"Sonder"

He loves intensely, purposefully, an obsession. A love that could have been made into a ballad that people misinterpret as pure saccharine love when the truth is that he loves with his claws sinking into your flesh, never letting go. You should scream, flinch from his touch, or push him away with damning words, instead, you turn your head at his throat, take his chin in hand and bite down just as hard, tasting him on your tongue. Like two dragons— no, a falcon tearing at a dragon hatchling.

He has his moments, those soft days where he would lie down upon you, letting his weight fall on you with his hands underneath your chemise, palms right on your stomach as it lays there, resting, content, feeling your warmth. He always seeks your warmth, warm-blooded, with those purple heat seeking eyes. During feasts his hand is around yours underneath the table, a thumb brushing along your pulse point, drawing ancient runes upon your skin. Valyrian runes, you’ve come to know after keenly studying his movements and drawing it on a piece of parchment under the cover of darkness and flipping through old texts to understand them. One is for protection, sweet and caring. A few for life, wishing for longevity. And one for fire, all consuming, death and searing flames.

One day this man will kill you with his love, or mayhaps you end up killing him first.

There were tears in your eyes when you wed him, lips tightly pursed as you mumbled the vows that echoed around the sept. “I am his and he is mine.” You wish it wasn’t true.

When you kissed him, you wished, imagined that it was someone else holding you, someone else who wouldn’t draw blood, someone who would love you just as you love him— softly, tender, and unabashed love. And that someone is Lyonel Baratheon.

No matter how much you protested, cried, kneeled before your father and the Lord hand, but the union persisted, you had no say, you had no power. But now you do, you are now a princess by marriage, married to a prince, who thinks he is a dragon reborn, a dragon you have tamed despite the teeth marks left on your skin.

You did your duty, married him, kept your honour despite your want— your need to be with the Laughing Storm instead. With every kiss granted by your husband, with every touch, every whispered words in your ears, you all wished it was Lyonel kissing you, holding you and whispering at the shell of your ear. Like you always thought it would be. You can’t keep beating yourself up over for wanting a better life for yourself.

You wanted a gallant husband, someone kind and loving. And yet you got a man who struck a knight’s horse and he broke his legs in the process. Thank the seven that it was all he did during the tourney, but you wish that he did something worse, something that would break the betrothal. You feel horrid for wishing it so. But you’re stuck in your gilded cage, holding your husband by the scruff of his neck whenever his father’s eyes are turned away from him, which is almost always.

You’ve been told that you’ll learn to love him, and the ladies of the court giggle and whisper about how much your loving husband dotes on you, always so caring, caressing you, eyes never straying too far from you. But you only tolerate him, and yet somehow, in some odd misshapen way, Aerion Targaryen is utterly devoted to you.

He’s in love, but you wouldn’t call it that when you’ve seen real love from your father and mother, and you’ve felt it with Lyonel. Whatever Aerion feels for you, it’s lust, an obsession. He’s obsessed with you, desiring you. A year of marriage with him and you thought it would wane, but no, it only grew.

He’d whisper atop your sweaty skin, pupils blown, swallowing the sounds you make and kisses you right above your pulse to say, “mine, all mine.” His grip never loosened, nor his kisses ever felt light. As if he’s trying to carve his name inside of you, right in your very soul. Trying to have you forget every other hand that has touched you.

But there’s a part of you that knows his obsession would soon fade because you are not Valyrian, you do not share his features, and you do not have his blood. One day he’ll get bored of you. What would he do to you once he’s grown tired of you? Would he discard you? Would he forsake you for another? Bring shame to your name?

After the wedding, your husband would not leave you at peace, when dawn breaks he’s already on you, pawing at your small clothes, panting in your ear, breath fanning your cheek, asking for your warmth. And after every supper, without fail, he’s immediately on you, ripping his doublet off, eyes staring right into your soul. And you’d take him in your bed, let him unravel you, devour you whole, sometimes, you’d devour him too, you take him as he is. You made it your mission to tame him, to not let him bend you to his will, to never bend over for him. It wasn’t easy, but you learned, you learned how to push his buttons right, where to touch, what to say, and the moment you saw his eyes soften, lips agape, breathing into you and pleading for your touch with tears in his purple eyes, you won. But now he wants more.

Aerion wants a dragon he said, a child born from the union of a falcon and a dragon. A child who will surpass the conqueror himself. A child whose blood runs thick with old Valyria and the Andals. He’s obsessed with the prospect of having you swell with child, to hold onto your belly and whisper high Valyrian prayers onto your skin before the babe is even born.

A year into the marriage and it hasn’t happened yet. You thank the mother for not letting his seed take, when you know he’ll inherit his father’s delusions of grandeur. That you would truly be shackled to his side if you would have a child with him. Because despite everything, he would still be yours, half a falcon, your child.

Aerion is kind enough, a smile here and there, and the conversation is easy with him. An intelligent chat over a game of Cyvasse where he never lets you win, and yet you beat him in a few rounds, knowing his moves already. You two would make fun of a Lord at the great hall, whispering japes in your ear as you stifle a laugh. He’s quite charming, a disarming kind of charm that if you didn’t know better would’ve made you think that he’s not the same man who gazes into the fire at the dead of night whilst muttering a valyrian prayer.

You’d think to yourself, “he isn’t so bad.” But then Aerion does something cruel to someone, he tends to ruin lives that he thinks are insignificant to him. A poor stable boy, who didn’t ready your horse fast enough, a handmaiden, whose only crime is dressing you in your Arryn colours, or a Lord of no renown who looked at you too long. He’s overprotective, to the point that it’s stifling, he has forgotten, or ignores the fact that you could wield a sword just like him.

You could call him a companion at least, but definitely not the husband you always dreamed of.

Where Lyonel has the easy kind of charm, where you find yourself laughing easily around him, where every smile from him is genuine, Aerion isn’t any of that. It’s like pulling teeth with him. Perhaps it’s because your heart is with another that you can never love him the same way, but Aerion was never the right man for you, even if you have met him first, even if you learned to love him, somehow, he does not fit well with you. As if there is something wrong with the union, that you are meant to be somewhere else with someone who isn't him. Before the wedding, the wheel of your carriage broke apart. Your gown was ripped at the hem, the wedding cloak went missing. And during the wedding feast the old king grew ill and collapsed mid-feast. It’s as if fate didn’t want any of this to happen, as if something went wrong and you were not supposed to be here.

Everything feels wrong around the red keep. You shouldn’t be walking these halls, wearing Targaryen colours as you walk arm in arm with your Aunt, as she reassures you that it is not easy to grow heavy with child when she had troubles with it as well with her own Targaryen prince.

“It will soon take.” She says softly, eyes shimmering with sympathy. “Soon you will have heirs of your own. And they shall grow with their cousins.” Her finger fixes a strand of your hair, smiling sweetly at you as you two stand over the balcony overlooking the courtyard.

The sky is gloomy, breeze cold against your skin, freezing the golden rope around your neck that is laden with rubies and two curled dragons meeting in the middle, a gift from your dear husband. It seems that there is a storm coming.

“Heirs to what exactly?” You bluntly answer, you found that dancing around your words doesn’t always go inside the thick skulls of the people at court. You’d rather fling yourself through the moondoor than skirt around them just to try not to offend them. You love your aunt, and she’s great company, but she has spent too much of her time at court that she hasn’t truly lived for herself in a long time. She’s just trying to survive to see the next moon with her children.

Her brows knit together, giving you a pursed look as she squeezes your arm. “Do not say that out loud, niece.” She warns, and you see the real her. Not the polite princess smile, not the smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “You must refrain from saying such things, understand?”

“But, aunt—”

“Promise me.” Leaning close, she whispers, talking amidst the cover of the whistling wind that flutters the skirt of your gown. “The court is volatile, soon it’ll be Baelor on the throne and you and your husband will need to stand in front of him when his older brother can barely see through the fog of wine. I know you do not wish for children, but do not let your wishes be heard by another.”

“This isn’t the life I wanted.” Is all you could muster, too tired to pretend, too exhausted to argue.

You don’t want a perfect love, that is nigh impossible to obtain and you know it so. You just want something that is better than this, something that isn’t volatile, a love that you can be yourself with, a love that is bone achingly real.

“Do you think I wanted this too?” Her voice falters, before clearing her throat and standing upright. As if a curtain fell over her face, your aunt smiles like nothing happened. “Now, shall we have tea in my solar—?”

The heavy doors open in the courtyard, and the unmistakable sound of hooves echoes around as a whole caravan enters the keep. People turn their attention at the arrival, some bow, some look with a pensive expression. One of them is your platinum haired husband, Aerion comes out of the stables, wind swept hair from his afternoon ride that he invited you to come but you declined his offer, citing that you have a headache. He rolled his eyes at you then, scoffing under his breath and yet he gave you a kiss to your cheek.

As always, Aerion manages to find you within the crowd, head tilted up to look at you on the balcony. He gives you a smile, that smile he only gives you across the room, it could be genuine, or it could be feigned, you still have a hard time recognizing which one most days. His boots are already moving to climb up the steps over to you.

You don’t pay your husband heed when a familiar golden banner flusters in the strong wind.

“Seven hells—” the curse dies in your throat as you see the crowned stag on a golden field. “Gods…” Lyonel. His name echoes inside your head, saying it over and over again in a chorus, like a prayer, wishing, hoping it is truly him walking through those doors.

Your hands grip the bannister, leaning over it to look through each face that passes through. There, in the middle of the caravan, wearing the same gold cloak that he draped over your shoulder that night, is your Lyonel. He looks just the same as before, grinning that same grin you fell for, but his eyes, it doesn’t have the same shine to them, as if the light in his eyes were taken from him.

“Wife.” Aerion appears by your side, smelling like grass and the perfume he always asks you to help put on him every morning, which in turn makes you smell like him. His hand immediately finds yours above the bannister, intertwining his fingers with your own. “I thought you were too ill to come outside.”

“Hm?” You had to unstick your gaze from Lyonel as your neck turned to Aerion, eyes still lingering on the stag drenched in gold before finally looking back at your husband. “The maester gave me a tincture to help.”

He doesn’t look too convinced, jaw set, grip tightening around your hand. “Is that so?” He shifts his weight, eyes glancing at the man before flicking over to you. Does he know? Aerion is many things, but he isn’t an idiot. “Sweet aunt, thank you for bringing my wife out for some air. She prefers the comfort of our chambers and less company nowadays.”

“Of course, my prince. I was about to have tea with her, do you wish to accompany us—”

“Not today, aunt.” He flashes her a false smile, before taking you away from her. “I must rest, the ride took the wind out of me. Come.” Tugging you away, you look back at your aunt as she gives you an apologetic look.

You only wish to see Lyonel again, but as you go further into the keep, you could only see a glimpse of his sigil fluttering in the wind. Just like that fateful day on Ashford.

If only you could’ve seen him look up at the balcony just as Aerion took you away.

The walk to your shared chambers was in silence, but you didn’t falter beside him, keeping pace with his longer strides until you reached the doors of your chamber.

Aerion’s hand leaves yours, shutting the doors right behind him.

“Did you really have to embarrass me in front of my aunt like that?” Your arms cross over your chest, facing him head on. “Aerion—”

“I wanted to take a ride with you.” He says, still facing the door as his jaw clenches. “I wanted to bring you to the lake.”

“To drown me perhaps?”

Turning to face you, his expression falls, shoulders tensing. “Do you think of me cruel? No, I wanted to see the sunrise with you.”

“Why?” You blink, hands falling to your side, twisting towards the table to pour yourself a cup of wine. A familiar companion for you nowadays.

“Why?” He lets out a scoff, taking the cup from you as the drink sloshes on the rim. “Is it a crime to want to spend time with my wife?”

“No, it isn’t. But you’re only sweet when you have done something or want something. Which one is it?”

Aerion’s eyes turn away from you, before taking a gulp of the wine. “The latter.” He says lowly, eyes flicking dangerously to yours. “You, I want you.”

This is desire, not love, an all devouring desire that encompasses the prince. It’s all gnashing teeth and nails digging into your hips, not the soft gentle love that has your heart aflutter, not the kind of love you want or deserve.

Nevertheless warmth pools in your stomach. Desire has everyone in its grip, not even you are an exemption. “Why the lake?” Your fingers bring your skirt to wring, trying to tamp out your desire as your eyes rake upon his corded neck.

“Change of scenery.” Shrugging, he puts the rim of the cup over to your lips. “Drink.”

You’re drained, longing for that kind of love that you’ll take whatever warmth is in front of you, and that warmth is Aerion. In his own twisted kind of love, he gives you warmth, arms to hold you when the nights grow cold, a voice that is sometimes tender in your ears, a voice that is real, not a memory. And those intense eyes that never glance away from you, never turning towards another. He may not be the husband you wanted, nor the man you chose to love, but you stayed anyway. Because the alternative is destruction, loneliness, a dishonourable end. And disappointment, you don’t want to disappoint your father. But a year into the marriage, you’re not the same woman you once were, the same woman who wore a threadbare cloak and danced barefoot around Lyonel and a hedge knight like there is nothing else happening in the realm. Now you’re the woman who stays in her seat, nursing a cup in her hand and watches the revelry from far away when you want to join and dance and to laugh carefree again.

“You are insufferable.” And yet you take a drink, and yet you welcome him in your warm embrace. Still, you kiss him with hunger, hold him like he’s about to fly away. And yet your thoughts were on Lyonel the whole time.

—

“Do you know why he’s here?” You blurt out, warm and sweaty under the covers as he lays his head on your chest like always.

“Who?” His cheek is pressed on your skin, cheeks flushed and red, still panting atop you. His index draws the rune for life over your stomach, a prayer.

“Baratheon.” You simply say, if you said his name he would know from how sweet you uttered it.

Aerion hums, a deep rumble you could feel in your ribcage. “Oh, him, his lord father passed.” His breath tickles your bare skin. “Perhaps he was called to bend the knee to grandsire.”

“Why is that needed?” Your fingers rake through his platinum hair that he always melts at the act. “His late father already did that years before.”

His head turns to you, chin resting right on your sternum as his purple eyes tries to gaze into your mind. “He despises us, that’s why.” Us, not him, or his house, us. He believes that you are a part of his house as much as he is, you’re starting to think so too. “Why are you so curious about this Baratheon, hm?”

Why this specific Baratheon? Why this specific man? When there have been plenty of Lords who have walked through the keep and you did not pay them any heed.

“I saw him at the tourney at Ashford. And I will not lie to you but he was almost betrothed to me. He was a suitor.”

“Almost.” Moving, he looms over you, elbows perched on the side of your head as he smugly smiles down. “Almost. But you ended up betrothed to me,” his knee parts your legs under the covers, leaning down to press a kiss on the hinge of your jaw. “Married to me. In bed with me.”

Jealousy is worse than a cup of wine. He’s drunk off it.

“Oh, Aerion.” Taking his face in your hand, you make him look at you. “Are you jealous?”

“A dragon doesn’t concern himself with a mere stag.” Leaning against your touch, he pecks the inside of your palm, all the while gazing into your eyes tenderly.

And yet that mere stag still holds your heart.

—

You hate it when Aerion is right.

The great hall is buzzing with life, it seems that everyone got the news of the new arrival at court. From the Lords and Ladies of the court, to the Baratheon bannermen drenched in their house colours, the great hall is filled with nobles. On the right side of the throne are mostly Targaryens and their kin, watching the other side with pensiveness, some with intense gazes full of suspicion.

You stand beside your husband, staring at Lyonel’s squire whose eyes lingered too long on your face. And yet the young man didn’t flick his gaze away, he even looked at the prince with the same intensity. You surmise that he was staring at you because he recognized you from the tourney, the same girl who was in a raggedy cloak, smiling and dancing with his Lord liege, who is now holding hands with a prince of the blood, clothed in black and red.

Your father settles beside you, face weary, he’s always weary around the red keep after getting the position as master of coin the moment you married Aerion. That was the deal, an exchange, but he now wonders if it’s a worthy one when he sees the weary look on his daughter’s face. The same expression his sister has as she stands alone, her children too young to participate in court, her husband too engrossed in his own mind to ever notice her gone.

The Arryns in the Red Keep are stuck in a gilded cage they have locked themselves in.

You miss your brothers, you miss your mother, and you miss Juniper, who Aerion dismissed without your say when she didn’t bite her tongue when she saw your tear stained cheeks and the love marks all over your skin.

The old King sits on the throne, back hunched, skin pulled taut around his bones. He wheezes, but tries to keep his composure as his son and heir stand beside the throne as the hand pin on his lapel catches the light.

Someone coughs amidst the awkward silence, waiting for the double doors to open as you twist a strand of your hair around your index.

“The gall of this man.” Aerion hisses in-between his teeth, fingers digging into your hand tenderly. “Mayhaps we shouldn’t have wasted our time coming here.”

“We were called upon, Aerion.” Sighing, your eyes are glued to the doors, waiting impatiently, feet shifting, hair pulled by your index.

“Stop that.” He takes your wrist away from your hair, pushing it back to your side. “It’s unbecoming.”

“I cannot help it.” You bite back, eyes steely at your husband instead of unabashed love.

You feel your father’s guilty eyes bore into your back.

“Then try to, my sweet.” Aerion tugs your hand to his side again, weaving his long fingers around your own, engulfing your palm.

You tug back, harder, until his hip hits your own. “No.” Taking your braid, you twist it around your finger, adding to his frustration.

“Now who’s being insufferable?” His breath brushes along the shell of your ear, you could feel his desire roll off him from your petulance.

“We both are,” your head cranes to look into his eyes, not backing down, nor folding underneath his gaze. “guess we are in fact perfect for each other, husband.”

The corner of his lip curls, a chuckle bubbling in his throat. Then the doors open with a loud creak, announcing his arrival.

Murmurs bounce off the stone walls as the herald thumps his cane against the floor.

There, standing like he owns the castle, in all his glory, sun shining on his back, drenching him in more gold, is Lyonel himself.

“Lord Lyonel Baratheon, Lord of Storm’s End, Lord Paramount of the Stormlands, the Laughing Storm.”

The cane smacks again, and Lyonel finally moves.

Your heart cinches in your chest, tighter than how Aerion is holding onto you. You haven’t seen him in a year, you’ve longed for him for a year, said his name in your head for a year so you would not forget it, so you wouldn’t forget his face. He looks just the same as you remembered, more handsome than you imagined in your mind at the dead of night.

Seeing him this close is guttering, when you thought you have controlled your longing for Lyonel, it rears its head whenever your thoughts grow heavy, stronger, more heart wrenching than the last good bye. Gods, you missed him, you still love him.

He still has his cloak on, draped over his shoulders, a golden river dragging right behind him. The same earring you felt in-between your fingers dangles in his lobe, and those dark eyes, the eyes you’ve gazed into lovingly, tried to imagine in your year long longing is finally right in front of you.

Lyonel isn’t wearing his stag crown, he isn’t an idiot, and he doesn’t have a death wish when it could be seen as traitorous in front of the King. He doesn’t wish to see the stranger just yet when his eyes subtly glance around the crowd looking for you.

There, right beside the bastard he loathes, is you. Still the same woman he danced with through the night, the same woman he talked to beside the river and laid your heart for him as he showed you his soul. You’re the same woman he fell madly and deeply in love with. Lady Arryn, he should’ve known from the start it was you, no longer in a threadbare cloak, no longer having the same smile he always looked for in the crowd.

It’s cruel how they took the light from your eyes. How cruel it is to subject you to this shackled life when you should’ve been soaring freely.

Lyonel couldn’t help the scowl from appearing on his face the moment he sees Aerion’s hand wrapped around your own in a bone crushing hold.

You interpret his expression as fury, anger towards you, and what’s left of your heart shatters.

A year at court and nothing has fazed you, nothing threw you off guard, whatever Aerion says bitingly never truly hurt you in a way that matters. But Lyonel’s anger, his thunderous fury, is the one thing that pained you so.

Aerion’s eyes glances at you, fingers loosening around your hand for a moment. “Wife, you look sickly.”

“Headache.” You simply say with the lump in your throat. “I feel ill, Aerion.” You watch as his intense eyes turn tender, the edges of his face softening as his grip turns loving. “Take me away from here.”

He inhales deeply, arm curled around your back. His purple eyes flashes with something. Was that sympathy? “Come.”

The prince leads you away, parting the crowd for the both of you just as you hear the King greet Lyonel.

If only you saw how his head moved, following you as you walked away from his life once again.

—

“Is there a chance that you are with child?” Aerion asks as he places a cold damp cloth over your forehead. His touch is gentle and caring, a glimpse of a better man.

“No, I am not.” Eyes shut, you don’t see his face tighten at your words. “I may be barren, Aerion, you mustn’t hold up hope.”

Water splashes on your face as you crack an eye open.

“Don’t talk like that, my love.” He calls you that as if it is true. Perhaps it is true in his mind, but you don’t see it. You never felt it, only glimpses of that love when he’s soft and pliant after a coupling, or when the morning sun shines on his face as he slept. Just a glimpse of what could’ve been. “We shall have a dragon, I’ve seen it.”

“They’re dreams, my prince. Nothing more.” Shaking your head, you feel his sword roughed hand cup your stomach. “I’ve heard the whispers, you know, from your grandsire’s men.”

His jaw tightens, moving at the hinges as he huffs a breath. “What kind of whispers?” He knows.

“That you should just annul our marriage when there hasn’t been a child born from our union.” His head falls, and yet hope blooms in your chest as you give him the idea, planting it in his head. “The high septon would allow it so—”

“But I do not.” His tone lowers dangerously, his hand gripping onto the blanket over you. “I will not. You are my wife until the stranger comes for us. And I know we will have a child soon, that is not cause for an annulment. We do not heed the words of men beneath us.” He utters it with absolute certainty.

Perhaps this is Aerion’s version of love. And it’ll be your undoing.

“It’s this fucking air.” He vaults from the bed, a hand raking through his hair as the sun shines on him. He faces the opened window, shutting it with a slam. “We are not the only ones having trouble having a child, Valarr and his wife, my uncle…” exhaling, his nostrils flared with frustration. “It’s this damned keep.” You could practically see his head churning.

“Aerion—”

“We shall move to Summerhall. Where the air doesn’t smell like piss and death, and there will be no annoyance there apart from my father and siblings.” With quick strides, he moves over to you, taking your hands, and laying his head on your stomach, cheek pressing upon your skin, hearing your insides curl and groan. Under the light, he looks lovely, so innocent, so in love. “It’ll just be us.”

“Just us.” You mutter back, chest feeling tight, eyes wide as he leans for a kiss upon your shocked lips. “What if I die in my birthing bed? That you have to choose between me or the babe just like King Viserys did with his Queen Aemma.”

“No,” his palm cups your face, heavier than before. His desperation and fear ebbs from his hold. “That will not happen, you are healthy and still young, if it comes to that I…” Aerion falters, Aerion doesn’t falter. But he does in this instance, chiseled face contorting right in front of you. “It will not happen. Say it back to me, my love.”

“It won’t happen.”

—

The feast the King held in honour of the Laughing Storm came as a surprise to everyone, but not to you. You always knew that Lyonel could befriend anyone, even the people he hates.

He’s performing, quite well in fact as he sits beside the King on his left, laughing and conversing with the old man, whom you haven’t heard laugh this hard ever. Baelor has this polite look on his face, he always has that expression, a retrained face that he never lets slip in front of anyone.

The music is jaunty and happy, the same music that was playing in Lyonel’s pavilion the day you danced with him. Perhaps he asked for it to be played, or perhaps it’s fate mocking you.

You’re at the end of the long table in the great hall, seated beside your aunt and her mumbling husband as Aerion picks at his food. You wish to look at Lyonel, but you’re afraid that once you do, you’d sob and break.

“You must eat, niece.” Your aunt piles another piece of ham onto your plate. “Having an empty stomach won’t do you any good.”

“You need to keep your strength up for when the babe comes.” Aerion declares as if you are already with child. You know you are not when all your illnesses were feigned.

