do you assume your context of calling the street merchant a ‘bastard’ acceptable?”

Your shoulders slouch, and you feel heat rush to your face. “That was a moment of wrongfulness, and you heard me pray for the Mother to forgive me for it.”

“Perhaps I should tell Uncle Ormund all the words I’ve heard you use so that he is less worried about exposing you to such language-”

“You will not.” Your words come out flustered. “I hardly ever use such language and-and if I have it was well deserved.”

Daeron is even more amused. He leans closer, and fakes a gasp. “You dare believe someone deserves such a name? And here I thought you were supposed to be aiding me in my ethics of the Seven.”

“You stop it,” you tell him. “I have prayed for my wrongdoings. But even if I didn’t...that merchant ripped my coin pouch right from my hands. Had you not retrieved it, your uncle would have never allowed us back to the market again.”

Daeron chuckles, leaning back in his chair. “Alright, I agree. The bastard was deserved. And I have to admit it was quite humorous to hear my proper teacher shouting that word across a crowd.”

“You should be finishing your notes, not trying to rile me up,” you tell me. “Let me see your paper so I can be sure you complete your studies before dinner.”

“Let me see your paper,” Daeron counters.

He reaches over, but you quickly flip the book over. “I am not the one who needs to take notes.”

“But let me see yours, so I know I am taking notes correctly.”

You pull your book away.

He smiles wider. “Unless, perhaps, my teacher has not been taking notes. Perhaps she has just been drawing.”

Your face grows hotter in embarrassment. He knew how to get under your skin so easily.

“As the teacher, I am asking to see yours-Daeron!”

He reached over and snatched your parchments from you. He laughs, flipping it back towards you to say, “It is a beautiful flower you have drawn.”

“I have learned these lessons before, I can draw if I wish.”

“Shall I tell Uncle Ormund that you are wasting time in the library with such drawings?”

“You will do no such thing.”

You would be humiliated. You could picture it now. His stern stare looking down at the stupid flower, and then back up at you, silently labeling you as incompetent for the rest of your time here.

“I will keep my mouth shut if we end lessons early today,” Daeron says. “And you allow me to visit Tessarion.”

“Lord Ormund is displeased when you visit her.”

“He would also be displeased by this,” Daeron countered, waving your drawing in front of him.

You are tired of the library anyway, so you figured there was no harm in a quick visit downstairs. You sigh. “Fine. But you must wash before dinner so that he does not smell her on you.”

Daeron smiles again, like he tricked you into giving him the upper hand. Though, in all honesty, he was the Prince. He could have left the library at any time, and you had no true power to stop him.

“May I at least see that you have taken notes?” you ask.

He flips his book around to show you his parchment.

There were no notes. There was only a drawing of you sitting in front of him, drawing a flower.

You open your mouth to lecture him, but quickly shut it. “We will be going to the Sept tonight, and we are going to pray about your lack of enthusiasm for your education.”

He paid no mind to your words. “Come on. I’m sure Tessarion had been missing me greatly.”

The days are always like this with Prince Daeron. Amusing. Frustrating. Happy. Exciting. Nerve wracking. You feel every emotion with the boy everyday.

And it brings you more joy than anything.

When you first arrived at House Hightower, nearly four years prior, Daeron hardly spoke to you.

He had recently turned the age of ten, and at the time you were barely ten and six. He was a quiet boy, and you were a quiet girl. It was extraordinary to see the difference in him now.

Originally, you had been sent to Oldtown by your father, who was a strong believer in the Faith of the Seven. He wanted you to learn how to pray from the Septas of Oldtown, the most devoted women in the realm.

It was Gwayne Hightower that offered for you to stay in House of Hightower, your mother having been a dear friend to Alicent and him in their younger days.

You were meant to be in Oldtown for one month, and then you were to be sent home.

But the gods had a different plan for you.

It was Ormund Hightower that spoke to your father about you becoming an aid for the young prince.

Lord Ormund was a man of religion. He visited the Sept every morning and every night. He was quick to notice, staring on the morning of your arrival, that you did as well.

He admitted to your father that he was impressed with your faith, and even more impressed with how often you partook in prayer.

“Daeron has become very lonesome being so isolated from his siblings,” Lord Ormund had said to you. “It would be beneficial for him to have the company of a girl as mindful as yourself. A girl proper in her ways, and a devoted servant to the Seven.”

When the offer of a more permanent stay was first given to you, you were wary of it. “This is the first time I have been away from home,” you admitted. “I do not know if I would be able to assist the Prince as well as a Septa could.”

“Septas know only scripture,” Ormund reasoned. “They are the education of the spiritual world, and you will help teach him the ways of the physical one.”

In honesty, you felt too young for such a position. Ten and six, you still felt like a child. You were frightened to be so far from your mother, and even more frightened to be in a position responsible for royalty.

And in the beginning, you were frightened of Lord Ormund as well. You had been so scared to talk to him the day he brought his proposal up to you. You had never spoken to him prior to it, and the only reputation you knew was that he was a serious man who was easily disappointed.

So you try to be honest with him, hoping he would understand your hesitancy. “I do not know if I am equipped to handle such a task, my Lord.”

He had smiled at you. A warm smile that made him appear as such a kind and considerate man.

Placing a hand upon your shoulder, he told you, “You are a good girl, (Y/N). All I need is your help in raising my nephew to be just as good.”

Now, nearly four years later, Oldtown feels more like home than your homeland ever did.

Because your brother is here.

Daeron Targaryen, Prince of the realms, will always be the brother you never had. Not a blood brother, like the ones from your homeland, who were cruel to you in your childhood and would throw things your way when you became bothersome. Daeron was a real brother, and seeing him grow up to be kind was the best gift the Mother could ever give you.

“Come,” Daeron hurried you as the two of you descended down the staircase to where Tessarion was kept. “She has been alone for so long, she must be dying for company.”

You disliked the way the Hightowers treated Daeron’s dragon. But you knew it was not your place to interfere with such a thing.

Daeron’s face lights up like the boy he is as he sees her. You stay back against the staircase as Daeron jogs down the steps and over to the creature. “Here I am, girl. I promised I would return to you.”

The sight of the large dragon always makes you wary. Even as she makes screeches of joy as she sets her eyes on her rider, you feel yourself fearing for him.

Yet, he nuzzles his head against hers, and she appears to nuzzle him back. “There you are,” Daeron whispers with a laugh. “Shh. Shh. I told you, I can come down here more often if you are quiet.”

“Be cautious of her claws,” you say as she paws near his feet.

“She knows her strength, she will not harm me,” Daeron assures you.

You rest against the wall, and listen to him whispering soft words of admiration to her.

You are patient as he takes a brush to draw over her scales, grooming her body. He glances over to you. “She is not a monster like they say,” he tells you. “I have raised her to be good.”

You give a soft nod. “She is good, I know.”

“Would you...” He hesitates. “...Would you like to pet her?”

You take a quick step back, shaking your head. “I will keep my distance.”

“She will not harm you, you have my word.”

“Lord Ormund warns they are unpredictable with those that do not have the right blood.”

“Please,” Daeron says. “She sees you so often. I want her to actually meet you.”

Your eyes take in the creature. You stiffen as she stares right at you.

Daeron holds a hand out. “I will be right beside you.”

“What if she dislikes me-?”

“She will not. I promise.” Daeron steps close to you with his hand out. “Trust me, Lady (Y/N).”

It takes a moment of contemplation before you finally decide you do trust him. And if your trust gets you burnt, so be it. You take his hand, and he leads you to the dragon.

He lifts your arm and slowly places it on Tessarion’s head. The texture catches you by surprise and you flinch back.

He chuckles. “It is an odd feeling, isn’t it?”

You choke back a scream when Tessarion moves her head against your stomach. You stumble back, but Daeron places an arm out to steady you. “Daeron-”

“It’s alright. She just wishes to feel you too.”

You force yourself still. The dragon runs her head along your abdomen. Slowly, you lower your hand back onto her. The scales are not so frightening now.

“See,” Daeron smiles. “She likes you.”

“That is very relieving,” you laugh.

“Sometimes I think she can sense how I feel about people,” he tells you. “And that’s how she judges them.”

“Does that mean if you decide you hate me, she will eat me?”

“I would never hate you,” Daeron says. His voice grows more somber. “You are the only true companion I have ever had.”

“For now,” you say. “I am sure you will gain allies over time.”

“Allies,” he repeats. “Not friends.”

“I have no other friends either,” you tell him. “It is not so bad.”

As an aid to royalty, you are secluded from the outside world. Lord Ormund has insisted on it.

‘There is no room for distractions when it comes to your care of my nephew,’ he told you when you first arrived. You were just a girl then, so it made sense to you. But now, nearing your twentieth summer, you feel the seclusion is less necessary. Yet, he still insists on it.

It does matter your opinion, however. It never does with him.

Lord Ormund is the man of the house, so you must bend your knee to his orders.

Daeron is quiet for a moment. He brushes along Tessarion’s back.

“...I wish you were my true sister,” he whispers. “So that I did not have to fear you leaving.”

He has said this before. It makes you feel sympathy that he is so far from his real family, he sometimes forgets he actually does have a true sister.

“I would not leave,” you quickly insist. “I promised I would remain at your side for the rest of your youth.”

“And after?” he asks.

You sigh. “I do not know the plans my father has for me after.” You look again at the creature that has settled comfortably with leaning against your body. “But Tessarion will be here forever, at least for that you are certain. So be good to her.”

“I am,” he swore to you. He leaned his head against the dragon’s once more. “Aren’t I good to you?” he whispers to the dragon.

He was so gentle with the creature.

Daeron was always so gentle, and so kind.

You could not be more proud of him for it.

**********************************************************

A few weeks pass, and the weather becomes warmer. It causes Daeron to lose energy in the day.

“It is shameful to sleep in the Sept, Prince Daeron,” you chide softly, “It is best you wake before someone else sees you.”

The boy barely stirred. Head resting on the pew in front of him, arms folded beneath him, he muffles, “I am not sleeping, I am praying.”

The yawn was still in his voice, and it made you chuckle. “You’ve been unmoving for fifteen minutes.”

“Deep in prayer,” he insists.

Another laugh. “It is almost time for dinner, Daeron. Come. Raise your head, and pray with me once more before we go.”

Daeron slowly lifts his head. He rises from the bench, and comes to kneel beside you in front of the candle altar. He clasps his hands together, and waits for you to begin.

You let your eyes flutter closed and pray, “Mother, please grant us peace of mind in these upcoming weeks. Give us honor in what we do.”

Daeron repeats, “Mother, please grant us peace of mind in these upcoming weeks. Give us honor in what we do.”

“Warrior, please send strength to King Viserys. Please give him health and extend his kingdom.”

Again, Daeron repeats after you. “Warrior, please send strength to my father. Please give him health and extend his kingdom.”

“Crone, please give Prince Daeron wisdom in his studies, and the foresight to see the consequences of laziness-”

“I am not lazy.”

You laugh, and continue, “Please make him into the best scholar he can be.”

Daeron eyes you, before praying, “Mother, please give (Y/N) a kinder heart that is less overbearing-”

“Shh,” you laugh, sticking out your hand to cover his mouth. “Do not say that to her.”

Daeron smiles as he continues, “Crone, give her the wisdom that reminds her I am her Prince, therefore I am in charge-”

“Daeron,” you scold with amusement, “We do not play with the gods.”

“I am not lazy. Take it back.”

“You were sleeping in the Sept.”

“Exhausted, not lazy.”

You huff, yet a smile still plays on your face. “Fine. You are not lazy. But you better be careful. What would you have done had Lord Ormund heard you snoring?”

“I do not snore.”

You shrug. “You would not know.”

You catch him rolling his eyes, to which you criticize, “Do not roll your eyes in the house of the gods.”

“Then let us leave the house of the gods. I am starving.”

“In a moment,” you tell him. “Allow me to do a prayer for our food.”

He sighs, but he stays kneeled beside you. He is patient with you in the Sept, just as you are patient with him with his dragon.

When you two are finished, the guards escort the two of you to Lord Ormund.

It became customary over the last few years for Daeron and yourself to have dinner with Lord Ormund in his private study. The Lord often complained that the Hightower dining hall was unappealing, that it was too close to the kitchens, the aromas were too strong, and he was unable to eat there. The difference in rooms mattered very little to you. You did not mind eating in his study. In fact, it felt like a compliment that you were even invited. It made you feel more valued that your company was enjoyed by both the Lord and Prince.

You are still laughing with Daeron over mundane things as you make your way through the halls.

“What brings such laughter from my nephew?” Ormund asks as the two of you arrive at his study.

You greet the Lord with a curtsy of respect. “Good evening, Lord Ormund.” You rise and smile, “Daeron speaks of plans for his fourteenth nameday.”

“Ah,” he grins. “Yes, that is arriving soon.”

As always, Lord Ormund stands as you enter, and he pulls out your chair for you. You take it with a gracious, “Thank you, my Lord.”

“What kind of celebration would you like?” Ormund asks as he takes his seat. He sits at the head of the table, as always. You take the left side of him, Daeron is sat on the right.

The prince smiles shyly. “I need nothing extravagant. I only wish to have a feast with the three of us, as always. With cake. Perhaps Uncle Gwayne can be here.”

“I can prepare you a cake,” you tell him. “It would be my honor.”

“You need not do it,” Daeron quickly says. “We will pay a baker.”

You tilt your head. “You do not trust my cooking?”

He chuckles. “No offense, my Lady, but I have yet to see you in a kitchen. It seems you do not get much practice at it.”

You let out a laugh. “Is that so?”

“Careful, Daeron,” Ormund chides. “Insulting a woman’s cooking is as if she were to insult your sword fighting.”

“She knows I jest,” Daeron says. “But either way, you should not waste time on such things, Lady (Y/N). Any day that honors me should honor you as well.”

The words warm your heart, and you wonder if this is what motherhood is meant to feel like. “You flatter me.”

“It is true. I feel I am becoming a great man due to your teachings. You as well, Uncle Ormund. I believe I am growing into my strongest self here in Oldtown.”

Ormund smiles proudly at his nephew. He reaches over and places a hand on his shoulder. “The Father smiles upon you, Daeron. You are a blessing to us all.”

“My father sends coin on my nameday,” Daeron says. “I would like to purchase gifts for the two of you. As well as Uncle Gwayne.”

“That is very thoughtful of you, Prince Daeron, but it is not a day you must buy gifts for others. Others should buy gifts for you.”

“I want to,” he says. His tone becomes shy. “I…would like to show my appreciation. With something you will be able to cherish.”

The idea warms your heart.

“Besides, I need nothing,” Daeron says. “And I want for nothing. I would donate my coin rather than hoard it.”

You smile wider, and you meet Lord Ormund’s eye. “He is a very noble boy, your nephew. You should be very proud of him.”

“I am,” Ormund smiles. “My nephew is growing to be flawless.”

“Flawless.” Daeron chuckles. “Except for the snoring, I suppose.”

You laugh. “Yes, except for the snoring.”

Out of the corner of your eye, you see Lord Ormund lean back against his chair.

“I am very much looking forward to hearing from my mother,” Daeron continues. “She writes to me an especially long letter on my name day each year. My father as well.”

“Perhaps you can have a portrait made to send them,” you suggest. “I’m sure your mother misses your face dearly.”

He lights up at the idea. “A portrait. Yes. I have not had one of those done in a few years.”

“Me neither,” you admit. “I fear my mother has not seen a new portrait of me since I was the age of ten and seven.”

“Then we could all have portraits done. Uncle Ormund, do you think you could call upon an artisan to-” Daeron’s smile drops and his words cease.

Your attention turns to Lord Ormund. A pit forms in your stomach.

He is not looking at either of you. He is simply staring ahead, silent.

Daeron becomes tense. “…Uncle?”

Ormund continues staring ahead, only his finger moving as he taps upon the table, quickly and precise, as if counting the seconds.

“I need no portrait,” Daeron quickly says. “It was only an idea.”

Lord Ormund is angry. You do not know why, or over what, but you know that this is his first stage of anger.

He stares.

He stares, and it gives him time to think. And the more he thinks, the angrier he gets.

Daeron becomes a shade paler at the lack of response. “I-I do not look forward to hearing from my mother as much as I look forward to seeing you, Uncle,” he spurts out, going through every last word he said to think of what could have angered him. “I do not take my place here for granted.”

Ormund’s head tilts to the side, his stare still blank and ominous.

When his eyes land on you, his gaze is so piercing that you flinch.

“My nephew snores?”

You blink, caught off guard by the question.

His hands open and close. “How would you know my nephew snores, Lady (Y/N)-?”

“I fell asleep today,” Daeron quickly cuts in. “I apologize for it. I drifted off, and she-she merely teased me for it.”

Ormund’s eyes don’t leave you.

You have been scolded by Lord Ormund before, plenty of time in fact. But there is something different in his voice now. Those scolding were small corrections, his voice never, ever rose at you. Even now, he speaks calmly. But the look in his eye makes you feel cold.

He does not speak again, simply waiting and watching for you to answer.

“It was only for a moment,” Daeron repeats with worry. “No wrong was done.”

Ormund continues to wait for your response only.

You swallow before speaking, “The Prince drifted off today, as he said. I allowed him to rest for a few minutes because he was tired. I should not tease a Prince about such things, I am sorry.”

“Where did he fall asleep?”

Daeron’s posture is rigid. You bite your lip, considering the consequences of your answer.

“Lady (Y/N).” He speaks your name softly, but there is an edge to his voice that you did not want to press.

You look again at Daeron, and feel as if it would be against your faith to tell on him. Daeron must’ve seen it in your eyes that you were unwilling.

Internally, you make the decision not to answer. You did not fear his uncle harming you for your silence.

But Daeron feared it.

Daeron quickly answered for you, “It was in the Sept.”

His uncle frowned. His head slowly turned to his nephew. “In the Sept?”

“Yes-”

“In our most sacred place of prayer?”

His voice is only a whisper. “I am sorry.”

Ormund slowly pulls his napkin off his lap, folding it and calmly placing it onto the table. He stands to his feet, his boots heavy on the floor as he walks to stand behind Daeron’s chair. He asks, “Did you pray for forgiveness before you left?”

“I...” He swallows. “I did not think to pray for that specifically-”

“Both hands flat on the table.”

Daeron’s face goes completely pale.

Ormund crosses the room to his bookshelf.

Your heart slams in your chest as you rush to your feet, hurrying over to Ormund’s side, trying to match his quick strides. “He said prayers before leaving, my Lord.”

He ignores you. He grabs the leather strapped rod he keeps on the shelf.

The sight of it surges your panic. You struggle to remain by Ormund’s side, placing a hand on his arm to slow him. “He did not mean to offend the gods. He was only tired from the heat of the day-”

“If he did not pray for forgiveness, I will administer punishment.”

“He will not commit the offense again.”

“Spare the rod, spoil the child. He will receive seven lashes. One for each god he offended.” He snaps at Daeron, “Both hands flat on the table. Now.”

Daeron shuts his eyes tightly, doing as told.

You run forward and force yourself in front of your prince. “The lashes should be mine,” you tell Ormund.

Daeron tries to push you away. “No-”

“I was in charge of him, the fault is mine. Allow me the lashes, not him.” In a surge of protectiveness, you try to hide Daeron behind your body. “I offended the gods, not him.”

Lord Ormund watches you with critical eyes.

You knelt down, and place both hands flat on the table.

Daeron’s voice is a quiet whimper as he says, “(Y/N), get up, this is not your punishment.”

You physically push his hands back to his lap, and lay yours flat on the table once more. You stare up at Lord Ormund, whose eyes are still so meticulous.

He stays staring at you a moment longer, and every second that passes, you feel your heart will give out from beating so fast.

Finally, Ormund drops the rod onto the table. Slowly, he kneels beside you and rests his elbows on the table, clasping his hands together. “Lady (Y/N), lead us in a prayer of forgiveness for Daeron’s offense.”

A shaky breath of relief escapes your lips. “Y-Yes, my Lord.”

Daeron quickly kneels beside you as well.

“Mother, please forgive the transgressions of Daeron. He has committed an offensive act that he shall not commit again. Please, allow him grace and hospitality.”

Daeron quickly repeats, “Mother, please forgive my transgressions. I have committed an offensive act that I shall commit again. Please, allow me grace and hospitality.”

Ormund speaks next. “Mother, please forgive the transgressions of Daeron. He has committed an offensive act that he shall not commit again. Please, allow him grace and hospitality.”

Another nervous breath. “Mother, please-please put mercy in the heart of Lord Ormund. Please allow him to grant us the patience and grace that you would.”

Daeron hesitates, his eyes shooting to his uncle, as if terrified of the consequences of this prayer.

“Daeron,” his uncle urges.

Daeron follows, “Mother, please put mercy in the heart of Lord Ormund. Please allow him to grant us the patience and grace that you would.”

Ormund finishes, “Mother, please put mercy in my heart. Please allow me to grant them the patience and grace that you would.”

“And so it is.”

“And so it is.”

“And so it is.” Ormund rises to his feet. “Let us finish dinner.” He pulls out his chair for you to sit.

The rest of the dinner is silent. You have lost your appetite, but try to finish the plate anyway. Lord Ormund is strict with your diet, and if you do not eat now, you will not be allowed food again until morning.

The time ticks by slowly. Daeron fidgets more and more as each minute passes.

“Daeron, you are excused,” Ormund speaks after he is finished with his own meal.

You see in the prince’s eyes that he does not want to leave you.

“Go on,” you tell him. “I will see you in the morning at the library.”

He hesitates only a moment longer. Ormund clears his throat, and he finally goes.

You are left alone with Lord Ormund.

“It is not your place to stand between that boy and his punishments,” he tells you.

You stare down at your hands. “I apologize, Lord Ormund.”

“You apologize, yet if it came down to it, you would do so again.”

You do not lie. “I would.”

Ormund sighs. He rises to his feet. He walks to you, and leans upon the table beside you. His fingers ghost your chin, and he tilts your head up to face him. “I hope you are not allowing your loyalty towards him to cloud your judgement.”

“I am not.”

His fingers graze the side of your face, pushing your hair behind your ears. “I do not only feel responsible for Daeron, (Y/N), I also feel responsible for you. I want what is best for you, I hope you know that.”

“I do, my Lord.”

His hand brushes down the back of your hair. “You have always been such a good girl for me.” His hand stops on the back of your head, and you flinch as his hand suddenly grips your hair. “But I need you to remember that your obedience is to me before my nephew.”

His grip does not hurt, but it frightens you.

You force your hands to remain in your lap. “Y-Yes, my Lord. I remember.”

“The next interference, I will not spare the rod on you.”

You swallow. “I understand.”

Ormund smiles at your agreement. His hand loosens on your hair, and he cups your cheek instead. “I have been told I have a weakness for you, Lady (Y/N). That I am too lenient when you are around, that I lack appropriate sternness.”

You have been told the same thing about him. That he is fond of you, that he treats you kinder than others, that your faith in the Seven makes him more gentle.

Ormund’s hand lingers on your cheek a moment, before he turns your head to the side, and reaches out to wipe away a bead of sweat that began to form on your temple.

“You would not dare use that against me, would you?”

“Never, my Lord.” You realize your hands are forming sweat as well. You open and close them to try to release the nerves. “I-I appreciate your mercy, but it is never expected.”

“Good.” He turns your jaw to face him head on. “Because my patience is not limitless.”

You do not know what he wants you to say. You wonder if he even wants you to say anything at all, or if he just wants to frighten you so you do not interfere again. You simply repeat, “I understand, my Lord.”

You think he will let go of you, but he does not.

Instead, he leans closer, and you hear his long inhale. It is what he does whenever the serving boys bring him new scented powders.

“You smell of candle smoke,” he tells you.

“From my prayer in the Sept, my Lord.”

Your answer satisfies him.

Another moment passes of uncertainty for you. You have never been alone with Ormund for this long before. Your mind goes back to Daeron, and where he might be.

“I think it is time we find a perfume for you.”

The comment catches you by surprise. “A perfume, my Lord?”

“Noble women choose perfumes for themselves. Ones they reorder time and time again. They spray it upon letters when they send it away, and sometimes gift small portions of it to women in their service. It will help mask the scent of the other tasks you attend to during the day. You are old enough now to go and choose your own.”

The idea uplifted you. “I will be able to choose?”

“You will be taken to the market tomorrow. You will pick three scents you like, and I will make the final decision on which one will be yours.”

“Any perfume?”

“Any you desire. There is no budget when it comes to a woman’s cleanliness.”

You feel yourself getting excited over the prospect of shopping. Lord Ormund usually hand picks everything for you, without your opinion on things.

Your excitement makes you bold. “May I choose a new dress for myself as well? It has been a long time since I have had myself fitted.”

His eyes flicker over your face. “You push your luck.”

Your heart drops, and you think you have angered him.

But he merely asks, “What would it be for?”

“For my visits to the Sept,” you quickly tell him, because you know he will not refuse this. “A dress with a thicker skirt so that my knees do not ache at the end of the day.”

Ormund leans back and contemplates. “You recall the rules of modesty for clothing?”

“Of course, my Lord. Neckline higher than the collarbone. Skirts passed the ankles. Arms to the wrist.”

He reaches down and drags his hand up the side of your arm, feeling the material. It was as if he was imagining something new. “Very well then. You may pick up a new dress.”

Your smile grows. You lean up, and you place a kiss on his cheek. “Thank you, Lord Ormund.”

His smile warms, and his expression turns kind. He is happy with you, and you hear it in his voice as he relents, “I will allow two dresses, if it pleases you.”

“Yes.” Your spirits raise even higher. “Yes, it pleases me greatly, thank you.”

Ormund chuckles at how elated you have become. He leans down and places a kiss onto the top of your head.

He lingers for a moment. You hear his gentle inhale, his quiet judgement of what he smells.

“What oils are used for your hair?”

“Roses, my Lord.”

“Do not choose roses tomorrow. This scent is tied to your girlhood with Daeron. You must find a new scent for womanhood.”

You find the comment odd, so you risk a laugh. “I am already a woman, Lord Ormund.”

His response is just a repeated, “No roses.”

Your laugh goes away. You shake your head. “No roses.”

CORRIDORS OF THE RED KEEP. YEAR: 130 AC — MIDNIGHT

You sit upon the cold stone with his hand hanging open before you, and you weigh the taking of it against the older wisdom that tells you to refuse, and then the echo of boot-heels striking flagstone cuts the deliberation clean in half and you seize his palm before another breath has passed. His eyes turn toward the sound. The courteous curve of his mouth thins to something watchful. In one unbroken motion he draws you to your feet, pinches out the lamp between two fingers, sets the smoking vessel into a recess of the wall, and pulls you through a low door into a storeroom given over to brooms and buckets and folded linens. He does it all with such quiet ease that a person might swear he had done the like a hundred times before, were the very notion not so preposterous for a Lord of the Faith or any man alive.

The room is a close and airless box, and it is made worse by the height of him and the width of his shoulders, which leave scarce a hand's breadth between the two of you. His body lies along the length of yours, and neither of you dares stir, for a careless movement might send a pail clattering or set a shelf to rattling and betray you both to the men beyond the timber. The heat of him runs against the cold that had gnawed at you in the corridor, and through the sheer, wretched nightshift Aemond had chosen, you feel the flat of his chest beneath the leather of his doublet. His forearms are braced upon the wall to either side of your head, bearing his whole weight above you, while your own hand rests in graceless uncertainty upon his sternum for the simple reason that there exists nowhere else on this earth to put it.

The footfalls come nearer. The low mutter of talk swells behind the boards. Ormund lifts one hand from the wall and lays it across your mouth, his palm broad enough to cover half your face, the gloved tips of his fingers against the soft skin below your ear.

"I don't trust that dragon-bred bitch," one of the guards says through the wood. "Not for a heartbeat."

"Aye. A blasphemer to the marrow." The second man's voice is thick with scorn. "Were Prince Aemond not so taken with her, she'd be feeding crows by now."

"And rightly so. Her, and them bastard nephews of hers besides."

Your fingers close and fist themselves in his doublet and you feel the pressure of his hand increase against your lips, his gaze fixed upon you in wordless admonition, forbidding any reckless outburst that would undo you both.

The boots pass on. The coarse talk thins to a whisper and dies away down the hall. Only then does he take his hand from your mouth. You let your eyes fall shut, and the grief comes up in you fresh and unhealed, and you set your brow against his chest and weep without a sound. He does not move. He means to complain of the grime and the mold-thick air, and then a loosened strand of your hair drifts against him and the smell of it stops the words in his throat.

His eyes slide close in unguarded pleasure as he draws in the delicate mingling of scented oil, citrus and skin, that faint brightness, so unlike the overwrought perfumes worn by the noblewomen of Westeros, and he finds himself lowering his chin to rest atop the crown of your head, savoring you while you shudder through your sorrow.

It is some while later that you come to yourself enough to know you have been sobbing into the front of a stranger's garment.

"My Lord, forgive me." You reach for the hem of your shift to blot the dampness you have left upon him.

"There is nothing here to forgive." He catches your wrist and guides it to the wall beside your temple. "No shame attends a maiden who mourns her loss." A warmth comes into his face, and he leans the nearer for it.

The mildness of his regard carries something beneath it that turns your face away, and he answers by lifting his other hand and turning your chin back to him.

"It is unbecoming for a lady to look away while she is addressed," he corrects, and the gentle line of his mouth widens by a fraction.

"My apologies, My Lord." The heat climbs into your cheeks as the impropriety of it presses upon your awareness. He appears wholly untroubled by it, for he holds you there in that closeness a while longer, and the instant you catch his eye tracing the length of your form and returning slowly upward, a flutter of alarm rises in your breast.

"Have-have the men gone? Is it safe now to step out?"

He holds the look a moment more, then lets go your arms and pulls the door wide, and the two of you come out into the corridor.

"These are perilous hours for any lady abroad and unattended," he says, brushing the dust from his hands and his clothing, "and more perilous still for one whose name is spoken as yours is spoken. What business drives you down these passages alone?"

You cannot summon the courage to meet his gaze.

"I wished only to see my nephew. He is but seven years of age and utterly alone. I cannot bear to think of the terror that holds him at this hour."

"If you go on in such recklessness, you shall never set eyes on him at all. Your half-brother has not the strength to guard you from every quarter. There are men enough who still want your head, in payment for what your dragon made of their kin."

"Then why should you wish to help me? I am what they name me. A heathen. A blasphemer against the Seven."