“What babe, Aerion?” Your spoon twists in your hand as you turn pointedly at him. “The maester confirmed it, I am not with child.”

Aerion’s jaw clenches, biting his lower lip as he chuckles dryly above the rim of his cup. “Then why are you always ill, hm? Or was it all feigned?” He knows, Aerion has always been good at reading people, but not always with you. You keep to yourself, a closed book that he’s desperate to read.

“Would you even love the child?” You ask, heart already broken as it lies beside your feet. “Or do you just love the prospect of having one before your cousin does?”

His goblet slams against the table as wine spills over the glass. The conversation around the hall silences, heads turning towards the source.

Head lowering, a hand grasping at your skirt in a grip, his eyes narrow at you. “The child is mine, ours, do you think me so vain and cruel to not love my own? The proof of our love?”

Taking his hand atop your skirt, you unfurl his fist, taking his fingers slowly until it’s around your hand instead. “Do you actually love me, Aerion?”

His narrowed eyes blink, twisting into softness, irises blooming, lilac eyes turning almost black. His breath hitches in his throat, a thumb brushing along your palm, as his jaw is unclenched, features softer, kinder. “Why would you even ask me that?” You’ve never heard his voice sound so small, so delicate, a tone broken at the edges with hurt. “Am I still not enough?”

“What—?”

“Why did you even marry me?” Hurt flashes across his face, a brief moment of vulnerability before his jaw clenches, fisting your skirt, lashes clumped together, before he abruptly stands up, fuming.

He’s hurting, why is he hurt?

“Aerion—” You vault from your seat to follow him, but a hand stops you, rough, sword calloused familiar hands. Following the source of the ringed hand, you see the Laughing Storm himself. “My Lord Lyonel…”

“My Lady.” Lyonel appears in front of you like in your dreams, giving you that same sweetened smile that has doomed you to love him forever. “If your husband permits it, may I have this dance?”

“Lyonel…” You take a deep inhale, air stuck in your throat as you gawk at him. “I’m— I’m afraid my husband is feeling quite ill. He left.”

Everyone has their eyes on you and the Lord of Storm’s End, whispering amongst each other, keenly watching the interaction. It does not help when the king and Baelor are keeping watch also, making sure that you and Lyonel act that is befitting your station. They know that he was once your suitor.

“How…unfortunate.” And yet his amused smile betrays his words. Lyonel’s hand slides down from your wrist and over to your hand, a thumb brushing along your palm tenderly. “Then, may I have this dance, my Lady Arryn?”

You let out a choked laugh, a genuine one as you go around the table and over to him. “It’s Lady Targaryen now actually.”

“Oh, yes, my apologies.” He doesn’t mean it as he guides you towards the middle of the room with the rest of the court as they dance to the beat of the drums and harpsichord.

The crowd parts for the two of you, bowing down respectfully, whilst sharing glances with each other from the delicious gossip happening right in front of them.

Your gaze flickers down to the joined hands, a sight you never thought you’d ever see again. You feel for his callouses, the same one you tried to recall in your head whenever Aerion held yours in his slender hand.

“You need not worry, my Lady.” Lyonel whispers to you, smirking underneath the candle lights as his familiar earring catches the light. “I will stay at a perfectly respectful distance.” Just as he says it, he pulls you in against him, a hand on your waist, fingers pressing gently. Whilst the other glides across the length of your arm, touch lingering until his fingers intertwine with yours. “Comfortable?”

“Very much so.” You shudder, breath stuck in your throat as you gaze at the joined hands, feeling the familiar warmth blossom in your chest. “Hello, Lyonel.”

“Hello, my doe.” His eyes are soft, a lopsided smile that has you chuckling under your breath.

“I haven’t heard that in a while.”

“Gods, I cannot believe that I’m standing in front of you again.” He utters just for your ears only, the Laughing Storm, who prides himself in his loud voice, whispers to keep you safe in the wandering eyes and ears of the court. A bright grin spreads across his rakish face, bottom lip bitten to stifle a laugh bubbling in his throat as his eyes sparkles with mirth. Lyonel says your name, saccharine and honeyed, as if no time has passed between you, as if he has been practicing saying your name during your absence so as to not forget the taste of it on his tongue.

“You look quite well, Lyonel.” Your voice is as tender as his hold upon your waist. Whilst you two dance along the memorized practiced steps like the crowd around you, you see his mask fall.

“For a man so heartbroken, I do look quite handsome, hm?” He starts to lean against your face to nuzzle at your neck, until he remembers where he is. He’d give anything to hold you affectionately again, like that day in Ashford where he danced through the night with you until you were laughing in his arms and saying his name like a lover would.

Your brows furrow, guilt flashing in your eyes, regret marring your pretty face. “I’m sorry. I should’ve fought harder—”

“None of that.” Shaking his head, earring dangling with every movement, a curl falls over his face that you intensely want to move away to see his eyes fully. Lyonel’s smile falls, dark eyes glossing over with the same grief as he tips your chin up with his index and thumb. “None of that, my love. There was naught to be done. I would’ve fought tooth and nail for you but when I awoke from my injuries after the tourney to announce you as my queen of love and beauty as rightfully so, you were gone with the blonde headed bastards.”

“The princes wanted it to be done quickly to rein in Aerion. They thought I could do that, pull him away from unchivalrous deeds or perhaps change him.”

“Well, did you?” Brows knitted together, his steps glide across the floor as your skirts whirl around the two of you. “You’re quite good at that but you’re not a miracle worker.”

“I tamed him at most. Smooth out his edges but…” shutting your eyes tightly, he waits, Lyonel has always been patient with you, unlike Aerion who pulls and tugs at you towards what he wants, but not towards what you need. “I don’t think you’d like to hear how I managed it.”

Stormlander fury bursts in his eyes. “Has he hurt you in any way?”

You purse your lips, giving him a wobbly smile. “Not in a way that matters.”

“You shouldn’t be here.”

“I know.” Your tone breaks in the middle as the crowd continues to dance around the two of you, obscuring you from your kin. “I’d give anything to be away from here. Aerion has his moments, where I could see his love, but not always…not always.”

“I scarcely recognized you in these colours, I scarcely recognize you at all, my doe.” Lyonel, strong, defiant Lyonel, who would face the storm himself with a booming laugh breaks in front of you.

“And you, you look just like in my dreams.” His face cracks at your painful confession. “I thought you had forgotten about me, Lyonel.”

“I would never.” What have they done to his falcon? They’ve taken your talons and cut your wings, so much so that it has taken the warmth from your eyes. “I did promise you, haven’t I? That I’ll come looking for you, if only you have made it easier for me by telling me of your true nature.”

“That was quite foolish wasn’t it?” You look at him apologetically. “I did plan on telling you the next day, or mayhaps run far away with you if you would have me but that was also a maiden’s foolish desire.”

“Very much so, my Lady.” Lyonel twirls you gently, before you meet with him again in the middle. “But not the latter. When was the last time you danced?”

“At my wedding feast.” Swallowing the lump in your throat, you feel the back of your eyes warm, tears threatening to spill over. Whether from sheer relief and happiness or grief, you do not know, but you don’t let it spill.

“Tell me that isn’t so.” His heart breaks for you one more time whilst his hand squeezes you.

“Unfortunately it is.” Sniffing, you blink away the tears. “My husband isn’t one for dancing. Nor revelry.”

“You don’t belong here.”

“I know. I feel like I don’t belong anywhere.” His hands lift you by your waist briefly, keeping up with the crowd. Keeping face when there are far too many eyes around.

“What have they done to you?”

“I’ve told you, nothing that would matter.” Your gaze roams around warily.

Lyonel stops abruptly, hands still on your body as his shoulders tighten, jaw clenching as he breathes out a shallow breath. “It matters when your smile doesn’t reach your eyes, when you flinch at loudness, when you don’t look like yourself. They made you into this…this shackled thing and clipped your wings.”

“I’m surviving.”

“Not living.” Lyonel’s anger isn’t pointed at you, but at the people seated at the highest table. “This isn’t the life you deserve, my love.” When he calls you that, you truly believe him that he does love you, as simple as that. As easy as that.

“Lyonel,” a tear escapes from your eye as you quickly wipe it away. “It gladens me to see you here but why are you here?” Your voice cracks, terrified for his sake. “You said you came to look for me but here I am. What now?”

“To ask you what you want. To give you a choice that they took away from you.”

“Lyonel…”

“Do they know of the story at the lake with the fire? Do they know what you are capable of?” His grip onto your hands turns bruising before loosening, thumbs caressing along your skin as an apology. “Not just being their pretty princess to bring more half baked dragons into this world. The real you, the one who fought a man twice as large as her and lived, the version of you who challenged me from across the room without faltering. The woman who wedged herself in my heart and clung there as I fell for her. You do not deserve this life, you’re supposed to soar, not to be kept in this cage.”

You finally break in front of him. Tears stream down your face as he brings his sleeve over to your cheeks, wiping the tears away gently.

“My love, my doe.” His hands cup your face gingerly in his hands, not because he’s afraid that you will break, but because he’s afraid that they will take you away from him if he holds on tighter. “What do you want? Your wish is my command.”

You meet with his eyes, finding no lie nor jest in those dark eyes you dream about, eyes that you adore so much. Your next words break you. “Will— will you take me away from here?”

It’s what he wanted to hear from your lips, it’s what he predicted you would ask of him. He didn’t bring a whole army with him for no reason. He might have kneeled before the King and swore a vow, but what is that vow worth to be with his great love? Knights have traded their honour for far worse things, unchivalrous things, but this, saving you and taking you away from this wrenched place is part of his vow as a knight. Protecting the innocent. For him that is the most consequential vow, not the one he swore to a bloodline that has done worse to his realm.

“I know it’s too much of an ask, please forgive me, just forget it—”

“Yes.” Lyonel’s eyes spark with determination. “Why do you think I came all this way?”

—

In the dead of night, you stare at your husband’s sleeping face. He almost looks angelic under the moonlight, peaceful, pleasant. With your letters shoved under your father’s chamber door, explaining to him what you’ve done and telling him to go back home if he was smart. And with ravens flying towards Storm’s End and the Vale, you lean down to Aerion’s sleeping face and kiss his forehead.

He smells of wine, he drank himself to sleep after the feast, he never does that. You may never know why he acted that way, or why he said those words to you, as if you were his great love and not just someone to breed and call his own. But you don’t care enough for his reasoning when he has already carved his name into your ribcage. It’ll forever be there like a scar that won’t heal, but it’s a reminder of your family’s failings, a reminder that you survived it, a reminder that you lived to be with the one you were supposed to be with.

You’ve got a lot of regrets, maybe you should’ve accepted Lyonel’s proposal the moment the letter landed on your table instead of whinging about it. Perhaps you would already be married to him, save yourself some hurt. Or perhaps fate weaved another path for you and Lyonel to be together instead, one of those paths lay before you now as you grab your cloak and clasp it over your shoulders.

You’ve shed every Targaryen heraldry from your body as you wear your house colours once again, a brilliant blue with a soaring falcon right on the bodice. Mayhaps you may wear Baratheon colours one day. For now, you must leave all this behind.

Turning away, you stop abruptly at the weak tug on your skirt.

Aerion’s holding onto the silk of your gown, eyes half lidded and fogged from the wine as it dulls his senses, weakens his façade.

“My wife…” he sighs out, collar stained with wine, fingers curled weakly around your gown. “Where…where are you going?”

Taking his hand, you slowly unfurl his fist. “Somewhere that isn’t here.”

“Don’t— Don’t go.” You almost falter at how soft and tender he is. “Please…my love.”

Taking a shuddered breath, you kneel before him on the settee, placing a kiss right on his knuckles. He’s awfully drunk, he will never remember this conversation.

“Did you really love me, Aerion?”

“Why wouldn’t I?” He licks at his dry lips, brows furrowed, face contorted into hurt. “I did— I do. I do love you.”

“Then let me go peacefully.” You don’t cry for him, instead you mourn what could’ve been.

He could’ve been good to you if he showed his love that doesn’t leave bite marks, a love that you only see briefly whenever he lays his head against your chest, a strand of your hair curled around his finger as he listens to the beat of your heart. He loves like he’ll never love ever again, a love that he’s afraid would be taken away from him forcefully. So he loves fiercely, agonizingly devout, a terrifying desire to be loved back. He loves with dragon fire that ended up burning you. And it’ll burn him too if he doesn’t change.

Aerion hums, something in him wants to hold on tighter, to fight, to yank you back to his side. But the wine warms his insides, the wine hinders his thinking. His eyes close again, he must be dreaming an awful dream.

Soft breaths fill the shared chambers once again. And you finally pull away, placing his hand atop his chest as you hitch your skirts and flip the dragon tapestry away to reveal the hidden passage out of the castle.

Lyonel greets you in the dark together with his bannermen that are all armoured up with their swords at their hips, ready to fight beside their liege Lord if need be.

His beaming grin could light the way for you as he holds a hand up for you on his horse.

“Was there trouble?” He asks, voice laced with concern as he yanks you up on the horse.

“No,” you sit behind him, arms curled around his middle as you lay your cheek against the cool steel of his armour. “No trouble, let us go, Lyonel.”

The Laughing Storm doesn’t need another confirmation as he rides away with you. Just like he dreamed of. Just like he once promised.

—

The noise from Aerion’s chambers wakes the whole castle when he found out about your treachery. He wields his sword, swinging it around the room as he breaks everything inside. And on the other, he grips your necklace, the one he has fashioned just for you. He holds on it so tightly that it draws blood upon his palms.

No one could calm him down. The one person who could is now miles away from him, riding away with another man.

Shards of glass fling away, broken wood lay littered across the floor where he once had you. The bed wasn’t spared, goosefeathers fly around him as he stabs and slashes at the bed that still smells like you.

“I want Lyonel Baratheon’s head!” His guttural screams carry around the keep.

To Aerion, you were kidnapped, taken from him while he was at his most vulnerable. To him, you loved him just like he has loved you. To him, Lyonel Baratheon is malignant, a vile and evil man. And the prince has cursed his name, and named him as the sworn enemy of the crown for what he has done.

The heir and the Lord hand himself writes an urgent letter to his younger brother, and another asking Lyonel to give you back to your husband before anything untoward happens, before a war breaks between the noble houses that were once kin.

Your father and aunt left the red keep before Aerion’s anger flooded the castle. They’re headed over to you and plead with you to go back to your husband. Lyonel has closed his borders to them and anyone that allies with the crown.

Ser Duncan greeted you and Lyonel at the door of Storm’s End, he did not look quite happy at the turn of events, but once he met with your eyes and saw the grief and pain underneath them, he understood why Lyonel had to take you away. He has sworn his sword and shield to him, and in turn, before he was in Lyonel’s care, he swore to you first.

And as you lay beside Lyonel in Storm’s End, with your hand in his curls as he lays upon your chest, smiling and telling you stories of what you missed. You ignore the lightning and thunder outside, and you tuck away the looming conflict around the realm as you laugh and smile with your great love with a lighter heart. The light in your eyes slowly comes back, and Lyonel finally feels that he is complete.

And yet, despite all the happiness that you could feel in your bones, there’s a war coming. And you started it.

Hobie never liked being in Miguel’s lab.

Granted, he’s always had a fascination with machines. All those years of dumpster diving and sneaking into junkyards helped him sniff out some useful parts and cool trinkets to fix, even if they would be better off being stripped down for copper and aluminum to sell. It wouldn’t be too far-fetched for someone to think Hobie would be in heaven in this futuristic laboratory with all of the gadgets and gizmos.

But no. It’s just a cold, dark metal cell with flashing lights straining the punk’s eyes.

Hobie lets out a scoff as he stares up at Miguel on top of his stupid workstation platform– work down here on t’ ground like a normal bloke, ya pretentious prick. Orange holographic screens hover around the towering man, video feeds of different spider-people running around in their patrols displayed all around him. Meanwhile, the older spider taps along on his control panel like some glorified security guard. With a whirring hiss the platform descends– almost at a snail-like pace– as the red streaks on his suit glow amid the darkness.

In the three months Hobie’s been recruited in this strange Spider Society, he’s still not sure what to make of its elusive leader. Miguel is either this formidable spider scientist Cassie raves about…or some neurotic quasi-nudist under that holographic suit fucking off to his inventions. Either way Hobie can’t ignore that sick twisting in the pit of his stomach every time he’s in this mechanical room, the flashing amber lights within the dark lab akin to warning signs to the punk. Hobie’s hands drop to his sides, his calloused fingers brushing against the metal wall until they run along a small protruding panel. He pops it off with ease before pocketing it like nothing happened.

The rich bastard can afford to buy another part like this anyway.

A thrum of tingles blooms along the punk’s side, and Hobie glances over to the yellow-clad spider beside him. Cassie stares up at him through her white-streaked bangs, her eyes steadfast and expectant. It reminds Hobie of that old German Shepherd that used to scare him away when he was a kid. It wouldn’t bark at him, nor growl at him, but those eyes would always follow him every time he passed by, lingering only on him until he ran away. Cassie’s eyes, although not as hardened or wary as the German Shepherd’s, still pierce through him the same way, still fixated on him until he slips up.

Hobie averts his eyes back to the lowering platform. As fond as he is of the yellow spider after a few months of being partnered up, her habit of staring still unnerves him.

The platform lands with a loud slam, and the flurry of tingles under Hobie’s skin subsides when Cassie finally looks away. Although with the brief reprieve follows a new prickling in the back of his head, and Hobie schools his scowl away as the towering older spider turns towards the teens. Even with Hobie straightening up his back to his full height, with his boots platformed to make himself taller, Miguel still looms over the teen with his shoulders hunched over.

It annoys Hobie to no end, petty as it is.

Shadows blanket across Miguel’s face, orange and yellow lights from the holograms pulsing behind him. Hobie’s skin crawls under the older spider’s scrutiny, the hint of red in Miguel’s eyes piercing through the darkness against flickering amber.

Pixelated glitches of orange pop around the older man before a tiny holographic woman flickers by Miguel’s ear, her humming outline illuminating the side of his face.

“Finally,” Lyla groans as she glitches into a perch on Miguel’s shoulder, and the older spider side-glances at the AI with a weary frown. “You’ve been up there for who knows how long! God, you’re worse than some of these teenagers here, having your eyes be glued to a screen–”

“Lyla–”

“I swear, do you know how bad your tunnel vision is? It’s like one word floats into your ear and spills out the other–”

“Lyla–”

“And don’t even get me started with your posture, hunching over the keyboard like Dracula or something! The least you could’ve done is raise the workstation, that way you won’t have to deal with the risk of back pain–”

“LYLA!”

The holographic woman glitches from Miguel’s shoulders and pops up between the two younger spiders, raising her hands up in cheeky surrender. “Hey, I’m just looking out for you, boss. Can’t have my creator be a shriveled up old man with arthritis before he hits forty–”

“Thank you, Lyla,” Miguel’s eye twitches as he steps off the platform. “You are dismissed.”

Blowing a glitchy raspberry, Lyla floats back with her signature shit-eating grin towards the young spiders.

“At least I broke the ice between you guys. Good luck!”

And with that, the holographic whirlwind flickers away, leaving the exasperated elder and dumbfounded teens alone.

“...Shall we move on to the reports, you two?”

“Right…”

“Yes, sir…”

Miguel shakes his head in resignation as he taps on his watch before more holographic screens pop up behind him. The screens display some familiar sights to Hobie: that dull classroom, the graffitied alleyway, the view of the scenic cityscape–

“It has been four weeks since you two have been assigned this mission to Earth-318,” Miguel begins as he pulls up more holographic screens behind him, revealing more public spots Hobie recognizes. “Have you two made progress on your respective objectives?”

Hobie’s eyes flick over to the sudden jolt of movement in his periphery as Cassie straightens up in front of the elder spider.

“W-well, sir,” the yellow spider taps on her watch before a pink beam shoots up from her wrist, “it’s taking a little longer than expected, but I believe I’ve made steady progress...”

The beam disperses into particles, drifting around the trio like glittering dust, before swirling into a map of the Boroughs– each one split into puzzle pieces slowly coming together. A bright yellow line shoots through the map, colliding into three different marked coordinates until it forms an outlined triangle.

“Based on the feedback Lyla provided for me from the spider-bots before they were taken, as well as the frequencies from the remaining active ones, I managed to detect three signals– two within the upper Brooklyn area and one in lower Manhattan.”

Cassie reaches her hand out towards the pinging dot hovering over the edge of Manhattan, flexing her fingers before the hologram shifts from the map into a glitchy, run-down building. “The strongest signal is emitted from this building in Manhattan’s Chinatown, although from what I can tell from surveillance–” her fingers tap along the screen of her watch before pulsing lights flicker from the small holographic building and tiny wandering figures flood inside it– “it’s a lot more active at night.”

Multiple holographic beams shoot out from the building, displaying enlarged wanted posters of various criminals. Hobie’s eyes flick over to a familiar face amongst the holograms– a nervous gaunt man staring at the camera, his skin and clothes dusted in sand and grit. He fights the urge to wince as the paper-like cuts on his skin sting from the last encounter. The punk also recognizes the familiar calling cards from the others– a feathered winged harness on a bird-like geezer, electric sparks crackling from a woman’s fingertips, a hideous green mask shielding a man’s face.

Hobie fights the urge to flip that particular rogue off; he doesn’t need any reminders of Osborn right now.

“From what I can tell, a lot of the rogues from this universe gather around this particular venue,” Cassie continues as the holographic wanted posters glitch away. “More than likely, it’s a secret meeting hub for them, possibly to pass along intel and other deals away from the public. I am still working on hacking into their security system, but…”

A frustrated grimace flickers on the girl’s face as she taps along her watch, only for a red flashing X to pop up in front of the building, “It seems they have some kind of electromagnetic interference around the perimeter.”

Cassie turns her eyes onto Miguel, her jaw clenched and her eyes hardened with determination. “It’s only a minor issue though. I can still figure out a way to mitigate it, but the security system here will still take some time to be fully infiltrated, even without the EMI.”

A few more padded taps from her fingertips echo within the lab as two new holographic images flicker in the air. One is a wanted poster of a masked man clad in purple with a clawed gauntlet. The other is a screenshot of a glitched out figure in front of the bar.

“Besides that hiccup,” Cassie stares up at the displays with a mix of frustration and caution, “there are also two particular rogues who can be possible obstacles for this mission. One–” the image of the masked man enlarges– “is a variant of the Prowler. He frequents this area, but he generally patrols in the upper Brooklyn area, particularly in central Bed-Stuy and southern Bushwick.”

The lowest coordinate point glows brighter as the holographic wanted poster shrinks back next to it. “This particular Prowler is more of a stealth-based rogue compared to the others in the multiverse, but he’s still capable of hand-to-hand combat. However…”

Cassie’s face pinches up into a harsher scowl, one Hobie has often seen on her during her little ‘slumps’ in missions. “The most concerning aspect of this variant is his potential engineering prowess. Based on the surveillance and fluctuating frequencies within Bed-Stuy, he may be one of the more technically-adept Prowlers.”

A pink glitch crackles in the air before another holographic screen pops up, this time showing a recording feed. A man shrouded in violet and black hunches over a work table through a window, his gauntlet-sheathed hand holding a mechanical spider. Multiple wires spill from the underbelly of the spider, swaying in the air under the mercy of the rogue. Sharpened fingertips trail down the wires, grazing the rubber-like covers as if tempted to cut down a slit, until they tap against the hanging chip at the end. White lights hum through the chip, twinkling through tiny transparent tabs. The masked man grasps the chip between his fingertips, raising it up in the air under tungsten light, the white blinking from the chip eclipsed by the amber overlight.

The robotic spider twitches in his hand, metal limbs pitifully scuttling in the air, an unfortunate victim under the rogue’s mercy.

His clawed finger tugs at the chip, the blade-like fingertip tucked beneath the wires, before the Prowler finally cuts the heart of the robot out. The white light from the spider flickers out as it falls limp, but the purple-clad man just tosses the metal corpse at the pile of its lifeless brethren.