"No." There is no doubt in his word. "I behold no blasphemer before me." He advances a single step, and the cold of the corridor seems to draw closer for it, though the heat comes off him all the same. "I behold a soul gone astray. You are stained by the sins of your forebears, and yet a day came when you saw your own flaws, your own defilement, and the Seven showed you mercy for it. I understand it plainly now. They have called me to lead you back into the arms of the Faith, for you have wandered, corrupted by your elders, turned aside from the very purpose you were made for."

"My purpose?"

He stops within a breath of you and peels the glove from one hand.

"To show the realm that even the savagery of your line may be washed clean by devotion. To live a life of virtue, and stand a testament to every other creature that carries that cursed blood." He lifts the bared hand and draws his fingertips in a slow line down your cheek. "You are my calling. This whole war has carried me to this hour. You were fated to be delivered here, before me, that I might purify you once and for all, for it is the will of the Seven and no other."

The tenderness in his face sits so unwavering, marries grotesquely with the meaning of his words that a cold current threads down your spine, and you grope for some means of escape that will not give offense.

"I must go. My betrothed will—"

"Brother," he interjects.

"Hm?"

"Your half-brother." A measured warmth comes back into his mouth as he lowers the hand and works the glove over his fingers once more. "He is no betrothed of yours. The holy texts forbid the joining of those who share one blood." You mark the small tightening along his jaw and the purse of his lips as he says it, and you are near certain it has nothing to do with the fit of his glove.

"Yes, my lord. My-my brother. I shall return to my chambers." You dip into a shallow bow and give ground a step.

"I shall see to it that the Queen Dowager arranges you lodging more fitting." The smile is wider now.

"Th-thank you, my lord. You are most gracious."

"It is my sacred duty, My Lady." He bows to you.

You incline your head and turn away, not failing to dismiss the sensation of his gaze crawling along the shape of your body as you withdraw down the passage.

AEMOND'S CHAMBER, RED KEEP. — MIDNIGHT

By some grace of fortune you gain the chambers scarce a few breaths before Aemond returns, and you burrow beneath the heavy furs of the great bed and draw their warmth up over you. A handful of heartbeats later the door swings inward upon its iron hinges, your King crosses the threshold, and you perceive at once from the tightness of his stride and the set of his shoulders that his temper has soured. Long experience has taught you that nothing wholesome follows in the wake of his black moods, so you rise toward him despite the ache in your body pleading with you to remain in the heat you had only just found.

"Aemond, what has happened?" You extend your hand toward him, but he sweeps it aside and resumes his agitated pacing across the flagstones, quick and short of stride. A portion of you very nearly softens into a smile, for the sight recalls the boy he once was; it would seem that though his body has been remade entirely, yet the old temper walked the floor the same as ever.

"Aemond. Speak to me." It is as though the same memory has surfaced within him, for at the sound of the particular gentleness you always reserved for his troubled hours he finally goes still and comes to you. He stops close, and you lift a hand to trace the ruined skin along his cheek.

"What has happened?"

"They mean to take you from me," he says, raising his own hand to press yours firmly against his face and hold it there.

"Who does?"

"Lord Ormund. My mother. My grandsire."

Your thoughts drift back to what the Hightower Lord had murmured in the black of that storeroom— purify you —and you press the shiver down before it can show.

"You are the king now, are you not? You are in no wise bound to bend beneath their designs and their schemings." Your thumb strokes slow across the seamed and knotted flesh of his cheek, and his arms answer by folding round you and drawing you close against him.

Though every part of your circumstance unsettles you, this is the safer refuge, for you have long known the truth that Helaena had spoken aloud: he has always handled you with care, and though tales of his savage outbursts and cruelty reach you even from the mouths of his own kin, you have never once suffered them, because he has never been able to bring himself to turn that face upon you. You know Aemond, his ferocity and his frailties alike, and you know precisely how to guide him through both. Ormund, for his part, remains a cipher to you and nothing more. A name affixed to the ancient seat of Hightower, and a reputation for zealous and unbending fealty to the Seven.

"Mm. You're cold," he murmurs.

"Yes. You chose this gown for me."

A short breath of a laugh comes out of him.

"And yet you look ravishing in it," he says lower still, his voice descending into some warmer register as he watches the tremor pass through you, a pleased satisfaction settling into his features.

You observe the slow descent of his violet eye down the length of your body, and he closes the distance, tilting his head and setting his lips upon yours once more. This time he is unhurried, careful and coaxing. You raise your hands into the narrow space between your bodies with the intention of easing him back, and instead your own flesh commits its quiet treason, aching after the warmth you had renounced only minutes before, and Aemond's body offers precisely the heat you now desperately crave. In one smooth gesture he shrugs free of his upper garment, and you catch a fleeting glimpse of the hardened muscle of his chest, and the recognition of how thoroughly he has grown into a man raises a subtle flush across your face before you can school it, and then he has already drawn you back against him, one hand splayed at the small of your back, the other sliding upward to cradle the nape of your neck and angle your head so that he might deepen the kiss.

When at last his tongue slips past your lips into the warmth it has been seeking, he hums with a low and unmistakable contentment, tasting you at last after all the years he spent yearning and dreaming of nothing else beside. You lift your hands once again to his chest as your conscience wages its losing campaign against your body, but your fingers meet the fine ridges of muscle and the smooth heat of bare skin, and the whole of you yields the moment his tongue coaxes yours into surrender, your eyes fluttering helplessly closed.

In the place of the refusal you had meant to give voice to, a soft sigh spills out of you instead, and you feel the effect of it upon him at once, for his movements grow the more insistent as his feet begin to shift you both across the floor, his hand hauling your hips flush against his own. With a gentle pressure of his fingers beneath your chin he turns your face aside, that he may bury his mouth beneath one edge of your jaw and lavish his attentions upon the bared and trembling line of your throat.

"Aah—" A strangled little cry breaks from you where you had meant to give only a gasp, and it draws a satisfied groan up from somewhere deep within his chest; and as an unfamiliar heat begins to bloom low in your own belly, you rouse yourself abruptly from the stupor into which his mouth and his hands have so skillfully lulled you, and flatten both your palms against his chest to shove him back. In the very effort of it the arrow wound flares viciously through your side, and you yelp aloud, and Aemond halts every movement of his body in a single instant and pulls away to search your face.

"Have I hurt you?" he says, and every last trace of hunger drains out of his gaze as the concern comes flooding anew across his sharp features.

"No, no. I—"

"Forgive me. I should not to have." His eye travels down to the bandaging bound about the wound at your shoulder. Relief seeps slow through you as the fevered warmth begins to ebb from your skin, leaving you stranded there in an awkward stillness, loathing yourself the while for that which you had felt only moments gone; and you clear your throat in a clumsy bid to turn the whole of the exchange aside.

"It's all right, Aemond. Can we simply rest now? I am rather tired."

His brow remains furrowed still with worry, and he nods, slow and reluctant both, before he guides you toward the bed the two of you are made to share.

"Of course," he says, as he helps to ease you down upon it.

Something in the whole look of him— so wholly consumed with his care for you, and laced through yet with the lingering residue of his earlier vexation— loosens something tight and long-clenched within your chest, and without ever meaning to, you open your arms to him in invitation, offering to hold him as you have held him through every one of his troubled hours since the days of his boyhood.

This time, however, a small and quiet warmth touches the corner of his mouth, and he reaches instead for one of your hands and presses his lips to the back of it.

"Daor," he whispers. No.

"No?" You tilt your head in genuine bewilderment. He releases your hand and you watch him circle to your uninjured side and slide beneath the furs.

"I wish to hold you," he says, and then he waits upon your consent. You nod, slowly, and he gathers you into his embrace, and it is only then, with your cheek laid against him, that you feel the tension bleed out of his muscles as he lets go his breath in one long exhalation.

"I am sorry for all that has befallen you. Truly I am. You have endured far more than ever I have. Do not strain to keep it locked away within you, there is no need to be strong this night. Let it go. Let me be the one to hold you, this once. You are safe with me and I will guard you. I will not let them take you from me," he says, and with those words the tears your grief breaks free of you, and you press your face into his chest. He curls one arm with painstaking care about your shoulders to draw you the nearer, and reaches with the other to pull the heavy furs higher over the both of you.

It is somewhere within the low murmur of his voice soothing you, the tender rhythm of his hand moving slow across your back, the old familiar scent of him, and the steady cadence of his heart beating beneath your ear, that you slip away at last into sleep.

AEMOND'S CHAMBER, RED KEEP. — EARLY HOURS OF THE MORN

You woke to find the two of you settled once more in the same arrangement that had shamed you the night before. For a long moment you did no more than lie still and watch your half-brother's chest rise and fall, deep in sleep, before conscience wrenched you upright with the reminder that the same blood ran in his veins as ran in yours. And a revulsion at your own weakness rose sour and hot at the back of your throat.

With a care that came near to reverence you drew yourself free of the circle of his arms, and when he stirred at the absence of your warmth, his brow furrowing toward waking, you pressed a pillow into the hollow your body had left. By whatever small mercy the gods still granted, his sleeping form took the substitution for truth and sank once more into stillness, his arm gathering the cushion close as his breath drew long and even again as he mumbled your name.

The memory came before your mind had fully opened, unwelcomed, arriving on the pale gold light that crept across the coverlet. You remembered the weight of Aemond's hand at the small of your back, the slow and easy manner in which he had touched you, and the ease with which your own flesh had yielded to him. Worst of all, and least forgivable, you remembered the moment your gaze had found the bareness of his chest and lingered there, finding it, however briefly, pleasing to look upon ,and the shame of it settled in your breast and would not be dislodged.

You had not knelt within a sept in many a moon, and it seemed to you now that so long a neglect must account for the turmoil that clouded your judgement. It seemed too that Lord Ormund had spoken nearer the truth than you cared to grant him. That you had strayed, in your idleness, from the disciplines that had once governed your every waking hour.

Unable to abide the way your body had answered your half-brother, you rose from the bed with all the care your unsteady limbs allowed and dressed yourself in the plain green gown that Aemond had bidden the ladies bring, its cloth unadorned and humble, fit for a morning given to penance. Then you crossed the chamber and drew the doors apart, with a caution that spoke plainly of your unease.

The guards had been posted nearer than you had hoped, two of them planted in the corridor beyond, and they turned upon you the instant the doors gave way.

"Has the king granted My Lady permission to depart?" the first of them asked.

"He has not, for His Grace yet sleeps and has not stirred," you answered evenly, "yet I wish only to go to the sept and offer my prayers."

"Forgive me, My Lady, but I am charged not to permit it. There are those within these walls who would gladly have your head upon a spike, and King Aemond has bound us strictly to the keeping of your safety."

"I shall be swift, and at so early an hour there is scarce a living soul awake to trouble me."

"I cannot allow it, my lady."

You were reaching after some gentler word that might yet soften the man where firmness had failed, when a smooth and unhurried voice came into the passage at your back.

"Perhaps I might have the honor of accompanying the lady, seeing as I am bound for the sept myself, to make my morning prayers before the day's labors claim me."

"Lord Ormund." The guards bowed the moment they marked who addressed them. "The king has given us his orders, My Lord, and we dare not—"

"I am a warrior of some seasoning, as any man who holds a sword in Westeros will gladly attest, and I should think no harm likely to come to the lady while she walks under my protection." He took a single measured stride, and his considerable height rose over the guard until the man's shoulders seemed to draw inward beneath it. "Unless, of course, you would sooner wake the weary king and compel His Grace to rise and escort his own sister to her prayers with his own two hands."

The guard's resistance withered before the prospect.

"Very well, My Lord."

Ormund offered you his hand, and you laid your own within it, and the walk to the sept passed without trouble, quiet and easy, softened here and there by the trilling of songbirds that greeted the early light.

The air carried the cool scent of dew on old stone, and beneath it, faint but plain, the tallow and the myrrh that seeped outward from the holy chambers ahead.

THE GREAT SEPT, KING'S LANDING. — DAWN

At the Great Sept the two of you knelt together, you before the Mother and he before the Father, and the candlelight trembled across the seven altars, the smoke of incense hung thick and sweet upon the still and windless air.

"And for whom does the Lady pray this morning?" he asked, his voice gentler than was its custom, the accustomed conceit for once gone from his face.

"For my sister, that she might find the strength to endure the tidings that have lately come to her, and I beg the Mother to grant her comfort in her grief. And for myself I ask only mercy, and nothing more."

"Mercy?"

"I have not been myself of late. My thoughts have grown clouded with..." The words died on your tongue and would go no further than shame allowed.

"You are a good girl," Ormund told you, "and you must not condemn yourself for the temptations that others have laid before your feet. I have seen with what strength you strive against them. The Father looks upon such struggle and weighs it with a fair and even hand, and the Mother extends her mercy to any maiden who fights for the keeping of her virtue."

You gave him a small smile of thanks, and in the next breath the measured tread of a man's boots rang across the marble at your back.

"The guards were good enough to tell me I should find you here."

"Aemond."

"Ñuhys raqiros." He smiled as the word passed his lips. My beloved.

"I had been given to understand that those of Valyrian blood do not bow before our gods." Ormund speaks from the distance.

"I confess I may have said as much in some careless and unguarded moment, though I should like to trust that the gods have the grace to overlook so trivial an offense." Aemond knelt at your side, and he set himself squarely between you and Lord Ormund, and he let his fingers trail the length of your hair before he settled. You raised your eyes and returned his smile, and across from him the courteous cast of Ormund's face curdled into a distaste that he only barely mastered and hid away.

The three of you knelt together in a silence grown so uncomfortable that the hiss and sputter of the candles seemed to offer commentary upon it. From time to time Aemond turned his gaze toward you to judge whether your devotions had reached their end, and when at last they had, he rose before you might rise yourself, that he alone should have the giving of his hand to help you to your feet. Together you took your leave, bidding farewell to the smiling Lord, whose composure had by then wholly reassembled itself upon his face.

THE RED KEEP, KING'S LANDING. — FORENOON TO AFTERNOON

After the morning bath, Aemond bade the servants carry food to your chambers while he took himself off to another sitting of the council, so that you saw little of him through the forenoon. You chose to remain within the chambers, your heart heavy with worry for your nephew held under lock and key, and heavier still with the grief you carried for Jacaerys.

Come the hour of the midday meal, Helaena sought you out and beckoned you join her at a small repast in the little garden that lay enclosed at the heart of the Keep, her small daughter at her side, and the gentle company of them lifted your mood by some measure. By the time the noon had surrendered itself to a lowering sun, a servant came and fetched you away.

On the walk toward Aemond's chambers you resolved to be resolute, for you desired above all things to look upon your own nephew Viserys with your very eyes. As you stepped within and drew the door closed at your back, you found Aemond newly risen, half dressed from his bath, his silver-gold hair yet damp where it clung to his neck and shoulders as he drew a cloth across the breadth of his chest. At the sight of you he let the cloth fall from his fingers, and in an instant he had crossed the distance and drawn you close against him. You caught the fragrance of the oils worked into his skin, and his hands upon you soothed you at once, though you thrust the comfort of it from your mind and hardened yourself into stubbornness.

"I wish to see Viserys."

"There is no need of that."

"What?" you asked, half confused, and you felt the anger begin its slow, steady climb within.

"I have sent him away aboard a Lyseni merchant ship. Your sister, or else our uncle Daemon, shall retrieve the boy from there."

You knew not whether you ought to believe him.

"How am I to know you do not lie to me?"

"I have given you my word." He drew you flush against him. "Have I ever once lied to you?"

Were it not for the long history of his blunt and open honesty to you, you should never have granted him belief, and yet the war had eaten slowly and steadily away at the trust you had once placed so freely in your own blood, and he could see plainly. He pressed his brow to yours until the tips of your noses touched, and there was no place left for you to look save into his face.

You searched his eye and found there no trace of deceit nor any shadow of ill intent, but only a pure and undisguised admiration, soft at first and then grown more intent with the passing of the moments, and the vexing warmth stirred low within your belly once again while your heart quickened against your ribs. Your hands upon his chest began to move of their own accord, tracing the hardened planes of him and the smooth heat of his skin.

It was the low hum of him that vibrated up through the flats of your fingers that woke you at last to the knowledge of what you did. You drew back sharply and set yourself to rights. His hands moved to gather you back to him and halted at three sharp taps upon the wooden door, and a voice beyond it spoke.

"Milady, the Queen Dowager has sent me to draw the bath early. Lord Ormund and Prince Daeron shall depart at first light, and so the supper is to be served the sooner this evening."

You cleared your throat and bade her enter, keeping your gaze turned well away from Aemond's, and at the last he relented, and took himself to fetch a linen shirt, and passed out through the door.

"See that the water runs hotter today," you whisphered low to the maid.

"Yes, milady."

The heat of the bath had loosened you more than you looked for, yet when supper came the old disquiet found you again, curled low in your belly.

Aemond sat at the head of the table. Otto Hightower took the foot. On Otto's left were Jaehaera and then Helaena; on his right sat Daeron, the youngest of Alicent's sons, and beyond him his mother, and beyond her, you. Lord Ormund had been given the place between you and Aemond, his frame so towering that it seemed a deliberate arrangement, contrived to obscure Aemond's view of you and of the appearance that night. Aemond did not trouble to hide his displeasure at it.

The meal began light. Then Otto brought forth word of the Baratheons. Lord Borros had agreed to give his daughter to Aemond, and to lend his swords to the cause.

Relief came to you first at the news, and hard upon its heels came dread, for you had seen the look that crossed Aemond's face. A third thing came also, quieter than the other two, and you did not wish to name it, yet it was undeniably present, and it quickened your pulse and left your hands cold and unsteady.

So still had the chamber grown that the only speech seemed to pass between knife and plate, and now and again the deliberate setting-down of a cup.

Otto pressed on, glad and eager, speaking of the Lady Floris, one of the Four Storms, of the day appointed for her coming, of the ceremony, and at the last of the bedding. On that count you were glad for him, glad that a highborn lady would take the place you dreaded, that the role might yet be spared you. What you could not abide was the small needling thing that pricked at you each time the old man said the word bedding, a thing that turned first to guilt and then to anger at how your heart reacted. Your fingers gave a twitch before you drew your hand into your lap to worry at it there.

It was a habit you had taken from Alicent, though you did it far less than she, only when you were set against yourself. Aemond marked it while he feigned adjusting his chair.

A nervous Alicent sat at your side, her worries justified as the tension in Aemond's features suggested he might at any moment rise to utter something ill-considered, or overturn his goblet across the fine wood of the table. Every head was now bent to the food, save Ormund's. The lord was enjoying his portion.

"You look very beautiful this evening, my lady," he said, apropos of nothing, and Aemond's head turned toward him. The lord was looking, no, admiring you openly.

Alicent's eyes went wide. She knew the cast that had settled over her second son.

"Be assured, My Lady. Westeros has no shortage of formidable lords, and for a woman of such grace and beauty it would be no hard thing to find a worthy suitor—"

A fist came down upon the table. It startled every soul there, save the Lord who had drawn it out of him. Not one woman at the board, nor Daeron, dared raise their eyes.

"A toast," said Aemond. "To my dear cousin, Lord Ormund. For his wisdom, his generosity, and for answering our call to aid."

Ormund lifted his cup and bowed his head, meeting the eyes of each one at the table in turn. The rest raised their cups after him and drank in silence. Aemond drained his own without once loosing his stare from the Lord, and Ormund wore the satisfied look of a man newly proclaimed sovereign of the Seven Kingdoms.

When the toast was done, Aemond rose and went off in a temper. Alicent made to follow, but you settled a hand upon her arm to hold her back.

"I shall go."

She looked at you with a troubled brow.

"He will listen to me." She could not gainsay it, for it was true. And being so bent upon the calming of Alicent, you did not mark the small way Lord Ormund shifted in his seat.

You rose and followed the way Aemond had gone. It brought you to a balcony nearby, above the whole of King's Landing, the darkness already engulfed the city. He stood with both hands spread upon the carved balustrade, the salt of the evening air stirring the pale length of his Targaryen hair.

"You will not be wedded to another," he said, not turning, for he had known you by your step. "I have no mind to marry her." He turned to you then, and reached a hand to your cheek. "Not when I have given my heart to you."

You stepped back.

"You cannot. You need the Baratheons, and the swords they bring. I know my sister, and I know the allies she commands. Your host, joined even to the whole strength of Oldtown, will not hold against them and her dragons. If you mean to win—"

"Do you remember the day I lost my eye? The day Lucerys took it from me?"

You fell silent at the name. Something soft and sharp turned in your chest, and your gaze went anywhere but to him.

"When they put their questions to me after? It was you alone who held my hand when I was frightened. Not my father. Not my mother. You. Always you." His hand rose once more, thumb following the line of your jaw while his other hand went seeking yours. "When Aegon mocked me with the Pink Dread, it was you who held my hand, you who berated him so fiercely that he had not the stomach to speak of it again the coming morrow. " He came a step nearer. His one violet eye held fast upon your own.

"I trained for you. I studied for you. I did all of it so that our father might one day name me a worthy suitor, so that your hand might be mine to hold, for all the years of our lives."

Slowly he raised your hand, his eyes never leaving yours, but before his lips could touch your fingers you drew them free and gave another ground a pace.

"Skorī syt gaomagon ao rāelagon dëñy’ynngrys yôûr'shëlfrys?" He came on. Why do you keep denying yourself?

"Nyke gaomagon daor gīmigon aōha indigon," I do not know your meaning, you said, and shook your head, though your frozen hands and the tremor in your voice gave the lie to it.

"I can see it in you." He drove you back against a pillar.

"Whatever you think you see, you are mistaken, Aemond." You fought to hold the words level.

"Mm." He let a smile rise. "You have spent years in the learning of me, as I have spent them learning you, and I always know when you are distressed. When you lie to yourself." He bowed his head and let it hang the space of a breath or two, then lifted it and turned full toward you, and drew a slow breath as he did. "You were jealous this night," he said, easy as you please, and every trace of the fury of moments before was gone from his face. "When my grandsire spoke of the arrangements. The bedding ceremony."

Your face drew tight with affront.

"I was not jealous," you said, though the word cracked faintly at the end, and his small smile widened at the sound of it.

"You were, sister, and you will not talk me out of it," he murmured, scarce above a whisper. He closed the last of the distance between you, and you hated yourself for the racing of your heart, for the way your eyes could not stay upon him.

"Why do you pull yourself from me, when you know well that you want me?"

"I do not feel for you what you feel for me!" You had meant it for a defense, a wall, or a thing to remind yourself of, but he did not fall back before it. He gave no sign he believed a word of it, and in the deepest part of you, neither did you.

"Your body betrays you. I first saw it that night, when we danced, when Jacaerys and Helaena danced beside us. The way your sweet eyes could not rest upon me. The way you trembled when I held you. You have labored to deny it ever since, to deny how your flesh answers my touch." His breath fell warm across your skin. You swallowed hard and closed your eyes as he leaned in, and you felt a single finger drift along your arm. "You hunger for me as fiercely as I hunger for you."

"Aemond—"

The moment Alicent's voice came to you, relief ran loose through your limbs, and you turned at once to her scandalized face.

"Mother," said Aemond with a slow turn, and the irritation came back into his voice.

"It grows late. Your brother rides upon the morrow. Would you not sooner spend more time—"

"I wish to go with him," you blurted. "With him, and with Lord Ormund."

The words turned both mother and son toward you, each struck still where they stood. Alicent found her tongue the sooner.

"Good." She nodded slowly, and cast a quick glance at her son, who had not moved beside you. "Good. I shall speak with Lord Ormund, and we will make arrangements—" The fear eased from her face, and a smile had near come to it when her son cut across her.

"You will not speak with him. She will not pass from my sight." He caught your arm and pulled you to walk with him, and the pain of his grip ran up through the limb.

"Aemond—" Alicent hastened forward and set to prying at his fingers, while you hissed and twisted against the hold.

"Aemond, you are hurting her!" Alicent cried at the last, and the words broke through to him. He turned and saw the fear writ plain across your face, and he let you go at once. That he had harmed you cut him. Yet the anger held, for you denied him still, and you had chosen to leave him in the very hour he had, at last, found the means to keep you close.

He only walked away, his shoulders drawn tight with fury while you rubbed at your wrist and watched.

Alicent saw it, and she took you gently by the sides of your arms, careful of the reddening welt his hand had left. You turned into her and folded yourself against her. She startled at the first touch of it, then softened, then secretly overjoyed that you had reached for her once again, and she held you, striving to master the tears that pressed at her own eyes so that she might remain strong for your sake.

"I will speak with Lord Ormund," she said, and patted your back.

"I miss home. I miss all of them. I miss Jace, I miss Viserys, Joffrey, and Aegon (Aegon III)," you wept. "I only wish that all of it might be as once it was, before any of this."

It was true. You had wanted it all to go back, to the way things had been before, when the days were simpler and no sword had been sharpened against one another. Back when your half-brother was only your half-brother, and the thing you felt after you both grew older was easier to contain.

She gave you no answer, for the old grief and guilt seized her chest and stole the words from her.

"May I be given chambers of my own?" you sobbed through the tears.

"Of course, my dearest. Lord Ormund asked it of me earlier in the day." She drew you deeper into her arms and closed her eyes, wishing with a quiet ache that she had turned from her ruinous course far sooner, holding you close while you wept against her shoulder.

And she had not lied. The chamber they had made ready for you smelled of fresh rushes and lye soap, and the linens had been turned down and smoothed until no wrinkle marred them. Aemond did not come to you that night. Whatever anger still festered beneath his stillness kept him behind his own doors, and you were left to the low murmur of Alicent's voice as she moved among the serving girls, directing the packing with the careful precision.

"These gowns must be pressed and cleaned to perfection," she told them, lifting a sleeve of muted grey wool and turning it to the candlelight to study the weave. "Lord Ormund holds a particular disdain for..."

Her words dwindled to a hum you no longer marked, for your mind had gone at last to your elder sister and the grief that must have come down upon her. She had learned that her firstborn, the crown prince, was dead, and that her younger sister had vanished with neither trace nor word. The ache of it swelled beneath your ribs until you could not bear it, and the tears you had held so carefully spilled over unbidden, quiet at the first and then wretched.

Alicent heard. She stilled at once, a blue gown slipping from her fingers back into the open chest, and she turned toward you with an expression of such sudden tenderness that it undid you further.

"Leave us," she commanded the girls, her tone brooking no delay. "All of you. Go."

They fled the room in a rustle of skirts and bowed heads, and Alicent crossed to you and gathered you against her bossom. She held you through the worst of it, her palm moving in slow circles across your back, murmuring comfort, the wordless sounds a mother makes to a frightened child. She remained until your weeping thinned to spent breaths, and only when sleep had taken you did she draw back from the chamber and pull the door soft shut behind her.

THE RED KEEP, OUTER GATES. — DAWN

The clatter of hooves and the groan of carriage wheels turning across the yard dragged you from sleep as the first grey light crept along the walls. You bathed and dressed with the ladies to help you, their hands quick and cold at your laces, and then they led you down through the winding corridors to the gates, where the household had gathered for your leaving.

Otto Hightower stood apart, speaking low with Lord Ormund, the two of them stiff and formal in the pale morning. Alicent waited near the mounting block with Helaena beside her, and little Jaehaera clung to her mother's skirts while they both spoke with Daeron. When Helaena saw you, she hurried forward with her daughter trailing behind.

"I wish you safe upon your journey, Sister" she said, her voice soft and uneven, her eyes drifting to Jaehaera even as she spoke to you. "We will pray for you, each of us."

You smiled at her and kissed her upon each cheek, then knelt before the child so that your eyes met hers. A sorrow came upon you at the sight of the little girl, for you had not been given more hours to know her, this quiet creature who wore her mother's beauty and her mother's shyness in equal measure.

"Be a strong girl for me," you told her, "and mind your mother well while I am gone."

Jaehaera nodded and gave you a small embrace, her arms locking round your neck.

"Precious girl," you murmured, and you patted her head, and she giggled at the touch.

"So you meant it, then." The voice behind you came low and rough at its edges. Helaena did not wait for what would follow. She stepped forward to take up Jaehaera, and embraced you once more the moment you had risen, and then she gathered her daughter and drew her away toward the others.

You turned. Aemond stood restored to himself, his silver hair combed straight and severe, the leather patch settled precise over his ruined socket, every trace of the night's disorder scrubbed clean away.

"We could have one of our own, you know," he said, and the softness beneath his stillness betrayed him though his face did not move. "I know how deeply you have always wanted a child." He crossed the space between you with a single deliberate step. "You do not have to go."

You reached for his hands, and he seized them at once, gripping them with a fierceness that contradicted the quiet slackening of his shoulders at the contact.

"Aemond," you said, and held his gaze. "It will be only for a little while."

He bowed his head and lifted your joined hands to his mouth and pressed his lips to your knuckles.

"I will wait for you," he swore against your skin. "And when you come back to me, I will take you to wife."

You nodded, and could shape no reply that would not crack, and he bent to claim your mouth in a kiss so gentle it seemed he meant to keep the moment whole, untouched by the world beyond it. That was denied him as a voice broke across the space at your back.

"My lady, I trust you have all your belongings made ready?"

You drew away from Aemond and turned to find Lord Ormund in his armour, the Hightower sigil graven proud at its center, the tower and its crowning flame catching the thin light.

"I have, My Lord," you answered.

"Very good. Your carriage stands prepared. You may make yourself ready."

"Thank you, My Lord."

You returned to Aemond and pressed one last kiss to his cheek before you released his hands, and you felt the reluctance in his grip, the faint resistance you were made to overcome before his fingers loosed from yours at the last.

"Take heart, Your Grace," Ormund said, and there was something possessive threaded through his courtesy. "By the time I have finished with her, you shall trouble yourself with these worries no longer. She will come to understand precisely to whom she belongs. Daeron, bring my horse nearer."

The boy obeyed at once and led the animal forward without a word of objection.

Aemond drew a slow breath and gave nothing back, though his weight shifted from one foot to the other while the two of them watched you go toward the carriage, and Alicent moved to meet you before you reached it.

She cleared her throat, and you turned to her.

"Is everything arranged as it should be?" she asked, and there was a tremor in the asking.

"You arranged my belongings yourself," you reminded her.

"Oh. Yes, of course, so I did—" She faltered, and you stepped into her and put your arms about her, and she held you with a sudden strength.

"Lord Ormund will care for you well. I trust that he will," she said, and her hand passed over your back in unsteady strokes. "You will be better there than here." She let a long moment pass before she found the rest of it. "I am sorry." She bit back a sob. "For all of it."

You drew back without a word and kissed her upon the cheek.

"Right, then." She brushed hurriedly past at the tears she had failed to hold. "Go on now."