The holographic screen flickers away as Cassie continues her report. “The fact that this Prowler was able to bypass most of the security measures for all of the spider-bots should be noted for the mission. According to Lyla, typically if someone were to attempt to hack access, the spider-bot would–”

Sparks of orange light flash back in front of the elder spider’s face, nearly blinding Miguel.

“Go KABOOM–" Lyla cuts in with a cheeky smile before glitching back to Cassie’s shoulder. “Sorry, had to get it out of my system. Well, not in my system, but y’know what I mean–”

“Lyla,” Miguel groans as pinches the bridge of his nose, “don’t interrupt Cassandra’s report–”

“Dang, can I at least get a please out of it–?”

“Lyla–”

“W-well,” Cassie steps in with a sheepish smile, her hands up in the air in a placating manner, “Lyla isn’t wrong, but…”

The smile soon falters as she glances back at the miniature wanted poster hologram, “the fact he didn’t set any of them off is still a huge concern. If possible, we may need to upgrade some of our security protocols in the remaining bots’ software.”

A low grunt rumbles from the older spider as he snaps his fingers, and a holographic keyboard flickers in place. With a quick flutter of his fingers, the keyboard lights up where his fingertips hover before glitching back out.

“Continue, Cassandra.”

Hobie fights the urge to roll his eyes, but Cassie eagerly nods. “The Prowler would be manageable to take care of by himself, but…”

As she trails off, the light in her eyes dim as she squares her shoulders. New tingles ebb through Cassie, washing over Hobie in a twisted wave until he swallows down the urge to gag. The glitched screenshot enlarges in front of the group– a towering distorted figure stands in front of the building, staring back at them with glowing red eyes. A wicked grin stretches across the pixelated face while the figure holds a digitally-gnarled block of a hand up in the air.

“I’m afraid this particular rogue will be the biggest issue for us.”

More pixelated images explode across the holographic map, all with the same glitched out figure staring back at the camera with variations of the same wicked grin, no matter what it’s doing. Walking across the street, exiting a corner shop, even riding in the bus– those red eyes taunt the camera, as if already winning a sick game forced upon the spiders. Hobie glances back at Cassie, who exudes pulses of frustration as she glares at the mysterious figure.

“As of right now, I have no discernible match of who this variant is,” the yellow spider sighs, her voice wavering in discontent. “No matter how many times I try to surveil them, whether through the spider-bots’ live feeds or through the security cameras throughout this universe, I can’t get a good enough scan to identify–”

“No need.”

The air drops into a bone-chilling standstill, prickling goosebumps along Hobie’s skin. His eyes drift over to Miguel, only to meet cold red eyes shooting daggers at the image. A large vein pops out of the elder spider’s neck, his jaw clenched and his canines slowly growing into sharp fangs. His muscles strain under his holographic suit as he crosses his arms against his chest, his nails growing and sharpening.

“I am well aware of this one.”

The claws slowly retract before Miguel snaps again. An orange projection flashes behind the elder, and Hobie turns away from the sudden blinding light. A woman’s voice rings through the room, a hoarse cackle sending chills down Hobie’s spine before he finally looks back. The distorted figure from before is more enhanced, but Hobie can tell it’s an older video– a pixelated older woman’s face stares back at the camera, her eyes blocked by red hexagonal glasses. Dark markings are etched along her arms and up her neck. Her forearms strain under dirtied handwraps. A cheeky smirk tugs along her lips, almost cheshire cat-like to the punk, while she flips her braided ponytail behind her shoulder.

“Finder’s keepers, O’Hara. You really gotta stop losing your little toys. But don’t worry, they’ll be safe with me. You won’t mind me playing with them a bit though, right?”

Another deep, foreboding chuckle rumbles from the stranger before the video ends in static. The video glitches away, but more holographic screens project in the air soon after. Different variants of the woman are displayed– one crooning into the microphone in a long red dress in front of an audience; one with a pink leotard and sharp knives sneaking into a club; one in a dark purple catsuit with red splattered over her face, wiping blood off a skinny-looking sword while surrounded by lifeless bodies.

Even in a 2D space, only made of pixels and light projected before him, Hobie can’t stop the overwhelming dread looming over him. He stares at the same cheshire-cat smile on each of their faces, turning more menacing in his eyes, like the woman would suddenly pull herself out of the holographic screens.

“Delilah.”

Miguel growls out that name, as if it’s a forbidden curse for his tongue, while the holograms swirl around the teens. “There is little information we’ve gathered about her–”

More projections pop up, with a blaring alarm ringing off every time a red X flashes over them before disappearing. “The only conclusive evidence we have of her existence throughout the multiverse is her occupation as a highly-ranked assassin. Any other information about her is either undocumented or erased in each universe. And unfortunately in our case–”

All the holograms of the mysterious woman disappear, leaving behind the screenshots of the glitchy figure– “we have the least information about this variant. From what we do know, however…”

Red eyes sharpen at the glitchy image, the cat-like smirk taunting the elder spider, before Miguel turns his attention to Cassie.

“You’re not to look further into this rogue. I will handle it.”

Cassie’s face instantly drops, a hint of panic wavering behind her brown eyes. “Miguel, wait, I can handle this–”

“Your main objective is to retrieve the rest of the spider-bots, Cassandra,” Miguel’s logic shuts down any protest latched onto the yellow spider’s tongue. “As much as you want to take on more for this mission, the spider-bots take priority. Do you understand?”

Hobie glances over to his partner, watching the yellow spider shrink under Miguel’s scrutiny. Disappointment and frustration vibrates through her as she averts her eyes to the ground, her hands balling up into fists, before she reluctantly nods.

“Yes, sir.”

The pink holograms disperse in shimmering shards, swirling back to Cassie until they condense into a small bubblegum-hued girl perching onto her shoulder. Concern flickers on the pink AI’s pixelated face as she rests her head against Cassie’s cheek, and the yellow spider silently reaches up to the hologram with a reassuring caress.

“I’m okay, Gwen. You can go on rest mode now.”

The pink AI shakes her head as she curls up into a ball. “There was a spike in your brain waves and heart rate. It’s becoming a frequent occurrence for the past few weeks–”

“I’m fine, Gwen–”

“Your heart rate also fluctuates when you lie–”

“You did not need to say that out loud–”

“But it’s a concern that should be addressed–”

“Now, now,” Hobie sighs as he steps up to the duo, “as funny as it is t’ see ya two bicker like a bunch of nans, ya should probably listen to Pinkie Pie, Cassie.”

The AI brightens into a neon pink hue before dispersing into a pixie dust-like cloud, only to swirl and reform back in front of his face.

“Although I don’t appreciate the My Little Pony connection–”

“Yer li’l what–?”

“I always knew I liked you,” the miniature hologram grins at him. “I take back everything I’ve ever said.”

“Oi, now wait a moment, what does that mean–”

“She’s kidding!” Cassie darts in front of the punk as she shoos the AI away, a rosy hue creeping up her skin and a strained smile stretching across her face. “She doesn’t mean anything–”

“But you’ve said it too,” Gwen pouts as she hovers back over the yellow spider’s shoulder. “You told me how he’s like the super punk version of–”

“I will factory reset you and sell you to Apple.”

A loud gasp crackles from the bubblegum AI before she stomps her foot in the air with a petulant pout. “How rude! And to think Mr. Stark trusts you with my software–”

“Well, he didn’t make you, I did. So technically, I have every right to your software as I please.”

Cassie huffs as she taps along her watch. “Now go on rest mode, I’ll have you reevaluate me later, okay?”

The pout on the AI’s lips worsens before she relents, sticking her tongue out at her creator before dispersing into pink smoke again.

A low grunt rumbles in the air, and the teens turn back to the unamused Miguel.

“Shall we move on?”

Hobie shrugs as he steps back towards the door. “Not much t’ move on to, ‘m afraid. Ya already got t’ gist of t’ situation from Cassie, so I t’ink we can wrap this up–”

“You still have to give your report.”

“Ah damn, really?” Sarcasm tinges the punk’s voice, reluctance tugging his lips into a frown. “Thought t’ light show and comedy duo would suffice f’ ya–”

“Your mission is just as important for the Spider Society.”

With another loud snap, more holographic screens pop up behind Miguel, the same live feeds of other spiders looming over him and the teens. “As small as it is right now, we are helping preserve the multiverse from further catastrophe. With what happened in Earth-1610 and thereafter–”

“I don’t need ya repeatin’ yer spiel,” Hobie cuts him off with a deadpan as he crosses his arms. “Ya can save that fer the other blokes you manage to rope in.” Heavy footfalls echo against the metal walls as Hobie saunters towards Miguel. “All ya need t’ know is that ‘m doin’ m’ job, ‘n ‘s workin out–”

“You can’t just pass along your report with a brief comment and a flick of the wrist,” Miguel steps up to the punk teen, straightening up and squaring his shoulders until he towers over Hobie. “It is a complex situation, where rogues and innocents alike are being displaced by tears within the multiverse. This isn’t like your ragtag guerrilla group, Hobart–”

“Oi, watch ya mouth.”

The veneer of nonchalance cracks as Hobie glares daggers at the elder spider. Body taut and hands clenched into fists, the punk is a trigger away from making the first swing. “Don’t bring m’ band into this, O’Hara.”

Fire blazes behind russet eyes, clashing with the cold, red-tinted scrutiny from Miguel.

“Then treat this mission like how you would for your little cause at home.”

All the holographic screens behind Miguel dispel, leaving the group in the shadows, before Lyla pops back to life between the two spiders.

“Okay, before you two start your little cat fight, I wanna know about the details!” The orange-hued AI huffs as she pulls up a smaller screen. “I mean, from what I can tell from all the feeds in this universe, I personally think she’d be a good fit here.”

White crackles thrum through the holographic screen until a lone figure pops up in front of Hobie. Perched over a ledge of a building, a familiar blue-clad hero dangles her legs over the edge as she stares out at the cityscape. Moonlight glints over neon-orange plastic, her goggles shielding her eyes while the rest of her face covering hangs around her neck. Freckled cheeks are puffed out as the hero chomps onto a sandwich, her feet fluttering even faster while she bounces on the ledge. Her free hand fidgets with a small radio hooked on her side, her fingers toying with a small dial, as if searching for her favorite song within the sea of frequencies.

Mei just looks like a little kid like this.

“I mean, look at her!" Lyla flickers with a cheeky grin. “She’s got her little set up and everything, even without our tech! She can definitely adapt to our procedures and patrols easily! Plus she has a pretty solid balance with her life, not too absorbed in her vigilantism while not letting her personal life go too crazy–”

“Lyla, this is not your report to make–”

“But she’s definitely someone to get on board–”

“That’s not for you to decide.” Miguel massages the bridge of his nose with a weary sigh. “She would still have to go through multiple screenings before she can be considered as a member–”

“That’s if she wants to.”

All eyes turn to the punk, but his eyes are locked on the holographic screen as the miniature blue-clad spider gets up and stands on the ledge. “Just ‘cuz she can take on a ton of villains don’t mean she’d want to twenty-four seven.”

Hobie continues to watch the little 2D figure of Mei peering down the ledge, leaning over the edge until dark-plaited braids slip from her shoulders. Slivers of yellow peek through the plaits as the puffed pigtails dangle over, swaying in the direction of the wind. She tugs her covering over her lower face before leaning even further and falling headfirst.

Hair and fabric whip behind her as Mei plummets towards the busy streets, LED lights from nearby buildings dappling her figures in a neon rainbow. The sleeves of her arms flap against her sides, dancing in an almost wing-like manner against the late night backdrop. The two small braids trail behind her while two other looped braids are being pulled back by the winds. There is no panic in her demeanor– her body is taut, straight and rigid like a line, with no room for any uncertainty and fear– as she yields to gravity beckoning for her.

“That being said,” Hobie’s eyes linger on Mei’s figure when she suddenly shoots a web to a billboard and swings over the traffic like a pendulum, “she can definitely do it.”

Mei soars back up to the sky the moment the web snaps from the force. Back arched and limbs languid, the cityscape lights fade away from her in lieu of the moonlight. Basked in pale silver, she hovers over the cityscape amongst the skyscrapers in brief intervals before falling and swinging again. Each swing propels the momentum faster, taking her to greater heights throughout the concrete jungle. With every peak she reaches towards the sky her hand stretches out towards the moon and stars, as if trying to pluck a twinkling light for herself, before she descends and repeats the process again.

A small prickle digs into Hobie’s chest at the carefree freedom displayed before him.

“Mei…she can make it work if she wanted to.” Hobie clears his throat as he averts his eyes from the holographic screen. “From last week alone, she’s shown she can think fast on her feet. She’s capable of combat, whether against one bloke or a whole lot of ‘em, but she can make her own call whether or not she can handle it, dependin’ on t’ situation.”

Another dull ache ghosts along his temple, he gingerly massages it as he continues. “Main thing ‘bout her that might bite ya in the arse might be her bein’ used t’ workin’ alone. Her quick thinking is a double-edged sword if y’not careful– she’s not the most attentive with her actions while fightin’.” A brief image of crumbled rubble and whirling winds of sand flicker in Hobie’s mind, with a gaping hole in a brick wall and scuffed converses in the air. “She can be reckless, puttin’ herself in danger. She’ll shrug it off, but still–”

“Sounds like someone else we know–”

Hobie narrows his eyes in a sidelong glance at Cassie as she perches herself onto a nearby worktable. A mirthful glint flashes in her eyes as she gives him a shrug, swinging her legs over the edge. He rolls his eyes before flicking his attention back to the screen, lingering on the blue acrobatic figure flipping in the air.

“She’s also a bit…abrasive. She ain’t gentle ‘n all, force-feedin’ ya food and medicine while chewin’ ya out–”

“Which, in your case, she probably needed to–”

“Oi, Cassie–”

“Continue, Hobart,” Miguel cuts through the banter with a disgruntled sigh, “before you derail the report any longer.”

Hobie narrows his eyes at the elder spider, a small scowl flickering on his face, before movement hovers in his peripheral vision. Russet eyes trail back to the holographic screen, lingering on the little figure flipping back against the backdrop of the late-night sky. A ghost of a smile curls on the punk’s lips as Mei finally lands in an empty street and scurries off into a dark alleyway, flipping her jacket inside out before shadows swallow her.

“She’s…hard t’ read at times. One minute she’s dozin’ off ‘n just followin’ behind in t’ background, ‘n then t’ next she’s all intense ‘n pullin’ ya ‘round like a damn ragdoll– ‘s like whiplash with her or somethin’.”

Hobie trails off as Mei reemerges from the shadows– her once-familiar blue windbreaker now stark-white, her intricate braids slightly frizzy and disheveled, her freckled cheeks flushed from the biting winds. With a quick survey around the area, she rushes across the street towards a red-bricked apartment complex with a rhythmic bounce in her step.

It’s almost jarring how Mei can switch between lives so easily but simultaneously be consistent with herself.

“Honestly, I dunno f’sure if she’s cut out for bein’ here,” Hobie finally pulls his eyes away from the screen as the little figure of Mei disappears into the brick building, “nor would she even want to, but…she definitely has potential.”

Soft humming from the surrounding equipment fills in the silence for a beat before Lyla flickers onto Hobie’s shoulder.

“Wow. I didn’t think you’d actually deep dive into her personality so quickly, Hobie.”

“What–?”

The AI flickers back to Miguel as the screen disappears, darting around the elder spider as he types along his holographic keyboard.

“I mean, I know you had a late start with your mission in the beginning,” Lyla continues as more tiny screens pop up around her, trailing after her with every flicker to a different spot, “especially with her suspension and her constant movements through the city throughout that week. Hell, even I couldn’t find her half the time.” She flickers back in front of Hobie’s face, a cat-like grin curling up her face. “But y’know what, you really pull through when you need to. You got a lot more out of her than even Miguel and I, and we’ve been trying to find her before you came on board!”

Lyla looks over her shoulder with a mirthful stare towards the towering leader, more lights flashing across Miguel’s face as he reviews more live feeds from other dimensions. “Was that enough of a report for you, boss?”

Miguel rolls his eyes with a quiet scoff, refusing to turn back to the AI’s direction. “I mainly wanted Hobart–” Cassie clasps her hand on Hobie’s shoulder before he barks out an irritated retort– “to assess Spider-Girl’s fighting capabilities. From what I could tell from surveillance, he’s been involving himself in her personal life far more than in her patrols–”

Cassie tugs Hobie back harder as he bristles from Miguel’s dismissive tone. Streaks of amber flash along the chestnut in her eyes, her fingers digging into his spiked leather vest as she subtly shakes her head. Hobie stares back at the yellow spider with sparks of indignation in his eyes, his body thrumming with the urge to storm off, but her silent plea extinguishes his frustration before he relents with a scoff.

“That being said,” Miguel glances over at Hobie, ignoring the blatant irritation vibrating from the punk, “you were still able to determine her disposition through your interactions, and in turn, weighed out the benefits and drawbacks of having her here. That in itself is crucial for her screening as a prospective member.”

With another snap, the keyboard disappears from sight before fluorescent lights suddenly flash throughout the lab, blinding the younger spiders. “Keep up your assessments. You’ve provided a lot more insight for Spider-Girl than what we expected out of this mission. However, for the next report, observe from how she is during her patrols rather than assume through her personal life.”

Hobie’s jaw clenches under Miguel’s scrutiny as he blinks away his momentary blindness. “Right. Whatever.”

“I’m serious, Hobart.” Miguel approaches Hobie with slow strides, straightening up and towering over the punk. “Just because I gave you some leniency on how you conduct your mission doesn’t mean you can waste time and play around in another universe.”

Hobie’s hands flinch, curling into fists. “Play around?”

Cassie’s hand gently digs deeper into Hobie’s shoulder. “Miguel, please…”

Hobie shrugs her hand off, refusing to look away. Despite the nonchalant veneer, Hobie’s eyes harden into a cold stare. “I dunno what ya t’ink ‘m doin’ over there, but I ain’t playin’ ‘round—”

“Really?”

A scoff leaves Miguel’s lips. “The only reason I allowed Cassandra and Lyla to forge your registration in Spider-Girl’s school was to collect more intel in your reconnaissance, but from what I can tell, all you’ve been doing is sitting on a desk and poorly pretending to be a student.”

Hobie grits his teeth, a vein slowly popping from his neck.

“Ya told me t’ keep an eye on Mei.” Coils of thorns snake around the punk’s chest, puncturing into his lungs as poison seeps into the wounds. “I don’t remember havin’ t’ be some snobby twat buryin’ m’ face into books fer this mission.”

“You are supposed to be discreet.” The elder spider steps into Hobie’s space even further, his shadow looming over Hobie. “You were to blend in and observe from a distance. Instead, you made yourself a walking spectacle with your stunts in a completely different universe—”

“Even if I kept myself in t’ background, she’d still notice me.” Hobie’s voice cuts through with a harsh snap. “She would’ve jumped over her desk ‘n attacked me if I didn’t make m’self known t’ her—”

“What Hobie’s trying to say is—” Cassie steps between both of them with a nervous, placating laugh, the amber streaks in her eyes sparking against the brown— “she might be more sensitive with her senses. He made an executive decision for himself early on, and it paid off for the mission.”

Electricity crackles in the air between the two spiders— Hobie’s heated glare clashes with the cold front of Miguel’s, brewing an impending storm within the mechanical lab. Eyes cloaked in shadow despite the sickly-white lights beaming down, the older spider lets out a relenting scoff before he turns his attention to Cassie.

“Then let’s hope this decision is not a detriment in the long run, Cassandra.”

Red-tinged eyes flick between the teens, a machine-like survey that sends a chill down Hobie’s spine and bubbles his blood at the same time, before Miguel turns back to his workstation.

“Both of you are dismissed.”

---

“Hobie–”

“No.”

“Hobie, c’mon–”

“No.”

“Can you just hear me out–?”

“No.”

Hobie ignores the stares from passing spider variants as he storms through winding halls, every footfall from him clanging against whirring metal. The platformed bridge groans and breaks apart to different directions the moment the two spiders step on, its automatic interval moving like clockwork, until it slams in place with another platform for them to cross through. Irritation vibrates within the punk, pulsing through the air with every stride. Other spider-people step aside in reflexive caution as his anger licks their skin like a blazing fire.

“Bloody prick— how t’ hell’s he gon’ tell me how t’do me job. S’all done, innit? Makin’ it sound like ‘m gon’ fuck ev’rythin’ up from t’ get-go.”

Cassie trails behind in a skip-like jog, her footsteps drumming in tandem with Hobie’s stomps. “Miguel’s just under a lot of stress right now. There’s been a lot of anomaly outbreaks throughout the multiverse lately—”

“Don’t mean he can take that stick out his arse and try t’ beat me with it—”

“That’s not a fun visual to imagine…”

Silver sliding doors slam open when the teens approach it, revealing towering holographic screens and a control panel glowing in the dark. Each stomp from Hobie bounces against the walls until he yanks a rolling chair before the panel, flopping onto it with a grunt and leaning back on it.

“I should’ve just stayed home t’day.”

“Wouldn’t you have to give reports over there too?”

Hobie curses under his breath as he lolls his head over the top rail, his deep-set eyes cloaked in blue light from the screens. He stares back at the yellow spider, weary and solemn, before a sigh slips through his lips.

“Y’know what I mean, Cassie.”

With a shrug, she crosses through the control room with a skip to her step. “Either way, at least Miguel was happy with our reports—”

“That’s happy?”

Hobie blows a raspberry as he leans further back onto the chair. “If that’s him happy, then I can’t imagine what he’d look like when he’s ragin’. Bloody wanker lookin’ like he’s stuffed up in the arse crack—”

“Again, not a fun visual to imagine.”

Cassie’s face pinches into a grimace as her fingers fly towards a flashing keyboard. “But we did make a lot of progress for this mission, so Miguel should give us more leeway. We just gotta send out some quick reports of our findings to him before the next meeting—”

“Y’mean you are.” Hobie sits back up as more holographic screens flash in front of them. “I ain’t tryna talk t’ ‘im any more than I need t’, Cassie.”

“It’s really not that bad,” the yellow spider quickly types some coordinates, and the screens flicker to different street views. “You can just send a quick text or call to him whenever something new pops up—”

“Ain’t that what Lyla’s for?”

“She can only keep track of so much through her surveillance.” Cassie enlarges a few screens with a few taps on the keyboard. “Even without the potential EMIs throughout this world, Lyla still has to monitor the rest of the multiverse. Miguel’s gonna want her to look out for more anomalies for the rest of the society while we take care of any incoming issues here.”

Another scoff exhales through Hobie’s lips as he stares up at one of the screens, one of a familiar unmasked spider stepping out of the red-bricked apartment complex with a taller figure following behind. The punk swallows down a chortle as Miles grabs Mei by her jacket collar, the sight of her stumbling back a rare moment of her guard down.

“Ain’t it weird that he’s trustin’ us with it, though?” the punk muses. “He could’ve assigned this t’ one of t’ other members he picked up before us, yeah?”

“Jess is staying here as one of the moderators, so she’s busy screening potential members,” Cassie sighs as she zooms in on another screen. “Ben’s still on his own mission with…whatever he’s doing for Miguel. I’m sure he’ll tell me later.”

A noncommittal hum rumbles in Hobie’s throat as the screenshots of wanted posters pop up in smaller bursts in front of him. “ ‘N what about that one bloke, the one that’s always wearin’ t’ pink fuzzy dressin’ gown?”

Cassie’s fingers freeze over the keyboards. She stands before the punk like a statue, her face pinched into a slight frown.

“Mr. Parker—” her face grimaces even more before dropping— “is only part-time at the moment. He's been working out his schedule with Miguel since he found out he’s gonna be a father.”

Another dissatisfied hum rumbles from Hobie as he leans against the control panel. “He makes it seem like we got free time on our hands…”

“I mean, I kinda do…”

Hobie side glances Cassie with an unimpressed deadpan.

“What?” she shrugs as she enlarges one of the wanted posters. “I either do my patrols or go to school. There’s nothing wrong with that—”

“Ya need a hobby—’

“I have hobbies!”