You gave her one last smile and climbed into the waiting carriage, and she returned it with a gloss standing in her eyes.

HIGHTOWER CASTLE, OLD TOWN. — NIGHTFALL

The road to Oldtown ran on for days together, the country unrolling in fields and forests and river crossings, and full dark had fallen by the time the towers rose against the star-strewn sky. Ormund swung down from his palfrey and watched while you thanked the man who had driven your carriage, and when the fellow bent to kiss your hand in parting, Ormund came forward and stayed the gesture before it was done.

"Ah, there is no need for that," he said smoothly.

The man let go of your hand at once.

"Thank you, good ser." Ormund took your hand in the driver's stead and led you within.

The castle bore no likeness to the Red Keep. Where King's Landing had felt close and grimed with old smoke, this place was luminous and ordered, every corridor swept and every surface aglow beneath the sconces. Daeron met you both at the arch of the entrance and hastened to help strip Ormund of his armour the moment they had crossed inside, his young fingers quick at the buckles.

"I trust your journey proved not too wearisome?" Ormund asked, turning his practiced smile upon you.

"It was bearable, my Lord."

He nodded, and when the last of the plate had been lifted from his shoulders he let his eyes travel over you from head to foot and back again to your face, taking his slow and measured time about it. Then he began to circle you.

"I am certain you know well what the holy texts have set down," he said.

You watched, his gaze keeping to its slow passage across your body. To one side stood young Daeron, stiff and unmoving, his eyes fixed upon the floor and refusing to rise.

"A maiden must guard herself against temptation, and above all against the appetites of men. She must cultivate discernment, for men are burdened with lust and their intentions run ill."

"Are you not a man yourself, Lord Ormund?" You had meant the words for a jest, to lighten the mood after so long a road.

But the chamber fell into a silence so absolute it seemed to press against the ears. The servants who had been about their tasks froze where they stood. Daeron's eye flew wide at the boldness of it. You marked the sudden rigidness gathered all about you and cast a glance around the room, and it settled at the last upon the boy, whose gaze had grown enormous now and bored into you while he shook his head in small, frantic, desperate motions of warning.

You brought your eyes back to Ormund, who had halted his pacing. The smile upon his face had gone dry and brittle, drained of every warmth, and it was in that precise moment that the weight of your own words came down upon you.

"My lord—"

"Prepare a bath for the lady." His voice kept its courtesy, and yet even the dullest ear could not have missed the strain that tightened it, nor the swell of volume beneath the calm. "And a cup of tea. She has endured a long journey."

You opened your mouth to offer another apology, but Daeron remained there at the edge of your sight, his face frozen in silent entreaty, his head giving the smallest shake of warning. You pressed your lips together and held your tongue.

"Take her," Lord Ormund commanded, and the ladies came forward to guide you from the hall, your nerves strung taut beneath your skin.

The bathing chamber they brought you to drove every care from you the instant you passed within. The air hung with a light fragrance, layered and rich, the scent of oils and crushed herbs rising from a bath larger by far than any you had known before. Steam still clung to the water in lazy curls, and near at hand incense burned atop a table carved beautifully from dark wood, the smoke threading through the warmth and mingling with the perfume of the bath. The knots wound through your shoulders and spine began to loosen and give way to the calming richness of it all.

You waited for the ladies to begin unlacing your gown, but they startled you, withdrawing almost at once after one of them had pressed a cup of brewed herbal tea into your hands. They offered no word to explain it, only hasty curtsies before they fled the chamber and drew the door shut behind them.

Your confusion lasted but a moment. The door opened again to admit Lord Ormund, clad in nothing save a dark green robe, his pleasant smile restored to his face. Young Daeron followed close at his heels, his gaze fixed stubbornly upon the floor still.

"The servants prove themselves efficient, it would seem," Ormund remarked, and he lifted his arms, and to your profound shock Daeron stepped forward and drew the robe from his shoulders. Your head whipped to the side on the instant, and Ormund marked the trembling that seized your fingers about the cup.

"My lord, I do apologize," you managed, your voice catching. "I believe the servants made an error and brought me to the wrong chamber."

Your eyes darted to his for the briefest fraction of a breath, and you found him wholly untroubled by his nakedness, standing bare and unashamed, as though nothing untoward had passed between you.

"M-my Lord..?" you tried again, and the word stuttered from your lips.

He raised one hand, and Daeron placed a familiar leather-bound book into his palm, its surface polished to a gleam and stamped with the seven-pointed star. With that, Daeron departed in silence and drew the door shut behind him. You swallowed hard and turned your gaze toward the floor at the edge of the bath, but Ormund's fingers found your chin and lifted it until you had no choice but to meet his eyes.

"Drink your tea, my dear."

You obeyed the moment his touch withdrew, and drained the cup in hurried swallows while he began to pace the chamber.

"You have remained too long upon Dragonstone," he said, his tone unhurried, his manner near conversational. "Your mind has been tainted by the practices of your ancestors, and that is the very reason I have brought you here. Though tragedy delivered you into my hands, the Seven marked your past devotion and stretched out their mercy."

He paused and put out his hand for the empty cup. You surrendered it with trembling fingers.

"I have seen the manner in which you struggle against yourself," he went on, and he set the cup aside with care, "around your... brother—" He spat the word, and it seemed to foul his tongue in the saying. "You fight to free yourself of the taint carried in your blood, and I have been sent by the Seven as their messenger. The Father has taken note of your faithfulness, and he has sent me to judge you and to cleanse you of what pollutes you."

He stepped into the bath and lowered himself into the water, and opened the holy text across his lap.

"It would please me to hear you recite the twelve virtues of a maiden."

The memory of Daeron's stricken face rose before you, and for all the courtesy threaded through Ormund's voice and the practiced charm settled upon his own, something in the very air of the chamber woke every instinct that governed survival. Obedience was the only safe course left to you.

"Truthfulness," you began, drawing upon the verses you had learned in childhood, and you spoke them with as much precision as you could summon. When you faltered and lost portions of the text, he made you begin again from the start until you delivered it whole, and only then did he suffer you to move on to the verse that followed.

You had come halfway through the recitation when a subtle warmth began to bloom across your chest, and the strangeness of it made you pause. Ormund noticed at once.

"Good. Continue," he commanded, and tilted his chin upward in expectation.

You cleared your throat and took it up again while his attention returned to the page, tracking your accuracy with meticulous care. As the minutes gathered one upon another, the warmth turned to something more insistent and spread beneath your skin with mounting urgency.

"Discernment," you recited, and fought to hold your focus. "Judge not by pleasing words nor handsome countenance alone. Look instead upon a man's character, for virtue is revealed by his—"

The sight of your half-bare brother came unbidden, startling and vivid before your mind's eye, and the words died in your throat.

"I was not aware that I bade you cease," Ormund said, and did not lift his gaze from the page.

You swallowed hard and forced yourself onward.

"Purity. Love only that which is righteous before the Seven—" The heat began its slow migration downward through you, and your skin grew keen to every touch. Even the lightest drag of your gown against your forearms summoned back the memory of Aemond's fingers trailing over you, and these recollections you found ever harder to banish.

"Turn away," Ormund prompted, and his eyes rose from the book to watch you with plain amusement.

"T-turn away from e-every affection that corrupts-s innocence," you managed, though even to stand still had become a labour. Each breath you drew came thicker and heavier than the last while the heat kept up its steady descent, kindling every vein it touched along the way.

The remembrance of Aemond's tongue coaxing your own surfaced, and the answering heat that flooded your core came upon you with such force that your knees buckled and you sank to the floor. Your breath came ragged and torn while your mind grew fogged and clouded, and a sudden ravenous hunger woke within you that you could neither name nor understand.

"For the Father," Ormund intoned, and you were so wholly drowned beneath the heat and the desperate yearning of it that you never marked the splash of water as he rose from the bath.

"T-the the F-Father," you tried to go on, and clenched your eyes shut against the flood of improper images surging through you, and every one of them held Aemond, in shapes your waking mind would never have conjured.

"Withdraws His light from such immorality," Ormund finished, and set the book aside. He put out his hand toward you, and whether your dazed senses played you false or no, you could no longer find the smile that had adorned his face only moments before. Something ominous and calculating dwelt in his eyes instead as he drew you up onto your feet, and his fingers set to work at the laces of your bodice. Each time his skin met yours a shiver passed through you, and he marked it with evident satisfaction.

Though your garments fell away piece by piece, you knew no chill upon your bared flesh, only the relentless burning that consumed you from within. He guided you toward the bath with steady hands, and his grip upon you was proprietary and absolute.

Lord Ormund descended into the sunken bath with the slow authority of a man who had never once been made to wait, and the water climbed the polished cedar to break against the rim with a sharp resonant slap. He put out his hand toward you in silence, the fingers spread in command, bidding you take your place before him and you did so.

"Come to me now." The words came from close above you and behind your ear, pitched so low the sound seemed to gather in his ribs and pass through them into your back.

"Recline against me fully." You gave way to the pull of the water and let yourself sink backward into the waiting bulk of him.

He was built to the measure of a warrior in the fullness of his strength. Standing, he stood a head above you and more; here, both of you sunk to the chest in steaming water, his shoulders curved forward to enclose you on either side, broad enough to shut out the lamplight and candles. When he gathered you back against his torso, the coarse wet expanse of his clean chest brushed along the entire length of your vertebrae, from nape to the small of your back. The sound that broke from your throat was thin and sharp, born not of any hurt but of the enormity of it, the sheer sensation of flesh set against flesh with nothing between.

His palm came down upon your uninjured shoulder, heavy as a mailed gauntlet, warmed clean through by the bath. Great hands, these, thickened with the calluses that decades of sword-grip and rein-leather had worn into a soldier's palms. He set to work the muscle beneath his fingers with methodical pressure, the thumbs pressing hard circles into the knotted cords at the base of your neck, the rest of his fingers reaching forward until they very nearly met above your collarbones. The force of it began as pain, and the pain thinned into something near to ease. Your head fell forward of its own accord, and a soft broken breath slipped past your lips before you had the wit to hold it back.

"The Father in his infinite wisdom judges those who carry impurity within the flesh," he said, and every syllable rolled forth in the flat measured chant a septon uses at his prayers. "All who harbor rot and sinful stirring shall be brought low, that they may after be lifted up to grace amongst the Seven. So is the law set down in the sacred texts." His hands forsook your shoulders and slid forward across the high ridges of your collarbones, and then descended, and took the full weight of your breasts into his palms.

Your spine arched from his chest, and the water surged against the wooden rim in restless waves. He molded his palms about the soft flesh with a slowness that took its time in the weighing and the measuring of them, and then he drew the roughened pads of his thumbs across your nipples in languid purposeful passes. Each stir of the disturbed water rasped against your quickened skin, and your body gave you up to him at once, the peaks of your breasts drawing tight into hard aching points that had naught to do with cold. The herb-steeped tea had made a torch of every stroke; each touch struck sparks that spilled down through your belly and gathered in throbbing heat between your thighs, and your hips gave one helpless thrust beneath the surface.

"There. It manifests plainly." His murmur carried approval and a darker satisfaction both, and he compressed the stiffened peaks between thumb and forefinger, the pressure firm but never cruel, rolling each tender point with a patient exactness. "You feel it keenly, that. This is the corruption in your flesh made manifest to the hand."

"S-s-stop this, m-my Lordd—" Even to your own ears the protest came out threadbare and worn thin, for your thighs had already parted beneath the water's cover, and your back still bowed to press you closer against the wiry rasp of his chest, that abrasion upon your shoulder blades yielding its own shadowed sweetness.

One maintained its place at your breast, still turning the nipple in slow rotations. The other flattened to your sternum and began its descent, gliding over the quick flutter of your belly, across the small clench of muscle that leapt there, down into the crease where thigh joined hip. There he stayed his hand and made you wait upon the promise of it. Then his fingers parted the intimate flesh between your legs with an unhurried certainty and confidence.

A soft cry broke from you and rang off the wet stone as both your hands seized the wooden rim in a desperate grip. His middle finger traced the whole length of your entrance with a slowness that near unmade you, gathering the wet proof of your wanting that even the bath could not wash away, before it circled the swollen knot of nerves at the crown. Your whole body went rigid with the suddenness of it. He held you fast with the arm braced across your chest, pinning you against the greater mass of him while that thick finger drew tight lazy circles round the most tender point of you.

"Confess your sins before the Father." His breath came hot against your temple. "Speak them aloud, that they may be witnessed and their burden halved in the telling." His finger slid lower, set itself at your entrance, and pressed within to the second knuckle in one smooth intrusion. Your breath drew in sharp and your head fell back upon his shoulder at the dull ache of the invasion, though the coiling pleasure in your core swallowed the discomfort near as fast as it came. "Tell me who it is that haunts your waking hours and fouls your prayers."

Your inner walls clenched about the intruding presence, and a keening sound escaped your keeping as your hips ground forward onto his hand.

"I have—" You sought to hold your tongue, but his skilled handling had loosed every guard you kept, even as the tea had loosed your will, and the confession spilled forth before shame silence you. "I have thought of him. Many times. His hand upon me, his mouth to mine. Forgive me the weakness, My Lord—"

"Speak his name plainly." He worked a second finger into you, stretching you wider, and set to shallow thrusts, and one of your hands flew to seize his forearm in a useless bid to stay him. The thick pads of his fingertips dragged along the ridged front wall of you while his thumb took up the labor his finger had abandoned, pressing quick and exact circles against your most sensitive flesh. You would not yield that last shame though the heat of it scorched through you, and he did not cease his sanctimonious labor for so much as a breath. "Name him now, girl, or I withdraw my hand and leave you to burn."

"Prince Aemond. M-my half-brother—" The words came broken and beaten out of you.

A low rumble of satisfaction moved through his chest and passed straight into your back. "There. The truth bared at the last. The savage lust with all its pretense stripped away. 'And the impure shall confess their darkness upon sanctified water before the Father's judgment,'" he intoned, his breath hot and even at your ear, "'and the Mother in her mercy shall not turn her face from her plea.'"

Every word you tried to shape came apart into fractured sound upon his working fingers. The pleasure rose with a terrible swiftness, the herb doubling and trebling it until your heels scrabbled against the wooden rim for purchase and your hand shot back to clutch at his heavy forearms, nails clawling and carving little crescents into the toned muscle. Water spilled over the edge in slapping waves, one upon another. His fingers drove deeper and harder, scissoring apart to stretch you wider, opening you with a deliberate care, and the heel of his palm bore down without mercy on the swollen flesh while the sudden sight of your half-brother stripped bare rose up behind your eyes.

"Please, I beg you—" The words came out of you as sobs, and the tears of an overwhelmed pleasure stood hot and bright. "P-p-please, My Lord, cleanse me of this corruption, draw it out from my spirit, I beg of you—"

He stilled, all at once, without warning. Both hands went dead in their works, the one cupping your breast frozen where it lay, the two fingers seated to their full depth within you held utterly motionless, his thumb halted just short of the pearl that pulsed and ached for it. A wail of denial tore out of you at the sudden desertion, your hips bucking uselessly against a hand that gave you nothing but cruel stillness.

"Who shall be your purifier before the Seven?" Lord Ormund asked, and tempered steel had crept now into the low velvet of his voice. "Name the one you wish to cleanse you, girl. Plainly."

"Y-you, My Lord—" It cracked out of your throat at once, desperate. You turned your head and set your open mouth to the wet stubble of his jaw. "You, Lord Ormund. You alone. None but you has the right to cleanse me... P-please. I-I am begging you—"

The rumble in his chest turned to something near a growl, a low sound of self satisfaction, and his teeth found the delicate shell of your ear.

"So shall I give you mercy." His fingers drove back into you with a renewed force, all pretense of gentleness cast off, thrusting deep and quick, the wet obscene sound of it lost beneath the violent slosh of the bath and your own climbing moans and cries. His thumb pressed flush to your most sensitive point and worked it in tight relentless turns. The arm across your chest hauled you back against the furnace heat of him, leaving you no room to resist, his palm crushing your breast flat, and his voice never once let its holy chant fall silent, laying the sacred words against your throat with the weight of a hand set to your windpipe.

"Mercy shall be granted unto the penitent who surrenders whole. Give up your corruption into my keeping. Deliver it unto me this very hour—"

Your peak struck, and the whole chamber seemed to tilt upon its axis. A sharp cry tore from you as your inner walls clamped and fluttered in rhythmic spasm about his thrusting fingers, your spine drawn taut into a hard arch, your thighs snapping shut about his wrist and shuddering. He strained against the urge of his own flesh to spend from the mere witnessing of your undoing, his jaw clenched hard enough to set the muscle leaping and the tendons standing proud in his neck as he fought himself for mastery.

He did not cease though your finish was upon you. He worked you through each pulsing wave, the thumb keeping its circling pressure, the fingers curling and dragging to draw every aftershock out of you one at a time, until your voice thinned to broken fractured moans and your body went slack and boneless within the great cradle of his arms.

The steam hung and settled toward a stillness. Your chest heaved against the bar of his forearm in quick and desperate breaths. Lord Ormund's fingers drew out of you with a torturous slowness, trailing your wetness up across your belly, and he set his mouth to the crown of your damp hair and gathered you closer against his chest.

As the overwhelming heat of it began its slow retreat, the tears spilled hot down your cheeks, and you turned to press your face to his bare chest and wept. For all the fear that coiled in you, a relief moved through you when the intruding sight of your brother at last dissolved and was gone from the depths of your mind. He kept his hold through the whole of your collapse, one hand tracing light idle patterns upon your skin in something that wore the shape of comfort, keeping you shut within the compass of his arms.

"You have done beautifully, and with a most commendable obedience." His voice came low and sated against your hair. "Your sins are cleansed and drawn out from your corrupted flesh." His hand smoothed once more down the curve of your spine and came to rest at the small of your back.

"For now."

<PREVIOUS||NEXT >

A/N: Thank you and I love you all so much for the likes, sweet comments, reblogs, follows, and you too, silent readers ❤️.

The morning of the day everything changed began like so many mornings before it quietly, with the weight of someone else's choices pressing down on you before you had even opened your eyes.

You woke to the sound of the bells. Oldtown was a city of bells, something you had not known before you came here. They rang at dawn, at noon, at dusk, at every hour in between, marking time with a relentlessness that made you feel like you were living inside a heartbeat. The sound echoed through the stone walls of the Hightower, bouncing off the ancient masonry, seeping into your dreams. On Dragonstone, you had woken to the sound of the sea and the distant cry of your dragon. Here, you woke to bells.

You lay still for a moment, watching the light creep across the ceiling. The curtains were heavy but a single sliver of gold had found its way through the gap, painting a line across the stone above your head. You traced it with your eyes, following it from one corner of the room to the other, and tried to remember what day it was.

It did not matter. The days were all the same now.

You turned your head on the pillow. Ormund was already gone. His side of the bed was cold, the blankets pushed back, the indentation of his body already fading from the mattress. He rose early, your husband. He had a city to run and a household to command. You had learned quickly that he did not expect you to be awake when he left. He did not expect anything from you in the mornings except that you would be there with your legs opened when he returned.

You sat up slowly, pushing the heavy blankets aside. The air in the room was cool, carrying the faint, familiar scent of smoke from the fireplace. Your shift was wrinkled from sleep, twisted around your legs, and you smoothed it down automatically before swinging your feet to the floor.

You crossed to the window and pulled back the curtain, just a little. The view was spectacular, you could not deny that. The Hightower rose above the city like a spear thrust into the sky, and from your chambers near the top, you could see everything. The Honeywine River winding its way to the sea. The rooftops of Oldtown spreading out below, a patchwork of slate and tile and thatch. The Citadel in the distance, its domes and spires gleaming in the morning light. And beyond it all, the Whispering Sound, blue and endless, stretching toward the horizon.

It was beautiful. It was not home.

You let the curtain fall and turned back to the room. Your gown was laid out for you already. It always was. You had not chosen the dresses you wore since your wedding night. They simply appeared each morning, draped over the chair by the hearth, waiting for you. Today's was a deep charcoal grey with silver embroidery along the scooped neckline and long, tight sleeves. The fabric was heavy—it was always heavy—and the cut was modest. You had never worn anything like it before you came to Oldtown, and now you wore nothing else.

Your ladies arrived as you were washing your face. Three of them, all Hightower women, all chosen by Ormund's steward. They helped you into your dress without comment. The laces were pulled tight, the sleeves smoothed down, the high collar fastened close around your throat. You stood still and let them work, lifting your arms when they needed you to, turning when they asked. You had learned that it was easier to comply than to question.

"Your hair, my lady?" Ellyn asked, her hands already reaching for the brush.

You hesitated. "I thought I might leave it down today."

A pause. Barely a heartbeat, but you felt it.

"Lord Ormund prefers it up," Ellyn said. Her voice was neutral. Polite. The voice of a servant who had been given instructions and intended to follow them.

You opened your mouth to argue—it was your hair, after all, your head, your choice—but the words died on your tongue. It was not worth the fight. Nothing was worth the fight anymore.

"Very well," you said quietly.

Ellyn nodded and began to brush. You watched yourself in the mirror as she worked. The girl looking back at you was beautiful—you knew that, had always known that, had been told it so many times it had ceased to mean anything—but she did not look like you. She looked like a portrait of you, painted by someone who had only heard a description. The hair was right, silver-gold and falling in soft waves. The eyes were right, violet and clear. But something was missing. Some spark. Some light.

You looked tired. You looked pale. You looked like a woman who had been slowly fading for weeks and had not noticed until this moment.

Ellyn pinned your hair up in an elaborate twist, securing it with silver combs. You felt the weight of it pulling at your scalp, the familiar tension that always followed. Your mother had never made you wear your hair up. Your mother had let you wear it however you wanted—loose and wild when you were flying, braided with ribbons when you attended court, simple and unadorned when you were alone. Your mother had always said that you were beautiful because you were yourself, not because you looked like anyone else's idea of beauty.

You missed your mother. You missed her so much it felt like a physical ache, a hollow space in your chest that nothing could fill.

"There," Ellyn said, stepping back to admire her work. "Very proper, my lady."

"Thank you," you said, because that was what you were supposed to say.

They left you alone after that, retreating to their own tasks, and you sat by the window for a long time, watching the clouds move across the sky. Somewhere out there, beyond the city walls, beyond the Whispering Sound, beyond the Reach and the Kingswood and the Blackwater Bay, your mother was sitting on Dragonstone. Your brothers were running through the halls, laughing, arguing, living their lives.

And you were here. In Oldtown. Married to a man you barely recognized anymore.

The courtship had been so different. You remembered it now, sitting in the grey morning light, turning the memories over in your mind like stones. Ormund had come to King's Landing two years ago, representing his house at some council or another, and he had seen you across the throne room. You had been ten and eight then, young and shy. He had been thirty-six, a widower with four children, a lord in his own right. He had looked at you with such intensity, such focus, that you had felt like the only person in the room.

He had been charming. He had sent you gifts, books from the Citadel, rare perfumes from Lys, a necklace of sapphires that matched your eyes. He had written you letters, long and eloquent and full of praise. He had sought you out at feasts and tourneys, always finding a way to sit beside you, to speak with you, to make you laugh.

Your mother had been skeptical at first. "He is older than you," she had said, her brow furrowed. "And he is a Hightower. The Hightowers are ambitious, my love. They do not do anything without purpose."

But you had argued for him. You had told her that he was kind, that he was good, that he made you feel special. And eventually, reluctantly, she had agreed to the match. Not because she trusted him—you knew now that she never had—but because she trusted you. Because she wanted you to be happy. Because she thought that denying you this would only make you want it more.

And there was the political reality, too. You had known that, even then. The Hightowers were powerful. The Hightowers were influential. The Hightowers could tip the balance in the coming struggle for the throne. Marrying you to Ormund was a way of securing their loyalty, of ensuring that when the time came, Oldtown would stand with Rhaenyra.

You had been a gift. A guarantee. A hostage wrapped in silk and sent south with a smile.

You had told yourself it did not matter. You had told yourself that Ormund loved you, that he would be good to you, that the political reasons were secondary to the personal ones. You had believed him when he promised to cherish you, to protect you, to make you happy.

You had been so stupid.

The knock at the door startled you out of your thoughts. You turned, smoothing your features into the placid expression you had learned to wear, and called out, "Enter."

It was a servant, one of the many whose names you had not yet learned. He was young, barely more than a boy, and he bowed awkwardly when he saw you.

"My lady," he said. "A shipment has arrived for you. From Dragonstone."

Your heart stopped.

"A shipment?" You rose from your chair, and your voice came out breathless, eager, the way it used to sound before you learned to keep your feelings hidden. "Where is it?"

"In the courtyard, my lady. I can have it brought up to your chambers, if you wish."

"No." The word was too quick, too sharp. You forced yourself to slow down, to breathe. "No, thank you. I will come down myself. I would like to—" You stopped. You did not know how to explain what you wanted. You wanted to see it. You wanted to touch it. You wanted to hold something from home in your hands and remember what it felt like to be yourself.

"Of course, my lady," the servant said. He bowed again and retreated, and you were alone once more.

You did not run. Running would have been undignified. Running would have drawn attention. But you walked faster than you had walked in weeks, your heart pounding in your chest, your hands clasped tightly in front of you to hide their trembling.

The courtyard was busy when you arrived. Servants and guards and grooms going about their daily tasks, none of them paying much attention to the crate sitting near the stables. It was large, nearly as tall as you were, made of dark wood and bound with iron bands. And stamped on the side, clear and unmistakable, was the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen.

You stopped a few feet away, suddenly afraid to approach. It was silly, you knew. It was just a crate. Just wood and iron and the things your mother had sent. But it felt like more than that. It felt like a message. A reminder. A lifeline thrown across the distance between Dragonstone and Oldtown, telling you that you were not forgotten.

"My lady?" A servant—a different one, a woman with kind eyes and flour on her apron—approached with a slight curtsy. "Shall I have it brought to your rooms?"

"Yes," you said, and then, because you could not help yourself, "No. Wait. I want to open it here."

The woman looked surprised, but she nodded. "As you wish, my lady. Shall I fetch a crowbar?"

"Please."

You stood there, in the middle of the courtyard, while she went to find the tools. The sun was warm on your face, warmer than it had been in days, or perhaps it only felt that way because you were happy. You were actually happy. The feeling was so unfamiliar that it took you a moment to recognize it.

When the crowbar arrived the scent hit you first.

Jasmine. Your mother's perfume. The same perfume she had worn since you were a child, the same scent that had clung to her hair when she held you, to her gowns when you pressed your face into her shoulder. It was faint, barely there, but it was enough. Your eyes stung, and you had to blink rapidly to keep the tears from falling.

And then the dresses. They were packed in layers of fine paper, each one wrapped carefully to protect the delicate fabrics. You pulled them out one by one, your breath catching in your throat each time. Silk. Chiffon. Velvet so soft it felt like water running through your fingers. The colors were breathtaking, deep violet, pale blue, crimson, silver, black, gold. Lyseni cuts, every one of them. Flowing skirts and fitted bodices and sleeves that would flutter when you walked.

These were your dresses. These were the clothes you had worn before your wedding, before Oldtown, before everything. These were the clothes that made you feel like a Targaryen princess instead of a Hightower wife.

And then, at the very bottom of the crate, you found it.

The silver-grey gown.

You lifted it from the paper with hands that shook, and the sunlight caught the beadwork, and for a moment you forgot how to breathe.

It was the most beautiful dress you had ever seen. The bodice was gathered chiffon, layer upon layer of it, so fine and sheer that it looked like morning mist made solid. Tiny silver beads traced patterns across the fabric—flowers, vines, delicate spirals that caught the light and sparkled like captured stars. The neckline was a sweetheart, low and elegant, designed to frame the collarbones and accentuate the curve of the breasts without being vulgar. The sleeves were off the shoulder, sheer and flowing, held in place by jeweled straps so fine they looked like threads of starlight. The waist was fitted, structured, creating a dramatic contrast with the flowing pleated skirt below. And the skirt was layer after layer of soft, swirling fabric that would catch the air and dance with every step you took.

It was a dress for a princess. It was a dress for a dragonrider. It was a dress for you.

You held it up against your body, right there in the courtyard, and you could not stop smiling. You probably looked ridiculous—a lady of House Hightower clutching a gown to her chest like a child with a new toy—but you did not care. You did not care about anything except the feel of the fabric beneath your fingers and the sudden, overwhelming certainty that things were going to be better now.

"Would you like to wear it, my lady?"

You looked up. The servant woman was still there, watching you with an expression that was almost a smile.

"May I?" you asked, and then realized how foolish the question was. You were the lady of the house. You did not need to ask permission. But somehow, without thinking, you had.

"Of course, my lady," the woman said. "I think it would suit you beautifully."

You dressed alone. You did not want anyone else's hands on this dress. It was too precious, too personal, too much a part of you. You slipped it over your head carefully, reverently, letting the silk whisper against your skin. You adjusted the bodice, settled the sleeves on your shoulders, smoothed the skirt down over your hips. And when you looked in the mirror—

You gasped.

You were beautiful. You spun in front of the mirror, watching the skirt flare out around you, and you laughed. A real laugh, bright and surprised, the kind of laugh you had not made since your wedding night.

And then the knock came.

"My lady?" Margot's voice, muffled through the door. "The other ladies are asking if you will join them in the solar. They have heard about the dresses and are eager to see."

You took a deep breath. You smoothed your hands down the front of your gown. And then you opened the door.

Bethany gasped first. Loud and delighted, the way only a girl could gasp. "Oh, my lady! You look like a queen!"

Ellyn was more restrained, but even she could not hide her surprise. Her eyes widened, and her mouth opened slightly before she caught herself. "It is... very fine work, my lady," she said carefully. "Lyseni, I presume?"

"Yes," you said, and your voice came out stronger than it had in weeks. "My mother sent them. I used to wear this style at court."

The walk through the Hightower was different than it had ever been before. You had walked these halls dozens of times since your wedding, head down, eyes averted, trying to take up as little space as possible. But today, in your gown, you walked with your head high. You looked people in the eye. You smiled.

And people noticed.

Servants stopped to stare as you passed. Guards straightened, their gazes lingering on you longer than was proper. A young squire dropped the sword he was carrying and had to scramble to pick it up, his face bright red. You felt their eyes on you and you did not mind. You had been invisible for weeks. It was nice to be seen.

—

Ormund found you in the solar.

It was late afternoon by then, the sun beginning its slow descent toward the horizon, painting the room in shades of gold and amber. You were sitting by the window, reading your mother's letter at last—it was full of news from Dragonstone, gossip about your brothers, questions about how you were settling in—when the door opened and he walked in.