“Readin’ ‘n watchin’ romance stuff ain’t enough,” Hobie scoffs. “Yer jus’ sittin’ ‘n usin’ yer eyes—”

“Hey, you liked Pride and Prejudice!” Cassie scoffs as she turns her attention back to the holographic screens. “Don’t just blow off Mr. Darcy and Elizabeth’s cinematic slow burn like it’s a trashy soap opera—”

Her words die as purple and blue lights flood over them and into the dark room. The first thing Hobie’s eyes land on from the screen is the glint of the clawed gauntlet, followed by hues of violet striking through black spandex. Sharp eyes stare back through the screen, almost taunting the teens, as the Prowler’s masked face looms over them. The punk glances back at the yellow spider, her eyes locked in on the screen with caution.

“…Somethin’ up with ‘im?”

Cassie presses her lips together into a thin line as smaller screens pop up around the still image. “No, it’s just…” A heavy sigh slips through her lips before she shrinks the image of the purple-clad rogue, “he just reminds me of someone I know.”

A low hum rumbles from the punk as he leans back on his chair again. “Overcompensatin’ with t’ gloves, ain’t he?”

Cassie sputters out a huff of laughter before clearing her throat. “There are actual functions for the gauntlets, Hobie.”

“Please,” the taller spider scoffs as he props his feet on top of the control panel. “They’re bulky, metal gloves with pink ooze ‘n cat claws.”

“They help with climbing—”

“As opposed t’ what, grapplin’ hooks? If anythin’, grapplin’ hooks would’ve been easier t’ carry than those bulky t’ings.”

“And they’re really dangerous during close combat—”

“So is a shiv or a broken beer bottle.”

“Are you actually judging a guy’s choice in aesthetic for his weapons?”

“Yes!”

“WHY?!”

“I can tell those are gon’ be a pain in the arse t’ maintain!” Hobie jumps from his seat as he bumps his hip against hers. His fingers type along the keyboard in a flurry until the screen of the wanted poster zooms in on one of the gauntlets. “D’ya understand how painstakin’ly tedious those claw-fingers would be t’ sharpen? ‘N don’t get me started on ‘em pistons! Those can probably get clogged with that pink shit in ‘em—”

“Okay, so you don’t like the mechanics of his gauntlets. Valid. But—!”

Cassie bumps Hobie out of the way as her fingers tap on the keyboard in a hurry, pulling up another screen with a surveillance video playing. The same man shrouded in purple and black charges at some unfortunate souls in black suits, his clawed gauntlets locked and ready to attack. Pops of gunfire reverberate against metal walls while the Prowler easily dodges them before slashing his sharp claws at the unfortunate targets.

“I don’t think anybody’s going to be judging his choice of weapons when he’s charging at them with ten knives for fingers!”

Hobie clicks his tongue as he flops back onto his seat. “They won’t be as scared if he ends up wit’ arthritis from ‘em t’ings. They can’t be good fer his wrists ‘n fingers, ‘specially if he’s like in his fourties—”

“Either way, he’s still somebody to worry about.” Cassie grimaces at the sight of the purple-clad rogue slashing an unfortunate goon down before the screen flickers to a live feed. “Not just with combat, but with technology too.”

The screen displays an overview of an urban neighborhood, with few cars passing by on the streets under flickering streetlights. More lights flicker from the keyboard after Cassie’s fingers as she resumes typing. “The fact he got access to the spider bots without triggering any safety protocols is still a big issue we should keep in mind.”

Hobie rumbles out a noncommittal hum as his eyes linger on the holographic screen.

“There’s always gotta be somethin’ with ‘em rogues, huh?” the punk muses. “Always somethin’ t’ muck everythin’ up fer us.”

With a slight shrug, Cassie waves her hands until the holographic keyboard disappears. “That’s what we’re here for, though. To make sure things get fixed up and put back into place.”

The screens flicker in set intervals, switching into random surveillance spots throughout the city. Normal civilians pass through the feeds, as if oblivious from being watched. Or maybe they’re simply used to it, what with some small robotic drones whirling by over the dispersed crowds.

Strangely enough, Hobie doesn’t remember seeing those when he’s there.

Blue light floods over both of the spiders as one of the larger screens flicker over to an occupied bus. Familiar braids sway under yellow-orange streetlights through dingy windows. Mei leans closer to Miles’s shoulder before he props an earbud in her ear. Blue light from Miles’s small handheld breaks through the amber lights, shining over both teens’ faces while they stare at the screen. Mei looks like a normal civilian like this, in her own little bubble with her best friend, oblivious to the world around her.

Hobie could almost forget that she was swinging around the city just an hour earlier.

“Even then though,” Cassie sighs as she stares at the screen, eyes locked onto the displayed duo, “we don’t know what’s going on with them. What makes them do the things they do. Or if they even want to do them…”

“…Cassie, I don’ t’ink t’is is t’ time fer me t’ have a philosophy class—”

“Well, too bad.”

The yellow spider rolls her eyes as she waves the screens away, plunging them into near darkness before soft amber lights creep into the room. “Food for thought, Hobie. You gotta see things in a different light sometimes. Not everything is gonna turn out the way you think.”

A low grunt rumbles in Hobie’s chest, a frown tugging his pierced lip. “I dunno, I t’ink I’ve gotten pretty good at readin’ people as of late—”

“And that’s how you get your butt kicked when you least expect it. Case in point—”

A tingle erupts along Hobie’s wrist before Cassie grabs it. She quickly pushes his sleeve up, revealing the numerous bruises along his skin as she gingerly twists his arm back and forth.

“Sandman did a number on you during your last patrol in Earth-318—”

Hobie winces with a pained grunt when Cassie presses her thumb against a purpling bruise along his wrist.

“—and you refusing to go to the med bay is making your injuries last longer than they should.”

Cassie winces at the sight of another blooming bruise along his elbow before she flexes her hand against it. A startled yelp erupts from the punk when sharp pain shoots up his arm after his joint pops. “Not to mention you still have to get checked out for that concussion Mei gave you—”

Hobie yanks his arm from the yellow spider with a pointed look, clutching it against his chest.

“I’m fine, Cassie. I don’ need ‘em fancy drugs Miguel cooks up pumped int’ me.”

“It’s not actually Miguel who makes them—”

“Either way, I don’ need ‘em!” Hobie holds his hands up, ignoring the pops reverberating up his spine as he starts to back away. “I can heal up jus’ fine. Always have. No point of havin’ a healin’ factor if I ain’t gonna use it, innit—?”

“That’s not the point.”

Cassie’s words echo against the metal walls. Jaw set, shoulders squared, body rigid— Cassie paralyzes the punk under her glassy scrutiny.

“You still have to worry about your universe. You think your band’s gonna be happy with you being too injured to fight?”

Her voice rises as she takes a step towards Hobie, forcing him to step back. Small shocks of amber flicker in her eyes with each step she stomps.

“Or that you’re willing to throw your life away because you’re too stubborn to see a doctor?”

A vein strains against Cassie’s throat as her words claw their way out through her mouth.

“Especially when you have access to healthcare? Free healthcare?!”

Hobie flinches from her sound argument, turning his head away from the dog-like glare from the yellow spider. A sharp stab blooms in his ego, stubborn pride warring with retrospective logic, but he bites his trigger-happy tongue from shooting too early.

His chest heaves before he lets out a relenting exhale through his nose.

“…I’ll go t’morrow if it gets worse.”

Cassie’s eyes instantly lighten up. A relieved smile soon follows.

“You better. I’ll be by your side until you’re cleared—”

“Cassie, yer not me mum. I can go by m’self—”

“But you’ll just skip it if you do.”

Damn it.

Hobie’s face pinches into a dissatisfied frown as Cassie circles around him with a knowing grin.

“Well,” the yellow spider shrugs as she backs away, fingers already padding along her metal watch, “either way, we got everything done for today. I need to head back home and pick up my little sister from daycare.”

“Yer really livin’ up that mother hen role, Cassie,” Hobie rolls his eyes with a snort before a swirling shock of orange and red pops up beside them. “Ya gotta get some hobbies fer yaself—”

“I told you, I got hobbies!”

“Yer only followin’ a capitalistic trap consumin’ all ‘em romances—”

A tingle floods over Hobie’s mouth before he ducks, dodging a quick string of webs before it can latch onto his face. “Oi! That ain’t motherly of ya, innit—?”

“Shut up!”

Cassie sticks her tongue out at the taller punk as she steps back into the whirling portal. A swirl of pink circles around her before a pop-like sound blares from her watch, lyrics from a different language scrambling in Hobie’s ears like white noise.

“Now go home!” Cassie scoffs as the bubblegum-pink Gwen pops up on her master’s shoulder with a wave. “You need to get some shut eye!”

Hobie’s hand shoots up with his middle finger up, instinct taking over, as the portal snaps shut. The metal room plunges Hobie back into its amber-tinted ambiance.

Goosebumps prickle along his bare arm, the chill of the room now vying for his attention. He tugs his sleeve down before his hand hovers around his own watch. HIs reflection stares back at him from the blank screen over his wrist— faint scratches on his cheek, purpling bruises curtained by charm-cuffed locs, a cut splitting his bottom lip next to his silver piercing.

He really did look like hell.

A disgruntled sigh slips through his lips before his fingers tap onto the screen. Bright orange text flashes over, bathing his face in that artificial sunset color, before his fingers slowly pads along coordinates through muscle memory. A muffled voice nags in the back of his head. A familiar warning within him long before he got bit by that radioactive spider, one he would trust even more than the weird tingles now ingrained in his skin.

That voice creeps up to the forefront of his eardrum once his own portal flashes before him.

Go back home.

---

The moment the orange and red swirl snaps shut behind Hobie, he stands in the middle of a dilapidated shed. Rusty scraps and dried leaves scatter across rotten floorboards. Splintered wooden cubbies are covered in cobwebs. Walls wheeze and groan from the wind, traffic and yelling barely muffled around the punk. Greenish-brown light spills through gaping holes on the roof, the only light source revealing dust motes and moths fluttering in the air. A work table bears its scars— cracked wood, scratch marks, ink and dust— while displaying old tools on their last legs of maintenance.

Pressure looms over the punk’s shoulders again, heavier somehow than in Miguel’s lab. But for Hobie, it’s more familiar. Like an old friend welcoming him back.

With a roll of his shoulders, Hobie stumbles across the shed, metal shavings and leaves crunching under his steel-toed boots. His hands press against the cracked wood grain of the door, splinters snagging at his calloused fingertips, before he slams it with the heels of his hands. The door swings open with a loud THWAK against the wall, splintering even more before Hobie steps out of the shed.

Green-tinted billows of smog cloak along the ground. Rickety buildings tower over the punk, almost swaying from every smoky gust of wind. Cries and whirling metals echo in the atmosphere as blinding pillars of light survey from the skies, hidden in heavy pollution. Stragglers on the ground rush to any dilapidated debris from the light beams, abandoning their makeshift shelters of torn tarps and scraps. Bonfires scatter across the grounds, ash and smoke dancing in the air before the winds whisk them away from the forsaken earth. Beyond the shantytown lies an ink-stained body of the water, stretching past the borders under the scrutiny of helicopter lights and the muggy-silhouetted moon.

Hobie’s eyes scan around his surroundings, tingles humming throughout his skin, body locked and ready to bolt away. Heavy rubber soles sink into gravel and dirt as he crosses through the sea of rusted metal and tattered plastics. Bile burns the back of his throat when he catches something in his periphery— a small child in rags curled up in a patched up teepee, shivering with a shredded up blanket in his embrace. Hobie’s foot drifts towards the teepee before a haggard woman rushes towards it, crawling into the space as the child wraps his twig-like arms around her neck. The woman glances over her shoulder at the young punk with a scowl, distrust clouding her bloodshot eyes, before she kicks the flaps of the teepee closed behind her.

The acrid bile creeps up his throat more, singeing his uvula, before he forces his legs to walk away. Waves of resentment and grief crash into his body in sickening prickles, wrapping around his throat and squeezing the smog-rich air out of his lungs. His hand drifts to his pocket and tugs out his red bandana, stained with dried brown and black, before he covers his nose and mouth. A violent cough wracks his body, making the teen stagger while he weaves around more dead-like wandering stragglers and roaming searchlights from above. Tears prick up in his wavering russet eyes before Hobie blinks them away, pulling the bandana away from his face before he hisses another breath. A metallic, smoky tinge taints the oxygen around him, but he continues inhaling it into his lungs until the ache in his chest subsides.

Getting used to the air between universes is always the worst part for Hobie.

Graveled dirt changes into cracked concrete as the young punk approaches gnarled wire gates. Metal strands poke out from all angles before him, jagged cut edges brandishing themselves like barbs. Hobie pushes against the wired wall, avoiding the sharp makeshift defense as he parts the walls into an exit. The wires snag onto him— the denim of his jeans, the stitches on his spidersuit he just mended, even the end of one of his charmed locs— before he steps through.

The sounds of crashing waves and whirling copters grow louder as Hobie stumbles towards the main road nearby. Murky brackish water from the River Thames crashes across from him, oil-shaded waves pummeling against rocky terrain and concrete walls. Salt tinges the smoggy air, clinging to the back of his throat, but the familiar scent melts the tension off his shoulders. 

He follows along the cracked sidewalk parallel to the manmade canal. Faint honks vibrate behind him, the nostalgic horns from boats reverberating in his ears, as his steel-toed boots stomp over uneven pavement. Each breath Hobie takes grows deeper, the smog and salt latching onto the walls of his lungs. The dull aches in his joints creep back while he shuffles along the road alone.

Alone.

With only his thoughts in the foreground of his mind, the sounds of crashing waves and whirling helicopters muffling out into white noise.

It’s been a while since he’s been left alone. Whether it’s a good thing or not, he doesn’t know, but somehow it’s easier to breathe. No voices that buzz in his head like little gnats beside his ears. No bodies that flood his own with waves of tingles and emotions that overwhelm him. No looming pressure on his shoulders, not with everyone and their own agendas trying to latch onto him. It’s just him— tired, dragging his feet against unmaintained pavement, with only the River Thames as his company as he stumbles towards a visage of cityscape before him.

A nostalgic comfort for the young punk.

Tingles slowly fester along the planes of his back. Soon after, a car honk creeps up behind him, growing louder as it prowls over to the foreground of his mind.

Hobie’s shoulders tense up from the new presence rushing up to him, but the familiar frequency of the tingles laps over him before he slows into a full-stop. He cranes his neck as he looks over his shoulder, only to be blinded by two headlights staring back at him. Rumblings of guitar strings and drum rolls course through the cracked cement beneath his feet as a dented, scratched up blue van approaches him. Balding wheels lined with dried webs kick gravel back behind it before the passenger side stops beside him.

Tinted windows reflect the exhaustion along the teen’s face. Dark circles blending in with fading bruises, small cuts fading into little pink scratch marks on his skin, caution clouding his russet eyes— all of that rolls down along with the window. Strands of fire-red hair flutters from the sudden salty breeze, a glint of forest-green strikes through the shadows and blue lights inside the van, and a cat-like smile curls up before a young woman leans over the window and rests her arms against the side pane.

“Lookin’ fer a ride, handsome?”

Hushed and honeyed, the redheaded woman gazes at the young punk as she rests her cheek against her forearm. Small blue veins paint along her pale skin, her limbs skinny and scarred, but Hobie can’t help but sigh in relief at the spark in her viridescent eyes.

“MJ…”

MJ’s smile widens as she reaches a hand out, cupping his cheek. Her thumbnail traces along the healing cut along his cheekbone. “Neddy ‘n I have been lookin’ fer ya, Hobie. What’ve ya been doin’ while we were on patrol?”

A dark silhouette looks over the redhead’s shoulder, leaning against the steering wheel. Choppy dark strands fall before the shadowed face, the only light illuminating it from the car’s dashboard. Hobie’s eyes land on a gaunt face— hollowed cheeks, sunken eyes, stubbled jawline— as Ned leans closer to the window with a pointed glare.

Hobie steps closer to the window, fighting off the sheepish smile curling on his lips.

“Ned, if ya stare any harder, ya gon’ burn a hole through me.”

Ned’s face instantly drops into a deadpan before he pulls away with a roll of his eyes. “Alright, ya, s’him. Get inside, Hobs, ‘fore ‘em Thunderbolt pigs start sniffin’ ‘round here.”

With a teasing smirk Hobie gives a mocking salute, the rest of his fingers folded with only his middle finger extended against his hairline, before slinking over to the back of the van.

“Aye, aye—”

“Don’t call me Captain!” Ned scoffs as Hobie flings the back doors open and climbs inside. “I don’t need that shit right now.”

The back doors slam shut before tires screech against the paved road, kicking back rocks as the beaten up van drives off towards the city.

Hobie flops onto the carpeted flooring, mustard yellow shag tickling his skin while the suspension creaks beneath him. Strums of guitar strings thrum around the young punk while his eyes drift around his surroundings. Cracked leather lines over the backrests of the front seats. Bare metal walls display instruments strapped against them— Hobie’s sticker covered guitar, a sleek orange and blue bass, splintered drum sticks in a plastic case, and a red-splattered microphone and stand. All the tension vibrates out of Hobie’s bones as he melts into the shag carpet, warm tingles blooming over his body.

As his eyes flutter halfway, red tresses cascade over the back rest until the split ends tickle his cheeks. A pair of emeralds peek over the edge at him, and an image of rustling leaves and dappling sunlight flickers in the back of Hobie’s mind.

“Ya still haven’t answered my question, Hobie,” MJ chides jokingly, her smile creeping into her eyes. “What’ve ya been up t’ out here?”

As she leans over the backrest, her arm drops over until her hand dangles above Hobie’s face. The young punk reaches his hand up to grasp her fingertips, his rough callouses pressing against her own.

“Jus’…had a lot on m’ mind.”

Soft chuckles chime in Hobie’s ears as MJ gently squeezes his fingertips, the warmth in his body vibrating even more under his skin. “Ya care t’ share yer thoughts with me?”

“Oi, MJ, sit back down.”

Ned’s gravelly voice breaks through MJ’s honeyed voice. “Can’t have ya hangin’ over t’ seats ‘n givin’ ‘em pigs a reason t’ pull me over.”

MJ blows a quick raspberry before she pulls away. Hobie’s fingers chase after hers for a moment, but he reluctantly drops his hand onto the carpet when she leaves his sight.

“Such a mother hen, Neddy,” the redhead teases as she leans back against the passenger seat. “Ain’t ya glad Hobie’s safe ‘n sound now?”

A quiet thump echoes against the metal walls before a startled yelp rings through.

“Ya didn’t hav’ta flick m’ forehead that hard—!”

“Then don’t give me lip t’ begin with, MJ.”

Hobie glances over to the driver's side, where the crown of Ned’s head peeks over the backrest.

“Besides, Osborn’s been increasin’ his patrols through his damn lapdogs lately.” Ned slowly twists his neck, small pops reverberating in Hobie’s ears. “We hav’ta be more careful with where we go, ‘specially after t’ shit ya pulled with Yuri ‘n James in Old York last week—”

“I had t’ improvise,” Hobie can hear the eye roll in MJ’s tone. “What else was I supposed t’do with ‘em snotty Thunderbolts ‘n their black suits surroundin’ us—?”

“Besides nearly settin’ James on fire with that damn molotov—?”

“I told him t’ get out t’ way before I threw it—”

“Yer lucky he actually did with yer shitty aim—”

Hobie’s vision starts to fuzz along the edges before his eyes flutter shut. Ned and MJ’s voices muffle into white noise along with the hum of the moving van, the constant vibrations melting the rest of the tension out of his bones. Exhaustion catches up to the young punk, beckoning him to leave his physical body behind with the promise of silent rock-a-byes and hazy REM sleep. His breaths grow deeper the more they pass his parted lips while sleep coaxes him into its embrace, the rest of the world around him fading into black.

---

“Okay, breathe fer me, Hobie.”

Hobie takes a deep breath, the metal rim of the round chest piece cool against his bare chest.

Ned moves the end piece of the stethoscope across Hobie’s sternum when the young punk exhales, his other hand scratching graphite across coffee-stained paper with a nub of a pencil. A small flame flickers from the lit wick as the tall candle melts between the duo, the stand keeping the pooling wax in its comically large bowl. Yellow and orange light halos around them in the dark tool room, the sounds of waves muffling through wooden walls. Soft snores reverberate through an open door across from them, shifting silhouettes making futon-covered floorboards creak, leaving the duo alone with the flickering candlelight.

Ned gently presses the chest piece against another area on Hobie’s chest. “Another one.”

Hobie sucks in another breath. He can taste the hint of smog lingering in the back of his throat before he lets out another exhale.

Ned’s eyes narrow for a moment before he scratches out another off-note. The chest piece drags across Hobie’s skin until it hovers over his heart.

“One more time.”

Hobie inhales through his teeth this time, taking in more air, but he can hear the phlegm in his lungs starting to climb up his throat this time. He pulls away from Ned with a violent cough, green and clear mucus flinging out of his throat and onto the crook of his elbow. A wheezed curse stumbles out of Hobie’s lips as he pulls out his dirtied bandana and wipes the phlegm off his bare arm.

“Sorry, Neddy…”

Ned flicks his wrist with a dismissive wave as he pulls the ear pieces out from his ears, a ghost of a smile laced on his lips.

“Yer breathin’s gotten a little better,” the elder reassures the teen as he sets the stethoscope atop the tabletop. “Coughin’ fits ain’t as bad as before, innit? Used t’ cough up a lung ‘til most the mucus was blood every time we did this…”

The young punk winces from the memory, a dull ache creeping up in his chest before fading away.

“Not sure if it’s ‘cuz of yer powers, or…” Ned trails off as he glances at the metal band wrapped around Hobie’s wrist. Goosebumps flood along the young punk’s skin as tingles bloom over his wrist, but they disappear when Ned glances away to his coffee-stained notes.

With a scratch along his stubbled jaw, Ned lets out another sigh. “Well, whatever it is, yer healin’ up a lot better than before. I didn’t even hear a lot of phlegm in ya this time.”

“Ned…”

Hobie’s throat starts to tighten as he reaches for his shirt on the table. “About t’day, ‘bout me bein’ gone—”

“Yer fine, Hobie.” Ned’s voice hushes in tandem with the flickering flame, shadows dancing across the elder’s face. “Nothin’ happened durin’ our patrols t’day, ‘n even if somethin’ did happen, we can take care of it.”

Ned rolls his shoulder before a soft pop muffles through his orange coverall. “Ya shouldn’t even hav’ta worry about patrols, either. I know ya got other t’ings goin’ on in yer head.”

“I can make it up and go on patrol t’morrow—”

“Like I said, ya don’t need to.”

Ned gingerly pushes himself up from his seat, clapping his hand over Hobie’s shoulder. “Jus’ ‘cuz MJ recruited ya when ya first got ya powers don’ mean ya gotta jump into the frontlines fer us…”

Hobie’s shoulders tense up as Ned’s hand slips off. “I can still do more, Neddy. I can do a lot more than before, ya’ve seen me.”

“I know ya can, but ya shouldn’t have to.”

Ned’s eyes soften as he stands over the teen, warm oranges and yellows from the small flame illuminating his weary face. “Ya already proved yaself t’ us so many times. Even before that spider bite, ya’d follow me ‘n MJ ‘round with whatever trinket ya thought of with that big dome of yers.”

“Oi, my head ain’t that big—”

A quick flick thumps against Hobie’s forehead mid-protest, and the young punk lets out a pained grunt as he flinches away.

“Y’know, fer a bloke with his little ‘tingles’, ya can’t dodge fer shit.”

“Fuck off, Neddy.”

A low chuckle rumbles from Ned’s chest as he nudges the candlestick closer to Hobie. “Ya mind hangin’ ‘round fer a bit longer though, Hobs? There’s somethin’ that caught m’ attention.”

Mid-massaging the throbbing spot in the middle of his forehead, Hobie’s eyes track over to Ned’s figure as he saunters away from the candlelight, the shadows swallowing around the elder.