You looked up and smiled. "Husband. I did not expect you back so early."

He did not smile back. You should have noticed that. You should have seen the storm gathering behind his eyes, the tightness in his jaw, the way his hands were clenched at his sides. But you were still floating on the happiness of the morning, still wrapped in the warmth of your mother's words and you did not see.

"Where did you get that dress?"

His voice was flat. Too flat. The kind of flat that comes before a storm.

"It was in the shipment from my mother," you said, and you heard the happiness in your own voice, bright and fragile and utterly unaware. "She sent me dresses from Lys—the kind I used to wear at court. Isn't it beautiful? I have not worn anything like it since—"

"Stand up."

You blinked. "What?"

"Stand. Up."

You stood. The letter slipped from your fingers and floated to the floor. You stood, and he looked at you, and the silence stretched out between you like a wound opening.

"Ormund," you said carefully, "is something wrong?"

He crossed the room in three strides. He grabbed your arm and pulled you toward the door.

"You will come with me," he said. "Now."

"Ormund, you are hurting me—"

"Now."

He dragged you through the corridors. You stumbled after him, your beautiful skirt tangling around your legs, your jeweled straps digging into your shoulders. Servants saw you—you knew they saw you, you saw their faces turn away, their eyes drop—and shame burned hot in your cheeks. You were the lady of the house. You were a princess of the blood. And you were being pulled through your own home like a disobedient child.

He did not speak again until the door to your chambers slammed shut behind you.

Then he let go of your arm, and you stumbled backward, catching yourself on the back of a chair. Your chest was heaving. Your heart was pounding. And when you looked at his face you barely recognized him.

"What," he said, low and dangerous, "are you wearing?"

You stared at him. "It is a dress. I told you. My mother sent—"

"Your mother." He spat the words like they tasted of poison. "Your whore of a mother sent you a whore's dress, and you decided to parade yourself through my keep in it."

The word hit you like a slap. Whore. Your mother. He had never—no one had ever—

"Don't look so shocked." He stepped closer, and you stepped back, and the chair between you felt like nothing, like paper, like a wall that would crumble at a single touch. "You know what I am talking about. You know exactly what your mother is. The whole realm knows. She spreads her legs for every man who looks at her twice, and now she cannot even control her own daughter."

"That is not true." Your voice came out thin. Reedy. Nothing like the strong, confident voice you had used all day. "My mother is not—you cannot speak of her that way. She is your future queen—"

"She is a whore." He said it flatly. Calmly. Like he was remarking on the weather. "She is a whore who put bastards in the line of succession and expected the realm to bow. She has fucked her sworn shield for years—everyone knows it, even if they are too afraid to say it—and those Strong bastards she calls sons are proof. And now she has sent her daughter to me, dressed like a common bedslave, and I am supposed to be grateful?"

Your hands were shaking. You pressed them to your stomach, trying to steady yourself. "I am not dressed like a—I am not. This is just a dress. This is the kind of dress I have always worn. You saw me in them at court. You said I was beautiful. You said—"

"I lied."

The words stopped you cold.

"I lied." He stepped closer again, and this time there was nowhere to back away to. Your shoulders hit the wall. "Of course I told you that you were beautiful. That is what men do when they are courting. We flatter. We praise. We tell you what you want to hear. And you—" His eyes raked down your body, and you felt naked, exposed, like every inch of skin was on display. "You were a maiden then. Untouched. A prize to be won. I could look at you and imagine all the things I was going to do to you once you were mine."

He paused. His tongue swept across his lower lip, and the gesture made your stomach turn.

"Do you want to know what I really thought, when I saw you in your pretty little dresses? I thought about what was underneath. I thought about tearing them off you. I thought about bending you over a chair and seeing if you were as tight as you looked. I thought about how sweet it would be to be the one who finally got to touch what you were showing everyone."

"Stop—" The word came out as a choked whisper. "Please, stop—"

"But that was then." His voice hardened. "That was when you were a maiden. That was when you were untouchable. Now you are my wife. Now you wear my name and live in my house and sleep in my bed. And my wife does not dress like a whore."

"I am not a whore." Tears were burning in your eyes now, hot and stinging. You blinked rapidly, trying to hold them back. "I am a Targaryen princess. I am a dragonrider. I am your wife, and I have done nothing wrong—"

"Nothing wrong?" He laughed, and it was an ugly sound. Ugly and cruel and nothing like the warm, charming laugh you remembered from the courtship. "You paraded yourself through the entire keep in a dress that shows your tits to every man with eyes. Guards stared at you. Servants stared at you. My squire -your own uncle- dropped his sword because he was too busy looking at your body to remember what he was doing. And you think you have done nothing wrong?"

You had not known about the squire. You had not noticed. But it did not matter. It would not have mattered. He had made up his mind about what you were, and nothing you said would change it.

"It is just a dress," you whispered. "It made me feel beautiful. It made me feel like myself. I have been wearing your dresses for weeks—your grey dresses, your heavy fabrics—and I have not complained. I have not asked for anything. I just wanted one thing that was mine. One thing that felt like home."

"Home?" He sneered the word. "You mean Dragonstone? You mean your mother's castle, where she hides her bastards and her lovers and pretends she is fit to rule? That is not home. That is a den of sin and corruption, and you are lucky I took you out of it."

"Lucky?" The word escaped you before you could stop it, high and incredulous. "You think I am lucky? You think I am grateful for this? For being dragged through the corridors like a prisoner? For being called a whore in my own home? For being married to a man who—"

"Who what?" His voice dropped to a dangerous murmur. "Who what? Say it."

You opened your mouth. You closed it. The words were there, burning on your tongue, but you could not make yourself speak them. You were afraid. You were so afraid.

"Who does not love you?" He finished the sentence for you, and his smile was terrible. "Is that what you were going to say? That I do not love you? Let me tell you something, little wife. I love you more than you deserve. I love you despite your mother, despite your reputation, despite the rumors about your parentage. Everyone knows you are not Laenor's daughter—no more than the Strong bastards are. And now you come here, dressed like a whore, and expect me to be grateful?"

"My father loved me." Your voice cracked, and the tears spilled over at last. Hot and wet, tracking down your cheeks. "Laenor Velaryon raised me. He was my father. And you will not speak of him that way."

"Laenor Velaryon was a fool." Ormund's lip curled. "He raised another man's bastards because he was too weak to do anything else. Just as your mother is too weak to control her own desires. And you are just like her. Weak. Vain. Desperate for attention. You think you are special because you have a dragon? You are nothing. You are a spoiled princess who has never had to work for anything, who has never had to serve anyone, who does not know the first thing about being a wife."

"I am not—"

"You are a piece of property." He stepped forward, and his hand came up, and for one terrible moment you thought he was going to hit you. But he did not. He touched your face instead, his thumb tracing the line of your jaw with a gentleness that made your skin crawl. "My property. Your body belongs to me now. Your hair, your face, your tits, your cunt—all of it. You do not get to decide what you wear or what you show. You do not get to decide anything. You are mine. And I will not have my property parading around like a common whore."

"Let go of me."

You did not recognize your own voice. It was quiet and cold and utterly steady, nothing like the sobbing, broken girl you felt like inside.

He did not let go. His grip on your jaw tightened, just slightly. Just enough to remind you of his strength.

"You do not give me orders," he said softly. "You are my wife. You obey me. You do what I say, when I say it. And if you cannot do that—" His thumb pressed harder, digging into the soft flesh beneath your cheekbone. "Then I will teach you. I will teach you to be grateful for my attentions. I will teach you to be the wife I need you to be. And by the time I am finished, you will thank me for it."

"You are hurting me."

"I am trying to help you. But you are making it so difficult." He released your jaw, finally, and stepped back. His eyes dropped to the dress. To the silver beadwork. To the sweetheart neckline that he hated. "Take it off."

Your blood ran cold. "What?"

"Take. It. Off."

You did not move. You could not move. Your body was frozen, your mind screaming, your heart pounding so hard you could feel it in your throat.

"Please," you whispered. "Please, Ormund, I will not wear it again. I will put it away. I will wear whatever you want. Just please—"

"Take it off, or I will take it off for you."

You raised your hands. Your fingers were shaking so badly you could barely grip the fabric, but you tried. You tried to be good. You tried to do what he wanted. The jeweled straps slipped from your shoulders, and the bodice sagged, and then—

His patience ran out.

He grabbed the neckline with both hands and pulled.

The sound the fabric made was like a scream. A high, rending shriek of tearing silk, and then the bodice was splitting, the beadwork scattering in all directions like falling stars. You cried out and tried to pull away, but he was too strong. His hands found the seams and pulled, and the dress came apart in his grip like paper. Chiffon shredded. Beads flew. The jeweled straps snapped, the tiny stones scattering across the floor and skittering into corners where you would never find them again.

"No, no, no—" You were sobbing now, your hands batting uselessly at his arms, your voice rising to something that was almost a scream. "Please stop, please, it was a gift, it was from my mother, please—"

"Your mother." He grabbed the skirt and tore it from the waist, the pleated fabric ripping with a sound like thunder. "Your mother should have taught you how to be a wife. Instead she taught you how to be a whore."

"My mother—" You could barely speak. The words were choked with tears, your throat raw from screaming. "My mother loves me. She sent me this because she loves me—"

He laughed. It was the cruelest sound you had ever heard.

"Your mother sent you here because she wanted to get rid of you. Because you were inconvenient. Because she has her bastards to think about now, her precious Strong boys, and there was no room left for you. You were a spare. A surplus. A problem to be solved. And I solved it. I took you off her hands when no one else would."

That was when you slapped him.

You did not think about it. You did not plan it. Your hand just moved, arcing through the air and catching him across the cheek with a crack that echoed through the room. You stared at him, your palm stinging, your breath coming in ragged gasps. And he stared back at you, his head turned slightly from the force of the blow, his cheek already reddening. For a long, terrible moment, neither of you spoke.

Then he turned back to you, and his eyes—

His eyes were dead. Empty. Two pits of black that looked at you without recognition, without humanity, without anything at all.

"You should not have done that," he said quietly.

And then he reached for the rest of the dress.

You did not fight him anymore. You could not. Your body had gone limp, your strength drained, your spirit crushed into something small and broken. You stood there, shaking and crying, as he tore the remaining fabric from your body. The skirt fell away in ribbons. The underskirt followed, ripped from the waistband like paper. And then you were standing in nothing but your shift, your arms wrapped around yourself, your shoulders bare and trembling.

He stepped back. His chest was heaving. His face was flushed. And in his hands, he held the ruins of your dress. He held it up. Looked at it. Then looked at you.

Then he walked to the fireplace.

"No." The word came out as a broken whisper. "No, please. Please, Ormund. Please don't."

He threw it into the flames.

You watched it burn. The silk caught immediately, curling and blackening like a living thing in its death throes. The beadwork melted, silver droplets running down the fabric like tears. The chiffon vanished in a flash of orange, there and gone, consumed by the fire that had never felt warm, not once, not since you arrived in this cold, cold city.

You sank to your knees. You could not stop crying. Your whole body was wracked with sobs, your shoulders heaving, your hands pressed to your face to muffle the sounds. You were kneeling on the cold stone floor in nothing but your shift, surrounded by scattered beads and torn silk and the ashes of the only thing that had made you feel like yourself in weeks. And you had never felt so small in your entire life. You had never felt so alone.

And then he was there.

He knelt in front of you. His hands found your face, cupping your cheeks, tilting your head up so that you had to look at him. His expression had changed completely. The fury was gone. The cruelty was gone. In their place was something that looked almost like tenderness. Almost like love.

"See?" he said softly. Gently. As if he were comforting a frightened child. "See what you made me do?"

You stared at him through blurry eyes. You could not speak. You could not think.

"I do not want to be like this." His thumbs brushed your tears away, tracing gentle paths across your cheekbones. "I want to be a good husband to you. I want to love you, and cherish you, and protect you. But I cannot do that when you dress like a whore. You make me angry. You push me to do things I do not want to do."

You shook your head. It was a tiny, weak movement, barely perceptible. But he saw it.

"Yes," he said, and his voice was so certain, so utterly convinced of its own righteousness. "It is your fault. If you had worn what I told you to wear, if you had been a good wife, if you had simply obeyed me, none of this would have happened. I would not have had to raise my voice. I would not have had to rip the dress. You made me do this."

"I did not—" Your voice was wrecked, hoarse, barely audible. "I did not make you do anything."

"You did." He stroked your hair now, smoothing it back from your tear-stained face with a gentleness that made your stomach turn. "You know you did. You knew how I felt about those dresses. You knew I did not want you wearing them. And you wore it anyway, in front of everyone, flaunting yourself like a common—" He stopped himself. Took a breath. Softened his voice even further. "You chose to disobey me. And actions have consequences. You understand that, don't you?"

You did not answer. You could not answer. You were trapped in a nightmare, and the monster was stroking your hair and telling you it was all your fault.

"But I forgive you." He pressed a kiss to your forehead, and his lips were warm and dry, and you wanted to scrub the feeling of them off your skin. "I will always forgive you. Because I love you. Do you understand that? Everything I do, I do because I love you. If I did not love you, I would not care what you wore. I would not care who looked at you. But I do love you. I love you so much it drives me mad. And that is why I get angry. That is why I cannot control myself sometimes. Because I love you, and I cannot bear to see you make yourself look like a whore."

You were shaking your head again, but you did not know what you were denying. The words coming out of his mouth? The gentleness of his touch? The horrible, impossible reality of everything that had just happened?

"Say you are sorry," he said.

"I—"

"Say it." His grip on your chin tightened, just a fraction. Just enough to remind you that he was still in control. "Say you are sorry for what you did."

You were sorry. You were so sorry. You were sorry you had worn the dress. You were sorry you had opened the crate. You were sorry you had been happy, even for a moment. You were sorry you had ever come to Oldtown, ever said yes to his courtship, ever believed him when he looked at you with hunger in his eyes and told you it was love.

"I am sorry," you whispered.

The words tasted like ash.

"Good girl." He kissed your forehead again. "Good girl. I forgive you."

He pulled you into his arms. He held you against his chest, one hand cradling the back of your head, and you could feel his heartbeat. Steady. Calm. Satisfied.

"See?" he murmured into your hair. "It is over now. It is over. I love you. I love you so much."

You could smell the smoke from the fireplace. The ashes of your dress. The death of the girl you used to be.

"I will always take care of you," he said. "I will always forgive you. But you have to learn. You have to be better. You have to be the wife I need you to be. Do you understand?"

You nodded against his chest. You did not know what else to do.

"Say it."

"I understand." Your voice did not sound like your own. It was hollow. Empty. A shell of the voice that had laughed in the dragonpit this morning.

"Good girl." He stroked your hair. "Good girl. We are going to be happy together. I promise you. We are going to be so happy."

He held you there, in front of the dying fire where your dress was ash, and you cried into his chest until you had no tears left and when he finally pulled back and tilted your face up to look at him, you let him see the tears drying on your cheeks and the emptiness in your eyes, and you did not flinch when he smiled.

"There," he said. "That is better. That is my good, obedient wife."

He kissed you. Softly. Tenderly. The kiss of a lover, not a monster.

And you did not pull away.

Because you were learning. You were learning to be the wife he needed you to be. You were learning to smile when you wanted to scream, to nod when you wanted to fight, to say "I love you" when what you really meant was "I am afraid of you."

The following days were hard on you.

Mornings started slow. Every movement felt as if you were wading through molasses. Small tasks that usually took a minute at best now seemed wholly impossible.

You were sitting at the desk in your fiancé's room, which displayed a mix of your skincare items and his hair products.

The radio beside you was on. Some variety of metal music was playing, but the sound was turned so low it sounded more like static. Your eyes glanced at the volume dial, noticing now the radio was off entirely. The noise persisted.

Were you just imagining it?

"Allow me." Cold, slender fingers caressed the bottom of your chin, pulling your head up to meet his pale eyes. Tamsy pulled the cotton pad from your hand. You made no fight to stop him.

Tapping the toner-soaked cotton along your face, he leaned in nice and close to ensure no spots were missed. You were so peculiar about your routine; he'd memorized it just from watching you over the years.

With his head tilted down, his long hair curtained on either side of you, brushing your ears.

Following the steps exactly as he recalled, he had you freshened up and your hair styled just as you like it in less time than it'd take you usually. Your favourite lip gloss was the final touch, which he leaned in to steal with a quick peck.

His lips pressed together, spreading the stolen lip gloss evenly.

"What shall we do today then, hm?" Tamsy stepped away to grab a claw clip, twisting the blond portion of his hair the clip and allowing the deep blue part to flow freely. "We can remain at HQ if you prefer, to give you time to breathe."

There was a lull in work, and anyone present at yesterday's battle had been given some time off to recuperate. This meant you two finally had a day off together, something that only occurred once in a blue moon.

"I'm going out today. I have to." Your voice was scratchy, forcing a slight cough to clear your throat.

"If you're up to it, then absolutely! We haven't had a date night in some time."

"No." Your soft-spoken denial was anything but harsh, though it still surprised him.

"No?" He cocked his head to the side.

"Sorry, Tamsy. But I have to go looking for Amo today. I'm not sure where I'll start or how long it might take, but I'm going searching for her." You'd finally stood from the chair, rolling your shoulders back in an attempt to kickstart your body into motion.

"Sitting around feeling like shit won't help anyone find her. Besides, I need to set an example for Rudo. He's probably worried sick, and I want him to know he isn't alone. That we'll find her." There was a slight shake to your voice caused by the creeping anxiety of failure.

"I see." His head dipped for a moment; the flicker of disappointment was missed with your back turned to get to the door.

"Ah, just a moment! Your choker." He had just put his on, holding yours out the same way he had the day prior. You turned quickly, realizing you'd nearly forgotten it again. "Call me if you need any help. I'll see what I can do about Amo."

It was you who leaned in this time, stealing a kiss while he clipped the choker around your neck.

"Thank you, Tamsy. I don't know what I would do without you."

"Don't say that; you are perfectly capable." Overly empathetic, clumsy, and a bit ditzy perhaps. But you were still smarter than most. You managed to impede his plans without knowing countless times due to your intellect.

The smile you offered was sad, but still an improvement.

He waved you off, closing the door behind you to get ready for the day.

Refusing to let your emotions get in the way of your search, you made haste to your room to finish freshening up. While your usual uniform was still with Tamsy, you had a much cleaner spare that'd suit you better for a fact-finding mission.

Much like you had told your partner, you weren't sure where to start. The first step was probably checking out the town closest to Penta, so you'd want to be as presentable as possible for the sake of those you'd be questioning.

The moment you opened your door to leave, you were nearly hit in the face by a gloved hand.

"Oh! Hello!" You'd leaned back to avoid the fist, straightening up when Rudo took a panicked step back and bumped into Enjin.

"Oh—sorry. We were just, uh…" The younger boy stammered, noticing you were already in uniform. "Are you already being sent on a mission?"

"No! God no, just thought I would start the search for Amo."

"Perfect! Because Rudo and I were just about to do the same. Thought we'd ask for your help, since we could use a healer." Enjin put a hand on Rudo's shoulder, presumably in some manner of reassurance.

Once the two had stepped back, you closed your door behind you to join them in the hall.

"Absolutely, I would love to join your mission. But could I ask why you aren't taking Akuta's healer?" Following their lead, the three of you began walking down the hall towards the elevator.

"Eishia has her hands full with Zanka." Enjin stated with the shrug of his shoulders, hitting the elevator call button. Rudo cleared his throat.

"And I thought if we found Amo, it might ease her to see you again." The boy spoke in a hushed tone, a tad embarrassed to admit it.

"That is very thoughtful, Rudo. I think you're right." You turned your head to smile at him, which resulted in him immediately looking away.

It was then you got the opportunity to notice what he was carrying in his other arm.

"Rudo, are you really planning to haul that around all day?" The box television was larger than his head and likely twice as heavy.

The elevator doors slid open with a ding.

"That's what I was saying! It's giant; just leave it here. No way you think you can lug it around in a fight!"

"Of course I can!"

There was one person in the elevator, who seemed more than delighted at the sight of the three of you.

"'Morning," Enjin grumbled, still not ready to give up on his fight with Rudo.

"Good morning. Heading out?" Tamsy gave the three of you his full attention, though he was mostly interested in you

"Yeah, we're taking a quick trip over to see the information broker." Rudo avoided eye contact with the cleaner, shuffling the TV in his hands to a more comfortable hold.

"What…?"

"To get a hint about where to find the Watchman series and Amo," the boy clarified.

"Right…since we don't seem to have any clues." Tamsy nodded thoughtfully.

"So we're going to be out for a few days. You'll have to do enough work for all of us." Enjin tugged on the shoulder of the younger boy, keen on ending the conversation.

"All right, all right. Except I'm taking the day off today." He cocked his head to the side, trying to keep things lighthearted.

"Come on, Rudo, you're leaking that here." The boy only groaned in reply, conceding to the demand of his team lead.

"You go ahead to the garage. Tell everyone we'll be down in a minute." Enjin nudged you with his boot. "Riyo and the others should be down there already."

"Kay! Don't take too long." Entering the elevator, you made yourself comfortable at Tamsy's side.

He had already reached forward to press the floor you were headed to.

"Long time no see, darling." The tone was personal, head bowed so the soft-spoken words made it directly to your ear.

Your hum of approval was just a bonus to the little smile his words brought to your face.

"Rudo." Before the doors could close, he took the chance to call out to the retreating cleaner. "I hope you find your friend."

Rudo looked over his shoulder, his red eyes more striking than you recall.

"I will find her. You can bet on it."

The doors shut, leaving you alone with your partner.

Stealing a glance, warmth bloomed behind your cheeks. He looked lovely with the casual hairdo and comfortable clothes. Going out to find Amo was an absolute necessity for you right now, though a nice day off lounging with him sounded like heaven.

"You look really pretty." Your attempt to hide the compliment with your mumbling didn't work as you intended, seeing as he cast you an amused look.

"Thank you for noticing, because I only aim to please you." Somehow he'd always manage to flip your compliments back at you.

Your dramatic sigh came out shaky, no thanks to the laughter you were attempting to mask.

The doors slid open as another stop was reached, this time the ground floor.

"I'm headed to town so I should ask: would you like anything?"

You gave pause, pondering if you needed anything urgent. Nothing came to mind.

"Why not bring something sweet home, something we can share?" It'd be nice to have a treat to come home to, especially after whatever today may have in store for you.

Tamsy tilted his head, humming in contemplation before a chuckle fell past his lips.

"Hm, how about cake?" The smile he offered seemed to hide something, as if his amusement was from a joke you weren't in on.

Or you were just on edge and imagining things.

"Sounds amazing!"

One quick hug goodbye, and he was on his way, offering a final wave as the elevator doors shut behind him.

At least one of you was going to be relaxing in some shape or form.

You hoped he made the most of his day.

Hectic was one of many words you may have used to describe the meeting with the information broker. There were many fights, many surprises, and dangers beyond your comprehension.

People were hurt, including you.

Your instrument was spread thin, used to stabilize Riyo so Eishia could finish treatment and stop everyone's bleeding.

Unfortunately you weren't spared any harm, having gotten your knee dislocated and several scrapes when you were thrown by the King of Tori. Thankfully you were immediate in self-treating and could still walk, though only with the help of the rebar you were using to support your own weight.

From what you could gather, Zodyl had been chased off, Rudo got one of his questions answered, and now everyone was on the way to the supposed location of Amo.

You'd insisted on going despite your injury. Eishia was all the way at the south branch, and you were the best healer to have in the event Amo needed treatment.

It was right outside of a city, a lone trapdoor surrounded by trash and rubble.

The pit in your stomach felt deeper than whatever trench the trash beasts crawled from.

She was kept all the way out here where no one could have guessed her location… What if the information broker hadn't known? How much longer would it have taken to find her? Would you have found her before it was too late?

"You all made it back sooner than I expected." The familiar voice snapped you out of your spiralling thoughts.

Looking to the origin of the voice, you saw your partner approaching. Behind him were the large walls of the nearest city, spaced by around a kilometre of finely worn waste.

"…Yeah…The south branch gave us a ride back." Rudo's voice held a hint of confusion.

"That makes sense. I'm glad to see you all have so much pep left in you. Other than Riyo, of course." Tamsy found himself comfortable at your side, sparing a glance at your braced leg and makeshift crutch.

"…Why are you suddenly coming along?" The young boy wasn't prepared to let his guard down, especially not during such a tense moment.

"To fill in for Riyo. Besides, I figured another familiar face would help Amo feel better." That seemed to ease Rudo's concerns enough, and he turned back to the trapdoor.

You leaned ever so slightly in his direction, shoulder bumping into Tamsy's arm.

Moments later you felt the snaking thread of his Tokushin wrap itself around your makeshift knee brace. The relief was instant, tightening just right to take the pressure off your joint.

"Thank you…" Your voice was breathy with newfound comfort.

Unlike the torn pieces of cloth you had used, his threads were 'alive' and could adapt to your movement. The perfect medical tool.

"I'll go in first." While you had tuned out of the conversation, Tamsy brought you right back into it. "The person who took her might still be there. And I'm sure you're all tired from your trip to No Man's Land."

Everyone else was silent. It made sense to let the person with the most energy go first, especially if any surprise attacks occurred.

"No, I'm going first." Rudo reached for the trapdoor, taking the lead. "If this kidnapper is a person, I just have to punch him."

Tamsy took that as a signal to step back. This was no time to argue. Rudo was clearly serious about his commitment to Amo.

Everyone shuffled into the door, Tamsy being the last, right behind you. You were practically waddling down the stairs, a dangerous balancing act considering the open chasm next to you and lack of railing.

Your partner took notice, linking arms with you to help you down each step. He seemed far more confident about the steps, walking down them without watching his own feet.

It gave him time to look at you. Really look at you. The way your eyes watched the stairs and glanced up every other step. The way you chewed on the inside of your cheek. How it seemed hard for you to swallow.

All telltale signs of stress.

Rudo was the first to get to the bottom, looking out at the hallway before him. It was surprisingly well-lit, with lanterns hanging every few meters.

At the very end there was a cell, a hunched figure chained to the stone wall behind them.

"…Amo…?" Rudo's voice cracked, taking in the horrific sight of the worn-out girl.

"Ah…Aahh…I always knew… You would come for me…Rudo…"

The gate was lifted faster than you could process your own movements, rushing in alongside Rudo with your instrument clutched in hand. The rebar you were using was dropped, the rush of pain in your knee ignored in favour of getting to Amo faster.

Someone removed the shackles by force, snapped through to let her rest against Rudo. You sat in front of them, allowing him to hold her while you activated your instrument and got to work.

A lot of the injury was focused on her neck and head. If you had to guess, her kidnapper hit her head to daze her and strangled her unconscious.

"Who would do such a thing? To such a young girl, no less?" Your voice was a whisper, meant mostly for yourself, as you used your syringe tool to administer a strong pain reliever. Her body relaxed further into Rudo's arms, a lack of tears evidence of how dehydrated she was.

"I'm sorry, Miss Healer. Amo promised to call you…" Her voice was hoarse, her apologetic tone bringing tears to your eyes.

"Please don't say that, Amo. It's my fault for leaving you alone there. I knew it wasn't a good idea, and I still left…" Your hands pressed a soft pink bandage to her neck, watching it glow into her skin until disappearing along with the harsh bruising.

A shadow fell over you, the tasselled ends of Tamsy's sleeves brushing against your back.

Amo's eyes widened, roused from her position against Rudo.

"…Ah…Y—you…! You came to rescue me, too…"

"No? I only came here to give you these. You need them, don't you?" His slender hand came into view, dangling Amo's boots between the two of you. It blocked your vision of the girl.

"…Mm-hm…Mm-hm. Thank you…" Her hands reached out, hugging the boots to her chest.

With immediate first aid applied and no evidence of the kidnapper being anywhere in sight, everyone found their way out of the cellar. Getting Amo to headquarters was the new objective.

Thankfully the ride itself was without interruption. Amo sat in the middle between yourself and Tomme, who was helping her take in liquid and some form of nutrition. You kept yourself busy cleaning her up using your water bottle and a clean cloth from your bag.

She fell asleep soon after, curled up with her head on your lap. Usually you'd urge seatbelt usage, but now was far from the time. She was exhausted, and you weren't about to deny her rest.

Arriving at HQ, many parted to head for the dining hall or their rooms to clean up. Enjin had to practically drag Rudo to his room, his exhaustion having caught up to him.

You were keen on following Amo to the infirmary.

A voice came from right under the door to Amo's room, already too deep into pushing the door open to stop.

"I'm going to have to kill somebody…"

Tamsy was sitting on a stool adjacent to Amo's bed, a thumb holding up his head.

"What did you just say?"

His eyes widened for a fraction of a second, too quick to catch, before relaxing into his usual half-lidded stare.

"Hm?" He stood from the stool, straightening his posture.

"You said you may have to kill somebody. Who?"

Tamsy tilted his head to the side, as if the answer were obvious. When you didn't seem to follow, he gestured to the girl on the bed.

"Can you blame me? Look at what they did to our dear Amo…" Though his voice carried the same relaxed tone you were used to, it wavered ever so slightly at the end. You could have sworn the corner of his lips curled up, though it was gone by the time you blinked.

You approached the bed, nearing the head of it to look over the face of the sleeping girl. Every step you took was uneven, limping anytime you had to put pressure on your bad knee.

The back of your hand ghosted up the side of her cheek, brushing some of the hair from her face.

"It's unforgivable." Her lips were dried out, cheeks sunken from days without eating.

Reaching into your pocket, you pulled out your favourite lip gloss, squeezing some onto a finger and gently applying it to her lips. She deserved every ounce of comfort you could offer.

"I'm not sure what I'm feeling right now. Rage? Regret? I know I want revenge." It was unlike you to be so angry, the poison in your words a surprise to both yourself and your fiancé.

"You shouldn't dwell on these things right now; you need rest." His hand had grabbed your wrist, pulling you away from the bed by a few steps. You could feel the cold metal of his ring on your skin.

"But she needs—"

"Rest and time. You've done what you can to heal her. I heard Eishia will be here early tomorrow to help."

"…I don't know if I can leave her alone right now." There it was, the full truth slipping from you. It wasn't a secret, but you'd been hiding your concern for the girl through medical excuses.

Tamsy hummed, acknowledging your concern.

"I'll stay with her until you return, then." He was leading you to the door, refusing to let you turn back.

"Really? You'd skip out on sleep for me?" It was your turn to be surprised, looking him over to make sure he wasn't some weird doppelganger.