“What, is it some Oscorp tech ya needed picked out again?” Hobie calls out as he slips his shirt on. “Might need m’ tools fer that, but I can probably strip it down fer ya t’morrow—”

“Nah, it ain’t.” Ned’s voice reverberates against the wooden walls as he steps back into the light, his scarred hand clutching onto something. “It’s jus’ a weird t’ing that caught m’ eye when I was restockin’.”

Wooden chair legs scrape against concrete flooring as Ned flops back down onto his seat. A ghost of a smile lingers on his lips, but it doesn’t reach his eyes.

“Ya remember what I always told ya when we were younger? Whenever we have to scavenge fer supplies?”

Hobie’s brows furrow as he sits up. “’Take what we need,’ yeah.”

“Yeah, good, good.”

The faint smile on Ned’s face slowly fades. “Before I went out on patrol with MJ, I jus’ finished up a supply run. Luckily I nicked some bandages ‘n alcohol along t’ way, so I went t’ put ‘em away in the medicine cabinet…”

His clutched hand drops onto the tabletop, and a plastic thump and rattle echoes into Hobie’s ears. When Ned lets go and pulls his hand back, he leaves behind a familiar small plastic bottle. Sweat breaks out along Hobie’s back once his eyes dart back to the elder’s. Ned’s smile is nowhere to be found, only a solemn frown trained on the young punk.

“I ended up findin’ this tucked in t’ corner behind some old antiseptics…”

Hobie slowly shrinks under Ned’s scrutiny, his eyes averting to the scuff on his steel-toed boot.

“I can explain—”

“What t’ hell were ya thinkin’?”

Hobie curls into himself even more from the tired hush in Ned’s voice.

“They’re painkillers, Neddy—”

“I can fuckin’ read, Hobie. That doesn’t answer m’ question.”

Red-hot prickles crawl up Hobie’s spine as he shrinks even further into his seat. “S’medicine someone gave me. It can help t’ others—”

“That still doesn’t mean t’ bring it over ‘ere.”

A frustrated groan slips through Ned’s lips as he pinches the bridge of his nose. “When I gave ya the okay t’ do yer…” His eyes dart back to Hobie’s watch, caution flickering over— “solo patrols, I never said ya can bring anythin’ back ‘ere.”

Hobie’s throat tightens. bile burning the back of his throat.

“I thought it would help—”

“I know.” Ned wearily shakes his head as leans in, resting his elbows against his knees. “I know ya did, ‘n I know ya wanna help out more, but this isn’t t’ way t’ do it.”

Guilt flickers across Ned’s face as the small flame sputters on the shrinking wick. “I get it. There’s been a lot of pressure on us lately since Osborn deployed his pigs t’ hunt us down, but that’s somethin’ I hav’ta worry about. All ya have t’ worry about is lookin’ out fer yaself ‘n t’ band.”

Ned claps his hand on Hobie’s shoulder again, the weight heavier than before. “We all have our own roles t’ play, ‘n right now all ya hav’ta do is keep ya head in check. I know ya can handle yaself, but we can’t lose our tinkerer, yeah?”

Hobie’s hands curl up into fists on his lap as he lifts his head up, his eyes drifting to the faded logo over Ned’s heart.

Oscorp.

The bile in Hobie’s throat burns hotter before he swallows it down.

“We can’t lose our leader either, Neddy.”

Ned gently squeezes Hobie’s shoulder again. “’N y’ain’t gonna, y’hear me, Hobs? I ain’t goin’ nowhere…”

Heat creeps up the back of Hobie’s eyes, but he blinks it away as Ned pushes himself back up.

“I still need t’ keep ya idjits in check, remember?”

A watery scoff slips through the young punk’s lips before he swats Ned’s hand away. “Wanker…”

Another low chuckle rumbles from the elder, vibrating into Hobie’s bones, before Ned steps away from the light and towards the ajar door.

“Don’t stay up too late, yeah?” Ned calls out over his shoulder with a hushed lilt. “Yer a bloody deadweight when yer asleep.”

Hobie fights off the tug of a smile in the corner of his lip as Ned quietly closes the door behind him with a faint click. Soft snores and muffled waves creep back into Hobie ears as he leans back against the creaking backrest. Russet eyes drift over to the dwindling light source beside him, a mini sun setting towards the pool of melted wax. The ghost of Hobie’s smile fades before a weary sigh slips through his lips. He flicks his tongue between his thumb and forefinger before he pinches the flame out, plunging him in the dark.

---

Hobie can never understand how anybody can be glued to a glorified flat brick. It’s not even a good brick either. It’ll just shatter and fall apart if he chucked at somebody.

The young punk stares down at the small handheld tablet in his hand, the shattered glass in the corners spiraling into web-like cracks under hazy moonlight. His feet dangle over the ledge of the rooftop, waves of inky water from the manmade canal lapping beneath him. Saltwater overrides the smog in the air as a gentle breeze kisses his skin. Creaking metals groan in tandem with lapping waves against Hobie’s eardrums. Rusty, dilapidated ships bob beside the concrete dock, long abandoned by their captains and crews. Stark beams of light trail amongst the polluted clouds, but they stray closer to the glittering cityscape across the water from him and the empty shipyard of a base.

A low rumble crawls up from the back of Hobie’s throat as he stares at the dark reflection of himself on the cracked screen. Narrowed eyes, deep wrinkles along his forehead, a frown upon his pierced lip— his face grows more aged the longer he stares. With a crinkle of his nose, the young punk gingerly turns the handheld over, face contorting even more in veiled curiosity.

When Cassie and Hobie first started their mission together, she insisted he’d have the thing to blend in. But even when this contraption is the norm for the rest of the universes he’s encountered, where every passing spider person has some variant of the multipurpose brick glued to their palms, he still doesn’t understand the normalized obsession. Hell, it’s even more prevalent when he hops back into the mission— people his age glued onto those screens like worldwide hordes of zombies under a wireless hypnosis.

Capitalism. Capitalism at its worst. And all it takes is a fragile flat flashing brick.

A scoff slips through Hobie’s lips as his thumb absently pops the back of the handheld off, revealing some tampered circuit boards and a small flat battery pack with a doodle of a wonky-shaped spider.

Cassie really needs to learn how to weld better.

Popping the cover back in, Hobie flips the phone over with his fingers until his face stares back through the cracked screen. His thumb traces along the side until his nail snags on the button tab, and when he presses into it, blinding blue light flashes into his face.

“Fuck—!”

White flashes over Hobie’s eyes as he flinches away, the urge to chuck the damn thing into the canal vibrating in his bones. But knowing Cassie, she’ll just throw a fit about her handiwork drowning in the bottom of the Thames. Instead, the young punk tucks the insufferable brick into the dusty gutter before digging the heels of his hands into his eyes. More curses tumble out of his lips while he blinks the last of the flash out of his sight.

“Damn it, Cassie…”

His hand blindly rummages along the gutter before his fingers bump against the flat plastic brick. Squinting his eyes, he faces the handheld away from him and presses the side button again, blue light flashing out in the open again. As his fingers slowly turn the small tablet back, his eyes land on the grainy picture of snowy mountain peaks on the screen.

Hobie’s never seen snow that white before.

His finger hovers over the cracked screen, almost hesitant, before he quickly swipes up. The young punk squints at the bright screen as he flicks his finger along, avoiding snagging his skin along the cracks. Each flick switches to a different page, numerous mini icons littered throughout in an organized chaos. One icon catches his eye— one with a phone icon and a red bubble hovering in the corner— before he taps on it. Red and white text flashes in a list, most being under Cassie’s name or a scramble of unknown numbers. He slowly scrolls down the list with a furrowed brow the longer the list goes on.

Hobie doesn’t even know the phone number for this thing. How do these strangers already have it?

One name drifts past before his finger freezes on the screen. With a slower drag, he scrolls back up until his eyes land on a familiar name.

Mei.

Her face briefly flickers in his mind— face pinched, lips pressed into a thin line, eyes narrowed with silent judgement before she thumbed her number into the borrowed handheld.

“L’il brat.”

Hobie’s voice breathes out into a scoff, but a smile barely tugs at the corners of his lips. Another image pops up in his mind, one of Miles snatching the little brick from Mei’s hand and chasing her around the cell-like classroom for a “selfie”— whatever that is. And despite her quick reflexes, she always gets caught by her longtime friend, whether or not she does try to.

His finger taps onto her name.

The screen goes dark except for a small circular picture in the middle. A blurry close up of Mei stares off at the corner, her face flushed and contorted into a flustered frown, her hands clutched onto a sleeved arm around her neck. Hobie’s brows knit together until his forehead wrinkles.

Was that all? Hobie thought there would be more to it—

“Hello? Hobie?”

Hobie screams and throws the shattered handheld across the air, only for his heart to drop at the same speed.

“SHIT—WAIT—!”

The punk slams his feet against the wall of the building dock before flinging the rest of his body over the edge, the soles of his boots sticking onto the wooden wall. He whips his arm towards the falling brick before a string of web shoots out his wrist and catches it like a lasso. Whipping himself back, he yanks the handheld back to him.

A flurry of sharp tingles explodes between his eyebrows as the brick zooms towards his face.

Oh.

Fuck.

The corner of the brick rams between his brows like a bullet, knocking him back onto the rooftop. Red-hot pain pierces through his skull, and a strangled slurry of curses hiss through Hobie’s teeth as he clutches the throbbing spot. The handheld skitters across the roof while Hobie thrashes and curls into himself.

“Hobie?! You okay?!”

A pained scream catches in his throat as Mei’s tinny voice hushes through that godforsaken brick. He slams his fist against the roof tile before snatching the handheld, pressing it against his ear. A grimacing smile curls up on his lips before he finally answers.

“H-hey, shorty.”

“Are you okay? What happened?!”

Faint bass thrums from the small speaker, staticky chatter and movement tickling against Hobie’s eardrums. Blood pounds between his brows in tandem with the music in the background while heat crawls up his nape.

“Nothin’, nothin’!” Hobie grunts as he struggles to sit himself up, blinking away the pops of blue and green away from his vision. “Jus’…almost dropped m’ dog.”

“Your WHAT?!”

Tinny expletives roar through the speaker. The young punk flinches from the sudden shrills, the high frequency rattling his bruised brain, before he frantically pulls back into the call.

“Me phone! I almost dropped m’phone!”

The strain of his own voice irritates the throbbing in his head more, and his free hand clutches onto the budding bump like a retrospective shield. “Anyway! Ev’rythin’s fine! Nothin’ bad actually happened!”

The background music hushes in Hobie’s ears into a buzzing silence, whether or not a reprieve for the punk, he doesn’t know.

But a groan soon reverberates through the speaker.

“Bruh, you can’t just say that shit to me.”

A sputter of laughter echoes through, and a weary sigh of relief tumbles through Hobie’s lips.

“Oi, it ain’t m’fault ya don’ listen—”

“The hell you mean?!” Mei barks out an offended laugh. “You can’t just say you dropped a dog and expect me to be cool about that!”

“I didn’t drop a dog though, now did I?” Hobie bites back a laugh from the sheer ridiculousness of the situation. “I jus’ almost dropped m’phone, tha’s all—”

“Dude, I hate to break it to you, but I think your phone’s too fucked for you to care about dropping it—”

“Oi, now tha’s jus’ rude—!”

Another wheeze chimes through the handheld, and a snort ripples through the punk’s nose before he covers his mouth. “Bloody Americans, I swear. So judgmental and materialistic ‘bout their t’ings—”

“Hey, watch it, Queen Elizabeth! I don’t wanna hear that from you and your old man tendencies—!”

“Old?!” Hobie straightens up with an offended gasp. “‘m probably like a year older than you at most—!”

“Bro, you legit didn’t know how to add a contact on your phone—”

“I barely use this bloody brick—!”

“Yeah, I can tell! How were you talking to people before, through pigeons? You didn’t even know how to text or take pictures on your dinosaur-ass phone—!”

“I don’ need this slander, you l’il brat!” A grin stretches across Hobie’s face despite himself. “Why don’cha run off to tha’ l’il party of yers since ‘m so old fer ya?”

A beat of silence rings wrong in Hobie’s ear.

“…nah, the party can wait.”

Quiet rustling buzzes through the speaker as the teasing grin fades on the punk’s lips.

“Shorty?”

A huff of laughter tickles in his ear again, but it’s more strained than before. “No, y’know what, yeah, my bad. I should probably head back. I don’t wanna hold you up from what you’re doing right now—”

“No! No, I can talk.”

Hobie leans over until his elbows rest on his knees, his steel-toed boots hanging over the edge of the roof again. “What, ya ain’t havin’ fun over there?”

“No, nothing like that. It’s just…”

A faint sigh vibrates in his ear, and an image of Mei’s shoulders drooping flickers behind the punk’s eyes. “…it’s not really my scene, y’know? More of Miles’s, honestly.”

A salty breeze rustles through Hobie’s locs, trailing stinging kisses along his healing skin, as he hums along with understanding.

“Where’s he at right now? He don’ seem t’ type t’ leave ya alone with strangers.”

“He’s DJ’ing right now.” Her voice hushes against his eardrum, making Hobie press the handheld against his ear more. “He just switched with the main guy, so he’s kinda occupied. I already gave him some food and water though, so he shouldn’t be too bad over there.”

A small frown tugs at the corner of Hobie’s lips.

“No other friends t’ keep ya company?”

An almost derisive scoff echoes through. “I don’t really fuck with people here. A little too rich and snobby for me.”

A huff of laughter hiccups in the punk’s chest from the girl’s ironic sentiment. “Even tha’ one Harry bloke Miles mentioned—?”

“Bruh, don’t get me started with him—”

More chuckles bubble up Hobie’s throat from her scoff.

“Dude legit was trying to talk to me the whole time, even when Miles tried to get him to back off. Honestly, the fact you called right when he tried to get me alone with him was a blessing for me—”

“He tried t’ what?”

Pops crackle through his vertebrae when Hobie straightens up again, his jaw locking in place. “Shorty, tha’ ain’t safe—”

“I know, I know, I’m already away from him,” Mei reassures him. “Lucky for me, his rooftop’s huge as hell, so I got a lot of hiding places over here.”

Hobie’s shoulders drop in relief when he sighs. He drops his head, charmed locs cascading down his shoulders. Waves of inky water crash against concrete walls under his feet as another breeze catches his dangling hair.

“Aw, t’ l’il spider found a hidey-hole fer herself—?”

“Ew, why do you gotta say it like that—?”

Warmth slowly blooms in the punk’s stomach when quiet laughter chimes from Mei’s end. “Nah, but yeah, the rooftop’s pretty cool though. There’s like a huge glass greenhouse connected to the water tower, and it’s facing the city and everything. The view’s honestly the best part about this place. You can probably see Times Square from here if you pay attention.”

A small smile tugs at Hobie’s lips as he lifts his head up. Swirls of cloudy greens and grays blanket the skies, dimming the moonlight in favor of the faraway cityscape of London before him. Abandoned ships bob in the canal throughout the young punk’s periphery, but with Mei’s voice, Hobie can’t help but see shadowed silhouettes dancing across the ships’ docks.

“Yeah? Probably a better view than where ‘m at, then. What d’ya see right now?”

A melodic hum croons through his ear as he props himself back, leaning on one arm while tucking the cracked handheld against his shoulder.

“…pink. There’s a lot of pink lights out tonight.”

A wheeze slips reverberates through Hobie’s nose, eliciting a snort on the other end of the call.

“Shut up, okay! I know it’s obvious!”

“I didn’t say nothin’!”

“You were thinking it, you asshole!” Mei barks up another muffled laugh. “I get it, it’s almost Valentine's Day, but damn!”

Hobie rolls his eyes as the trembling smile on his lips stretches into a grin. “Why does that matter, huh? Why’s that a big deal?”

“…dude, it’s Valentine's Day. That’s kinda the point of the pink lights.”

The smile on Hobie’s lips falters. The little immersion of their banter briefly fades, and reality laps the warmth away from his body.

Is that supposed to be an important day? What the hell is a valentine? Is that something that’s normal in other universes? Is that something that he should’ve known about for the mission, something that slipped away from him during the dull debriefings with Miguel?

“Well…I don’ really pay attention t’ t’ings like tha’—”

“I can tell.”

Another muffled laugh hiccups through the speakers, and Hobie’s shoulders sags again. “I mean, it’s whatever. Not everybody cares about it like that. It’s kind of a gimmicky holiday anyway, trying to get people to buy a shit ton of chocolate or flowers or something.”

The punk’s face pinches into a grimace. “I can feel the capitalism looming through the speaker, shorty.”

His quip earns another stifled laugh. “Yeah, it’s a little tacky for my taste too. There’s only so much you can do with huge teddy bears with hearts or expensive jewelry. Like some last-minute public display of affection for one day out of a year.”

A low hum rumbles in Hobie’s chest before he leans back onto the roof, scratchy tile digging into his back. “Ah, bless ya ‘n yer cold heart, withholdin’ yer affection by refusin’ t’ buy int’ consumerism—”

“Shut up,” Hobie can hear the eye roll from the other end, and he bites back another teasing smirk. “I’m not gonna kill my wallet over that crap. Besides, I already have something else in mind.”

“Oh? Like what?”

A beat. Staticky rustles echo into Hobie’s ear, carrying jumbled bass and electronic snares in the background.

“…making chocolate.”

Hobie’s brows furrow as an image of thin gold wraps around a block of dark brown, plastered across billboards throughout London with a ghoulishly cartoonish goblin grinning over the masses. Luxury bares its fangs in the young punk’s mind, its sickly green skin stretched out into a monkey-like grin like the chimpanzees in those faded animal magazines in the junkyard.

“…ya can make choc’late?”

“Yeah.”

Her response is so matter-the-fact, so simple. Confusion scratches the infuriating goblin out of Hobie’s mind.

“Like…actual choc’late?”

“…yeah? I mean, it’s not professional or anything, but they’re not bad, I guess.”

Disbelief tinges his voice as an expletive tumbles through Hobie’s lips. “I didn’t t’ink ya could make it…”

“No, yeah, it’s not really that hard. I usually make it with Tía and Miles every year, but I think I’m gonna try doing it myself this time. Every time we all make it together, we make too much until Uncle Jeff gets sick of the smell in the apartment for the month.”

Another rustle scratches against Hobie’s eardrums, and he can see Mei shrugging with that familiar deadpan on her face. “He’ll still eat it though. He always does for Tía. I’ll probably make something else for Uncle Aaron and Oum D though, they’re not that big on chocolate.”

Shadowed silhouettes surround the conjured Mei in Hobie’s mind, a cloying scent fazing into the smog and salt in the air. Her face pinches up in embarrassment when a hand ruffles her dark curls, and she curls into a ball before another figure tries to tug her shielding arms away from her face. Laughter croons into his ears, and a sharp sting pricks up in his chest.

“Ya really got a nice set up, don’cha?”

Those words slip through Hobie’s lips before he can stop them. His pulse sputters under the silence at the other end.

“…like, for making chocolate?”

A strained huff slips through Hobie’s lips. His tongue grows heavy like lead, but he swallows it down before he croaks out his response.

“Nah, like…with yer family.”

Another beat of silence makes Hobie break out in a sweat before Mei’s voice chimes in the air.

“I guess, yeah. They kinda get on my ass at times, though.”

Her voice hushes into a solemn vibration. “Not gonna lie, I got chewed out a bit by Uncle Jeff and Tía earlier about skipping class again, talking about wasting my potential and all that.”

The lingering ghost of Hobie’s smirk fades.

“I know they want what’s best for me, but still,” Mei continues, as if lost in her own thoughts. “I don’t think gym class is gonna matter in my life in the grand scheme of things, especially when crazy shit happens out here every day. And I can’t really ignore it with my powers always acting up when something comes up.”

Pressure slowly crushes Hobie’s chest the more he listens, tingles flooding his skin in resonation.

“…everybody’s been telling me what I should do. To quit screwing around and think about my future, like that’s supposed to be easy for me. I’m still trying to figure out how to deal with being a hero and being normal at the same time…”

Her musing hits closer to home than Hobie would like to admit.

“…I get it. Like ev’rythin’ ya do ain’t enough fer them sometimes.”

“…yeah.”

Soft rustling reverberates through the small speaker before another sigh tickles in Hobie’s ear. “I mean, I’m still doing my own thing either way. I’ll probably figure something out later. I just…”

Every trail off from the other end of the call grows louder in Hobie’s ear. The tinge of uncertainty in her voice burrows into the punk’s chest, the unfamiliar question in her demeanor sheathing itself between his ribs to the hilt. In the whole month he’s been around her, the manicured wall she surrounds herself in finally chips before him.

That should be good. That means she’s starting to trust him.

And yet…

“I got a good thing going here, y’know?”

Something ugly pools within his ribs, latching onto her uncertainty. Burning low like embers, stubbornly clinging to life as it singes everything behind his sternum up to the back of his throat. The smog and salt in the air irritates the prickling in his chest even more.

Hobie swallows the creeping bile in his throat, and his voice strains through his lips.

“Yeah, I get that.”

No, he doesn’t.

Roving light beams travel across clouded skies, scrutinizing the whole cityscape and sea before the punk. The odor of smog and saltwater sours in the back of his throat. Static crackles in his free ear while the one against the cracked handheld croons electric drum beats and acoustic guitar at the end of the line. For a brief moment, pink lights flicker in front of him, and instead of the inky waters and bobbing ships, he’s surrounded by lush green and glass panels. Muffled music and chatter blends into lapping waves and creaking metal. Pink and white LED lights take over and dapple through the green and brown smog until they flood over the faraway city.

“…I know I signed up for this.”

A streak of yellow flicks in his periphery, and a brief tingle blooms along his arm from a faint presence beside him.

“I mean, not really,” Mei’s voice huffs in a downcast, “but what else can you really do when you get bit by some weird-ass spider, right? It’s not like you can make it go away and go back to how things used to be…”

Something tickles the hairs of his arm, almost hair-like, curl-like. Hobie shrugs the sensation off as his free hand drags against rough tile, anchoring him from his wandering mind.

“Ya make it sound like ya’ve been doin’ it fer a while.”

The punk can hear Mei shrugging again, can hear the crinkle of her windbreaker.

“…yeah, like three years, probably. Around middle school. I don’t know if that’s a long time, to be honest, but it kinda feels like it to me.”

Long braids and blue nylon flicker in his eyes, a small body swinging and soaring through the air. Screams and laughter phases in and out of his ear as a tiny blue spiderling tumbles with her newfound abilities in mid-air.

“…’n ya t’ink ya got it figured out?”

“…probably not, but I probably will at some point. So far I’ve been pretty lucky—”

A whirring suddenly cuts through the crooning music from Mei’s end. Hobie flinches from the offensive buzzing as he comes back to polluted skies and inky waters, the pink lights and glass greenhouse shattering before him.

“Shorty? T’ hell is that?”

The whirring irritates his eardrums, like hundreds of gnats swarming into his ear, but he ignores the urge to chuck the flat brick out of his grip.

“Oi, what’s goin’ on—?!”

A loud electric crackle screams in his ear, and he flinches away from the handheld again as he scrambles up from the edge of the roof.

“Mei—!”

“Shit, my bad, I’m good.”

Hobie’s heart seizes despite the nonchalance vibrating through the small speaker. Tingles buzz under his skin, and an ooze-like pressure wraps around his lungs into a chokehold.

“Some drone just flew up in my face, but I got it away from me,” Mei lets out a strained laugh as more rustling claws into Hobie’s ear. “I’mma have to go though. I think Miles’s curfew is coming up, and I don’t wanna keep Uncle Aaron waiting.”

“Wait, shorty—!”

The words tumble off his tongue before he can stop them. Lapping waves and muffled music war against his ears as his fingers squeeze around the cracked metal and plastic, drying sweat chilling his skin.

“…yeah?”

Puffs of staggered air pass through Hobie’s lips, tingles ebbing along his trembling fingertips until they seep through the handheld. The foreboding pressure constricts the air out of him, lodging his organs up his throat, but he forces them down with another swallow.