"Of course I would!" He chuckled, leaning in to brush his lips against your temple in a tender kiss. "I made a promise to care for you, didn't I?"

He raised your hand, fingers still intertwined with his. Your matching ring was in view, showing itself off as evidence of his claim.

"Go rest. I'll be right here when you wake up."

The next morning came painfully slow. The agony of your dislocated knee kept waking you up anytime you turned wrong, while anxieties about Amo made you nauseous enough to keep you from falling back asleep.

You got a few hours in, at the very least.

It was around six in the morning when you heard a knock at your door.

"Rudo…?" He was still in his sleepwear, though you were no better dressed. You were still in the first set of comfy clothes you found when you got back.

He was holding a little potted flower in his hands, a fake, though realistic enough to pass as the genuine thing.

"Hey, uh, I know it's early, but…could you come to see Amo with me?" He was shuffling from foot to foot, gaze averted towards the ground.

"Of course I can! Just give me one moment." You snapped your choker on, slipping on some shoes before joining Rudo in the hall.

He must have been especially nervous if he was asking for your company. It was hard seeing someone you care about in such rough shape, especially at such a young age. Both he and Amo had been through so much in so little time; it broke your heart to pieces.

The two of you walked in silence, the halls empty as everyone slept off the previous day.

"I don't know what to say to her yet." Rudo broke the quiet atmosphere, staring down at the artificial flower.

"That's okay, I'm sure she'll probably feel the same. And so will I." You held the door to the medical ward open for him, catching the surprised glance he threw your way.

"Really? I thought adults were supposed to know these kinds of things…" The more he said, the more he began to mumble, realizing how silly it sounded.

"Some of us, maybe. But some learn things later than others. There's no race to see who can face the most hardships first." The both of you stopped in front of the door to Amo's room. You let him reach for the handle.

"Whenever you're ready. There's no rush."

Rudo took your words to heart, stilling himself to slow his breathing. It took a minute, but when his heart had calmed, he pushed the door open.

The many windows in the room filled it with the ambient light of the early morning sky. It was halfway between light and dark, making it easy to see her resting on the bed. She was still asleep.

Tamsy still sat next to her bed, one of the many medical books in hand. He closed it and stood the moment the two of you arrived. Rudo passed him, rushing to be at Amo's side.

You remained outside the doorway, keeping an eye on Tamsy as he approached.

"You aren't coming in?" He set the book on one of the cabinets by the door.

"Let's give him some time." You were looking past his shoulder at Rudo, who had put the flower on the table beside Amo. Awake or not, there were probably things he needed to say to her.

Tamsy closed the door behind him with a gentle click, leaning against it with a hum.

You were still putting the majority of pressure on one foot. Supposing he had just seen you five hours ago, it wasn't likely that you'd slept enough to replenish your energy and put your instrument to use.

The faint smile he always kept fell into a slight frown.

"You of all people should know not to be walking on that leg right now."

As per your wishes, he had kept an eye on Amo all evening. It had been boring as all hell, but he'd taken the time to read up on treatment of dislocated limbs just in case.

"It's nothing. I was hoping to have Eishia help me with it. Child's Play is better suited for immediate first aid, anyhow." You leaned against the wall next to the door, letting your head fall back to rest against it.

"That doesn't mean you should be making it worse." He was staring you down, hard, and you didn't have to see it to feel it.

A sigh passed through your lips.

"You're right, and I'm sorry for making you worry. But these are very special circumstances. We won't know what they may have done to Amo until she wakes up. So…I want to be there for her as much as I can." Your hands fidgeted with your ring.

"You aren't alone in this. We'll all be working hard to help Amo, so don't take all that responsibility head-on." His voice was a steady calm that you needed, easing your rushing thoughts.

"Thank you, Tams—" Muffled shouts came from the door he leaned against, cutting you off.

Immediately, your partner opened the door to check on the two inside.

Rudo was standing, clinging to Amo's hand with both of his. She was talking to him, though her voice was far too soft for you to pick up on what exactly was being said.

The tension you felt left easily, knowing nothing was wrong. Amo waking up must have startled Rudo, judging by his flustered look.

Tamsy was silently approaching them, so you limped after him.

"Tamsy, wait...! They're probably talking about something personal…!" You whisper-yelled after your partner. He kept walking as if he hadn't heard you, causing you to scoff.

Such a stubborn man.

"Who in the world could have possibly done such a thing?" Both heads turned to you and Tamsy. How the both of you had gone unnoticed by the other two until now, you weren't certain.

"WAAAHH!!! WHEN DID YOU TWO GET HERE?!!" Rudo nearly jumped out of his own skin, causing you and Amo to flinch. Tamsy was entirely unaffected.

"You were so into each other that you didn't notice us coming? Hmm, interesting. You are a rascal, Rudo."

"I AM NOT!!!!" Rudo pulled his hands away from Amo, the tips of his ears blushing a soft pink shade. You couldn't help but chuckle at how easy he was to fluster.

Tamsy knelt at the side of the bed, while you moved past him closer to her head. Seeing her awake was a huge relief.

"Amo, my dear." His pale eyes followed your hands as you gently brushed her hair. "Who locked you up in that horrible place? If we have some identifying features, we should be able to get the hell guard to look for them."

"Identifying…features…" Amo looked at Tamsy, then trailed her eyes up to you. Your worried smile made her feel warm inside her heart. " The person who locked me up was…a long-haired woman…"

"…Is that all…?" Rudo pressed on.

"Amo can't remember. She remembers everything that happened to her, but not who did it. That part is a blur." She seemed frustrated with her own lack of memories.

You continued to brush your fingers through her hair, feeling her lean into the gentle touches.

"That makes sense." His statement surprised the three of you, each turning to the blond man.

"What?" Rudo couldn't help but raise his voice slightly. No, it didn't make any sense at all!

You pondered for a moment before looking back to Amo.

"I don't study these things as much as Eishia might, but…malnutrition and trauma can affect memory. Not only is it hard to retrieve memories, but you may also have a hard time distinguishing reality from…anything else."

Tamsy's smile seemed to deepen. You were making this far too easy for him.

"I'm sure you'll remember once you've regained your strength." He added, standing back up from the side of the bed with the stretch of his legs.

"…Okay…" Amo let her eyes close again, trying to fight the sting from how dried-out they were.

Noticing her trouble, you made your way to one of the shelves of supplies, looking out from some eye drops while the other two spoke.

They spoke about something relating to the information broker and the Watchman series, though you droned most of it out.

"Just blink really fast for me, okay?" With the little bottle in hand, you administered some of the eye drops along the corners of her eyes.

Amo did as you asked, though it came naturally as her body adjusted to the strange feeling in her eyes. A few moments later she was blinking normally, comfort visible in the way her face relaxed.

"Can Amo have more of that nice-smelling stuff you put on her lips?" Her hand reached from the bed to feel her mouth. "It felt really nice."

"Nice smelling…Oh! You mean my lip gloss? Of course…!" Reaching for your pocket, you pulled out the same tube. With a small amount on your finger, you urged her to part her lips so you could apply it for her.

"You know, I always keep this one on me for emergencies. You never know when you'll have a special someone to kiss." Your finger rubbed in a small circular motion until it was evenly applied, hearing her breathing steady.

"Miss Healer, Amo thinks your special mister is lucky to have you." Her words grew quieter, and you watched as her eyelids fluttered closed. "Because you take really good care of people."

You giggled, putting the lip gloss away.

"Only those deserving of my love and care. Like you, Amo." When you looked back at her, you were quick to realize she had already fallen asleep.

The two were still chattering behind you when you turned around to usher them out.

"Shhh…Amo fell asleep. Let's give her some peace and quiet."

"Hey, can I talk to you real quick?" Tomme knocked on the door to your room. It was wide open, which you did to encourage visits.

You were at the little round bistro table, closing the journal you'd just been scribbling in to give her your attention. She was waiting in the doorway.

In one arm, clutched to her chest, was her notebook.

"Please, come in. You can shut the door behind you." Judging by the slightly stressed look she had, you expected she may want privacy.

Tomme did exactly that, locking the door behind her and making her way over to you. When you gestured to the chair across the table, she took her seat.

"It's about the mission a few days ago…" The low voice she spoke in was unlike the usual conversations you had with her. Tomme was one of your closest friends in the cleaners, someone you trusted nearly anything to.

Typically you met for coffee and to gossip.

Instead, this meeting carried a cloud of concern with it.

"I heard Follo got hurt pretty badly, but he's a giver now! He must be pretty happy about that." The supporter had mentioned his interest in having a vital instrument to you before; you were certain that he was probably ready to jump out of recovery and into training.

Tomme's neutral expression shifted into a careful smile.

"Yeah, he's going to be more than okay. But…" She took a deep breath in, the gentle scent of your room working wonders on her. "I actually wanted to talk to you about Tamsy."

That caught your interest on a more intimate level. You leaned forward in your seat, twirling your pen between thumb and pointer.

"I just don't want you to think I'm bad-mouthing your fiancé. You're my closest friend, and I just—I just trust you to help me figure this out." She was speaking cryptically, which only raised more concern.

"If you're worried I'll be upset, I won't. This stays between us, Tomme." You reached across the table, resting your hand on one of hers.

She nodded with an exhale, allowing her body to deflate and relax into the atmosphere of your room.

"While the fight was going on—the one between Rudo and Follo—it didn't seem like Tamsy was going to do anything." She paused to meet your eyes, which she was relieved held no judgement of her. "At first I figured he was letting them work it out on their own, you know, boys will be boys and all that."

"But when things got dangerous and Follo fell off the cliff, he didn't…didn't do anything. He just stood there and watched." Her hand had moved to hold yours, to which you responded with a reassuring squeeze.

There was a distant look in her eyes, as if she were searching for an answer to her worries.

"I've seen him in battle so many times, I know what he's capable of. And yet he claimed he couldn't hold off the trash beast."

"He said that? "It didn't sound anything like him.

"Yeah, I wrote it down because…well, I don't know why. I just felt like the whole situation was weird, and I didn't want to forget anything." She let go of your hand to reach for her notebook, flipping it to the page that contained the mission notes.

You'd seen her notes many times before. Tomme was exceptionally thorough, the perfect person for record keeping. You knew her well enough to know she would never lie in them, or to you. It was always the hard truth.

Just as she'd said, she had noted Tamsy's exact words: 'Honestly, I'm not sure how long I can hold it off with my string.'

"But why would he …"

"That's exactly why I came to you. I don't get why he would lie when lives are at stake. Sure, he was there to supervise Rudo on his first mission, but isn't that exactly why he should have stepped in?" She fell back into the chair, arms hanging at her sides.

"I just hoped you'd have a better explanation for his actions than me. I trusted Tamsy as apart of the team, but now I'm worried he didn't care enough to end the fight."

You set the notebook down on the table, frozen in place as you processed the information.

"I can't say I have an answer. I wish I knew more, but this is all news to me." Tomme noticed the frown on your face and stood from the table. You stood to meet her, pulling one another into a hug.

"I'll talk to him about it, though. I'm sure he has a good reason." You added, chin resting on her shoulder.

"Thank you for hearing me out. You're a good person, through and through." She broke from the hug, though her hands still rested on your shoulders. "Whatever happens, you can always come to me, okay?"

"Thank you, Tomme. I will."

The backyard of the cleaner HQ was lively.

What few trees could still manage to survive on the ground were scattered across the edges, providing a natural perimeter. There was a small garden next to the bench you sat on, which belonged to Delmon.

The empty stretch in the middle had the majority of Team Child and Team Akuta. Most were playing a game of soccer with pylons to mark the nets. Others, such as Zanka, were using the spare space to train.

"Lovely day, isn't it?" The voice behind you caused you a slight jump, having caught you off guard.

"Tamsy." You put your hand over your heart, feeling your racing pulse while your partner let out a chuckle.

"Sorry, dear. It wasn't my intention to startle you." He took the spot next to you on the bench, leaning into the back support. "Though, you've been awfully on edge as of late."

It was near impossible to hide anything from Tamsy.

Ever since your conversation with Tomme, you'd been worried he might just find a way to read your mind. It left you jumpy; that much was certain.

"I suppose I have…" You were playing with the engagement ring you wore, using it to distract yourself from just how anxious you were.

"I don't suppose that's why you asked me to meet you here?" He was looking out at the others as they played their game, though his head had tilted ever so slightly towards you.

You swallowed the lump in your throat, deciding it was now or never.

"Why didn't you step in during the mission? Follo could have died." You turned your head towards him, taking in his reaction.

He was as calm as ever.

"I trusted Rudo would save him, and I had both supporters and civilians to protect."

"Then why say you couldn't hold it back? Why lie?" You stood up abruptly, facing him directly. His hand twitched, eyes still avoiding your gaze.

"We weren't certain of its main body yet; I couldn't rush in—"

"You could have immobilized it, or called for backup, or any number of things." You couldn't hold your thoughts back before they turned to words.

"The way Amo looks at you, how your days coincided with Rudo's arrival and the majority of Amo's disappearance, and what you said in the hospital room about needing to kill someone." Your voice did not rise, but the words felt heavier.

A moment passed, allowing you to catch your breath from the long-winded list.

"Please, Tamsy. Tell me what's going on. What have you been doing?"

You finished with a sharp exhale, taking a good look at his face. His eyes finally met yours.

But his silence stretched.

"Did you ask to meet in public on purpose?" He stood slowly, closing the space between you two to look down into your eyes. "Were you scared of what I would do if we were alone right now?"

The avoidance of your question was an answer in and of itself. An admittance of some kind of guilt. You tried to step away, but his hand caught your wrist and pulled it behind his back so you'd be forced against his chest.

His pale eyes of aureate held a depth to them you hadn't noticed before. Now they seemed more like a closed door than the beautiful display you'd always thought they were.

"You haven't started making a scene, which tells me you love me enough to trust I have some kind of explanation." He was right. Of course he was. You slowly nodded, to which he freed your wrist.

"I do." It came out breathy, quieter than your previous words full of confidence.

You didn't run, instead offering your hand.

"If you come with me to see Semiu, you can tell us everything, and she can confirm it."

His hand landed in yours, interlocking your fingers with his.

"If that is what it takes, then I will do it." His words brought a satisfied smile to your face, all worries starting to simmer away.

"Though, would you mind if we stop at my room first? There's something I'll need."

The straining creak of navy ropes contrasted the gentle tune playing on the radio, helping keep the sound hidden.

Tamsy stepped below the web of his making, closing the tome in his hand with a hefty 'thump.' His thumb brushed along the metal ring embedded in its cover, a reminder of the power that he held.

Strung up in its hold was the limp body of his fiancée.

"How is it we keep finding ourselves here?" The golden glow of his eyes highlighted the long strands of blond hair framing his face.

He pushed the hair from your eyes, tucking it behind one of your ears to get a better look at your peaceful expression.

"Seventh time's the charm, my love." The spell had rendered you unconscious, likely the result of your brain trying to make sense of all the missing memories from the most recent removal.

He wondered what it'd look like in your mind, all the holes he'd made that it had to patch up. Layer after layer from every failed attempt you made that he had to fix.

"Maybe this time you'll out me. Come on, don't give up." His voice lowered to a light whisper, pressing a kiss to your temple. He dragged his lips down, peppering kisses along the side of your face to your jaw until parting.

His gaze shifted to your wrist, where the friendship bracelet Tomme had given you remained. He would have to do something about her; she kept getting in the way.

"No help from others this time, though. That's cheating."

Author's Note ── Kind of poured my heart and soul into this bad boy, ngl! I do hope this continuation satiates your desire, dear readers 🖤

Why did you have to care so much about others?

Tamsy found it endearing at first. Like when you joined Team Eager and fretted over his health despite him not having more than a scratch on his sleeve. You worried about the supporters constantly, protecting them throughout battles so he and Delmon could focus on trash beasts.

Hell, you even stressed about any citizens too close to the fight, mourned the old buildings in abandoned cities that got trampled on, and pitied the little treasures thrown from the sphere, given up on, and forgotten.

You were abundant in empathy. You offered your heart to anyone and anything, even if they didn’t want it.

The cleaners adored you, though most of them acted like they didn’t spare you much thought. He knew they did, because on your days off together, walking through a city looking for something fun to do with your pinky wrapped around his only one, your choker never stopped ringing.

Semiu wanted to tell you about your missions for the next day in advance so you could prepare.

Riyo wanted to ask if you were still interested in that haircut later tonight.

Enjin wanted nothing other than to bother you, apparently.

It was frustrating, having his time off with you constantly interrupted by others. But he’d learned his lesson the first time he suggested you take it off.

The entire day was spent worrying an emergency may have occurred, and what was supposed to be a relaxing day off together turned into him trying to ease your mind out of worrying for the others. In the end, you put it back on before noon. Now he had to constantly deal with the ringer going off.

Your heart was too big for your body. You’d always put others first.

He knew all of this, and despite that, he hadn’t considered the direct consequences of his actions.

Both Team Akuta and Team Eager were sent to support Rudo on his mission to find the girl in the no-man's land.

Tamsy wasn’t worried about trash beasts. The team was so buffed out, and they were so far from any civilization that he could focus on protecting you and enjoying the entertainment the other cleaners provided.

And much to his delight, the expedition lasted much shorter than anyone could have anticipated.

“I know why you’re here. You came to see Amo, so Amo came to see you.” The girl stepped from the shroud of sand before Rudo, who had fallen after being crept up on by Team Eager.

You trailed her movements as she lifted a sleeve to cover her mouth, hiding a slight cough with her chuckle.

“That’s unsettling.” Tamsy spoke up from beside you, snapping you from your trance.

A few hurried steps and you hooked your arm under Rudo’s, helping the boy stand despite his protests about not needing help. You dusted some of the ground-up waste off of his uniform, ignoring his attempts at slapping your hands away.

“All right. Any ideas on how long she’s been there?” Though Tamsy seemed more concerned with being watched, you understood his words completely differently from how he had intended them.

“Do you need a mask, darling? I always keep a spare. Goodness, you must be in pain.” You had already reached into your cleaner bag to pull out a more standard filtering mask, stepping in front of Rudo.

“I know the sand makes it hard to see, but I didn’t even notice her approaching us!” Delmon’s yelling mixed with the wind kicking up sand in all directions made it impossible for Tamsy to pick up on what Amo said to you, though he gathered she had declined your offer when he saw you return the mask to your bag with the slump of your shoulders.

“Hold on. Is that her?” Rudo’s eyes had widened beneath the mask, taking in the sight of the girl with an air of disbelief.

Team Akuta finally caught up, with their leader placing a hand on Rudo’s shoulder to offer a reassuring squeeze.

“Anyone else get the feeling our expedition just got a whole lot shorter?”

That seemed to be the truth, with everyone eventually following Amo to her tower not long after. Though most kept their guard up with the anticipation of traps, you seemed more than relaxed. When she’d requested everyone remove their masks, you had been the first to comply—much to Tamsy’s dismay—and assured the others that the air was in fact clean.

“Wow. Your room is really pretty, Amo.” Your small talk with her was the only chatter that seemed to be going on as everyone ascended the stairs.

“Thank you! It’s full of things Amo really likes.”

With everyone in her room, some jotting notes on its appearance while others prepared for some kind of altercation, you took your place at Tamsy’s side. This was Rudo’s mission after all; you could fret over the girl and her exposure to polluted air later.

Only, the conversation hit a wall moments after you stepped back.

The moment Enjin opened his mouth, to be precise.

A twinge of annoyance made its way to the blond’s face, bothered by the sudden shrill screaming as Enjin’s words riled up Amo. The only reason you hadn’t jumped in to comfort Amo was due to Tamsy’s oversized sleeve blocking your path, so close you could feel the distaff hidden below all the fabric bump into you.

The plan was unravelling by the second, and it became clear that there was a real sense of danger when Enjin’s body crashed to the floor in a puddle of water.

Zanka was at his side in a moment, prepared to defend, while you and Tamsy kept your eyes on Delmon.

“There’s no way he’s being controlled…” Your voice trailed, focusing on your companion in the event that he lashed out again.

Tamsy nodded, eyes flickering to you for a moment before narrowing at Delmon.

“All this for a fact-finding mission. I’m starting to regret ever agreeing to come along.”

No matter how anyone attempted to rationalize Delmons actions, the first priority was preventing casualty. It didn’t help that Amo’s vague replies encouraged distrust between the lot of you, to the point where you found yourself at odds with who was on which side.

When the hose nozzle turned in your direction, you were the first to react, pushing Gris out of the way and jumping aside with him.

“Open your eyes, Rudo!”

Tamsy had grabbed the new cleaner from the back of his hood, forcing him out of the way just in time to avoid getting hit by the water.

Spending so much time worrying about others, he was beginning to act like you.

“Tomme, how is Enjin?” Your voice was low, avoiding drawing any attention to you or the supporter.

“I’m not sure yet. Just worry about the others; I’ll take care of him.” With a quick thumbs up, you were reassured enough to re-enter the fight. Pulling yourself on your feet, your hands made way to your vital instrument, readying it in hand.

Enjin was out. Rudo was (almost) out. Delmon was out. It was down to yourself, Zanka, Tamsy, and Ri-

“EYES FORWARD, RIYO!”

Zanka’s warning was lost on her, another blast of water crashing across the room and leaving the redhead flat on her back.

“What’d I say? Pay attention!” His frustration made no difference, words lost between Riyo’s groaning and Amo’s giggling.

“Wow! You don’t know who’s a fan of who anymore, huh? And now you’re scared. Everyone would have lots of fun if they just talked to Amo. You can’t be enemies when you talk about romantic stuff.” The brunette seemed more than content with the way things were going.

Something about her was drawing you in, a sense of lightheadedness growing the more time you spent in the tower.

You swallowed what felt like a lump in your throat, standing defensively infront of Tomme and Enjin.

“Someone really messed you up.” If words could be laced with poison, Tamsy would have killed the girl already. She was loud and unpredictable and was causing this mission to be way more of a pain in the ass than he would have liked.

But above all else, she was putting you in danger.

You eyes held a certain haze to them, registering that Amo was speaking but unsure what exactly she was saying.

As evidenced from her explanation, Tamsy could see your body begin to sway.

That wouldn’t do.

He didn’t mind roughing up his other companions, but the same couldn’t be said for you.

‘-oops. Amo told a big secret.”

You barely registered her words, your mind fighting between reality and some unconscious draw to the past.

Tamsy had already fastened his mask over his mouth, adjusting the belts until he was sure a decent seal had formed.

“For future reference, it’s a dangerous game playing with memories that you know absolutely nothing about. We don’t always love good people, nor does loving them leave us with only good memories.”

He had reached your side, pulling your mask out of your bag as he spoke. Before you could protest, he pressed the mask over your mouth, holding it in place until his free hand could tighten the straps behind your neck.

A deep inhale of the filtered air began to reverse the effects of Amo’s power. Though you were sure the brief ‘kiss’ Tamsy pressed to your temple with the front of his mask helped clear your mind, too.

Thats right. No need to dwell on the past; you have people like him worth protecting here and now.

“Sometimes the people we want to kill are the ones we love.”

Zanka and Tamsy had closed in on the girl, prepared to put an end to the encounter.

“Rudo, what are you doing?!” From your position on the side, you were the only one that spotted him as he rushed towards the other two, giving them just enough time to brace their bodies before they were ripped away from Amo.

Fighting your own team was wrong on so many levels. If there was some way to avoid bloodshed, that’d be ideal. But as things were standing, no one seemed to be focusing on you or the two you stood to defend. Drawing attention to yourself only risked harm towards Tomme and Enjin.

“Seems we’ve miscalculated our numbers. How unfortunate.” Tamsy assessed those surrounding him, back to back with Zanka. “They’re too far gone now.”

“I’d hoped to never use my instrument on a friend. So this is on you.” Your breath hitched, grip tightening around your own instrument. You’d worked alongside Tamsy plenty of times, and his instrument was much better for this scenario than your own. All you could do now was be a shield.

“Guys…bear with me.” The distaff wound in deep blue threads dipped past the hidden veil of his sleeve.

“Vital Instrument: Tokushin.” Holding his arm out, the little distaff began to grow, expanding in size and length until it stood taller than its wielder. The thread was now a much thicker rope, the same blue the braided strands of hair over his shoulders carried.

“I’ll kill you. I’ll kill all you sons of bitches! You will never ever touch or hurt her again!” Delmon reacted to the transformation first, prompting the others to begin rushing to the two in the middle.

Eyes glowing in gold and blue narrowed.

“Net.”

His hand gripped the side of the rope, and with one tug, the spool began to unwind. Threads fanned out across the room, locking onto walls and crossing in net-adjacent patterns. Anyone in their path was immediately caught in their restrictive hold.

All movement ceased as quickly as it had begun, any attacks caught midair in the ever-tightening hold of his Tokushin. The only ones safe from their grasp were those unaffected by the air and Amo. It seemed the attack had purposefully missed your entire vicinity, courtesy of the wielder's own caution.

Had it not been your friends getting caught in it, you would have found the display captivating. Team Eager mostly fought trash beasts, which were almost always outside and much larger than a human.

Even if a different scenario, you’d seen something akin to this attack before and seen how it could cut right through the sentient piles of trash.

“Tamsy…” You wanted to voice caution, to request he be gentle with your friends.

But with the way things were going, it didn’t seem fair to ask him or Zanka to take hits, especially without any other plans.

“You butthead! You meanie butthead! You wanted to try something so bad that you’d test it on your own friends? Even the nice lady isn’t happy with that.” Amo’s attention made its way back to you for a split second, and Tamsy’s grip on his distaff tightened.

Her smile at you was unsettling, but at the very least it wasn’t malicious.

“Oh well. Nothing can stop Amo’s fans even if they have to tear themselves apart. And thanks to you, now they’re going to have to.” With emphasis on the word ‘you’, her gaze fell back on Tamsy smile twisting into something sinister.

“Point of order. My vital instrument is a distaff. Do you know what that is?” His fingers allowed the main rod of his Tokushin to spin slowly, tightening the ropes further. “It’s not just a staff; it’s a tool used in the spinning of thread.”

The rope began to strain, pulling tighter against itself and those in its hold, before everything began shifting. The spinning picked up in speed, and no one's resistance was able to stop the rope from winding them into one large spool of limbs and yarn.

Relieved, the breath you hadn’t realized you’d been holding escaped your lips.

Tamsy hummed his own tune of delight, leaning against the spool.

“And the thread has been spun.”

A low growl fell past Amo’s lips, her body struggling at the hold she was now captured in.

“Also. The psycho mind control lady is under our control!” His gesture above him drew the eyes of everyone free from her control to the web of ropes Amo had found herself in. You cringed at the way the restraints painfully dug into her. This was awful to bear witness to.

“Well? I think it’s time you let your fans go.” He cocked his head to the side, a prideful smirk evident in his voice despite the mask hiding it.

“Don’t drag your feet either. This situation's just a bit too surreal for my tastes. And, well, I don’t like that I mostly sat this one out.” Zanka stood from his crouched position, searing blue eyes partially hidden by a half-lidded gaze.

Your attention was turned away from their banter to the ones behind you, ensuring no one had been injured further in the ordeal.

“How’s Enjin holding up?” Gris leaned over the man to get a better look while you brushed some of the hair from the leader of Team Akuta’s face.

“If you need me to use my instrument, I can.” You were the trusty healer of Team Eager after all.

“Thanks, but there’s no need right now. I put his mask on, and that’s about all we can do.” Tomme was right; your healing was best suited for life-threatening injuries or open wounds. The effects of Delmon’s instrument were something you’d treated many times before, and it was evident it wasn’t going to cause Enjin much trouble.

There wasn’t much time to fret over Enjin before a shrill scream scared you back into the fight, whipping around to face Amo. Thick tears streamed down her face as she struggled against the painful bind. Another scream and your heart was racing, panic flooding your veins. She was evidently in pain, but she wasn’t in her right mind either.

The grip on your vital instrument was shaky, and your teeth dug so deep into your tongue you could taste iron.

It was your duty to prevent injury, but was it wise to let her go? It would only result in more pain for your team.

Tamsy’s head moved to face you and the supporters.

You were frozen in place, staring at Amo with eyes so shaky he wasn’t quite sure you could see properly.

“You think this can hold me? Hold ME? Then you’ve got another thing coming! Because I’m going to get out. I’m going to rip off your arms, and then I’ll kill the shit out of every last one of you!” A cacophony of Delmons yelling, Amo’s screeching, and the strained grunts from those under her control filled the blond’s ears.

If it was irritating him, then it must have been downright traumatizing you.

A sigh fell past his lips.

“Very well. If you truly want to murder us that badly, who am I to stand in your way?” He raised his distaff from the ground, not so much as wavering despite its evident heft, and allowed it to fall back to the floor with a crackle and chime.

The entire spool began to spin, picking up in speed once the ropes connected to his staff snapped away from it. It picked up velocity so quickly the shifting air caused your hair to whip around your face, and the entire tower began to tremble.

“YOU TRICKY BASTARD!” The floor began to crack as the spool drilled through concrete.

Sensing the danger, you and Tomme grabbed onto Enjin’s arms to drag him as far back as possible.

Just in time, the floor gave way to the pressure, the spool crashing down to the next level and leaving a gaping crater in the floor.

Another crash.

And then another.

You could feel the rumble grow distant as they continued to break through the various levels of Amo’s towers until everything went eerily quiet.

“Yo Tamsy, what the hell, man? That was way too far!” Dust settled, revealing Zanka has used his staff to catch himself on the edge of the top floor, and you saw the blur of Tamsy’s uniform as he jumped down into the hole.

He landed on his feet, knees bent to absorb the shock of the fall.

Everyone in the spool was now littered around the rubble, either partially buried by it or limp atop it.

“Thank goodness that’s finally over.” All the screaming had stopped, now replaced with faint sounds of dust and debris settling.

Zanka yanked his Assistaff from the wall, jumping from floor to floor until he made it to the bottom.

Everyone was seriously injured, if not on the brink of death.

He turned to Tamsy with a glare, the intense glow of his blue eyes burning brighter with fury.

“Are you insane, man?! You’d kill your own—”

“Ahaha! You see? That's what you get! This always happens whenever people don't just talk with Amo like Amo wants! They show Amo all their sides, even the ones they try hard to hide away. And now all your friends are going to die because you’re a meanie stinky face! Amo wonders if you were ever really friends at all!” The girl was staring down at the two men, giggles making their way through every pause for breath.

Using their conversation from below as cover, you took slow steps towards Amo until you were right behind her.

A hand grabbed your shoulder, causing you to nearly jump out of your skin.

“Seems like NOT dying is the new hotness now.” Enjin’s voice was muffled by the mask, though you could hear his grin. “Just remember, I did it first.”

Thank goodness he was back on his feet.

Speaking of, you quickly reached down and pulled one of Amo’s boots off, tossing it to the leader of Akuta.

“This is mine now, by the way. And that’s not up for discussion.” He held it like a trophy, resulting in the roll of your eyes.

He couldn’t see the smile under your mask, but he knew you were relieved.

Stepping away from the altercation with Amo, you were quick to rush down the stairs of the tower to meet up with the other cleaners.

Though Remlin’s spellcasting ability reversed the effects of deadly wounds, there were certainly still non-lethal injuries you could help with. Not far behind you were Tomme and the others, who stepped in to check on those who’d fallen such a great height.

The first person you checked on was Follo, who’d seemingly landed on his head. It was evident the spell had healed a good portion of the damage, though he was still littered with scrapes and gashes from the debris.

Before you could even activate your vital instrument to start mending him, a loud crack came from behind you.

Gasps left the mouths of those present, and the distinct sound of a body slumping to the floor was enough to get you to turn around.

Amo was on the ground, blood pouring from her nose. Rudo stood above her with his fist raised.

“Rudo! Hey, easy! You need to calm the hell down!” Enjin and Gris had moved to intercept him while you jumped to your feet.

Their voices blurred together, your mind too fixated on the panicked rise and fall of the brunette's chest.

He’d hit her pretty good; the damage was obvious.

“Yo healer, get her patched up, would you please?” The unwelcome nickname Enjin gave you pulled you from your thoughts, though your usual displeasure was nowhere to be seen. You only nodded, rushing to the aid of the girl as he pulled Rudo away from the crowd.

Tamsy kept his eyes on you, observing how you used your thighs to cushion the girls head from the floor. He mostly watched to ensure she wouldn’t cause you any harm, though he’d be lying if he said it wasn’t also to see your instrument at work.

“Vital Instrument: Child’s Play.” Your soft-spoken voice was a comfort to all you healed, though especially to those who were still recovering from Amo’s control. At your side, a kid’s wooden medical toy kit popped open, revealing a variety of now life-size tools for you to use.

He found your instrument adorable. The little mint and pastel pink tools were cutesy regardless of their toy or activated form, and their effects on the giver you treated were even more entrancing.

Of your available tools, you chose a package of bandages, picking out an orange one and smoothing it onto the cheek of the girl you tended to. Tomme had wiped the blood from her face for you, which gave Tamsy the perfect view of how the bandaid glowed absorbed into her skin.

With just that one treatment, the swelling and bruising on her face began to fade back to a healthy state.

The only evidence she'd been harmed at all was the tears prickling at the corner of her eyes.

“Does that feel better, Amo…?” Your voice was so gentle it felt as though only she could hear it, and she nodded quickly despite the faint headache that remained in her head.

“Yes, Amo doesn’t hurt much anymore. Thank you, Miss Healer.” You couldn’t help but smile, the normally irritating nickname a whole lot cuter coming from the young girl.

“I’m sorry about everything. We really did just come to talk, but we let things get out of hand.” Tomme helped the girl sit up, while you brushed some of the hair from her face and readjusted bits of her clothing to sit how they intended.

“You know I’d love to chat! We could have one now if you still want to.” Tomme removed her mask, and you followed her lead. She seemed to prefer seeing people's faces before; hopefully this would help her relax.

“Tomme and I honestly love talking about romantic stuff, we talk about it together all the time.” She was your favourite supporter, after all. You’d requested her for more missions than you could count. She was the one person you spoke openly to about your relationship with Tamsy.

“You both talk like how a good momma should sound.” Amo’s gaze finally moved up, though her words left you flustered.

“You think so?” Tomme chuckled. It was a sweet sentiment.

“Amo knows what a good momma sounds like. Amo had a good momma. Momma gave Amo her first love! He was who Amo got her treasure from. And why Amo saw the angel that goes between the sphere and the ground.” She was fidgeting with the ends of her skirt, hands tracing along her boots at the mention of her treasure.

“Oh? Thats nice.” You nodded along, not fully registering Amo’s words in your bashful state.

“You saw someone go to the sphere?” Tomme interrupted soon after, nudging Gris with her elbow.

“Wait. What did you just say?”

Noticing the important shift in the conversation, you took it as a sign to get out of the way of everything.

“How are you doing, Tamsy?” He was further from the group and watched as everything went down.

“Not a scratch.” You already knew that, he was certain, but he was still a tad cocky in how he delivered it.

You joined him at his side, facing towards Amo as the glow in your eyes faded. Your medical kit shifted back to its smaller size and fit perfectly in your cleaner bag, where it usually awaited use.

Nothing had gone as you expected. You couldn’t help but feel awful for both Amo and Rudo. The things that must have happened to leave them this way… You only knew bits and pieces of Rudo’s backstory, but the more Amo spoke, the more sick you felt. She was all alone out here and taken advantage of so young.

You weren’t sure what the cleaner next to you was thinking, but he seemed just as interested in her story as you did.

Everyone began to hypothesize on the supposed angel, throwing out ideas faster than you could come up with one.

“Or it’s nothing. She’s clearly mentally unstable. She might have imagined the whole thing.” Being the realist of the group—or pessimist, depending on how you looked at it—Tamsy was quick to point out the surrealism of her story.

“But the real question is, if true, how do angels cross the border?” Riyo shifted her weight from one foot to the other, hips cocking with the motion.

“With their wings?” Amo wasn’t quite sure what this so-called ’border’ was.

“Amo, do you think you can recall where the angel landed?” Getting a chance to work your own question into the conversation, you peered at the girl with curiosity.

“Past where Amo could see.”

The conversation didn’t make it much further than that. It was clear that was all Amo had to offer on the topic.

Before everyone took their leave, Amo was fitted with a choker.

You offered your blood right after Rudo, though in addition you encouraged her into an embrace.

The brunette was uncertain at first, but the feeling of your warm arms wrapping around her made her melt right into your embrace. Amo thought you smelled nice and that your smile was pretty before, but now she also knew you gave really nice hugs.

Behind you, watchful eyes fell into an irritated glare, though it lasted shorter than anyone could have caught.

Letting her take her time, you only pulled away once she began to let go.

“Call me at least once a day, okay, dear? Just so we know you’re safe.” The idea of leaving her alone out here made you uncomfortable, but it was clear Amo needed time to say goodbye to things before she moved on.

“Yes, Miss Healer, Amo promises!” Her smile was so contagious you couldn’t help but smile back, patting her head.

“See you later!” You jogged towards Tamsy, who stood waiting for you, and joined the rest of the cleaners on their trek out of Penta.

After making it back to HQ, you were quick to wash off the grime of the day with a cold shower. While you were at it, you gave your uniform a thorough cleaning to remove any of the pungent ground-up waste that made up the dunes of Petra.

All things considered, you had walked out of the altercation in good shape, which made your work for tomorrow far less dreadful.

Damp strands of hair from your shower still stuck to your face as you pulled your pyjama shorts over your legs, allowing the waistband to snap against the tank top that hugged your waist in all the right ways. When your feet were more dry than wet, you stepped into your slippers and exited the bathroom.

All you needed was your choker and your vital instrument, which you managed to hold with one hand so you wouldn’t struggle much with the door on the way out of your room.

His room was only a few doors down, the hallway that made up Eager’s and Child’s dorms mostly uninhabited.

Eager was a much smaller team compared to that of Akuta. Which meant you guys shared with the younger group. Not that you minded; they were at the opposite end of the hall and went to bed pretty early. In fact—as much as you loved them—you’d choose sharing with Team Child over the disruptive Team Akuta any day.

You only got to knock once before the door opened, a blanket of blond and navy hair taking up most of your view.

“I was wondering when you’d show.” He’d clearly just showered as well, evident by his pristine hair, though it was clear he had taken the time to dry it unlike you.

He stepped out of the way, closing the door behind you with the click of the lock.

“Sorry, I took my time cleaning my uniform for tomorrow. That dust gets absolutely everywhere.” You visibly shuddered, managing to get a chuckle from your partner.

“You’re quite the dramatic one, aren’t you?” His eyes followed you as you put your instrument alongside his Tokushin on the nightstand and hung your choker on the same hook as his. Your items always found a home next to his things, the same way you always found yourself back at his side.

“Oh please, are we forgetting your big display today? Zanka was complaining over dinner about you having a stick up your—”

“Okay, I get it.” He raised his hands in mock surrender.

He looked much less menacing with his hair down and in his sleepwear—just a large long-sleeve shirt and pyjama pants—not that his looks ever made you shy away.

Even now, in the dimly lit room alone with him, you dared to step closer.

Fingers brushing the long strands from his face, you were able to catch the way his eyes followed the tips of your fingers until they were in his periphery, settling on your own eyes instead. You’d spent all day worrying about others; you were sure he wanted you to dote on him now.

Still, your face carried the weight of someone who had a lot on their mind, even if your anxious smile did its best to convince him otherwise.

“Something's troubling you.” His hands lazed their way around your waist, thumbs hooking around the waistband of your shorts to force your hips against him.

Your smile faltered, letting your head drop under the canopy of his hair to rest in the crook of his neck.

“Everything from today. Rudo, Amo, the ‘angel,’ the tower.” So much of it had been out of place, but one thing seemed to fester in a bundle of dread and anxiety that welled up in your gut. “Amo’s out there in a no-man’s land, all alone. I can’t help but be worried that if something happened to her, no one would know.”

You couldn’t see the way his eye twitched when you brought her up with all the hair in your vision, and without it you could only assume the way his hands tightened on your waist was to comfort you.

“I’m sure if something happens she would call one of us. Our chokers keep us connected, after all.” His voice had dropped to a mumble, lips pressing a kiss to your temple. You could feel the cold metal of his piercing as he did so.

“….You’re right. But no matter how I look at it, I just have a bad feeling, is all.” You leaned back so you could get a good look at his face. He looked like an angel in what little lighting the window allowed to slip in. “I’m sure I’ll feel better by tomorrow. Mission should keep my mind off things.”

Tamsy hummed in agreement, offering a closed-eyed smile, before letting you go.

You moved towards the bed, deciding to lie on top of the comforter and enjoy the breeze from the open crack in the window just above your head. It was too hot for blankets, especially with someone as clingy as Caines.

He took his time getting into bed, first brushing his teeth and cleaning out his piercing before making his way to the bedside.

“You’re forgetting something.” He chuckled, reaching over you to pull the slippers off your feet.

They were set down neatly on the floor at the base of the bed, his alongside them.

Joining you on top of all the sheets, he flopped down onto the mattress, arms clinging to your sides and face buried into your stomach. His hair cascaded around the bed, though most of it ended up on your chest and on your face.

“Oh gosh, Rapunzel is drowning me in her hair.” Your voice was muffled, hand worming its way out of his grip to move any strands away from your face. You let your arm fall over him, hugging around his shoulders with a reassuring squeeze.

Tamsy chose to ignore your comment, instead peppering kisses along your clothed midsection until it elicited a giggle from your lips.

“Goodnight, lover.” Done bombarding you with his affection, he let his head come to rest on your stomach, enjoying the rise and fall of each breath you took.

A satisfied hum dragged itself out of him when your fingers messed into his hair to scratch at his scalp.

“Sleep well, Tamsy.” Your voice was much softer this time, a welcome change.

It wasn’t long before you fell asleep. He remained awake a moment longer, allowing his thumbs to rub slow circles into your skin.

Moments like these were a treasure to him.

The next morning came too soon for his tastes; he was woken by his own alarm and you pushing him off of you.

He resisted, holding you down in the bed for a moment longer than you’d have probably liked.

“Tamsy, I need to go…! Just because you have nothing to do today doesn’t mean I can slack off too.” Oh, but how fun it’d be to keep you here until you were late enough to get in trouble. He loved the idea of you all flustered, trying to explain yourself to the others. Knowing you, you would take the blame for his actions, too.

But he was on a tight schedule too; it was his day off after all.

Once you had scrambled your way out of his room, carrying only your instrument, he decided to get up.

It was only on his way out the door that he realized you’d left your choker in his room.

He contemplated hiding it for a moment. If he kept it, you’d surely 'miss' Amo’s call.

No matter, his puppet had likely already dragged her across Petra to where she’d be staying for the time being. You'd never get that call.

“Oh, Tamsy! There you are. Do you have my—?” You’d found him in the hall, decked out in your fresh cleaner’s uniform and ready to head out the door.

He was already holding the choker out with both hands, open and ready to clasp. You leaned in, letting him wrap it around your neck until one end locked into the other. He took the proximity as a chance to press a kiss to your forehead.

“You’re with Team Child today, aren’t you?”

“Yep! Nothing major today. We’re going to meet up with Akuta later for dinner, too, so no need to wait on me!” You returned the kiss, a quick one to his lips which left a smudge of your lipgloss on him. You left for the exit as quickly as you’d appeared.

You’d be gone a while, then. That was a shame. Normally you two requested days off together. When you couldn’t, you did your best to spend time together outside of the other’s mission. It seems that wouldn’t be the case today; you likely wouldn’t be back till late.

At least he had a lot of time to visit his captive.

What was supposed to be one small mission with Team Child and a group dinner had turned into something much, much worse.

Having both teams abducted by the raiders was already bad, but being without the supporters and separated from your companions was what could only be described as the worst-case scenario.

Chokers weren’t working, and you had been completely isolated up until Enjin came bursting through the hall before you and led everyone to the main chasm. The entire ordeal had passed like a fever dream, though you recalled tending to Guita with your instrument and stabilizing Zanka as best as you could before being electrocuted to all hell. Then, everything started falling.

Guita had cushioned everyone's fall, but the aftermath of the battle was overwhelming.

Zanka was stabilized, but your instrument did little work on poisons you didn’t know. Riyo was also beat up, which you managed to fix. What was hurting Rudo was entirely psychological, something you could only help with words and time.

Unfortunately, the sight of Amo’s boots clutched in his grip left you speechless.

So there you were, sitting in the very back of one of the emptier jeeps. Gris was driving, and Rudo was passed out alongside Enjin in the middle row.

You were slumped against Tamsy’s shoulder, and though you’d been silent for the majority of the ride, it wasn’t long before your exterior began to crack.

Tears slipped down your cheeks, caught by the fabric of his jacket. You were clinging to one of his arms, his hand planted firmly on one of your thighs. No matter how tired you were, your mind was slam-packed with anxieties over Amo.

“And we’re certain it wasn’t the Raiders?” Tamsy kept his voice low, keeping the conversation between the two of you. He’d been doing his best not to press you too much, allowing you time to gather your thoughts.

You nodded, your shaky grip on his jacket faltering.

“Not yet, though Rudo seems pretty sure, but…” your voice trailed, words growing quieter anytime your subconscious began to slip.

“But?”

“It doesn’t matter to me who did it. What matters is that she’s probably scared right now, alone, and she wouldn’t have been had…had…” This time your head fell against his shoulder, eyes closed as your body could no longer run on empty.

When your breathing evened out and Tamsy was certain you wouldn’t wake up, he took the opportunity to adjust you to a more comfortable position against him. Using the softer inner part of his jacket sleeve, he wiped away any remaining tears from your cheeks.

How troubling.

You’d gotten quite attached to that Amo girl in such little time.

And right you were. The girl was very much alone and terrified. But there was nothing you could have done to prevent it.

When everyone arrived back at HQ, he slipped his arms under you to carry you back to his room. You looked so beautiful when you were this vulnerable to him, and if anything, the dried-up tears on your cheeks added to the allure.

It truly hurt him to see you so distraught, but it was only temporary.

Eventually the cleaners would find Amo; that was all apart of the plan to break Rudo.

Gently, he laid you down on his bed and helped you out of your uniform. For now he could only clean you with a damp towel, removing battle grime as best as possible before dressing you in one of his long-sleeved sleeping shirts. You curled right up into his blankets on your own, soon joined by his own body pulling you back against his chest.

This was all the direct result of his actions, whether you knew it or not, anyhow.

In the meantime, it was a bonus that you’d become dependent on him, so caught up in your fragile little emotions and guilt.

Your caring nature was still cute, even if it left you like this at times.

Author's Note ── Christ I am down bad for this guy; it isn't even funny. I have so many ideas on what to write for him too, like, damn!!!!!

To be fair, Ran was the one who pursued you first. Around Roppongi, he and his younger brother, Rindo, are known as the most stylish delinquents you could ever encounter. ​You still remember the afternoon he showed up outside the school gates, leaning against a polished motorcycle. He had these ridiculous, heavy earrings that caught the sun every time he tilted his head, looking completely out of place against the drab brick of the building.

Amidst a sea of a hundred identical school uniforms, Ran stood out entirely. When he walked straight through the crowd and stopped in front of you, you actually looked behind yourself to make sure, as the bewildered stares of your peers prickled against your back. 

You have been making questionable decisions ever since.

It's not as though dating him is miserable.

Ran remembers your favorite snacks. He waits outside after class when it rains. He complains whenever you refuse to let him carry your bag, then carries it anyway. But he is far from an ideal, textbook boyfriend. He is still a reckless teenager with a life full of secrets. He completely forgot your three-month anniversary, showing up three days late without a single clue until you brought it up. Sometimes he just vanishes entirely for days at a time, leaving your texts on read. When he finally resurfaces, he acts like no time has passed at all, casually returning with a random little trinket that he completely refuses to explain,

Dangerous people, you've learned, don't have to be cruel to be dangerous.

There are rumors, too—darker ones that don't quite fit the glossy magazine image of him. You know he spent time in juvenile detention when he was younger. Though you don't know the reason why—you just assume he got into a bad street fight. Rebellious teenagers do things like that all the time, right?

_

During attempts at sneaking out, your hands shake so badly that you nearly drop your phone while trying to text him. You ease your bedroom window open and discover, to your horror, that Ran has somehow already climbed halfway up the tree beside your house.

"Are you insane?" you whisper.

"A little," he winks, entirely unbothered by the height.

The latch on your window has been loose for years. Your father keeps saying he'll fix it whenever he has time. Apparently, Ran has noticed, he pushes it open the rest of the way and motions for you to climb through.

"There is no way that this is safe," you hiss.

Ran lets out a low chuckle. "Look on the bright side. It’ll be funny if you fall."

"You are the worst boyfriend imaginable," you glare at him, swinging one leg over the windowsill anyway.

The moment you look down, the dark ground suddenly looks miles further away than it did from the safety of your room. The cold night air bites at your bare ankles. You hesitate, your fingers locking onto the window frame in a sudden wave of panic.

Ran tilts his head, a knowing smile tugging at his lips as he looks up at you. "Don't tell me you're backing out now? You trust me, don't you?"

"...Yeah."

The answer leaves your mouth before your brain can even voice a protest.

You let go. For one terrifying second, as the wind rushes past your ears, you are certain you've made the worst decision of your life.

Then a pair of arms catches you around the waist before your feet ever reach the ground. Ran steadies you, waits until you're balanced.

"Told you," he flashes a wicked grin and taps his fingers against your hip. 

Your heart is pounding hard enough to qualify as a medical emergency.

He parked his motorcycle a few blocks away, fully aware of how loud the engine is and determined not to wake your parents. He takes your hand, pulling you along the quiet sidewalk.

​When you reach the bike, you notice he already has your helmet resting on the seat. He bought it weeks ago after deciding that borrowing one from Rindo was "gross." You meet Rindo from time to time when they hang out, and even the younger brother is nice to you, occasionally tossing a playful, teasing comment your way.

You scoop the helmet up, then notice he isn't moving to grab his own.

"Aren't you wearing one?" you ask, crossing your arms and planting your feet.

Ran just chuckles, tossing his long braids over his shoulder as he swings a leg over the motorcycle. "Don't have one."

"You absolutely have one."

"I absolutely left it somewhere," he says, flashing an innocent smile that convinces exactly nobody.

"So I'm not getting on until you wear one."

He sighs dramatically, slouching over the handlebars. "You've become really bossy lately. You know it messes up my hair—"

"Ran."

You don't budge, holding his gaze until he groans. Reaching into the side compartment, he pulls out the hidden second helmet and straps it on over his braids.

"So you did bring one," you say.

"I was hoping you'd forget."

"You've known me for six months."

Ran clicks his visor down, his eyes curving into a crinkle. "I keep hoping." 

Once you climb on behind him, the quiet night shatters. Ran guns the engine and races through the empty streets, the city opens around the two of you in streaks of red brake lights and glowing convenience stores, late-night restaurants spilling laughter onto the sidewalks, apartment windows shining like stars stacked on top of one another. He purposely drives a little too fast, taking the sharp turns that force you to squeeze your arms tightly around his waist, burying your face into his back. 

​"Ran! Slow down!" you yell over the wind. 

"I am!" Ran laughs, the vibration of his chest rumbling right against your hands as he speeds up just a fraction more to tease you.

"You absolutely are not!"

​The wild ride ends when he pulls up to a massive arcade in a bustling, sleepless district of Tokyo. Inside, the atmosphere is loud and entirely washed in brilliant, flashing neon lights.

​Ran is an incredibly attentive date. Before you can even suggest a game, he buys a ridiculous, heavy cup full of tokens and hands it over to you. He says if you both don't use them all then you’ll lose trying.

You spend the next hour doing exactly that.

You lose spectacularly at basketball.

You somehow finish last against a group of twelve-year-olds in a racing simulator.

​Later, you challenge him to a racing game, sitting side-by-side in the plastic arcade seats. You end up losing terribly, your virtual car crashing into a wall on the final lap. Ran throws his head back and laughs, completely delighted by your frustration, before dropping another token into your slot to let you try again when you glares at him.

Then he wanders over to a claw machine.

"Pick one," he says, tilting his head toward the colorful prizes inside.

You glance at the tangled heap of plushies. "Don't bother. They're rigged."

"So?" Ran scoffs softly, already dropping a token into the slot. On his very first try, the claw grabs a ridiculously oversized lavender rabbit and drop it into the chute. 

"There you go." He retrieves it and places it into your arms like a trophy. "That was almost too easy." 

"You cheated," you say. 

"I didn't, some of us just have actual talent," he says, nudging your shoulder as the arcade lights dance across his grin. 

You hug the rabbit a little tighter and decide not to answer. ​Of course, you aren’t entirely stupid. You know this little arrangement carries a certain degree of risk. Your family would harbor a collective stroke if they ever saw him, and your noisier relatives would spend the next three major holidays dissecting the disaster of you associating with someone so clearly tied to gang affiliations. 

Even your cousins, who think getting a tattoo behind your ear counts as rebellion, would suddenly discover the value of family tradition.

Gang members don't settle down.

Gang members don't have futures.

Gang members bring trouble to your doorstep.

Perhaps that's why you've never told them.

You will keep him around until graduation. Let him serve as the thrilling backdrop to your final year of youth, and then you'll thank Ran for the memories, wish him well, and quietly disappear into a future with internships and office jobs and respectable people. After all, a notorious delinquent doesn’t exactly belong on your resume forever.

Around midnight, the heavy crowd inside the arcade finally starts thinning out. You and Ran step back out into the cool night air and head toward the parking lot. You yawn as you follow Ran toward the rows of metal bicycles, the lavender rabbit tucked beneath one arm. Your throat feels completely parched from the heat of the machines and talking over the loud music.

"I'm freezing," you mention, shifting the plush prize in your arms, "and I'm getting so thirsty."

He glances sideways at you. "Want a drink?"

"If they have melon soda."

"They better," he says, already scanning the aisle for the vending machines. 

The vending machines inside the arcade greet the two of you with rows of empty shelves. Everything worthwhile has already been bought by students and couples lingering long after curfew.

​"Wait by the bike," Ran says, slipping his hands into his jacket pockets. "There's another set of machines just around the corner. I'll be right back."

​You nod and keep walking toward his motorcycle. He doesn't seem worried. Why would he be? 

You're standing under bright lights in a public parking lot attached to a busy entertainment district. Security cameras and people are wandering in and out, nothing bad happens in places like this.

At least, that's what you tell yourself.

You lean against a railing and absentmindedly squeeze the stuffed rabbit's oversized ears.

The lot empties little by little, leaving vast stretches of dark asphalt between the flickering streetlamps. That's when you notice a group of three or four guys has been loitering near the edge of the lot. They wear mismatched streetwear and look thoroughly disheveled. 

​Sensing an easy target, they move in. 

​"Hey there," the guy in the front says, a nasty grin spreading across his face. "You're out pretty late."

"I'm waiting for someone," you say, offering a polite smile that doesn't reach your eyes.

"Yeah?"

The tallest one glances around the parking lot.

"Looks like you're alone."

Hearing that, you take a cautious step backward, your stomach does a sharp, ugly flip.

Almost instantly, the shadows shift. Another guy steps sideways, his laughter cutting through the quiet air. They quickly fan out, blocking your path to the motorcycle and cutting off your route back to the bright entrance of the arcade.

"Come on, we're just talking," another say. "That's a pretty nice bike you're leaning on. Your boyfriend leave you behind?"

Your fingers tighten around the plush rabbit. You tell yourself to stay calm, they're probably just trying to scare you.

A force suddenly hits one of them from behind.

​There is a loud—hollow crack of metal meeting a skull. The guy doesn't even have time to scream; his eyes roll back, and his body collapses instantly onto the asphalt, completely unconscious and limp.

His eyes are half-lidded, yet his expression completely blank as he looks at the group. In his right hand, he holds a silver telescoping baton that glints under the neon light.

​The remaining three guys gasp, spinning around in panic. Standing in the dim light of the streetlamp is Ran.

His gaze drifts from the unconscious boy to the others, then to you. "You okay?"

Your voice refuses to cooperate, but you nod anyway.

Only then does he look back at the remaining boys. Recognition spreads across the leader, his face goes entirely pale. 

​"M-Haitani..." the leader stammers, his confidence evaporating into pure terror. "We didn't know—"

​"They’re with me," Ran interrupts, tossing the drink bottle lightly in the air and catching it. 

​The guys start backing up, raising their hands in frantic apology, desperately trying to defuse the situation. ​But it is already too late. 

​Before the leader can even turn to run, Ran moves with terrifying speed. The heavy metal baton strikes the man's collarbone with a horrific, splintering sound. The man drops to the asphalt, screaming, but Ran doesn't stop. He swings again, the metal cracking against ribs and jaws. 

The other two try to run, but Ran already catches one by the collar, dragging him backward and slamming his head repeatedly into the brick wall of the arcade until the man slides down, leaving a smeared trail on the masonry. The final thug falls to his knees, sobbing and covering his face, but Ran simply stands over him, methodically bringing the baton down again, and again, and again.

​You stand frozen by the motorcycle, while Ran keeps striking long after the man stops moving, long after the whimpering dies down. The brutal reality of the violence knocks the breath straight out of you. 

As the groans of the barely conscious men echo across the empty parking lot, you stare at blood and teeth spray across the concrete, utterly terrified of the person you've been dating.

The sound of metal striking bone finally stops.

​Ran stands over the bodies, breathing easily as if he had just finished a light workout. With a practiced flick of his wrist, he collapses the bloody baton back into its compact size and slips it away. When he turns around to look at you, his eyes instantly soften, the terrifying vacancy disappearing as he spots the plush prize lying in the dirt.

​He steps toward you, lifting a plastic convenience store bag. "Hey. I got your drink, and—"

​You take a violent step backward, your entire body shaking. Your breath hitches, your chest heaving as you stare at his fingers—fingers that are dusted with a light spray of someone else's blood.

​Ran freezes. His hand hovers in the empty air between you as he registers the horror in your expression. For a split second, a flash of something unreadable cuts through his usual calm, but he forces his face back into a reassuring expression. He takes a slow step back, giving you space.

​"Woah, easy. Look at me," he says, his voice incredibly soft, dropping down to that low, soothing tone he uses when he's teasing you. "It's just me. It's Ran. I'm not going to hurt you. I would never, ever hurt you. You know that, right?"

You can barely nod. Your jaw is locked tight, your knees shaking so violently you feel like you might collapse into the dirt alongside the discarded plush prize. Ran notices the terror locking up your joints. He doesn't push it. Instead, he carefully picks up the fallen stuffed animal, dusts it off with a clean corner of his jacket, and gently sets it on the seat of the bike.

​It takes a long time for your breathing to slow down. You let him guide you back onto the motorcycle, though you hold onto his jacket with stiff, trembling fingers this time, keeping your eyes strictly averted from the dark stains on the pavement.

The ride away from the arcade is a total blur. He drives slowly this time—painfully so—and neither of you says a word. You don't even realize you're trembling until you notice the vibration in your own hands.

Ran notices first. At the next red light, he reaches back as though to squeeze your arm.

You flinch.

His hand stops dead in midair. Then, he withdraws it without a sound, his fingers slipping back onto the handlebars just as the traffic light changes to green. 

Eventually, the motorcycle pulls into a tiny neighborhood park squeezed between apartment buildings. Ran leads you to a wooden bench, silently handing you the cold bottle of your favorite drink along with a small plastic cup of ice cream. It's ridiculous. He's treating you like a kid who just fell off a bicycle, completely ignoring the fact that he just fractured three men's skulls a block away. 

​You don't drink it. You just stare at the melting ice cream, the plastic spoon heavy in your hand, entirely unable to swallow a single bite. Neither of you talks for a long time, until Ran suddenly reaches toward you again. This time, slowly. Giving you every opportunity to pull away.

When you don't, he wraps both arms around you and draws you against his chest, burying his face into the crook of your neck, holding you as if you might vanish if he lets go.

​"Ran?" you whisper against his shoulder, your voice small.

​"I'm sorry..." he murmurs, his grip tightening.

​You blink against the dark fabric of his jacket, confused by the sudden vulnerability.

​"I'm sorry for leaving you all alone. For letting those idiots get close to you..." His voice cracks slightly, filled with a terrifyingly genuine guilt. "I'm sorry."

​He holds you tighter, his chest rising and falling against yours. "Next time, call my name out loud. I promise I'll come to you right away."

Looking at him now, the monster from the parking lot feels like a distant, bad dream. You want to believe this version of him. You want to believe that the danger is something he can just switch off when he’s with you.

Slowly, you reach your hands up, cradling the back of Ran's head, letting your fingers slide through his neat braids as you lean heavily against him.

​"I'm sorry, too," you whisper.

​Ran pulls back just an inch, looking down at you with a curious expression. "For what?"

​You consider the question.