“…lemme know when ya ‘n Miles get home then, yeah?”

Hobie hates the silence that looms through the speaker, the charged static buzzing in his ear.

“…yeah, I will.”

The pressure disperses behind his ribs, and a deep breath wheezes through his throat as muffled voices and rustling echo through his ear.

“Alright, I’ll text you later, Hobie— Miles, fuck off! Get the hell off me—!”

“Hobie!” Miles’s voice booms through the punk’s overwhelmed eardrum, but Hobie bites back a startled laugh as Mei’s indignant squawking fades in the background. “Bruh, you need to pull up next time, okay? Mei’s been a sourpuss this whole time, and she’s scaring everybody away with her stank face—”

“MILES, I SWEAR TO GOD—!”

“Nah, but for real! Hang out with us more! I’ll have Mei text you next time we plan a hangout! We’ll see you at school on Monday though, aight?”

Before Hobie can utter a word into the chaotic verbal squabbling, soft beeps tickle his ear canal. He pulls the handheld away from his ear, only to be greeted with his cracked reflection on the black screen. Vertigo suddenly slams through his head as exhaustion blankets over the young punk again. With a low groan he collapses back onto the rooftop, rolling onto his back until he stares back up at the swirling green and brown sky. The tingles linger under his skin, the brief spike of anxiety hiding in the back of his subconscious. Mucus starts to break apart in his lungs when he takes another deep breath, but the tingles refuse to fade away through his exhale.

What the hell did Hobie get himself into?

He loves intensely, purposefully, an obsession. A love that could have been made into a ballad that people misinterpret as pure saccharine love when the truth is that he loves with his claws sinking into your flesh, never letting go. You should scream, flinch from his touch, or push him away with damning words, instead, you turn your head at his throat, take his chin in hand and bite down just as hard, tasting him on your tongue. Like two dragons— no, a falcon tearing at a dragon hatchling.

He has his moments, those soft days where he would lie down upon you, letting his weight fall on you with his hands underneath your chemise, palms right on your stomach as it lays there, resting, content, feeling your warmth. He always seeks your warmth, warm-blooded, with those purple heat seeking eyes. During feasts his hand is around yours underneath the table, a thumb brushing along your pulse point, drawing ancient runes upon your skin. Valyrian runes, you’ve come to know after keenly studying his movements and drawing it on a piece of parchment under the cover of darkness and flipping through old texts to understand them. One is for protection, sweet and caring. A few for life, wishing for longevity. And one for fire, all consuming, death and searing flames.

One day this man will kill you with his love, or mayhaps you end up killing him first.

There were tears in your eyes when you wed him, lips tightly pursed as you mumbled the vows that echoed around the sept. “I am his and he is mine.” You wish it wasn’t true.

When you kissed him, you wished, imagined that it was someone else holding you, someone else who wouldn’t draw blood, someone who would love you just as you love him— softly, tender, and unabashed love. And that someone is Lyonel Baratheon.

No matter how much you protested, cried, kneeled before your father and the Lord hand, but the union persisted, you had no say, you had no power. But now you do, you are now a princess by marriage, married to a prince, who thinks he is a dragon reborn, a dragon you have tamed despite the teeth marks left on your skin.

You did your duty, married him, kept your honour despite your want— your need to be with the Laughing Storm instead. With every kiss granted by your husband, with every touch, every whispered words in your ears, you all wished it was Lyonel kissing you, holding you and whispering at the shell of your ear. Like you always thought it would be. You can’t keep beating yourself up over for wanting a better life for yourself.

You wanted a gallant husband, someone kind and loving. And yet you got a man who struck a knight’s horse and he broke his legs in the process. Thank the seven that it was all he did during the tourney, but you wish that he did something worse, something that would break the betrothal. You feel horrid for wishing it so. But you’re stuck in your gilded cage, holding your husband by the scruff of his neck whenever his father’s eyes are turned away from him, which is almost always.

You’ve been told that you’ll learn to love him, and the ladies of the court giggle and whisper about how much your loving husband dotes on you, always so caring, caressing you, eyes never straying too far from you. But you only tolerate him, and yet somehow, in some odd misshapen way, Aerion Targaryen is utterly devoted to you.

He’s in love, but you wouldn’t call it that when you’ve seen real love from your father and mother, and you’ve felt it with Lyonel. Whatever Aerion feels for you, it’s lust, an obsession. He’s obsessed with you, desiring you. A year of marriage with him and you thought it would wane, but no, it only grew.

He’d whisper atop your sweaty skin, pupils blown, swallowing the sounds you make and kisses you right above your pulse to say, “mine, all mine.” His grip never loosened, nor his kisses ever felt light. As if he’s trying to carve his name inside of you, right in your very soul. Trying to have you forget every other hand that has touched you.

But there’s a part of you that knows his obsession would soon fade because you are not Valyrian, you do not share his features, and you do not have his blood. One day he’ll get bored of you. What would he do to you once he’s grown tired of you? Would he discard you? Would he forsake you for another? Bring shame to your name?

After the wedding, your husband would not leave you at peace, when dawn breaks he’s already on you, pawing at your small clothes, panting in your ear, breath fanning your cheek, asking for your warmth. And after every supper, without fail, he’s immediately on you, ripping his doublet off, eyes staring right into your soul. And you’d take him in your bed, let him unravel you, devour you whole, sometimes, you’d devour him too, you take him as he is. You made it your mission to tame him, to not let him bend you to his will, to never bend over for him. It wasn’t easy, but you learned, you learned how to push his buttons right, where to touch, what to say, and the moment you saw his eyes soften, lips agape, breathing into you and pleading for your touch with tears in his purple eyes, you won. But now he wants more.

Aerion wants a dragon he said, a child born from the union of a falcon and a dragon. A child who will surpass the conqueror himself. A child whose blood runs thick with old Valyria and the Andals. He’s obsessed with the prospect of having you swell with child, to hold onto your belly and whisper high Valyrian prayers onto your skin before the babe is even born.

A year into the marriage and it hasn’t happened yet. You thank the mother for not letting his seed take, when you know he’ll inherit his father’s delusions of grandeur. That you would truly be shackled to his side if you would have a child with him. Because despite everything, he would still be yours, half a falcon, your child.

Aerion is kind enough, a smile here and there, and the conversation is easy with him. An intelligent chat over a game of Cyvasse where he never lets you win, and yet you beat him in a few rounds, knowing his moves already. You two would make fun of a Lord at the great hall, whispering japes in your ear as you stifle a laugh. He’s quite charming, a disarming kind of charm that if you didn’t know better would’ve made you think that he’s not the same man who gazes into the fire at the dead of night whilst muttering a valyrian prayer.

You’d think to yourself, “he isn’t so bad.” But then Aerion does something cruel to someone, he tends to ruin lives that he thinks are insignificant to him. A poor stable boy, who didn’t ready your horse fast enough, a handmaiden, whose only crime is dressing you in your Arryn colours, or a Lord of no renown who looked at you too long. He’s overprotective, to the point that it’s stifling, he has forgotten, or ignores the fact that you could wield a sword just like him.

You could call him a companion at least, but definitely not the husband you always dreamed of.

Where Lyonel has the easy kind of charm, where you find yourself laughing easily around him, where every smile from him is genuine, Aerion isn’t any of that. It’s like pulling teeth with him. Perhaps it’s because your heart is with another that you can never love him the same way, but Aerion was never the right man for you, even if you have met him first, even if you learned to love him, somehow, he does not fit well with you. As if there is something wrong with the union, that you are meant to be somewhere else with someone who isn't him. Before the wedding, the wheel of your carriage broke apart. Your gown was ripped at the hem, the wedding cloak went missing. And during the wedding feast the old king grew ill and collapsed mid-feast. It’s as if fate didn’t want any of this to happen, as if something went wrong and you were not supposed to be here.

Everything feels wrong around the red keep. You shouldn’t be walking these halls, wearing Targaryen colours as you walk arm in arm with your Aunt, as she reassures you that it is not easy to grow heavy with child when she had troubles with it as well with her own Targaryen prince.

“It will soon take.” She says softly, eyes shimmering with sympathy. “Soon you will have heirs of your own. And they shall grow with their cousins.” Her finger fixes a strand of your hair, smiling sweetly at you as you two stand over the balcony overlooking the courtyard.

The sky is gloomy, breeze cold against your skin, freezing the golden rope around your neck that is laden with rubies and two curled dragons meeting in the middle, a gift from your dear husband. It seems that there is a storm coming.

“Heirs to what exactly?” You bluntly answer, you found that dancing around your words doesn’t always go inside the thick skulls of the people at court. You’d rather fling yourself through the moondoor than skirt around them just to try not to offend them. You love your aunt, and she’s great company, but she has spent too much of her time at court that she hasn’t truly lived for herself in a long time. She’s just trying to survive to see the next moon with her children.

Her brows knit together, giving you a pursed look as she squeezes your arm. “Do not say that out loud, niece.” She warns, and you see the real her. Not the polite princess smile, not the smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “You must refrain from saying such things, understand?”

“But, aunt—”

“Promise me.” Leaning close, she whispers, talking amidst the cover of the whistling wind that flutters the skirt of your gown. “The court is volatile, soon it’ll be Baelor on the throne and you and your husband will need to stand in front of him when his older brother can barely see through the fog of wine. I know you do not wish for children, but do not let your wishes be heard by another.”

“This isn’t the life I wanted.” Is all you could muster, too tired to pretend, too exhausted to argue.

You don’t want a perfect love, that is nigh impossible to obtain and you know it so. You just want something that is better than this, something that isn’t volatile, a love that you can be yourself with, a love that is bone achingly real.

“Do you think I wanted this too?” Her voice falters, before clearing her throat and standing upright. As if a curtain fell over her face, your aunt smiles like nothing happened. “Now, shall we have tea in my solar—?”

The heavy doors open in the courtyard, and the unmistakable sound of hooves echoes around as a whole caravan enters the keep. People turn their attention at the arrival, some bow, some look with a pensive expression. One of them is your platinum haired husband, Aerion comes out of the stables, wind swept hair from his afternoon ride that he invited you to come but you declined his offer, citing that you have a headache. He rolled his eyes at you then, scoffing under his breath and yet he gave you a kiss to your cheek.

As always, Aerion manages to find you within the crowd, head tilted up to look at you on the balcony. He gives you a smile, that smile he only gives you across the room, it could be genuine, or it could be feigned, you still have a hard time recognizing which one most days. His boots are already moving to climb up the steps over to you.

You don’t pay your husband heed when a familiar golden banner flusters in the strong wind.

“Seven hells—” the curse dies in your throat as you see the crowned stag on a golden field. “Gods…” Lyonel. His name echoes inside your head, saying it over and over again in a chorus, like a prayer, wishing, hoping it is truly him walking through those doors.

Your hands grip the bannister, leaning over it to look through each face that passes through. There, in the middle of the caravan, wearing the same gold cloak that he draped over your shoulder that night, is your Lyonel. He looks just the same as before, grinning that same grin you fell for, but his eyes, it doesn’t have the same shine to them, as if the light in his eyes were taken from him.

“Wife.” Aerion appears by your side, smelling like grass and the perfume he always asks you to help put on him every morning, which in turn makes you smell like him. His hand immediately finds yours above the bannister, intertwining his fingers with your own. “I thought you were too ill to come outside.”

“Hm?” You had to unstick your gaze from Lyonel as your neck turned to Aerion, eyes still lingering on the stag drenched in gold before finally looking back at your husband. “The maester gave me a tincture to help.”

He doesn’t look too convinced, jaw set, grip tightening around your hand. “Is that so?” He shifts his weight, eyes glancing at the man before flicking over to you. Does he know? Aerion is many things, but he isn’t an idiot. “Sweet aunt, thank you for bringing my wife out for some air. She prefers the comfort of our chambers and less company nowadays.”

“Of course, my prince. I was about to have tea with her, do you wish to accompany us—”

“Not today, aunt.” He flashes her a false smile, before taking you away from her. “I must rest, the ride took the wind out of me. Come.” Tugging you away, you look back at your aunt as she gives you an apologetic look.

You only wish to see Lyonel again, but as you go further into the keep, you could only see a glimpse of his sigil fluttering in the wind. Just like that fateful day on Ashford.

If only you could’ve seen him look up at the balcony just as Aerion took you away.

The walk to your shared chambers was in silence, but you didn’t falter beside him, keeping pace with his longer strides until you reached the doors of your chamber.

Aerion’s hand leaves yours, shutting the doors right behind him.

“Did you really have to embarrass me in front of my aunt like that?” Your arms cross over your chest, facing him head on. “Aerion—”

“I wanted to take a ride with you.” He says, still facing the door as his jaw clenches. “I wanted to bring you to the lake.”

“To drown me perhaps?”

Turning to face you, his expression falls, shoulders tensing. “Do you think of me cruel? No, I wanted to see the sunrise with you.”

“Why?” You blink, hands falling to your side, twisting towards the table to pour yourself a cup of wine. A familiar companion for you nowadays.

“Why?” He lets out a scoff, taking the cup from you as the drink sloshes on the rim. “Is it a crime to want to spend time with my wife?”

“No, it isn’t. But you’re only sweet when you have done something or want something. Which one is it?”

Aerion’s eyes turn away from you, before taking a gulp of the wine. “The latter.” He says lowly, eyes flicking dangerously to yours. “You, I want you.”

This is desire, not love, an all devouring desire that encompasses the prince. It’s all gnashing teeth and nails digging into your hips, not the soft gentle love that has your heart aflutter, not the kind of love you want or deserve.

Nevertheless warmth pools in your stomach. Desire has everyone in its grip, not even you are an exemption. “Why the lake?” Your fingers bring your skirt to wring, trying to tamp out your desire as your eyes rake upon his corded neck.

“Change of scenery.” Shrugging, he puts the rim of the cup over to your lips. “Drink.”

You’re drained, longing for that kind of love that you’ll take whatever warmth is in front of you, and that warmth is Aerion. In his own twisted kind of love, he gives you warmth, arms to hold you when the nights grow cold, a voice that is sometimes tender in your ears, a voice that is real, not a memory. And those intense eyes that never glance away from you, never turning towards another. He may not be the husband you wanted, nor the man you chose to love, but you stayed anyway. Because the alternative is destruction, loneliness, a dishonourable end. And disappointment, you don’t want to disappoint your father. But a year into the marriage, you’re not the same woman you once were, the same woman who wore a threadbare cloak and danced barefoot around Lyonel and a hedge knight like there is nothing else happening in the realm. Now you’re the woman who stays in her seat, nursing a cup in her hand and watches the revelry from far away when you want to join and dance and to laugh carefree again.

“You are insufferable.” And yet you take a drink, and yet you welcome him in your warm embrace. Still, you kiss him with hunger, hold him like he’s about to fly away. And yet your thoughts were on Lyonel the whole time.

—

“Do you know why he’s here?” You blurt out, warm and sweaty under the covers as he lays his head on your chest like always.

“Who?” His cheek is pressed on your skin, cheeks flushed and red, still panting atop you. His index draws the rune for life over your stomach, a prayer.

“Baratheon.” You simply say, if you said his name he would know from how sweet you uttered it.

Aerion hums, a deep rumble you could feel in your ribcage. “Oh, him, his lord father passed.” His breath tickles your bare skin. “Perhaps he was called to bend the knee to grandsire.”

“Why is that needed?” Your fingers rake through his platinum hair that he always melts at the act. “His late father already did that years before.”

His head turns to you, chin resting right on your sternum as his purple eyes tries to gaze into your mind. “He despises us, that’s why.” Us, not him, or his house, us. He believes that you are a part of his house as much as he is, you’re starting to think so too. “Why are you so curious about this Baratheon, hm?”

Why this specific Baratheon? Why this specific man? When there have been plenty of Lords who have walked through the keep and you did not pay them any heed.

“I saw him at the tourney at Ashford. And I will not lie to you but he was almost betrothed to me. He was a suitor.”

“Almost.” Moving, he looms over you, elbows perched on the side of your head as he smugly smiles down. “Almost. But you ended up betrothed to me,” his knee parts your legs under the covers, leaning down to press a kiss on the hinge of your jaw. “Married to me. In bed with me.”

Jealousy is worse than a cup of wine. He’s drunk off it.

“Oh, Aerion.” Taking his face in your hand, you make him look at you. “Are you jealous?”

“A dragon doesn’t concern himself with a mere stag.” Leaning against your touch, he pecks the inside of your palm, all the while gazing into your eyes tenderly.

And yet that mere stag still holds your heart.

—

You hate it when Aerion is right.

The great hall is buzzing with life, it seems that everyone got the news of the new arrival at court. From the Lords and Ladies of the court, to the Baratheon bannermen drenched in their house colours, the great hall is filled with nobles. On the right side of the throne are mostly Targaryens and their kin, watching the other side with pensiveness, some with intense gazes full of suspicion.

You stand beside your husband, staring at Lyonel’s squire whose eyes lingered too long on your face. And yet the young man didn’t flick his gaze away, he even looked at the prince with the same intensity. You surmise that he was staring at you because he recognized you from the tourney, the same girl who was in a raggedy cloak, smiling and dancing with his Lord liege, who is now holding hands with a prince of the blood, clothed in black and red.

Your father settles beside you, face weary, he’s always weary around the red keep after getting the position as master of coin the moment you married Aerion. That was the deal, an exchange, but he now wonders if it’s a worthy one when he sees the weary look on his daughter’s face. The same expression his sister has as she stands alone, her children too young to participate in court, her husband too engrossed in his own mind to ever notice her gone.

The Arryns in the Red Keep are stuck in a gilded cage they have locked themselves in.

You miss your brothers, you miss your mother, and you miss Juniper, who Aerion dismissed without your say when she didn’t bite her tongue when she saw your tear stained cheeks and the love marks all over your skin.

The old King sits on the throne, back hunched, skin pulled taut around his bones. He wheezes, but tries to keep his composure as his son and heir stand beside the throne as the hand pin on his lapel catches the light.

Someone coughs amidst the awkward silence, waiting for the double doors to open as you twist a strand of your hair around your index.

“The gall of this man.” Aerion hisses in-between his teeth, fingers digging into your hand tenderly. “Mayhaps we shouldn’t have wasted our time coming here.”

“We were called upon, Aerion.” Sighing, your eyes are glued to the doors, waiting impatiently, feet shifting, hair pulled by your index.

“Stop that.” He takes your wrist away from your hair, pushing it back to your side. “It’s unbecoming.”

“I cannot help it.” You bite back, eyes steely at your husband instead of unabashed love.

You feel your father’s guilty eyes bore into your back.

“Then try to, my sweet.” Aerion tugs your hand to his side again, weaving his long fingers around your own, engulfing your palm.

You tug back, harder, until his hip hits your own. “No.” Taking your braid, you twist it around your finger, adding to his frustration.

“Now who’s being insufferable?” His breath brushes along the shell of your ear, you could feel his desire roll off him from your petulance.

“We both are,” your head cranes to look into his eyes, not backing down, nor folding underneath his gaze. “guess we are in fact perfect for each other, husband.”

The corner of his lip curls, a chuckle bubbling in his throat. Then the doors open with a loud creak, announcing his arrival.

Murmurs bounce off the stone walls as the herald thumps his cane against the floor.

There, standing like he owns the castle, in all his glory, sun shining on his back, drenching him in more gold, is Lyonel himself.

“Lord Lyonel Baratheon, Lord of Storm’s End, Lord Paramount of the Stormlands, the Laughing Storm.”

The cane smacks again, and Lyonel finally moves.

Your heart cinches in your chest, tighter than how Aerion is holding onto you. You haven’t seen him in a year, you’ve longed for him for a year, said his name in your head for a year so you would not forget it, so you wouldn’t forget his face. He looks just the same as you remembered, more handsome than you imagined in your mind at the dead of night.

Seeing him this close is guttering, when you thought you have controlled your longing for Lyonel, it rears its head whenever your thoughts grow heavy, stronger, more heart wrenching than the last good bye. Gods, you missed him, you still love him.

He still has his cloak on, draped over his shoulders, a golden river dragging right behind him. The same earring you felt in-between your fingers dangles in his lobe, and those dark eyes, the eyes you’ve gazed into lovingly, tried to imagine in your year long longing is finally right in front of you.

Lyonel isn’t wearing his stag crown, he isn’t an idiot, and he doesn’t have a death wish when it could be seen as traitorous in front of the King. He doesn’t wish to see the stranger just yet when his eyes subtly glance around the crowd looking for you.

There, right beside the bastard he loathes, is you. Still the same woman he danced with through the night, the same woman he talked to beside the river and laid your heart for him as he showed you his soul. You’re the same woman he fell madly and deeply in love with. Lady Arryn, he should’ve known from the start it was you, no longer in a threadbare cloak, no longer having the same smile he always looked for in the crowd.

It’s cruel how they took the light from your eyes. How cruel it is to subject you to this shackled life when you should’ve been soaring freely.

Lyonel couldn’t help the scowl from appearing on his face the moment he sees Aerion’s hand wrapped around your own in a bone crushing hold.

You interpret his expression as fury, anger towards you, and what’s left of your heart shatters.

A year at court and nothing has fazed you, nothing threw you off guard, whatever Aerion says bitingly never truly hurt you in a way that matters. But Lyonel’s anger, his thunderous fury, is the one thing that pained you so.

Aerion’s eyes glances at you, fingers loosening around your hand for a moment. “Wife, you look sickly.”

“Headache.” You simply say with the lump in your throat. “I feel ill, Aerion.” You watch as his intense eyes turn tender, the edges of his face softening as his grip turns loving. “Take me away from here.”

He inhales deeply, arm curled around your back. His purple eyes flashes with something. Was that sympathy? “Come.”

The prince leads you away, parting the crowd for the both of you just as you hear the King greet Lyonel.

If only you saw how his head moved, following you as you walked away from his life once again.

—

“Is there a chance that you are with child?” Aerion asks as he places a cold damp cloth over your forehead. His touch is gentle and caring, a glimpse of a better man.

“No, I am not.” Eyes shut, you don’t see his face tighten at your words. “I may be barren, Aerion, you mustn’t hold up hope.”

Water splashes on your face as you crack an eye open.

“Don’t talk like that, my love.” He calls you that as if it is true. Perhaps it is true in his mind, but you don’t see it. You never felt it, only glimpses of that love when he’s soft and pliant after a coupling, or when the morning sun shines on his face as he slept. Just a glimpse of what could’ve been. “We shall have a dragon, I’ve seen it.”

“They’re dreams, my prince. Nothing more.” Shaking your head, you feel his sword roughed hand cup your stomach. “I’ve heard the whispers, you know, from your grandsire’s men.”

His jaw tightens, moving at the hinges as he huffs a breath. “What kind of whispers?” He knows.

“That you should just annul our marriage when there hasn’t been a child born from our union.” His head falls, and yet hope blooms in your chest as you give him the idea, planting it in his head. “The high septon would allow it so—”

“But I do not.” His tone lowers dangerously, his hand gripping onto the blanket over you. “I will not. You are my wife until the stranger comes for us. And I know we will have a child soon, that is not cause for an annulment. We do not heed the words of men beneath us.” He utters it with absolute certainty.

Perhaps this is Aerion’s version of love. And it’ll be your undoing.

“It’s this fucking air.” He vaults from the bed, a hand raking through his hair as the sun shines on him. He faces the opened window, shutting it with a slam. “We are not the only ones having trouble having a child, Valarr and his wife, my uncle…” exhaling, his nostrils flared with frustration. “It’s this damned keep.” You could practically see his head churning.

“Aerion—”

“We shall move to Summerhall. Where the air doesn’t smell like piss and death, and there will be no annoyance there apart from my father and siblings.” With quick strides, he moves over to you, taking your hands, and laying his head on your stomach, cheek pressing upon your skin, hearing your insides curl and groan. Under the light, he looks lovely, so innocent, so in love. “It’ll just be us.”