For dragging him into your life. For making him worry. For being afraid of him. For wishing you had never seen what happened in that parking lot. For knowing that nothing feels quite the same anymore—

Instead, you mumble, "I don't know."

​Ran blinks, the gravity of the moment instantly evaporating. His lips twitch into an annoyed pout. He even makes a ridiculous, exasperated face, entirely ruining the tragic romance of the mood.

"...Seriously?"

"It sounded better in my head," you shrug.

Ran scoffs, rolling his eyes as he lets go of you just enough to lean back against the bench. "Here I am, pouring my heart out, and you're making jokes? You are completely heartless."

​"You're the one who made it weird," you tease back weakly.

​Ran huffs, but the easy, lazy smile quickly slides back onto his face. He reaches over, playfully flicking your forehead. "Yeah, yeah. Eat your ice cream before it turns into soup, brat."

​For the next ten minutes, the terrifying edge of the night completely melts away. You tease him about his dramatic apology, and he shoots back with his usual mocking banter. It works, too. Ran is so effortlessly charming when he wants to be that you actually find yourself laughing until the knot in your stomach completely unties itself. To anyone passing by, they’d just see a couple of normal, stupid teenagers flirting in the middle of the night.

It’s an incredibly nice illusion; you almost convince yourself that you can just ride this out. But then you look at his eyes. Even while he's laughing at you, the violet is completely cold. You know, with certainty, that if those guys walked into this park right now, Ran would do it all over again without blinking. 

You really need to break up with him. 

_

You pace back and forth across your bedroom floor, staring down at your phone until the screen blurs. Your heart thumps against your ribs. You have been fighting with yourself for the past hour, rewriting the same text message a dozen times before you finally find the courage to hit send.

The message is painfully short. 

Are you busy?

You stare at the screen afterward, immediately regretting it.

Maybe this is a terrible idea, asking him to hang out one last time before ending things is unnecessarily cruel, instead of just ripping the bandage straight off.

Your thumb hovers over the message, wondering if deleting it would somehow erase the fact that you sent it.

Your phone vibrates.

No. Want to go somewhere?

You blink, the reply came so quickly that it feels automated.

You type back before you can overthink it.

Sure.

You figure you have at least an hour to prepare yourself while you wait for a reply mentally. But less than ten minutes later, the distinct rumble of a motorcycle engine vibrates right outside your house.

You scramble down the stairs, and when you open the front door, Ran is already idling at the curb. He looks effortlessly sleek, leaning back against the seat with one hand on the handlebar.

"Ran? Wow, you got here fast." You jog over to him, nervously adjusting the strap of your bag. "I didn't mean to drag you out so abruptly. You weren't busy, right?"

Ran shifts his head, giving you a lazy smile through the open visor of his helmet. "For you? Never. I have all the time in the world."

Right on cue, his phone starts buzzing furiously inside his jacket.

Ran sighs, a faint flicker of annoyance crossing his face before he pulls the device out. Instead of putting it to his ear, he hits the speaker button. Instantly, Rindo’s voice completely explodes through the line, so loud and angry it cuts right through the rumble of the motorcycle engine.

"Ran, you absolute idiot! Where the hell did you go?!" Rindo yells, sounding completely out of breath and incredibly stressed.

"I'm outside," Ran says, calmly moving the phone an inch farther from his ear.

"I know you're outside! We're in the middle of a meeting, you can't just leave!"

You open your mouth to tell Ran he needs to go back to Roppongi, but Ran doesn't look remotely guilty.

He stares straight ahead at the road, presses the power button on the side of the phone, and holds it down until the screen goes completely black. He slides the dead phone back into his pocket, turns his head back to look at you, and gives you a reassuring nod.

"...Anyway, what do you want to do today?" he says.

"...That's it?" You stare at him. "You just hung up on your brother."

"He'll get over it," Ran waves a hand dismissively.

He swings one leg over the motorcycle and offers you the spare helmet. "So? Where are we going?"

"I haven't decided." You take the helmet, forcing an awkward laugh as you climb onto the back of the bike. 

"Good, we've got all day."

As you wrap your arms around his waist, you squeeze your eyes shut. You need to make this afternoon completely perfect. If you can just keep him in a great mood, keep things fun, and let him down easy, everything will go smoothly. It has to.

You do not notice the way Ran glances back over his shoulder, studying your expression for a heartbeat longer than usual.

He doesn't say anything.

You pull him toward the high-end streetwear district, a bustling maze of sleek glass storefronts and trendy boutiques. Since your ultimate goal is to soften him up before the final blow, you throw yourself into the role of the attentive girlfriend.

Ran is entirely in his element—he loves fashion, and it shows. You spend the next hour steering him from one window display to another, nodding eagerly as he critiques the latest seasonal drops and points out pieces he thinks would look good on you.

"You'd look cute in that knit," he muses, leaning his shoulder against a pristine glass pane, his violet eyes tracking your reflection. "Maybe we should go inside and buy it."

"No, no, just looking today!" you say quickly, forcing a bright, airy laugh that feels a little too loud in your own ears.

You are working hard to keep this mood flawless. Normally, you’d roll your eyes at his arrogance, but today you find yourself smiling until your cheeks literally ache, hold his hand whenever he offers it, and make sure to laugh at every single one of his comments, even the ones that aren't funny. 

But underneath the performance, your nerves are completely frayed. Your stomach is knotted in a tight, agonizing ball, and your skin feels hyper-sensitive. Every time your fingers brush against his, they are trembling slightly. Whenever he looks away, your smile instantly drops, your eyes darting nervously to your phone to check the time.

Finally, you decide you can't stretch the afternoon out any longer. The designated hour has arrived.

You stop on the sidewalk, smoothing down your clothes and looking up at him with the most casual expression you can muster.

"Hey, I'm kind of hungry," you suggest, gesturing down the street. "There's a really cute, crowded bakery just around the block. Let's get a coffee."

"A bakery?" Ran repeats, his eyes narrowing just a fraction in an unreadable expression before his easygoing grin slips back into place. He reaches out, his fingers brushing a stray lock of hair behind your ear with a touch so gentle it makes your heart stop. "Sounds perfect. Lead the way."

​The air smells warmly of sweet vanilla and fresh pastry, a sharp contrast to the cold knot of dread tying itself in your stomach. The space is completely packed with chattering couples, students studying, and families buying bread. You picked this spot on purpose. It is public, and it is crowded—a built-in safety net. There is a zero percent chance Ran would ever try to do anything reckless with fifty witnesses staring directly at him.

You rehearse the speech in your head over and over until the words lose all meaning. You’re grateful for everything, let's end things while both still happy.

You discard every version. They all sound fake.

​Ran sits across from you in the booth, casually swirling an iced coffee with his straw. He reaches across the table and steals half your pastry.

"That was mine."

Somehow, despite everything, you still glare at him.

"I know," he shrugs, popping the piece into his mouth without a shred of regret.

You almost laugh. But then you remember exactly why you are sitting here, and the laughter dies completely before it can even reach your mouth.

"Graduation is next week," you started, your voice slightly tight as you tried to ease into the conversation. "Have you actually thought about what comes next? You’ll eventually have to get a real job, you know. Settle down after high school. You can't just run around the streets forever and blowing off your brother's gang meetings."

Ran didn't look annoyed by the suggestion. Instead, he looked genuinely, deeply amused by the entire concept.

"A real job?" he murmured, wiping the sugar from his fingers and tilting his head. "And miss out on all the thrill? Please. The straight and narrow is far too boring for me."

Hearing those words, the final thread of your hope snapped. It was the ultimate confirmation that it wasn't a rebellious trend he was going to outgrow or leave behind for university. 

The knot in your stomach tightened until it physically hurt. You couldn't stretch this out for another minute. 

"I think..."

Taking a deep breath, your fingers tightly gripping the edge of your seat, you finally say the words. 

"I think we should break up."

The noise of the bakery continues around you.

​Ran doesn’t look angry at that. Instead, that smile just stretches across his lips, completely calm. He sets his coffee down with a soft click against the wood.

​"A breakup?" Ran repeats. He glances around the loud bakery, taking in the close proximity of the families at the next table, before fixing his eyes back on you. "Well, it’s a bit too noisy to talk about something that serious here, don't you think? Let’s go somewhere a little more private. There’s a quiet alley right around the corner. It's just a small walk."

​Panic floods your chest like ice water. Your breath hitches. You chose this place precisely to avoid being alone with him.

"Ran, no, let's just—we can talk right here," you say, your voice cracking slightly as you try to force a casual laugh. "It's fine, we don't need to go anywhere—"

"You’ve been acting weird the entire day, you know?" Ran cuts you off softly.

​As you look at him, you catch a look in his eyes that you have never seen before. The playful warmth he always reserves for you is utterly gone. His violet eyes are completely flat, dead, and freezing cold—the exact same dead expression he had right before he shattered a man's jaw with his baton.

"Did you really think I didn't notice that?" he asks, his chuckle quiet and entirely devoid of warmth. "Get up, we're taking that walk."

He slides his chair back, the wooden legs scraping loudly against the floor. He stands up, his tall frame instantly blocking out the warm bakery lights, casting a long shadow over your table.

Before you can even protest, he tosses a few bills onto the table to cover the drinks and waits for you. ​Your legs feel like lead as you stand up and follow him out the door.

​The walk down the sidewalk is excruciating. Ran steps at a leisurely pace, his hands tucked casually into his jacket pockets, looking for all the world like a boyfriend enjoying an afternoon stroll. 

​"Ran, wait," you stammer, scrambling to keep up with his long strides, your voice rising in a panicked rush. "I-I was just kidding, okay? It was a joke. I just wanted to see your reaction! You know how I am. I didn't mean it, I swear. Let's just go back inside and get some cake, alright? Ran?"

​You keep rambling, throwing out every excuse you can think of. Ran doesn't interrupt you. He just keeps walking, occasionally humming in mock understanding, letting you dig yourself deeper and deeper into your own terror.

​Finally, he turns a sharp corner, guiding you out of the afternoon sun and into the dim, narrow shadows of a brick alleyway. 

​Ran stops walking and you nearly walk into him. For several seconds, neither of you moves.

Then he turns around, looking down at you. "Tell me something... why did you think my brother and I went to juvenile detention?"

The question catches you off guard, you nod uncertainly.

"I... I heard you got into a bad street fight. With a rival gang."

​Ran lets out a chuckle that sends a violent shiver straight down your spine. He looks upward for a moment, studying the slice of gray sky between the buildings.

Then he speaks again.

"I killed someone."

The sentence lands so softly that your brain refuses to process it.

You stare at him, waiting for the punchline, for the grin and him to say he got you. But none comes.

"When we were younger," he continues, closing the distance between you, "there was a fight between gangs, my brother and I caught the leader of the rival faction."

He reaches out, his thumb gently, almost tenderly, tracing the line of your jaw.

"It got out of hand. And I beat him so badly his skull fractured under my hands."

​The alleyway goes completely silent. 

Your breath hitches as you instinctively try to twist your face out of his hand, your palms coming up to push at his chest.

"I didn't want you to find out like this," he sighs quietly. His voice is so calm that it almost tricks you into forgetting what he just admitted.

Your thoughts become tangled. You don't know whether to apologize, to cry, or to run. To pretend none of this happened.

Instead, you whisper, "I think I should go home." 

Ran’s gentle demeanor drops in a second. His grip on your jaw instantly tightens, squeezing your jawline hard enough to bruise, completely locking your head in place. 

With his other hand, he reaches into his leather jacket. There is a sharp clack, and the silver telescoping baton extends. He slowly presses the cold, heavy metal cylinder directly against your collarbone, right over the racing pulse at the base of your neck. 

"Let’s make one thing perfectly clear, then," Ran murmurs, his violet eyes wide and unblinking. "I love this pretty face of yours too much. It would be a terrible shame to see it bruised up... or worse. Do you understand me?"

He leans in closer, the suffocating scent of his cologne filling your nose as his gaze locks onto your trembling lips.

​"Oh, you have no idea how much I adore you," he continues, his voice dropping into a soft, reverent whisper that makes your skin crawl. "I think about you constantly. I look at you and I just want to keep you safe in my pockets forever. I’m completely obsessed with you. You understand that, don't you?"

​He pulls back just enough to look into your panicked, tear-stained face, his thumb softly wiping away a stray tear. "So, let's try this again. You love me, right? And we're going to stay together for a very, very long time."

Your eyes sting. You don't know whether you're about to cry or simply stop breathing.

Finally, barely above a whisper, you answer. 

"...I love you." 

Slowly, the crushing pressure on your jaw eases. You hadn't even realized how tightly your own fingers had closed around his until now. Ran collapses the baton with a smooth flick of his wrist and tucks it away. 

Before you can pull away, he cups your face once more. He leans down and presses his lips to yours in a deep kiss.

When he pulls back, his fingers return to being uncannily gentle, smoothing over the red marks his grip just left on your skin, entirely uncaring of the pain he caused. He even reaches down to fix the collar of your shirt, patting it flat.

"There you go," he says, his voice returning to that lazy, cheerful purr. "You shouldn't make up silly jokes like that anymore. It makes me think I'm not taking good enough care of you." 

He steps back, clearing your path out of the shadows, and extends his hand to you. "Now, let's go finish our date."

Your entire body is trembling. Your jaw throbs, and the phantom sensation of cold metal still lingers against your throat. 

Swallowing down the bitter taste of tears, you slowly raise your shaking hand and place it in his.

Ran’s fingers immediately close around yours, locking your hand in a tight grip. He pulls you along as he casually strolls back out into the morning light.

In an instant, you are back on the bustling main street. The sun is shining warmly, the cheerful bell of the bakery is ringing in the distance, and normal high school students are laughing on the sidewalks.

Ran looks down at you, swinging your joined hands playfully between you as you walk. "So, what do you want to do next?"

You force your lips to curve upward. You swallow the terror in your throat and force a small, compliant smile, nodding along to his words. 

That night, you find yourself sitting cross-legged on the soft carpet of your bedroom. You’ve just closed the window, letting the cool night air drift away. Suddenly, your phone vibrates on the wooden nightstand, breaking the stillness and pulling your attention to the screen.

A single message from Ran appears.:

The wardens - also called Corrections Officers, COs, or rotten, motherless bastards - were almost always training new recruits. The prison system had an unsurprisingly high turnover, which meant an almost constant stream of new faces. With time, you'd learnt to ignore the tours and walk-throughs. With one exception.

Slammer.

He was a senior CO who seemed to almost always turn your cell into the final stop on his grand introductory tour of the glorious prison system. Maybe you were just nice to look at or maybe he had a chip on his shoulder. Either way, things almost ended up just as they did right now.

The 'tour group' was clustered outside your cell. Slammer was in the lead, his baton out and his little piggy eyes gleaming.

The trainees were in their new minted uniforms. Most of them uncomfortable and tugging at the scratchy, starched collars. You could have told them not to bother. That it was better for them to at least pretend they were comfortable. COs weren't your friends - every single prisoner in here would see that lack of confidence, that slight sense of unease. And they would pounce on it the first chance they got.

You hated being looked at like a zoo animal. And you especially hated the way Slammer showed you off to them like you some prize piece in his menagerie. Fellonus Homicidus perhaps.

You hated feeling their eyes on you. But you weren't going to make the mistake of showing them that. The less the COs knew about you, the better. It was like rule number two of incarceration. (Rule one being 'don't fight the jacked inmate with prison tattoos.' Obviously).

You didn't bother to get up from your bunk to greet them. You stayed just as you had all afternoon - one arm behind your head and one leg hanging off the bed.

You pretended to keep reading your beat up paperback.

"This one is especially dangerous. Stabbed her neighbour forty eight times before the cops could get her off," Slammer told them.

"Forty six," you corrected him without looking away from your book. "Coroner said it was forty six. Allegedly."

You could feel their eyes on you again.

"Right," Slammer drawled, "Because those last two stabs made all the difference."

You didn't bother to answer him.

"She really did that?" One of the trainees, a lanky guy with too large ears, asked. "She looks harmless."

You were almost offended at that. You flicked your eyes over them. They were mostly men, and most of them were looking at you in that hungry, contemplative way you knew so well. Wondering how much they could get away with once they were full fledged COs.

It should have bothered you. It didn't. Horny COs were just a part and parcel of life here. If you were smart, you could wring all sorts of goodies out of them before their supervisors caught on.

"Listen to me son. Every single prisoner in here is dangerous. They wouldn't be locked up if they were like you and me. They wouldn't feel guilt even if they stole from their poor old momma."

"You wound me, Slammer." You turned to the next page with a flick of your thumb. "I loved my momma. Only stole from her once or twice."

You didn't have much hope of them noticing your sarcasm. COs weren't the brightest bunch.

Slammer ignored you. "Don't ever say they're harmless. They sure as hell ain't. Two weeks here and you'll know exactly what I mean."

You could tell they didn't believe him. In the popular imagination, a women's prison was nothing like a man's. Women weren't dangerous. The trainees probably assumed you spent all day knitting scarves and talking about the lovely husband and kids that you were oh so keen to get back to.

They would lose that notion pretty damn fast.

"Are you supposed to tell us the prisoners' charges?" A woman's voice, neutral and respectful but you thought you could hear a hint of reproach in her tone.

You looked back at the group and you were amazed that you didn't notice her earlier. She stood perfectly still, hands clasped behind her back like she was at parade rest. Unlike the others, she had the quiet confidence of someone who knew their job and knew it well.

Her blond hair was scraped back into a low bun and her uniform sat on her in a way that was far more natural than any of the other trainees. Ex-military or police, if you had to guess. Not that unusual. Corrections wasn't such a huge leap from those fields.

You sat up and answered her before Slammer could get a chance.

"He's not. Inmate information is confidential. But Slammer here doesn't always listen to the rules."

You shot him a condescending smile. "He's a reaaal rebel."

He scoffed. "The new officers have a right to know exactly how dangerous you are."

You put a hand to your chest, all faux innocence. "Little old me? Slammer, I'm a saint! A nun! I've been to chapel three times this week."

"Yeah. To sell cigarettes and buy booze."

"Just as the good Lord intended."

Slammer didn't find you funny. You could tell from the fact that a) he wasn't laughing and b) he was grinding his teeth like he was a beaver about to dig in to a particularly scrumptious tree.

"Fact is, prisoners like her are the worst of the bunch. You think you they're harmless, but the second you turn your back, they'll shiv you and run off with your tazer."

You grinned at the trainees as winningly as you could.

"Only did that once by the way. And the guy had it coming, swear on my mama."

Most of them were shifting around uncomfortably. Hearing Slammer keep banging on about your crimes was finally enough to get it through to them. The prisoners are not nice.

You'd assume that was obvious, but incarceration taught you that however slow you thought the wardens were, they could always get dumber.

The only one who didn't seem bothered was the blonde. She was looking at you like you were nothing more or less than a piece of furniture. You got the sense that she was analysing you, looking past your fake smile and even faker bravado.

You also got the feeling that she wasn't impressed with what she saw.

You flopped back down on your bunk and tried not to let it bother you. One more person thinking you were a delinquent. What difference did it make?

She was the last to leave. Her eyes did one final scan of your cell before they landed on your paperback. She raised a brow.

"The Green Mile? Isn't that a bit depressing?"

You shrugged, uncomfortable but not entirely sure why.

"I like to think of it as aspirational."

"And why's that?"

"The wardens aren't all assholes."

That earned you a flicker of a smile before she turned on her heel and disappeared.

You forgot all about her after a week. To be fair, there were other things to occupy you. A fist fight on D Block that you somehow got dragged into. Drama in the book club. A warden getting caught with his pants down. Standard prison fare.*

It was a Tuesday when you saw her again, in the middle of the cafeteria. You only had a split second to recognise her before she was dousing you in pepper spray and sweeping your legs out from under you.

That was misleading maybe. She wasn't totally unjustified in greeting you like that. You were technically in the middle of beating a CO with a lunch tray.

(He deserved it, but that's not exactly a good excuse when his nose is gushing blood all over the table).

You were still coughing on pepper spray when she hauled you to solitary, your eyes and throat burning.

"Glad...to see you got...the job blondie," you managed to wheeze.

She sent you stumbling into the cell with a practiced push.

"Yep," she said simply, "They hired me on the spot."

Your shoulder was still an aching mess when she slammed and locked the door, leaving you in the half dark to wash the stinging out of your eyes.

You rubbed at your aching joints. "I can see why."

Pepper spray was considered the least lethal way to subdue a prisoner. Easier than a taser, less brutal than the baton. But despite its shining reputation, it was your least favourite tool in the COs' toolbelt. A taser was at least quick. The baton left a bruise but the pain didn't linger.

Pepper spray on the other hand? It left your eyes and throat and nose irritated for days.

You were still trying to rinse it out of your mouth when she returned, boots heavy on the linoleum and her keys rattling.

You turned to her with your white prison issued tank practically soaked. To most other guards, that would be an invitation to gawk. Not her though. Her eyes never dipped below your chin.

"Sit down. I've got some cold cloths for the swelling."

You sat, more confused than anything else.

"That's not standard regulation blondie. Usually, they just let us suffer through it."

She tossed you the cloths, still icy from a quick minute in the freezer. You pressed them to your face gratefully.

"It is standard regulation. Treating pepper spray once the prisoner is subdued."

You scoffed. "Why am I not surprised that no one ever told us that?"

She stayed quiet and you peaked at her over the edge of the fabric. She was much leaner than you realised, her sleeves rolled to her elbows, her forearms toned with muscle.

And tattoos. Damn, she had some sick tats.

You cleared your throat, not exactly sure why she bothered to do this for you.

"Thank you. It sucks to deal with. Makes everything taste awful for about two days."

She raised a brow.

"I just dragged you to solitary and your main worry is that the food won't taste good?"

"The food never tastes good. This is more so a matter of bloody awful becoming hellish awful."

"It can't be that bad."

"Tell me that after you've spent five years with lukewarm hash browns and soggy peas."

"You've been in here five years already?"

You sighed, pressed the cloth against your brows so you didn't have to look at her.

"Yep. And I've still got another thirty to go."

"Why?"

That got an unexpected laugh from you.

"Didn't you hear Slammer? Homicide. Found guilty on all charges."

"Did you do it?"

"Allegedly."

What was her angle? Was this some new, interactive approach to corrections? Getting friendly with the inmates so they're less likely to riot?

"Didn't they teach you not to ask those sorts of questions? Not really something people in here like to talk about," you said.

You saw that little flicker of a smile again.

"They did. But I get the feeling you don't mind it as much."

She was right. You didn't mind. At least, not with her. She had a kind of quiet confidence that, surprisingly, made you feel comfortable.

"Why did you want to work in a prison? Or more accurately, what the hell went wrong that you ended up here?"

"You think it's such a bad job?"

"I'd never do it and I live here."

She leaned against the cell wall, hands on her belt. There it was again. A veteran's stance, weapons in easy reach in case you tried something.

"It's a boring story."

"I've got nothing but time."

That earned you another raised brow.

"As we've established."

What's this? A CO actually cracking a joke? You never thought you'd see the day.

"And anyway, we're not here to talk about me. I'm here to find out why you attacked my fellow officer."

Ah, so that was why she was playing nice.

"I didn't like his face."

She narrowed her eyes and pushed herself off the wall. "Dissapointing. I thought you'd have a better reason than that."

You didn't like her tone, or the way it made you feel. Ashamed. Like you'd failed her test, even though you didn't know you were supposed to study.

She paused at the door.

"What's her name? The girl he was picking on?"

You raised you head. "What?"

"The guard you attacked. He was causing trouble, wasn't he?"

How did she know? Did she see it? Oh God, was Ruby going to get into shit because of you?

"Listen, she had nothing to do with it. She had no idea what I was going to do. It was all me."

She shrugged. "How am I supposed to know if that's true if I don't know the full story?"

You bit your lip. You didn't like saying too much to the COs. And your instinct was telling you she would be able to read a lot deeper than the rest of them.

"Guess I'll just have to ask her then."

"No!" You dug your hands into your sheets to stop yourself from bolting to your feet.

"No, Ruby has nothing to do with it I swear. She's almost sixty. She gets enough shit as it is. Just leave her alone."

You swallowed. "Please."

She was looking at you again, much sharper this time. You hadn't noticed it before but her eyes were a gunmetal grey.

"Explain then."

Your grip on the sheets tightened until your knuckles were pale. Did you really have to talk about this shit out loud?

"Ruby is..." you started. "She's different. Older than most of us, keeps to herself. She's not...all there, if you know what I mean."

She turned to face you and settled back against the wall. "Go on."

"Most of the inmates don't bother her. Why would we? She's just a little old lady. Not harmless, no ones really harmless, but about as close to it as you can get. But some of the COs..."

Her lips thinned. "They have a nasty streak."

"You can call it that. Usually it's just calling her names. But sometimes some of them get it into their heads that what she really needs is a hard knock. Rattle those screws around enough and maybe they'll fall back into place."

"Is that what happened today?"

You sighed, looked down at your hands and the blood dried in the crevices of your nails.

"Yep. CO was all in her face, being nasty. Grabbing her wrist. Taunting her. And she... she just stood there and took it. Old enough to be his grandmother and he didn't care."

You closed your eyes. What else were you supposed to do?

He'd been at it for five minutes when you stood up with your lunch tray. By then you'd had enough. No one else was going to do anything, so it was going to be you.

The lunch trays were a hard plastic, meant to keep from breaking on impact. You'd left your half eaten bowl of chow on the table and walked up behind him, your heart beating steady and calm. Some part of you had already decided the consequences were worth it.

Some of the inmates were looking at you and every single one of them knew exactly what you intended. But none of 'em said a word.

You could still feel the smack of your tray against his head. The way he stumbled forward with the momentum.

You'd caught him by surprise and you weren't going to let him get over it. You swung the tray at his face, as hard as you could. You could feel his nose breaking. He was on his knees by then. And maybe you'd have let him up, might have ended things there.

But then you saw Ruby's wrist. A frail thing, with his finger marks standing out a livid red.

"I see."

You opened your eyes. She was still watching you, her face unreadable.

You shrugged and tried to smile.

"Today was practically hum drum* by our normal standards."

"How exciting," she deadpanned.

"Just wait 'til Christmas time. It gets positively festive."

She snorted and started for the door again.

"You're aren't such a hard ass after all, are you? Saving little old ladies in your spare time," she said.

"Just think how safe senior citizens will be when they let me back out."

It was only for a few seconds, but you liked it when she smiled. It softened that tough guy demeanor just enough to make you wonder about the woman underneath.

When she was gone, you laid down with the cloth still pressed against your cheek. Who'd have thought it. A CO who you didn't want to punch in the teeth.

The CO you beat didn't come back to work for two weeks, and when he did, you heard that he asked for a transfer to a different block.

Ruby made you a macaroni necklace and said something about alien warships picking you up out of everyone else. You figured that was her way of saying thank you.

And maybe the most notable thing of all: Blondie was assigned to your cell block. Surprising. Yours wasn't the worst part of the prison, but you weren't a bunch of saints either. Rookies wouldn't even be considered until they'd had at least a year's experience.

It was yet another thing pointing to her past. Something, somewhere had given her enough experience to slip ahead on the promotion queue.

You didn't much mind it. You'd almost say it was enjoyable. She wasn't rude, she didn't pick favourites and she was keen eyed enough to catch a lot of the under the table business that inmates engaged in.

You didn't go out of your way to talk to her - getting too cozy with a CO wasn't a good look - but you make it a point to greet her whenever you could.

Well, you called it greeting. Most other folk saw it as a smirk and a sing song "Hey there blondie!"

She must have had some sort of interest in you too. You'd look up from your lunch and see her watching you, head tilted just a little. Like she was trying to puzzle you out. You took to winking at her whenever you caught her.

It would usually be enough to make her look away, but never for long. Her eyes would always find you again.

You should have been annoyed at it, or unnerved. But honestly, the way she looked at you was borderline sweet compared to the other COs. You'd occasionally catch some of them watching you too. Usually with their hands on their belts.

There wasn't much to do in prison besides read, sleep and exercise. But at around the third week after her arrival, you started getting letters.

Not totally uncommon. Plenty of folk wrote to prisoners. But to you? That was a different story. You'd put the letters you received into two categories: perverts and the pervertedly curious.

The perverts were exactly what you'd expect. People who thought your mugshot was the hottest thing since Megan Fox taking a swim. Their letters were particularly uncomfortable to read. And often sticky. You never wrote back.

The pervertedly curious were a whole 'nother class. They probably ran across your case on a true crime podcast or on a documentary. And their first thought at hearing the story was to wonder exactly what it felt like. They'd write and ask you what was going through your mind. What did the knife feel like sinking into his flesh? What did the blood smell like?

A fun bunch of freaks. You'd write back sometimes, more for your own amusement than anything else. Your answers were never even remotely true. I was mostly thinking about how late my taxes were and what a bastard it would be clean up. Stabbing him felt like cutting a steak except more scream-y. The blood smelt like a stack of pennies on a warm summer day but mostly it smelt like blood. You'd always end your sentences with your trademark allegedly.

These new letters were nothing like those at all. The paper was crisp and clean and most importantly, not sticky. The folded lines were sharp, like the writer pressed them down on purpose.

The writer didn't ask about the murder. They didn't ask about your bra size. They were almost...sweet.

You must be lonely in prison. You must get bored. I hope you're safe.

You read it again and again before you wrote a reply. Silly really. They seemed much too nice to be writing to someone like you. Maybe someone trying to do a good deed.

You should scare them off. Writing to a prisoner is sweet and all, but most folk in here would use it as just another way to wring someone dry. You were no different. Your anonymous pen pal would be better off working at the animal shelter if they wanted to help a stray.

I've got a whole host of buddies. We discuss the best ways to get blood out of our socks and pillow cases. I'm not bored at all. We've got a badminton league. Obviously the best way to spend federal cash. I'm as safe as a lamb in the hay. Only got stabbed twice last week.

There. That would get rid of them.

You mailed it out on cheap exam pad paper with a stamp you lifted off your neighbour. You didn't expect a reply.

When the mail got delivered the next week, you were more than a little surprised to find a new letter waiting for you.

The same crisp paper, the same neat, slanging hand.

You can't scare me off. I know you're only prickly and sarcastic because deep down you're scared. Scared a lot. Scared all the time.

I looked you up. You were barely out of high-school when it happened. Well behaved, normal family, no record of misdemenaors. Prison must have been an awful adjustment.

You had to put the letter down and take a deep breath. The kid clocked you. Less than two letters in and they'd read you better than anyone had in years. Better than anyone ever had maybe.

What were those first few years like, I wonder. How did you survive? Please write me back. I like checking in on you.