“Just us.” You mutter back, chest feeling tight, eyes wide as he leans for a kiss upon your shocked lips. “What if I die in my birthing bed? That you have to choose between me or the babe just like King Viserys did with his Queen Aemma.”

“No,” his palm cups your face, heavier than before. His desperation and fear ebbs from his hold. “That will not happen, you are healthy and still young, if it comes to that I…” Aerion falters, Aerion doesn’t falter. But he does in this instance, chiseled face contorting right in front of you. “It will not happen. Say it back to me, my love.”

“It won’t happen.”

—

The feast the King held in honour of the Laughing Storm came as a surprise to everyone, but not to you. You always knew that Lyonel could befriend anyone, even the people he hates.

He’s performing, quite well in fact as he sits beside the King on his left, laughing and conversing with the old man, whom you haven’t heard laugh this hard ever. Baelor has this polite look on his face, he always has that expression, a retrained face that he never lets slip in front of anyone.

The music is jaunty and happy, the same music that was playing in Lyonel’s pavilion the day you danced with him. Perhaps he asked for it to be played, or perhaps it’s fate mocking you.

You’re at the end of the long table in the great hall, seated beside your aunt and her mumbling husband as Aerion picks at his food. You wish to look at Lyonel, but you’re afraid that once you do, you’d sob and break.

“You must eat, niece.” Your aunt piles another piece of ham onto your plate. “Having an empty stomach won’t do you any good.”

“You need to keep your strength up for when the babe comes.” Aerion declares as if you are already with child. You know you are not when all your illnesses were feigned.

“What babe, Aerion?” Your spoon twists in your hand as you turn pointedly at him. “The maester confirmed it, I am not with child.”

Aerion’s jaw clenches, biting his lower lip as he chuckles dryly above the rim of his cup. “Then why are you always ill, hm? Or was it all feigned?” He knows, Aerion has always been good at reading people, but not always with you. You keep to yourself, a closed book that he’s desperate to read.

“Would you even love the child?” You ask, heart already broken as it lies beside your feet. “Or do you just love the prospect of having one before your cousin does?”

His goblet slams against the table as wine spills over the glass. The conversation around the hall silences, heads turning towards the source.

Head lowering, a hand grasping at your skirt in a grip, his eyes narrow at you. “The child is mine, ours, do you think me so vain and cruel to not love my own? The proof of our love?”

Taking his hand atop your skirt, you unfurl his fist, taking his fingers slowly until it’s around your hand instead. “Do you actually love me, Aerion?”

His narrowed eyes blink, twisting into softness, irises blooming, lilac eyes turning almost black. His breath hitches in his throat, a thumb brushing along your palm, as his jaw is unclenched, features softer, kinder. “Why would you even ask me that?” You’ve never heard his voice sound so small, so delicate, a tone broken at the edges with hurt. “Am I still not enough?”

“What—?”

“Why did you even marry me?” Hurt flashes across his face, a brief moment of vulnerability before his jaw clenches, fisting your skirt, lashes clumped together, before he abruptly stands up, fuming.

He’s hurting, why is he hurt?

“Aerion—” You vault from your seat to follow him, but a hand stops you, rough, sword calloused familiar hands. Following the source of the ringed hand, you see the Laughing Storm himself. “My Lord Lyonel…”

“My Lady.” Lyonel appears in front of you like in your dreams, giving you that same sweetened smile that has doomed you to love him forever. “If your husband permits it, may I have this dance?”

“Lyonel…” You take a deep inhale, air stuck in your throat as you gawk at him. “I’m— I’m afraid my husband is feeling quite ill. He left.”

Everyone has their eyes on you and the Lord of Storm’s End, whispering amongst each other, keenly watching the interaction. It does not help when the king and Baelor are keeping watch also, making sure that you and Lyonel act that is befitting your station. They know that he was once your suitor.

“How…unfortunate.” And yet his amused smile betrays his words. Lyonel’s hand slides down from your wrist and over to your hand, a thumb brushing along your palm tenderly. “Then, may I have this dance, my Lady Arryn?”

You let out a choked laugh, a genuine one as you go around the table and over to him. “It’s Lady Targaryen now actually.”

“Oh, yes, my apologies.” He doesn’t mean it as he guides you towards the middle of the room with the rest of the court as they dance to the beat of the drums and harpsichord.

The crowd parts for the two of you, bowing down respectfully, whilst sharing glances with each other from the delicious gossip happening right in front of them.

Your gaze flickers down to the joined hands, a sight you never thought you’d ever see again. You feel for his callouses, the same one you tried to recall in your head whenever Aerion held yours in his slender hand.

“You need not worry, my Lady.” Lyonel whispers to you, smirking underneath the candle lights as his familiar earring catches the light. “I will stay at a perfectly respectful distance.” Just as he says it, he pulls you in against him, a hand on your waist, fingers pressing gently. Whilst the other glides across the length of your arm, touch lingering until his fingers intertwine with yours. “Comfortable?”

“Very much so.” You shudder, breath stuck in your throat as you gaze at the joined hands, feeling the familiar warmth blossom in your chest. “Hello, Lyonel.”

“Hello, my doe.” His eyes are soft, a lopsided smile that has you chuckling under your breath.

“I haven’t heard that in a while.”

“Gods, I cannot believe that I’m standing in front of you again.” He utters just for your ears only, the Laughing Storm, who prides himself in his loud voice, whispers to keep you safe in the wandering eyes and ears of the court. A bright grin spreads across his rakish face, bottom lip bitten to stifle a laugh bubbling in his throat as his eyes sparkles with mirth. Lyonel says your name, saccharine and honeyed, as if no time has passed between you, as if he has been practicing saying your name during your absence so as to not forget the taste of it on his tongue.

“You look quite well, Lyonel.” Your voice is as tender as his hold upon your waist. Whilst you two dance along the memorized practiced steps like the crowd around you, you see his mask fall.

“For a man so heartbroken, I do look quite handsome, hm?” He starts to lean against your face to nuzzle at your neck, until he remembers where he is. He’d give anything to hold you affectionately again, like that day in Ashford where he danced through the night with you until you were laughing in his arms and saying his name like a lover would.

Your brows furrow, guilt flashing in your eyes, regret marring your pretty face. “I’m sorry. I should’ve fought harder—”

“None of that.” Shaking his head, earring dangling with every movement, a curl falls over his face that you intensely want to move away to see his eyes fully. Lyonel’s smile falls, dark eyes glossing over with the same grief as he tips your chin up with his index and thumb. “None of that, my love. There was naught to be done. I would’ve fought tooth and nail for you but when I awoke from my injuries after the tourney to announce you as my queen of love and beauty as rightfully so, you were gone with the blonde headed bastards.”

“The princes wanted it to be done quickly to rein in Aerion. They thought I could do that, pull him away from unchivalrous deeds or perhaps change him.”

“Well, did you?” Brows knitted together, his steps glide across the floor as your skirts whirl around the two of you. “You’re quite good at that but you’re not a miracle worker.”

“I tamed him at most. Smooth out his edges but…” shutting your eyes tightly, he waits, Lyonel has always been patient with you, unlike Aerion who pulls and tugs at you towards what he wants, but not towards what you need. “I don’t think you’d like to hear how I managed it.”

Stormlander fury bursts in his eyes. “Has he hurt you in any way?”

You purse your lips, giving him a wobbly smile. “Not in a way that matters.”

“You shouldn’t be here.”

“I know.” Your tone breaks in the middle as the crowd continues to dance around the two of you, obscuring you from your kin. “I’d give anything to be away from here. Aerion has his moments, where I could see his love, but not always…not always.”

“I scarcely recognized you in these colours, I scarcely recognize you at all, my doe.” Lyonel, strong, defiant Lyonel, who would face the storm himself with a booming laugh breaks in front of you.

“And you, you look just like in my dreams.” His face cracks at your painful confession. “I thought you had forgotten about me, Lyonel.”

“I would never.” What have they done to his falcon? They’ve taken your talons and cut your wings, so much so that it has taken the warmth from your eyes. “I did promise you, haven’t I? That I’ll come looking for you, if only you have made it easier for me by telling me of your true nature.”

“That was quite foolish wasn’t it?” You look at him apologetically. “I did plan on telling you the next day, or mayhaps run far away with you if you would have me but that was also a maiden’s foolish desire.”

“Very much so, my Lady.” Lyonel twirls you gently, before you meet with him again in the middle. “But not the latter. When was the last time you danced?”

“At my wedding feast.” Swallowing the lump in your throat, you feel the back of your eyes warm, tears threatening to spill over. Whether from sheer relief and happiness or grief, you do not know, but you don’t let it spill.

“Tell me that isn’t so.” His heart breaks for you one more time whilst his hand squeezes you.

“Unfortunately it is.” Sniffing, you blink away the tears. “My husband isn’t one for dancing. Nor revelry.”

“You don’t belong here.”

“I know. I feel like I don’t belong anywhere.” His hands lift you by your waist briefly, keeping up with the crowd. Keeping face when there are far too many eyes around.

“What have they done to you?”

“I’ve told you, nothing that would matter.” Your gaze roams around warily.

Lyonel stops abruptly, hands still on your body as his shoulders tighten, jaw clenching as he breathes out a shallow breath. “It matters when your smile doesn’t reach your eyes, when you flinch at loudness, when you don’t look like yourself. They made you into this…this shackled thing and clipped your wings.”

“I’m surviving.”

“Not living.” Lyonel’s anger isn’t pointed at you, but at the people seated at the highest table. “This isn’t the life you deserve, my love.” When he calls you that, you truly believe him that he does love you, as simple as that. As easy as that.

“Lyonel,” a tear escapes from your eye as you quickly wipe it away. “It gladens me to see you here but why are you here?” Your voice cracks, terrified for his sake. “You said you came to look for me but here I am. What now?”

“To ask you what you want. To give you a choice that they took away from you.”

“Lyonel…”

“Do they know of the story at the lake with the fire? Do they know what you are capable of?” His grip onto your hands turns bruising before loosening, thumbs caressing along your skin as an apology. “Not just being their pretty princess to bring more half baked dragons into this world. The real you, the one who fought a man twice as large as her and lived, the version of you who challenged me from across the room without faltering. The woman who wedged herself in my heart and clung there as I fell for her. You do not deserve this life, you’re supposed to soar, not to be kept in this cage.”

You finally break in front of him. Tears stream down your face as he brings his sleeve over to your cheeks, wiping the tears away gently.

“My love, my doe.” His hands cup your face gingerly in his hands, not because he’s afraid that you will break, but because he’s afraid that they will take you away from him if he holds on tighter. “What do you want? Your wish is my command.”

You meet with his eyes, finding no lie nor jest in those dark eyes you dream about, eyes that you adore so much. Your next words break you. “Will— will you take me away from here?”

It’s what he wanted to hear from your lips, it’s what he predicted you would ask of him. He didn’t bring a whole army with him for no reason. He might have kneeled before the King and swore a vow, but what is that vow worth to be with his great love? Knights have traded their honour for far worse things, unchivalrous things, but this, saving you and taking you away from this wrenched place is part of his vow as a knight. Protecting the innocent. For him that is the most consequential vow, not the one he swore to a bloodline that has done worse to his realm.

“I know it’s too much of an ask, please forgive me, just forget it—”

“Yes.” Lyonel’s eyes spark with determination. “Why do you think I came all this way?”

—

In the dead of night, you stare at your husband’s sleeping face. He almost looks angelic under the moonlight, peaceful, pleasant. With your letters shoved under your father’s chamber door, explaining to him what you’ve done and telling him to go back home if he was smart. And with ravens flying towards Storm’s End and the Vale, you lean down to Aerion’s sleeping face and kiss his forehead.

He smells of wine, he drank himself to sleep after the feast, he never does that. You may never know why he acted that way, or why he said those words to you, as if you were his great love and not just someone to breed and call his own. But you don’t care enough for his reasoning when he has already carved his name into your ribcage. It’ll forever be there like a scar that won’t heal, but it’s a reminder of your family’s failings, a reminder that you survived it, a reminder that you lived to be with the one you were supposed to be with.

You’ve got a lot of regrets, maybe you should’ve accepted Lyonel’s proposal the moment the letter landed on your table instead of whinging about it. Perhaps you would already be married to him, save yourself some hurt. Or perhaps fate weaved another path for you and Lyonel to be together instead, one of those paths lay before you now as you grab your cloak and clasp it over your shoulders.

You’ve shed every Targaryen heraldry from your body as you wear your house colours once again, a brilliant blue with a soaring falcon right on the bodice. Mayhaps you may wear Baratheon colours one day. For now, you must leave all this behind.

Turning away, you stop abruptly at the weak tug on your skirt.

Aerion’s holding onto the silk of your gown, eyes half lidded and fogged from the wine as it dulls his senses, weakens his façade.

“My wife…” he sighs out, collar stained with wine, fingers curled weakly around your gown. “Where…where are you going?”

Taking his hand, you slowly unfurl his fist. “Somewhere that isn’t here.”

“Don’t— Don’t go.” You almost falter at how soft and tender he is. “Please…my love.”

Taking a shuddered breath, you kneel before him on the settee, placing a kiss right on his knuckles. He’s awfully drunk, he will never remember this conversation.

“Did you really love me, Aerion?”

“Why wouldn’t I?” He licks at his dry lips, brows furrowed, face contorted into hurt. “I did— I do. I do love you.”

“Then let me go peacefully.” You don’t cry for him, instead you mourn what could’ve been.

He could’ve been good to you if he showed his love that doesn’t leave bite marks, a love that you only see briefly whenever he lays his head against your chest, a strand of your hair curled around his finger as he listens to the beat of your heart. He loves like he’ll never love ever again, a love that he’s afraid would be taken away from him forcefully. So he loves fiercely, agonizingly devout, a terrifying desire to be loved back. He loves with dragon fire that ended up burning you. And it’ll burn him too if he doesn’t change.

Aerion hums, something in him wants to hold on tighter, to fight, to yank you back to his side. But the wine warms his insides, the wine hinders his thinking. His eyes close again, he must be dreaming an awful dream.

Soft breaths fill the shared chambers once again. And you finally pull away, placing his hand atop his chest as you hitch your skirts and flip the dragon tapestry away to reveal the hidden passage out of the castle.

Lyonel greets you in the dark together with his bannermen that are all armoured up with their swords at their hips, ready to fight beside their liege Lord if need be.

His beaming grin could light the way for you as he holds a hand up for you on his horse.

“Was there trouble?” He asks, voice laced with concern as he yanks you up on the horse.

“No,” you sit behind him, arms curled around his middle as you lay your cheek against the cool steel of his armour. “No trouble, let us go, Lyonel.”

The Laughing Storm doesn’t need another confirmation as he rides away with you. Just like he dreamed of. Just like he once promised.

—

The noise from Aerion’s chambers wakes the whole castle when he found out about your treachery. He wields his sword, swinging it around the room as he breaks everything inside. And on the other, he grips your necklace, the one he has fashioned just for you. He holds on it so tightly that it draws blood upon his palms.

No one could calm him down. The one person who could is now miles away from him, riding away with another man.

Shards of glass fling away, broken wood lay littered across the floor where he once had you. The bed wasn’t spared, goosefeathers fly around him as he stabs and slashes at the bed that still smells like you.

“I want Lyonel Baratheon’s head!” His guttural screams carry around the keep.

To Aerion, you were kidnapped, taken from him while he was at his most vulnerable. To him, you loved him just like he has loved you. To him, Lyonel Baratheon is malignant, a vile and evil man. And the prince has cursed his name, and named him as the sworn enemy of the crown for what he has done.

The heir and the Lord hand himself writes an urgent letter to his younger brother, and another asking Lyonel to give you back to your husband before anything untoward happens, before a war breaks between the noble houses that were once kin.

Your father and aunt left the red keep before Aerion’s anger flooded the castle. They’re headed over to you and plead with you to go back to your husband. Lyonel has closed his borders to them and anyone that allies with the crown.

Ser Duncan greeted you and Lyonel at the door of Storm’s End, he did not look quite happy at the turn of events, but once he met with your eyes and saw the grief and pain underneath them, he understood why Lyonel had to take you away. He has sworn his sword and shield to him, and in turn, before he was in Lyonel’s care, he swore to you first.

And as you lay beside Lyonel in Storm’s End, with your hand in his curls as he lays upon your chest, smiling and telling you stories of what you missed. You ignore the lightning and thunder outside, and you tuck away the looming conflict around the realm as you laugh and smile with your great love with a lighter heart. The light in your eyes slowly comes back, and Lyonel finally feels that he is complete.

And yet, despite all the happiness that you could feel in your bones, there’s a war coming. And you started it.

Juniper, barely a year old, is Storm’s End little princess, Lords and Ladies from across the realm have granted her favours in an attempt to forge a friendship or even an alliance with you and your Lord Husband. From silver rattles, to intricate weaved blankets from the North, Juniper is swimming in gifts. And just like her father, she loves the attention, giggling and kicking in your arms whenever Lyonel would bring another present to her from a merchant you two met back in Essos.

But despite all the lavish gifts and attention she has garnered, it doesn’t compare to her father’s presence. She’s a delight whenever she’s with him, dark eyes shining the moment she sets her eyes on Lyonel. And he’s the same, mirrored expressions gazing at each other as he takes the two of you in his arms whilst Juniper shrieks happily.

“She was born with laughter in her throat.” He told you one day, voice soft and tender, eyes glimmering with love for his girls while the rare sunshine danced across his handsome face. You were nursing Juniper, whilst he accompanied you and even brought his work on the bed just to be in your presence.

Lyonel has been awfully clingy, always seeking out your warmth, a hand always on your skin. You’re not one to complain when you are the same, always asking for him, always calling his name whenever you please, and it’s quite frequent. If Juniper smiles at something, laughs or even points at something so mundane as a flower or at a horse, then you’re asking the nearest servant to call for your husband so he could witness the miracle that is your daughter.

One day though, you’re the one who is away on business, doing your duties as Lady Baratheon and hosting guests from the Riverlands. Lyonel was by your side, but the moment the conversation turned dull, talking about harvests and Riverland history that may or may not have been a segue into asking for an alliance through marriage with your daughter and the Tully’s youngest— Lyonel has vanished from your side.

You would be irked by his sudden disappearance, how he left you to fend for yourself in front of the Riverlords, but the moment you heard his voice through Juniper’s nursery, all your anger faded away.

Lyonel’s sitting on your rocking chair with Juniper in one arm, slowly falling asleep, long lashes fluttering against the apples of her chubby cheeks. There’s a tome in his other hand, whilst he softly reads the passages to her. He’s reading Florian the fool, a story that he has told you was childish drivel, that he has more interesting stories to tell you as he traced your face with his lips.

“‘You are a fool.’” He reads, tone lowered, thumb kneading at the pudge of Juniper’s leg as he takes a quick peek at her. “Why aren’t you asleep? Your mother told me that you always fall asleep whenever she reads to you.”

Juniper just flashes him her batting lashes, eyes sleep heavy as she sucks on her thumb.

Sighing, Lyonel chuckles, pecking the top of her head, curls tickling his nose. “You are as stubborn as your mother.” The second he finishes his sentence, his eyes flick over to you at the doorway. “I’m afraid we’ve got a spy in our midst, flower. What do we do with spies?”

Juniper makes a sound from the back of her throat, a half giggle, half babble in reply.

“Yes, we show them Stormlander hospitality.” He kisses her curls once again before craning his head to face you with that mischievous smirk on his lips that never fails to make your stomach tumble. “Halt, who goes there?” He jests, and you chortle, crossing the distance over to your family.

“Just the Lady Baratheon, my lord Lyonel.” Smiling, you cup his cheek lovingly, watching as he immediately rests against you with a soft look whilst gazing at you with reverence. “You disappeared on me, my love.”

“‘My lord Lyonel,’” He repeats with a low rumble in his throat, amused. “I haven’t heard that in a while…” his palm cups your behind, squeezing faintly as he rests his hand atop it casually. “It’s always, ‘Lyonel, please take the hounds out,’ or ‘Lyonel, I need you in bed now.’” Mocking your voice, complete with a pout, you can’t help but laugh, a sound that warms his insides. “I heard her cry, so I had to leave, my apologies.”

“No, you did not. She has her nursemaid and she was on the other side of the castle. You…” poking his chest, he tosses the hefty tome on the ground with a solid thump as he pulls you onto his lap. “Did not hear our daughter cry all the way from the great hall.”

“Never underestimate a stag’s hearing.” Pushing you against him by your hip, the chair rocks gently under the weight, and you find your hand is occupied with patting Juniper’s side for her to fall into slumber. “I could not bear hearing another one of Lord Tully’s veiled attempts at brokering an alliance through our Juniper and his fish son.”

“His fish son.” You giggle against his corded neck. “Oh, my love.” Kissing him right on his pulse, right where you know he prefers to be kissed, he lets out a shuddered breath. “You’ll be glad to know that he did not succeed. Juniper has her whole life ahead of her.” Your index tucks away a strand of her hair away from her sleeping face. “And she may choose her husband if she pleases. But not yet.” You melt in his hold, and he embraces you tighter. “Not today.”

“Or any day.” Lyonel kisses the length of your temple until he reaches your cheek. “If it were up to me she wouldn’t be married until we are both sixty.”

“You at sixty or me at sixty? Because those are vastly different years, my love. Yours sooner rather than later.”

“You wench.” Laughing against your cheek, he muffles his guffaw lest Juniper wakes up. The thought of growing old with you warms him from the inside and out, it’s heavenly bliss.

—

Juniper’s giggles echo around the stables as you waddle inside. Your belly is bigger than when you were carrying your daughter. The new maester from the citadel said that it is a good sign that you are carrying a son this time around. Lyonel would be glad of the news, should be glad about having a son and heir, but he’s too busy playing with little Juniper to be ecstatic about the news when he said that the little Baratheon could still turn out to be a girl. To then you have said that he just wanted another little girl that is an exact copy of him. Someone to spoil and hoist upon his shoulders as he walks around the keep to show her off. It’s a bit unfair that you were the one doing all the labours if all your children would end up looking exactly like their father. But you do adore Juniper’s little curls, and her nose that is an exact copy of her father’s.

But he has said that whenever Juniper would smile or pout or even cry, she always reminded him of you. “She might favour my looks more, my sweet, but she is you through and through.” He once uttered against your temple whilst the two of you watched Juniper play with her cousins.

Juniper has the Lord of Storm’s End wrapped around her little finger. She just turned two years old, walking on her own now to yours and her father’s delight. Her second nameday was a sight to behold in the whole realm. In true Baratheon fashion, her father organized a tourney in her honour, and for his unborn child that is currently kicking right at your bladder. It was an even bigger affair than the Ashford tourney, Lords from houses all over the realm visited and came to pay their respects to house Baratheon. Juniper loved the attention and the favours she received, while Lyonel loved unhorsing the Lords and upstart knights at his own tourney. You thank the gods that nothing horrible like a trial of seven happened during the seven day tourney. Just a few drunken fights and a lot of out of tune singing.

You cannot believe that you were once worried that Lyonel might not take to being a father as well as being a good husband. But he has once again proven you wrong. He’s a great father to Juniper, and you are sure that he will continue to do so for the babe that is squirming in your belly.

You enter the stables, smiling from the memory of the recent festivities, especially from the memory of your reunion with your older brothers and a certain hedge knight and his squire. The smell of horse and grass hits you the moment you see Juniper giggling atop a horse whilst her father holds onto the scruff of her dress from the ground, as she grins from ear to ear as she reins in the horse in her tiny fists.

Lyonel felt your presence before you could announce yourself. He turns his head at you as the rare sunlight beams right at your back, basking you in heavenly light.

“Careful, my love, she might fall.”

“She is in the best hands.” He gestures for you to come closer, fingers opening and closing in a come hither motion until you sidle beside him. “Aren’t you, flower?”

Juniper answers with a happy shriek, kicking her tiny legs about. Then she sees you, big dark eyes widening happily as she tries to reach for you. You never expected to be with child so soon after Juniper, but you can’t exactly blame Lyonel when you’re as insatiable as your husband.