You considered not replying. What were they hoping to achieve, getting all familiar with a killer?

The letter sat on your shelf for half a week before you gave in and wrote a reply.

I survived by being mean and cruel and evil. Stop writing me kid. I'll bite your head off and drink your blood.

The next letter came almost instantly. If anything, the writer seemed amused more than anything else.

Scary. Did they put you in for homicide or suspected vampirism? You want to get rid of me, but I'm not going anywhere. You don't have to reply, but I know you must need a friend. They aren't easy to come by behind bars. Any alliances you form will always have the expectation of reciprocation. It must be exhausting.

Did I tell you a bought a new car last week? A Camaro. I know. How stereotypical of a Marine to buy a car like that, right? But it's gorgeous. I'd like to take you for a drive someday. Nothing but the open road. I think you'll like that.

You didn't even wait a full day before you wrote back. Because they were right. You really did need a friend. Someone to just shoot the breeze with, without any subtext of a favour being repaid later on.

You didn't know anything about your mysterious pen pal. Not their age or their gender or even the colour of their eyes. They signed all their letters with a simple from B.

They mostly asked you questions. Not obtrusive or gross ones either. They wanted to know which foods you missed the most, which tv series and movies you wanted to catch up on, which actors you thought were getting Grammys this year.

When Grammy and Oscar season rolled around, you choked out a fellow inmate to get the TV remote. You left them sitting up on the couch, passed out and looking like they were just asleep. Blondie almost caught you. She walked past the door and paused to stare at your victim.

You gave her your most charming grin.

"She said the opening ceremony was too long and to wake get up when the red carpet is over," you explained.

She scoffed and moved on.

When you wrote your next letter, you packed it full of award show details.

B wrote to you for the better part of a year. But you only learnt a handful of things about them. They were in the Marines, they now worked some kind of federal job, they had tattoos, they liked Nicole Richie, and they hated fried chicken. Like really hated it. With a passion.

I promise to never cook you fried chicken, you wrote, only fried calamari, fried onion rings, fried mushrooms, fried liver, fried green beans, fried -

Can you even cook? they wrote back. Or are you just running your mouth?

For a while, you were happy. They'd occasionally send you new books in the mail, burnt CDs to listen to on your busted radio, packets of sweets.

Prison was hell, but it was a structured, expected sort of hell. You could deal with it.

But then she arrived.

You didn't bother to learn her name. She was tall and lean, green eyes like pond scum, and teeth chipped from fighting. You didn't like her from the first, but you had no reason to quarrel and so avoided her as much as you could.

Blondie didn't like her much either, and that's where the trouble started.

She'd deliberately bump into Blondie whenever she could. Hard enough that you could almost feel the impact.

"Oops... Didn't see you there."

If it was anyone else, they'd probably get thrown in solitary. But Blondie was a stickler for the rules. She'd brush her uniform off like just touching an inmate was enough to cause a plague. And then she'd settle her blue eyes on her, cool and detached.

"Watch where you're going next time."

That was how it went on. Weeks of passive aggression, slowly getting more and more physical.

You didn't want to intervene. Blondie could protect herself. Still, you kept your eye on them as much as you could.

There was another thing about the new girl you didn't like.

She had a way with people.

Could convince even the most stubborn inmate to do something, even if it was against their own best interest.

She got an inmate who was almost out on probation to attack and almost blind a CO. She got innocent old Ruby to start selling cigarettes. She almost got you to pick a fight with someone for damn near no reason at all.

She was dangerous, in a way no one before her had been. You could feel it in the harsh whispers after lights out. Got to make those dirty screws pay. Fucking COs have had it too good for too long. Who the fuck do they think they are anyway?

A riot was brewing. You started staying in your cell a lot more. Managed to pull some metal out of your mattress and spent every night sharpening it to a point.

Some of the COs were smart enough to notice the tension and your outside time got shortened to half an hour, lunch got pulled back to fifteen minutes. Their solution was to keep you locked in your cells for as much of the day as possible.

Not a good move.

Prisoners with no distractions tend to amuse themselves by planning all sorts of nasty things. How to grab a CO from behind and get their keys before anyone noticed. How to choke out the one bastard who kept throwing you in solitary. How to pay back all those times a CO groped them in the middle of a search.

You could feel it hightening to a point. Could feel it like a dirty, oily taste in the air.

When Blondie came past on patrol, you stopped her. You'd been hoping to catch her for a few days at least and you weren't going to miss your chance.

"Yes?"

Those blue eyes were staring straight through you, cool as a winter without a radiator.

You remembered the pepper spray, the cool cloth pressed against your burning skin.

"Listen, I think you should call in sick for the next week."

Oh no, it came out sounding like a threat.

You cleared your throat, tried to smile.

"I owe you one, okay? So just trust me on this and don't show up for a while."

She narrowed her eyes.

"They're going to riot."

"Seems like it."

"When?"

"I don't know. It's not exactly a scheduled thing. But it's going to be bad."

She looked away from you, scanning the long row of cells across from you. You could hear the ambient shuffling and coughing and laughing of hundreds of people living together.

"Can it be stopped?"

You sighed. You'd seen it play out a few times already. Wardens had all sorts of ways to handle riots, but once the fever was brewing, it was near impossible to break. It was in the atmosphere, it was in the tense glances between prisoners. It was bigger than all of you.

She must have seen the answer in your face.

She shook her head, stubborn to the last.

"I've got a job. If I got scared every time the prisoners got rowdy I'd be out of a job."

You sighed and pulled away from the bars.

"Your funeral Blondie."

You really hoped it wouldn't be.

The thing that started the riot was so small that on a normal day you'd call it borderline routine.

A CO was watching the cafeteria line, hustling people along when they paused longer than he liked. When he came to one of the girls a few spots ahead of you, he got impatient and shoved her forward. Not hard. Barely enough to make her stumble.

You cringed. For a second or two, you imagined you could feel it on your skin. A static crackling like lightning about to strike.

She punched the CO in the throat.

He stumbled backwards, holding his neck and gasping.

Others were already moving forward. Three prisoners grabbed his arms and bunch of the others ripped off his gear. Taser and baton and pepper spray now in the hands of a pissed and petty prison populace.

The other officers were already coming forward, batons out. Usually that would be enough to break things up, but they had just about everyone against them. Numbers always won.

The yelling was enough to make your head throb. Ringing ringing ringing off the cafeteria walls.

You ducked out of the way as much as possible, always on your guard. Riots weren't just dangerous for the wardens. Inmates saw them as a way to settle old scores without ending up in solitary or back in court. And lord knew you'd accumulated a hell of a lot of grudges over the years.

A prisoner rushed you. She was clutching a shiv made out of a ballpoint pen and a piece of wire coat hanger.

You dodged, sticking your foot between her legs and making her stumble. Your adrenaline was pumping, your vision dark at the corners.

You grabbed her hair before she could recover, and slammed her head against the edge of a metal cafeteria table.

She dropped like a rock.

You stepped away before any of her friends noticed you, your heart so far up your throat you could almost taste it.

That's when you saw her. That green eyed bitch, slipping out a side door with two of her cronies behind her.

You could feel your neck prickling.

There was only one score she had to settle and you knew exactly who it was aimed at.

You followed as quickly as you could. The backup had arrived and two tear gas cannisters were belching thick white smoke into the room.

Despite your best efforts, by the time you made it out your eyes were stinging and she was long gone.

You swore and ran down the corridor, thinking fast.

If they managed to corner Blondie, they'd want to take their time with her. That's how scores were settled when you had a mean streak. Slow. Painful.

That meant they'd want privacy. Somewhere the riot officers wouldn't immediately find them when things calmed down.

You grabbed the corner of the wall and shot down the main corridor.

The showers. That's exactly what you'd do if you were her.

They didn't have time to block the doors. You banged through them shoulder first, the same way a cop would. The room was still thick with steam from earlier and Blondie's blood was running in thin streams toward the drain.

"The fuck is wrong with you?" green eyes snapped, barely turning to look at you.

She was standing with her sleeves rolled up and a razor blade between her fingers. The small, rectangular kind that goes in a straight razor.

Her two cronies were holding Blondie by the arms, stretching her out like she was on a cross.

Blondie clearly hadn't made it easy for them. Green eyes had a nasty bruise blooming on her cheek and both her cronies were sporting ugly nose bleeds. Her baton was laying abandoned on the shower floor, rolled up against a bench.

You must have been just in time. The worst they'd done to her was cut her cheek, all the way from her temple to the bridge of her nose. It was bleeding bad, but didn't look too deep.

You straightened up and smiled at them, big and broad like you'd never had a better reunion.

"Having some fun without inviting me?"

Green eyes scoffed. "Why do you care? This shit is personal. Find something else to do."

You tilted your head, still smiling.

"You're right. It is personal. As in I owe Blondie over there a personal favour. As in I don't want you fucking with what's mine."

Blondie was watching you with those sharp eyes. If she took issue with being called yours, she didn't show it.

"Let her go." You didn't scream. You didn't demand. You simply said it. That's what made them nervous.

"Listen bitch - I don't care that everyone is scared of you. What you did on the outside doesn't matter one fucking bit."

You kept smiling, but your fingers were buzzing. The same why they had the night you stabbed a man forty six times.

You flicked your wrist and the shiv fell into your palm.

It was as long as your hand and sharpened into a wickedly sharp edge. It could slide between someone's ribs and kill them in less than five heart beats.

"They aren't scared of me because of what I did outside."

The two cronies were looking at each all worried-like. You vaguely recognised them, but it was clear that they recognised you no problem.

The boss turned to face you fully, light and easy on her toes like a boxer.

"You really gonna make a big deal over a fucking screw? A CO?"

"Since she's the only CO I've met who isn't a total piece of shit, I've got a vested interest in keeping her around."

She rolled her shoulders like a fighter would. You bit back a sigh. This was going to really hurt.

She didn't come at you right away. She ran her eyes over your body - your posture, your build, everything that might give you an advantage.

Then she charged.

Fast, even on the still slippery tiles. There wasn't enough time to duck or dodged.

You blocked her first punch with your arms, her fist smacking against your skin and sending a sharp pain all the way down to your bones.

You stepped backward and kicked at her knee, but she saw it coming and turned her leg at the last second, took it on her thigh instead.

She'd dropped the razor blade - without a handle it was just as dangerous to her as it was to you - which meant she had full use of her fists.

She kept pummeling at you, catching you on the ribs and then on the sternum. You slammed back against the lockers, winded.

She pushed her advantage, going straight for your throat. You dropped down at the last second and her fist slammed full force into the metal.

She screamed and then screamed again as you slammed your shiv into her thigh.

You grabbed her throat and shoved her away from you, breathing hard.

She was clutching her thigh with one hand, blood welling up between her fingers. Dark red, but not enough to be fatal. You hadn't hit any arteries.

You slammed the heel of your hand into her nose, aiming upwards. You felt cartridge breaking.

She screamed again and scrambled away as quickly as she could with her injured leg.

Blood was running into her mouth, and when she snarled at you, her teeth were red.

You smiled again, as cheerful as a choir girl.

"Had enough?"

She spat blood at your feet.

You waited, half your attention on the other two. They hadn't yet moved to help her. You weren't sure if it was out of fear of letting Blondie go, or just a strong self preservation instinct.

Green eyes finally gave in. Or more accurately, her leg did. She buckled and fell, knees smacking hard on the tile. You winced.

She looked pale, in the about to pass out sort of way.

You sighed and jerked your head at her.

"Get her to the second floor nurses office. Wrap something around her leg. Tight. She'll live but it's going to hurt a whole lot more if you aren't quick about it."

The other two were looking between you and her, eyes wide.

You wiped the back of your hand across your mouth, still holding the bloody shiv.

That seemed to decide them. They let go of Blondie all at once and grabbed their boss under the arms. Between the two of them, they were able to drag her out.

She left a trail of bright red behind.

When they were gone, you sat on the closest bench, holding your ribs. It hurt to breathe. Hopefully not cracked. You'd have to visit the infirmary as soon as things died down.

"She's going to get even with you," Blondie said.

She was watching you. She hadn't moved from her place. Blood was still running in thin streams down her cheek, like she was crying blood.

"Yep. She's got a lot of friends too. It's not going to be fun."

"Why do you do that?"

"Do what?"

"Act so light hearted about everything. I can see your hands shaking."

You balled them into fists and avoided looking at her. The silence stretched.

Finally, "Why did you really kill your neighbour?"

"I didn't like his face."

"I don't believe you."

"Believe what you want. The court already made up its mind."

She finally moved. Picked up her baton and slipped it into her belt. She grabbed a towel and balled it up, then pressed it against her face. The white starting spotting red almost immediately. You watched her from the corner of your eye.

"Give me the knife."

"It's called a shiv. You should know that."

You rubbed the handle against your pants, getting rid of any fingerprints. Redundant, given there were three witnesses who saw you stab another inmate. Old habits don't really die, you supposed.

You handed it to her without looking at her face.

She wrapped it in a smaller towel and stuck it in her belt.

You could hear faint sirens from beyond the door, and her radio was crackling with orders. The wardens seemed to be getting things under control.

"I'm throwing you in solitary. And then I'm requesting a transfer to another block."

"Aww shucks, I'll really miss you Blondie."

"Not a transfer for me, you idiot. A transfer for you. It won't stop her entirely. There's always a little bit of communication between the blocks, no matter how hard we try and prevent it. But it should give you some time to make friends of your own."

"I've never been very good at that."

"Maybe try being less sarcastic."

She grabbed your upper arm and pulled you to your feet. Her grip was light, a formality more than anything.

"Why did you really save me?"

You couldn't look at her. You shrugged.

"It's like I said. You're the least terrible warden in here. Not a very high bar to be fair, but still."

She started towards the door and you followed.

There were officers coming down the corridor in full riot gear. She waved them down and thrust you towards one.

"Solitary. Protective custody."

"Why?"

Blondie didn't even hesitate. "Because she saved my life."

Solitary wasn't so bad when the other option was tossing and turning on your bunk, just waiting for a knife to your ribs.

You'd almost call it relaxing. Your ribs were bandaged tight and the painkiller the doc gave you left you floating a cloud of dope.

When you heard the footsteps pause outside your door, you didn't bother to get up.

Blondie didn't say anything for a long while. When she finally spoke, it was so soft that you had to strain to hear it.

"I still don't believe you. I don't think you're a cold blooded killer. I think that whatever happened between you and that man wasn't really brought before the court."

You sighed.

"Drop it Blondie."

"No."

Maybe it was the medicine or maybe it was the confession booth feeling of the half dark. Either way, you ended up giving away more than you intended.

"It doesn't matter. If the whole thing was public, it would only hurt people who've already been through enough."

"You had a reason for killing him."

"Yes."

"What?"

"I won't tell you. Won't tell anyone, ever. It's not my story to tell."

"You're in jail because of it. Who else could possibly have more to lose?"

"You'd be surprised."

It was her turn to sigh.

"I'm going to find out eventually, y'know."

"Have fun with that. Don't give yourself a headache."

She sighed again and walked away. You didn't see her again for half a year.

They kept you in solitary for a whole week. Long enough for your ribs to stop hurting and for the bruises to lighten. Long enough for green eyes to be processed and transferred further up state. That was unusual, even if she was the one who instigated the riot. You had a feeling someone pulled some strings behind the scenes. And you had an even stronger feeling about who it might have been.

When you were finally out, you were assigned to a new block. Your stuff was already waiting for you in your new cell, your books and CDs and a new letter from B.

Won't be able to write for a while. I've got something important to work on. Hopefully I'll be back soon.

You couldn't ignore the way that stung. Without meaning to, you'd come to rely on their letters. A little reprieve from the life you were stuck with.

The new block wasn't too bad. You took Blondie's advice and made some friends. Tried to avoid fights as much as possible. If green eyes ever managed to convince someone to get even for her, they didn't go through with it.

Life was, if not good, then at least bearable. You tried ignoring the little nagging part of you that constantly wondered about both Blondie and B. Without either of them you felt...emptier somehow. Lonely.

When a warden came to tell you that you had a visitor, your heart lurched. Your family didn't visit you much anymore. And you cut off your friends the day you got convicted - no need to draw them into your mess. Secretly, you hoped it was B. You had no clue what they looked like, but after six months without heating from them, you were almost desperate.

You smoothed down your uniform before you stepped into the visitors' centre, your eyes sweeping the room for familiar faces.

You noticed her almost immediately. Blondie, her hair tied back in a ponytail and her usual uniform replaced by a flannel shirt and jeans. A man was sitting next to her, his pinstripe suit still neat and pressed despite it being late afternoon.

She didn't even give you time to say hello.

"This is Mark Lawrence. Your lawyer."

You squinted at the man, confused. He was clearly a cut or two above the overworked district attorney who'd handled your case.

"No he isn't. I haven't seen him before in my life."

She sighed, irritated. "Mark is the lawyer I hired to represent you when we go to court next month."

"...Why am I going to court next month?"

"To challenge the original ruling."

"Okay. Why?"

"Because I've found another witness to your case, one that didn't testify last time."

You felt like were slammed face first into a bucket of water.

"Who?"

"The victim's daughter."

"No."

"Yes."

Your handcuffs rattled as your balled your hands into fists.

"She's just a kid. What she needs is to put the past behind her, not relive every minute of it up on the witness stand. No. We're not doing this."

You glared at her and she met you straight on. The tension cracked.

The lawyer finally interjected.

"Knowing the full details of the case changes things dramatically. Your charge goes from first degree murder to manslaughter. We might be able to cut your sentence down to fifteen years or less, with time served contributing."

"No. I'm not putting that little girl up on the stand."

Blondie practically snarled. "Yes. You. Are."

"No. I'm. Not."

"She's so much older now! Practically a teenager. She can handle it. And besides, she said she's happy to do it."

"You spoke to her?"

Could this day get any worse? Why the hell did she have to go and drag up old memories? It must have been just as unpleasant for the kid as it was for you.

"Yes. Myself and the original detective both."

"Why? Is this what you've been doing the past six months? Trying to overturn my sentence?"

She looked away from you for the first time, her ears turning red.

"Yes."

You leaned back in your chair, conflicted and confused more than anything else. You hated to admit it, but a part of really wanted this. Even if the chance was slim, even if it meant another round of dockets and cross questioning. You were tired of prison. You wanted your life back.

You watched the late afternoon sun reflecting off the ceiling.

"I want to talk to her first. And then...maybe."

"Deal." Blondie sounded immensely satisfied.

You kept watching the sun and half listening to the conversations around you.

"Why are you doing this for me Blondie?"

Your voice was awfully soft.

"I'm returning a favour."

Your eyes slid to the lawyer.

"Pretty damn expensive way to do it."

She smirked. "I prefer my method to yours. Requires a whole lot less stabbing."

The kid came to visit you the next day. Blondie was right. She really was almost a teenager. Did time really go by so fast?

You grinned at her.

"Hey kid. Sorry to drag you out to this place, but they don't let me out much."

"I bet."

She'd lost a lot of the baby fat from her cheeks and her dark eyes didn't have the haunted look you remembered so well.

"How's life with your aunt?"

"Great actually. The school is nice and we've got this Great Dane. And she isn't like... well, she isn't like my dad."

That made you happy. The kid deserved something good after everything she'd been through.

She broke in before you could keep asking questions.

"I want to do it. I want to testify against my father."

You paused, your smile fading. You could still hear her voice from that night, high and tinny and begging her dad to stop.

He hadn't stopped. He hadn't stopped beating his little girl until the moment you sunk a knife into his chest.

You swallowed, your mouth tasting like metal.

"Are you sure? It's not going to be easy."

She met your eyes. "I don't care. You saved me. I'm not going to let you rot in a place like this."

When she left, you couldn't help thinking about her eyes. The last time you saw her, she wouldn't even look at your face. Wouldn't say more than three words at a time.

The kid might never outrun her past, but she'd done a damn good job so far.

You tried not to be too hopeful. Homicide was almost impossible to overturn.

You tried not to be too hopeful, but the lawyer Blondie hired clearly knew his stuff. He laid it all out in front the judge.

How you used to babysit the kid when her dad wasn't around. How the man used to get violent when he was drunk, but never hit the kid until that night.

How he wouldn't stop, even though she was bleeding and about to pass out. How you banged at his door and then finally broke in through a back window.

How you found the girl half dead with her father standing over her. Still going at it.

How you grabbed a knife, just to try and threaten him, maybe bring him back to his senses.

How he attacked you. How you stabbed him and then kept stabbing him until he stopped moving. 

How you bundled the kid off to her aunt and then called the cops on yourself.

The whole story this time. No pleading guilty and then sitting back down without another word. No half hearted defense by a state lawyer already over worked and underpaid. No half truths.

It took three weeks of court dates to get through the whole story, with witnesses and cross examination. By the time it was done, you wanted to wash your hands of the whole mess. Innocent or guilty, you just wanted to stop reliving that night.

The judge was a hard faced man who'd seen a thousand criminals come and go. You didn't have much hope for yourself when the bailiff told you to rise for the verdict.

"In the case of the state versus the accused, in regards to the appeal and additional information provided to the court, the court hereby considers this appeal to be..."

You felt your heart stutter. The last time you were in court listening to a verdict the outcome was a forgone conclusion.

"Granted."

You almost sat back down, your knees weak. There's no way. After all this time, were you really about to have your freedom back?

The judge continued, "The accused's sentence has been adjusted to account for time served. The original sentence of life imprisonment with the chance of parole after thirty years has been changed to immediate parole on strict assessment."

The judge looked at you, eyes maybe a little softer than they were before.

"This court will never condone murder, not even in defense of a child. But I think it's clear, young lady, that you've spent more than enough time behind bars."

Your lips felt numb. Your whole future changed in one sentence. In one afternoon. It was staggering.

"Thank you, your honour."

The bailiff read out a list of regulations to follow. Weekly check ins with both a parole officer and a state psychiatrist. No further run ins with the law, not even misdemenaors. If even one person close to you felt you were a threat, they could report it to the police and have you sent back to jail almost immediately. You were on house arrest until further notice. It was possibly one of the strictest parole agreements you'd ever heard.

You didn't care if they told you to do a hundred push ups morning and evening. You were free again. You were going to behave like a damn saint for the rest of your days.

The only hiccup was when he mentioned the address that you were registered to stay at. You raised a brow at your lawyer but he avoided your eyes.

When court was finally dismissed, the first thing you did as a free woman was give Blondie a hug.

She was taller than you, though you'd never realised it before.

"How much do I owe you? When I get a job, we can work out some kind repayment plan."

She waved you away and lead you from the courthouse. You tried to ask your lawyer about the house arrest, but he managed to slip away before you could.

Her car was waiting for you. A new Camaro barely six months old.

You let out a low whistle.

"She's a beauty."

When you climbed into the passenger seat, you were sure to buckle your seat belt. No tickets for you, not ever.

The car started up with a thrumming purr.

It ate away at the road, even in the dense city centre. It wasn't long before you were almost at the city limits and cruising.

"By the way, do you know where I'll be staying? I didn't recognise the address."

You couldn't be sure, but it seemed like her hands tightened on the steering wheel just a tad.

"Mm-hmm. You're staying with me."

What? You couldn't possibly do that to her.

"Thank you. But don't you feel a little awkward having a felon in your home? I've still got my savings from before. I can rent my own place for a little."

"You're staying with me. Do you know how hard it is to get a good apartment with a criminal record?"

"I guessed as much. But Blondie, I already owe you. I can't possibly intrude on your life. Maybe you think you still owe me from that day. You don't. We're square."

She was quiet for a bit, but finally manged to force a smile into her voice.

"No. I'm not doing this because I feel indebted to you."

She kept her eyes on the road, her hand loose and confident on the wheel. Her sleeves were rolled up again and you got your first good look at her tattoos. It was a really well done piece, each small tattoo blending with the others. Mostly fine line work, simple and clean.

"Why are you doing it then?"

She didn't answer.

When you arrived, her house was ranch style with a huge, rolling yard and a neat wraparound porch.

You let out another low whistle.

"How do you afford this on a correction officer's salary?"

"I don't. It's paid off already. I was in the USMC for a long time. The money was good."

"I knew you weren't a normal civvie."

She grinned. "What gave it away?"

"The muscles."

She laughed and pulled your duffel bag from the trunk.

You'd told your parents to donate all your clothes when you were first sentenced. You didn't think you'd ever be free again so why hoard? Someone out there was probably making good use of your Doc Martens and distressed denim. Whatever normal clothes you currently had were what you were locked up with. The outfit on your back and little else.

The suitcase was instead filled with the meagre prison possessions you didn't want to leave behind. Your collection of books. Some postcards. The CDs that B sent you.

Blondie carried it across the lawn like it weighed nothing at all.

Stepping into her house was a surreal experience. You hadn't been inside someone else's home since the night of your crime. Your last few years were exclusive to the grimy and outdated rooms of state buildings.

It was like a breath of fresh air.

Clean, without the tang of cheap, industrial grade bleach. The walls painted and wallpapered instead of just whitewashed. The feeling of finally being somewhere you could relax. Not an in-between place anymore.

Home.

She showed you to your room, a neat guest bedroom across from hers with a double bed and wide windows.

You didn't sit down on the bed or on the neat desk chair. You didn't feel clean enough. You still felt the stink and grime of prison clinging to you.

She raised a brow but showed you where the bathroom was.

It was another taste of freedom. Showers in prison were monitored and timed affairs. No standing under the water and just enjoying the heat, no taking the time to scrub and exfoliate. In and out and done as quick as possible.

You stood under the hot water for a long time, your face wet not just from the spray.

When you finally climbed out, you felt clean for the first time in years.

Blondie was gone when you got downstairs, a hasty note scrawled on the fridge about grabbing you some new clothes. You tilted your head at the handwriting. You could swear it looked so familiar... But no, it couldn't be. That was ridiculous.

You brewed yourself a hot drink, fully intending to sit on the porch and enjoy it. Like a little old woman.

The backdoor was locked.

You frowned. Okay, not that uncommon. Folk kept their doors locked all the time. She probably intended you to use the front door instead.

But that one was locked too.

So were all the downstairs windows. Closed shut with little hatches you hadn't noticed earlier.

You tried not to panic. She was probably just looking out for you. Being careful. You were still a felon. How did she know you weren't going to make a break the second you could, her tv and laptop in tow?

It was fine. You were fine. You can just drink at the table and wait for her to get home. You kept telling yourself that, even as you searched through the kitchen drawers for a spare key.

Nothing.

You didn't want to panic. You'd spent years locked away. Wasn't this much nicer than a cell?

No. Because at least in a cell you had no illusions about your freedom.

You ended up in her bedroom without knowing when you'd gotten there. You didn't dig through her drawers. She'd know instantly. But you did open them all, one by one, as if you'd find the key right on top of her neatly folded shirts.

You found the letters in the last drawer. The one right next to her bed, like she read them every night.

It took you a while to recognise them, even though you were looking at your own handwriting.

Your letters to B. Every single one of them. The envelopes neatly cut open and the letters themselves stacked in chronological order. The most recent one was at the very top and you picked it up with numb hands.

Hey B! Guess who's going back to court. Guess they missed seeing me strutting down the aisle.

Don't worry. I haven't down anything bad (at least not this time). Someone who thinks they owe me a favour has gotten it into their head that the best way to repay me is to get me out of jail.

The legal way, that is. No midnight tunnels or disguises. (Boo. How boring. What happened to romance?)

I don't have much hope, but at least it means a break in the motony. And better chow.

You'd better write me soon. Can't believe I'm admitting this out loud, but I get a warm fuzzy feeling in my heart whenever I get a new letter from you. I think it must be acid reflux.

-your favourite felon.

B did, in fact, write back quickly. For the last time. No return address on their letter. In that, and in so many other ways, it was clear it was the final letter you were getting.

You're the most complicated person I've ever met. Caring and kind but somehow wrapped up in the most sarcastic personality. I've fallen in love with you. Stupid. Incredibly stupid. But it's true.

I love you.

-B

You'd sat in your cell with your eyes almost bugging out of your skull. Wondering what B did to have the misfortune of falling for a girl like you. Wondering if you could have loved them back, if given the chance. Wondering who they really were.

Well, here was your answer. B, the person who wrote you sarcastic poetry and hunted down your favorite books, was Blondie, the warden who owed you her life.

And she was in love with you.

You sat down, knees replaced by those lunch time jelly cups.

No wonder she did what she did. No wonder she paid for an attorney and got your house arrest registered at her house. No wonder she kept the doors and windows locked.

There was a light step behind you and you flew to your feet, the letter still clutched in your fist.

She was standing in the doorway, watching you with cool blue eyes.

"So. You found them."

You couldn't answer.

She stepped into the room, her eyes never leaving yours. She'd taken off her shirt and stood in only her tank top and jeans, her arms lean with muscle. You'd spent years fighting and you knew in one glance that you could never take her. She was stronger. Had years of Marine and police training. It had taken three prisoners and a razor blade to finally hold her. What chance did you have?

"The world isn't built for prisoners. Rehabilitation is hard. What were the stats again? Eight out of every ten end up back in jail before ten years is up?"

She continued towards you, as calm as ever.

"You're safer here. With me. You said you'd be a great housewife remember?"

"I was joking," you managed. "Just kidding around."

She reached you and gently took the letter from your unresisting fingers.

"I won't make you do anything you don't want to. But you're not leaving me. You're not leaving this house."

"Why?"

She smiled, that half smile that gave you a glimpse past her tough guy shell. This time, you didn't like what you saw.

"You know why."

"I'm a terrible person to love. I'm prickly and sarcastic and I suck at doing the dishes."

"I've got a dishwasher."

"All I know how to cook is fried chicken."

She wrinkled her nose. "We'll work on it."

"I snore all night."

"You don't. I've watched you sleep."

"Really?"

"Really. I'd stop outside your cell and just watch you sometimes. I couldn't help it. You're so much calmer when you sleep. It's like seeing another version of you."

She tilted her head and closed the last bit of distance between you, until you could smell her perfume and see the flecks of green in her eyes. You'd never noticed them before.

"There are worse cells than this, aren't there? All you have to do is stay with me. Be happy. Let me love you."

"Do I have a choice?"

She smiled that secret smile again.

"Nope. It's either me or straight back to jail."

It was true. She was a model citizen – a veteran with a clean record as a corrections officer. Even if you did talk to your mandated psychologist or parole officer, they wouldn’t believe you. You’d be the ungrateful prisoner trying to manipulate her way out of house arrest.

You knew it from the start. Rule one - never trust a warden. They never have your best interests at heart. All they want is to cover their own skin and get theirs.