“Did you miss me, my gentle heart?” Opening your arms, Juniper jumps off the horse without a care, whilst Lyonel bears all the kicking and flailing to get her to your arms safely. He’s letting you carry her with his hand protectively holding her by the armpits so as to not put stress onto your back and already heavy stomach.

Juniper nods enthusiastically, pressing a wet kiss to your cheek as she embraces your neck. She babbles incoherently against your skin, perhaps retelling her time with her Lord father.

“I thought I’d find you here, Lyonel.” Pecking her temple, you then turn to kiss his cheek, never leaving him out of your affection. “Already trying to teach our girl how to ride when she could barely talk?”

“Never underestimate our daughter, my love.” Lyonel’s free hand lifts your belly from underneath, easing the heaviness as you let out a sigh. “She’s learning quickly.”

Eyes closed, you smile with satisfaction as you feel lighter. “Keep your hand there, please. This one is much heavier than when I carried Juniper.”

“The maester has told me of the possibility of you carrying twins.”

“Twins?” Your eyes fling wide open. “Gods, no, we could barely contain Juniper. And with another on the way….” You imagine feeding two babes at once, shuddering at the thought. “Perhaps I’m just carrying a giant? Your father was incredibly tall.”

“Could be.” He shrugs, clearly amused.

“You want twins.” You exclaim matter-of-factly and he makes a face, nose scrunching at your narrowed eyes teasingly. “Lyonel, you are not the one birthing them.”

“Wanting twins doesn’t make it come true, my love.” Chuckling, a deep rumble in his throat, Lyonel gives you a reassuring kiss whilst Juniper plays with the pearl necklace around your neck. “Having two in one go means that we could stop having children, no more labours for you. I am incredibly happy with the children you have already given me.”

As much as he loves his children, he could not help but worry for you whenever you’re screaming and pushing on the birthing bed. He utterly worries for you, the love of his life as your belly swells with life he helped create. It’s the only time he feels powerless, he can’t wield a sword to defend you from this nor hold a shield or use his charms to help, and he hates it, feeling absolutely helpless to ease your suffering when he is also the one to blame.

“Stop the making of said children too?” You playfully jab his chest with your finger, earning a feigned roll of his eyes.

There’s a sudden jolt of pain in your belly, but it’s normal in this state, so you ignore it. You’d tell him of the prophecy once told to you during the Ashford tourney, but it seems ridiculous for you to say it out loud even though a part of you believes it.

“Gods, no, I’d rather die.” Lyonel looks devastated at the thought. “I’m sure that the maester has a potion to remedy the… side effect.”

“Well—” Your clever retort gets caught on your tongue as your belly twists. Something wet splashes on your feet, a familiar feeling that has the two of you looking down and back up to face the other.

Lyonel laughs loudly, albeit nervously. And Juniper, having no clue, laughs along with him. “We’ll know for sure if we’re having twins today it seems.”

—

It was an easier birth this time around, it only took you six hours of labour for your son to be born. Despite his sheer size, the mother smiled down upon you for a safe and easy birth. When your first child was born during a storm, the new lordling of Storm’s End was born during a rare warm and sunny day. The maester called him a summer prince for it, to which Lyonel grinned at as he wiped the blood off the wailing babe’s face gently.

He was more hands on for the birth of his son when no midwives or ancient maesters were there to bar the door for him. From the start of your labours to the first cry of your son, he was there through it all. He was never fainthearted about blood anyway.

Ormund, you and Lyonel have decided to call him, cries in your arms so loudly that it wakes you up from your exhausted state.

“You are in the presence of the Lord and Lady of Storm’s End, comport yourself.” Lyonel jests, gazing down at the two of you as his cheek presses against your clammy temple. His finger is wrapped around his son’s tiny fist as he continues to wail inside your chambers. “Our son has no manners, my love.”

“Are all of our children so loud?” You ask, still panting but free from all the gunk that came after the birth. And yet utterly blissed out as your hand lovingly caresses Ormund’s chubby leg.

“Perhaps it is proof that they are truly my children.”

You’re too tired to roll your eyes at your husband’s teasing. “As if there is any doubt that they aren’t yours when they look exactly like you. It is unfair to say the least.”

“They got your ferocity and tenacity, my love.” Smiling, Lyonel presses a kiss on your skin, leaning closer to the crying babe to nuzzle his cheek gently. Little Ormund quietens down when he recognizes his father, lips smacking together as he chases his warmth. “I knew that would work.”

“He recognized you.” Chuckling, you find yourself instinctively brushing your fingers into Lyonel’s curls.

“All that speaking into your stomach is not for naught.” Side by side, you can really tell the similarities in their features. Ormund has Lyonel’s wild curls, the same nose, the same eyes and lips. He’s a little Lyonel, his late lord father was not jesting when he said that the Baratheon seed is strong. You both wish that he met his grandchildren.

“Shall we call for Juniper? I want to introduce them to each other.”

Lyonel smiles, giving you a much earned kiss. He rests his forehead against your own, breathing you in as he says your name lovingly. “I’ll come and get her. But first,” taking out a velvet box from his pocket, he opens it for you, revealing a golden brooch of two fawns meeting. “I had it made just for the occasion.”

Your fingers trace along the intricate carving, tears brimming in your eyes as you look up at him. “I don’t know what to say…”

“‘Thank you, I love you, you’re the kindest lord husband in the whole realm and the most handsome.’” He makes a face and tries to copy your voice awfully, that has you chortling through the dull ache. “I have more examples if you need it.”

Moving close, you nuzzle his jaw with your nose, letting his beard tickle you. Lyonel lets out a satisfied hum, clasping the jewelry gingerly on your chemise lovingly. “Thank you, I love and adore you, my stag.” It’s enough to make a lord tear up.

—

You wake up on your own, no babes crying, no storm bashing against the walls of the keep, or even the soft pawing from your husband beside you. For a moment it’s utter bliss, you haven’t slept this peacefully in quite some time, the last one was perhaps before you got married.

Sleep is a rare gift when you’re a mother of two loud children that took after their father. You need all that rest when you have a newborn and a babe, who refuses to sleep by your will. Juniper and Ormund are the light of your life together with your husband, but you love sleep, and your silk sheets beckons you back into slumber. That is until you realize what hour it is and that you haven’t heard a single cry, nor felt Lyonel’s warmth beside you when you reached out to his side of the bed.

Sitting up abruptly, heart racing as your eyes rake around the bed, only to find no one else beside you. You then turn to Ormund’s cradle, finding it empty, save for his blue Arryn blankets embroidered by your mother and sisters by law.

“Fuck.” Panic sets in your stomach despite the sunshine draped across your form, a rare sight to behold in the Stormlands when it’s been raining nonstop for more than a week.

You flip the blankets open, feeling the cold floor on the soles of your feet, movements erratic and panicked.

You hear humming, a strange softened humming, a tune you’re not so familiar with as you follow the source. You enter the solar, the blinds billowing around the wind in wisps of silken fabric.

Heart thrumming in your throat, you see a sight that makes you want to call upon an artist to paint it to preserve the scene forever.

Standing in the balcony is Lyonel, torso bare to the sun, basking in the light, scars and freckles dotted along his back as he holds two sleeping bundles in his arms. The light shines at his curls, salt and pepper dripping in golden light.

Ormund’s cheek is squished atop his father’s freckled shoulder, milk drool in the corner of his lips, and curls dancing in the wind. He’s left in only his swaddling cloth, skin to skin with his father as Lyonel pats his back rhythmically.

Where Ormund is sleeping soundly, Juniper fusses in her sleep, foot twitching, one missing a sock, as her arm falls limp in between Lyonel’s armpit, fully laying on him with her long curls falling over her face. Perhaps dreaming of running around in the gardens.

You don’t call for him as you approach. With a gentle hand in between his shoulder blades, you slowly go around him to gaze into his eyes with the same lovestruck expression you had during the tourney where you met him.

“My love.” You say softly, quietly, saying his name in the most saccharine way possible as the pads of your fingers glide along the length of his arm over to his bicep then to his jaw. “What a sight to wake up to.”

Lyonel unabashedly looks at you up and down, left only in your thin chemise that flutters in the wind, and the sunshine illuminating through the fabric. Leaving nothing to the imagination, as if he has to imagine when he has seen you bare countless of times. And yet it never fails to make him as giddy as today, as needy for your touch like all the days.

“I could say the same thing, my doe.” He leans down for a kiss.

The backdrop of Ship Breaker’s bay below and the horizon just behind you makes waking up more worthwhile.

“You’re awake quite early.” You mumble against his pouted lips.

“Ormund was stirring after Juniper waddled inside our chambers. And I heard from the midwives that the early morning sun is good for the babe.”

Your brows furrow in worry. “She has never done that.” He would knead at the space between your brows if has another hand to spare. “But thank you for bringing them out here.”

“I’m afraid that she feels jealous of her brother.” Lyonel’s curl falls over his eye, and out of instinct, you gently tuck it away and he lets you, watching you fondly. “She wiggled her way into our bed. I’m quite glad I wore my breeches before falling asleep in your arms.”

You stifle a giggle, biting your lip as you gaze at the babes cradled gently in his arms. “She told you that?”

“That she is quite glad that I wore my breeches?”

“No, the part before that.” Rolling your eyes, you flick his earring lovingly and teasingly. “That she’s jealous of Ormund.”

“She did.” Sighing, he looks at his eldest. “His arrival took all the attention away from her.”

“Gods, I didn’t realize.” Your expression falls, a hand lovingly rubbing along the length of Juniper’s arm.

“We’ll do better.” He simply says with a smile. “We’re still learning, my doe.”

“I know.” Taking a deep breath of the sea air, you lay your head against his clavicle. “We’ll do better.”

Lyonel hums again, that same unfamiliar tune. You’ll ask him about it later, for now, you’ll melt against your husband while listening to your children’s little breaths.

—

It’s your nameday and in true Baratheon fashion, Lyonel has organized a grand feast to celebrate. He made sure that everything was set up well beforehand, ravens were sent to different Lords and Ladies that you both wish to see, and Lyonel did not skimp out on his coins, using it wisely, or so he said when he asked for a dozen cakes to be made in your honour.

The two of you made a great pair in organizing it. He wanted you to sit back and let him handle things, but you have said that this feast is to celebrate your marriage to him too, five years together, five years of married bliss. You made the great hall your war room, telling each staff where to put which table, or which flower arrangement is correct and up to your husband’s taste, even though he could not care less about sunflowers or daffodils, but Lyonel loves to see that look on your face. The determined commanding ferocity he loves so much. He has seen it during his cursed cousin’s rebellion, where you commanded Vale troops instead of chefs about which pie to make. He has to confess that your stern tone and sheer dominant presence does something to him, making it hard to walk around with you looking like you’re ready for war.

The feast was delayed for a few hours because he kept tugging you away from your duties. Which you barely protested, you loved those long lengthy moments with the Laughing Storm grunting in your ears, while you two hid in a niche, or behind a tapestry.

The night has gone on and on, the guests are properly drunk off of wine, but the flow of the drinks seems to never stop. Food is overflowing on the tables, meat pies, sweetened pastries and all sorts of food from the north to across the narrow seas. He did not spare expenses for the feast. You were alright with just celebrating with your kin and your children by your side with maybe a cake or two, but it couldn’t be helped when your husband is the epitome of Garth Greenhand.

Lyonel lives for revelry, and nothing makes him feel more like himself with a full goblet of wine in hand and with you sitting right on his lap.

You’re laughing at something Ser Duncan said beside him, the kind of giggle that reverberates through you and onto Lyonel’s chest that warms him throughout his whole body. It could be the wine, but it could also be because you’re wiggling far too much on his lap.

His hand is on your hip, squeezing at every clap from the dancing crowd. He watches Juniper dance around with Egg, both barefoot and laughing along to the jaunty tune. Juniper reminds him of you with every passing year as she grows. She may look every bit like a Baratheon, but she has your soul, she has your smile, and she even dances like you. Whilst little Ormund tries to keep up with their steps, waddling and tugging at the prince’s robes. He tried to get them abed, but they’re your children, as stubborn as you, and as defiant as him.

It’s the kind of night that has fond memories flooding his head, you in your threadbare cloak, hiding behind a giant of a man and looking like a falcon missing its wings. You ignored him at first, and that had him intrigued at your audacity to ignore the Laughing Storm in his own pavilion whilst you sip on his wine and sit there looking beautiful under the warm candle light. The thought has him squeezing you even more, nose nudging your jaw until you tilted your head to grant him space to give your throat a kiss.

Lyonel didn’t want to get married at first, he wanted to be free, free to galavant around the realm, to drink and be merry without worrying about anything or anyone. But duty was thrust upon him when his older brother died during the Blackfyre rebellion, and he was left as the sole heir apparent. Suddenly, he needed to marry, he needed heirs, but just like you, he wanted someone that he would love, or at least care for, and have a partnership with. But as the years went on with him unmarried and his father’s health dwindling, he needed to act fast when vultures were circling around Storm’s End.

His father recommended you, all he knew of you were from him, letters written by your own father that were addressed to his late father. They were flowery words, words that he could not tell if it was true or a lie. But the late Lord Baratheon approved of you, said that if you were anything like your father, Lyonel would find kinship with you. If not love, companionship is the next best thing. Little did he know that he would find both with you. He fell for you hard. One that he never thought was possible. And like everything else in his life, he did not back down and continued to pursue you even when you hid behind your cloak with a beaming smile that could part the grey clouds.

Gods, he loves you, he loves the little lives you have given him, and he would organize a thousand more feasts just for you if it meant eternal life for the both of you. Forever laughing together, forever dancing and holding the other. When he never gave marriage a second thought before, now he would step in front of a blade for you. He made a vow, and he intends to keep it. You are his, and he is yours.

‘This is the life,’ he thinks. Utter bliss, belly full of good food and wine, his great love laughing on his lap, and his children as happy as him, while surrounded by loyal allies.

Lyonel always thought that Storm’s End was dull and dreary, its stone walls are too high, consuming all the light that breaks through the grey clouds. But as he sits at the head of the table, stag crown on his brow, he’s proud of what he made of his dull keep that has more laughter than silence. That has more light breaking through from the inside, it’s warm and comfortable, and most of all, safe, he made it safe for his family. And hopefully for generations to come. Only time will tell.

“My love…” you whisper upon his ear, nibbling and tugging at the earring dangling in his lobe. You wear a crown of antlers just like him, but with feathers around the circlet that are laden with sapphires and yellow diamonds, a gift he made just for you. “Shall I put the children to bed so we could commence the real feast?”

Lyonel loves his children, and loves to hear their laughter and how their eyes crinkle in happiness. But he says yes in the blink of an eye.

—

The sun rarely shines in Storm’s End, but when it does grant the Stormlands some reprieve from the window shattering rains, its people come out to bask in the sun’s presence.

Your husband has grown bored of the council chambers as you see him clamber up the steps towards the gardens, right where you have placed a blanket on the mossy stones to rest upon it with your children. His eyes convey that one of his vassal lords have irked him up to the point that he has forgone the need to drink something strong in favour of seeking out his family’s warmth. Especially yours.

Ormund babbles incoherently on your lap, in his tight fist is a crushed lemon cake, while the other has a small wooden toy carved into a battleaxe, a special gift from his lord father. He seems to never grow tired of it even when you feed him small bites of fresh fruit. While he’s busy bashing the head of a wooden toy dragon, his older sister is humming a tune right behind you as she mindlessly braids your hair whilst drawing a flower in between bites of lemon cake.

Lyonel takes note of the peaceful scenery, birds chirp alongside the garden beds filled with sweet scented flowers. And his great love sits in the middle of his little fawns, crowded around her with love in their eyes as the sun blankets you all in warmth.

“Father!” Juniper is the first to notice him, she vaults from her place to run to Lyonel. Her bare feet thumps against the cobbled stone, not minding the roughness as she jumps for an embrace.

“Oh, my flower.” He groans, back aching as he catches her mid jump. “Stop growing too quickly for me would you?” She giggles in reply, hugging his neck and kicks her feet.

“She can’t help it, she got your stature.” You utter with amusement as you watch baby Ormund waddle towards the pair determinedly.

Your husband opens his free arm to receive the babe. Despite the crick in his neck from staring at reports all day long and the dull ache in the small of his back, he takes both children in his arms gladly, before sauntering over to you.

The sun is overshadowed by the looming Laughing Storm as he beams down upon you with equal warmth.

“Let us hope that she gets your ferocity.” He plops himself down on the blanket, wincing at the heaviness of his own body, head immediately falling down your lap as he settles comfortably with both his children on each arm.

“She already has it, my love. She called the septa a horrid word today.”

“Ah, just like your mother, hm?” Juniper just hides her head in the crook of his neck bashfully.

You have no idea if his intention was to lie down on you, but no matter, you wanted him on your lap anyway. Raking your fingers through his wild curls on instinct, you watch as the sunshine drapes upon his face, immediately easing his stiff expression into a softened one. His eyes crinkled in the corners as he lets out a sigh of content, lips curling into a tender smile.

“We missed you in the council chamber this morning, still having headaches?” His brows knit in worry.

“Yes, unfortunately. Please give the Lords and Ladies my sincerest apologies.”

“You didn’t miss anything profound,” he scoffs, akin to a laugh. “It would’ve been less of a bore if you were there with me though.”

Your cheeks warm from his words, many moons later and after two children, he still finds the right words to fluster you. “I am sure that it would’ve been less of a dull affair.”

“No more talk of duty. What did the three of you do today?” Lyonel’s eyes shimmer with light, gazing up at you with such reverence that it would be considered heresy to the seven.

“Nothing much, sat, played, ate cake.” Smiling down upon him, you feed him a pinch of lemon cake that he immediately chews on, lips chasing your fingers. “It was such a hard and busy day, husband. What about you?” You tease, earning a soft chuckle from him.

From this angle and from the light, you notice more white hairs growing from his curls. He’s aging gracefully, and you smile at the thought. Like your husband’s wish for Juniper, you wish for time to slow down.

“Lord Swann has reported that the harvest won’t be enough for this season, so we mayhaps have to ask another loan from the Tyrells for a hundred or so bushels to not starve.” He answers, hands caressing Juniper’s back as she draws a rose, whilst the other traces Ormund’s chubby arms when he has taken his attention towards his toys. “I hate asking them for anything.”

“I know.” You coo lovingly, bending down to press a chaste kiss on his forehead that he chases your lips as you rise up with a chuckle. “Thank you for asking the Tyrells for help, my love, I know how hard that was for you.”

“Those rose scented lordlings might ask for the hand of our flower next time when Lord Tyrell has managed to give his Lady wife a son after five daughters.” He scoffs at the thought, if you asked him, he would’ve been happy enough with just one child. “That poor woman.”

“Mayhaps the Lady wanted it too.”

His eyes flick at you from Juniper’s drawing. “Mayhaps.” He utters, mind somewhere else, still utterly worried after hearing too many women succumbing to the stranger’s arms on their birthing bed. “I am quite content with having two perfect babes.”

“Three.”

“What?” Lyonel laughs as if you just told him an awful jest.

“I went to the maester this morning, the fatigue and the headaches aren’t from Lord Swann’s ramblings.” There’s a growing smile on his face, albeit wobbly. Just as you say it, your stomach makes a gurgling sound that is awfully familiar to him whenever he presses his ear against your swollen stomach. “I am with child again, which does not come as a surprise after all the nights we spent during my nameday tourney.”

“Gods, another Baratheon.” Sitting up, Lyonel places his hand gently upon your stomach. “I remember those nights.” He leans close, taking your face in his hand as he presses a saccharine kiss upon your waiting lips. “And so does Ser Duncan—”

“Hush!” Your eyes widen, grinning nervously as you look around only to find the gardens the same as before, no wandering ears to be found. While your children are too busy devouring the rest of the lemon cakes. “Lyonel!”

“What? We’ll soon find out if you birth a giant hay haired babe.”

“That is not funny!” And yet you laugh nonetheless.

“I’ll love him anyway.” He jests once again, he knows that the growing child inside of you is his when he remembers that exact night like it was yesterday.

“You are evil.” You laugh against his lips, whilst he pecks warmth into your skin.

—

You meet another son during the hour of the wolf. Your screaming kept the whole castle awake, and Lyonel thanks you for it since it has also kept him awake to witness Orys’ birth. The labours were normal according to the maester, but your heart plummeted in your stomach when your son wouldn’t cry the moment he was born. It took a good smack on his behind from the maester for him to cry, and to yours and Lyonel’s relief, you’ve given birth to another healthy babe.

Orys was a large baby, larger than his older brother. Whenever you would carry him in your arms to feed him, you look smaller in comparison. Lyonel was proud about that fact since it seems that his son got his Lord father’s size. Despite the dark hair and eyes, and the unmistakable Bartatheon look, there were cruel whispers going around the keep, no, the whole realm, that your son who looks strikingly like his Baratheon grandsire is actually the rising kingsguard, Ser Duncan’s bastard. Lyonel tried to put a stop to the rumours by showing Orys around the Storm’s End, and even around his vassal’s lands, but there were still some whispers about your son’s true father when the fact in the matter is glaring right at their faces.

No one saw it amusing when it had gotten to the point that it reached the small folk. Lyonel jests when it first started, even laughed at the prospect of it, but as the time went on, everyone from the north to Dorne knew about the rumour of Lord Baratheon’s unusually tall and quiet son, that they have dubbed him the, ‘Tall Storm’ to those that think the rumours are true, and the, ‘Quiet Storm,’ to those who know the truth.

Whenever Lyonel hears of the said whispers in his own walls, it garners his stormy wrath, so no one in their right mind, not even the jesters, would say it out loud. The last one who bravely did at his court had his tongue removed and sent to his mother in a box. You would disapprove, but you were starting to fear the consequences it would get once Orys and his siblings are older. The last thing you want is to sow strife between them, especially when the rumour is the farthest from the truth.

It doesn’t help when Orys is the opposite of his brother Ormund, whereas the elder is a mirror of his father when it comes to his attitude and disposition, Orys is quieter, bookish, and would rather stay inside than learn how to wield a sword and shield. He is still quite young, and his father hopes that he’ll grow out of it.

Out of all your children, Orys is the one who clings to you more. Whenever he’s not playing by himself or begging his septa or older siblings to read to him, he would always be found beside you. Clinging and hiding behind your skirts or being held in your arms. Lyonel sighs whenever he sees little Orys cling to you endlessly even during supper, but you always tell him that he is the same.

“Like father like son.” You have said, and all the words die on his tongue.

—

Lyonel hates waking up in the dead of night, he needs his rest, and he loves to huddle beside you, hogging your warmth, as if he wants to crawl inside your ribcage and lay asleep inside. But when he had babes of his own, he quickly got used to being woken up by a shrill cry in the night. Whether by Juniper or Ormund, he would immediately flip open the covers and sluggishly go over to their cots that you insisted they rest inside the shared chambers out of your own fear of losing them in the night or from a sudden chill.

With Juniper having her own chambers now, and with Ormund moved out of the nursery in favour of little Orys, who is as quiet as a mouse and would sleep throughout the night, Lyonel hasn’t woken up in the middle of the night in months. Until that is when he hears the softness of your voice stirring him awake, the same voice you would always use for your children, motherly and tender, even when you scold them.

“You shall be as brave and as bold as your father, Orys.”

Lyonel cracks an eye open, heavy with sleep as the rain pours down outside, turning the keep colder and damp. He then finds himself near the edge of his own bed, the privacy curtains grazing along his back from how far he is from your side.

Ormund sleeps beside him, or at least his feet is, when he is sleeping upside down with his head near the other end of the bed. He’s twitching in his sleep, drooling on the sheets that were just cleaned. Lyonel’s brow raises at the sight of his son, eyes going over him in search of you, only to see Juniper sleeping soundly beside her brother, cuddling her doll as she curls around herself.

Lyonel lifts himself by his elbow, looking over Juniper to see baby Orys wiggling around on the bed, fully awake, dark eyes fully open as he huffs whilst you run your index on the length of his nose gently. A loving act that you love doing with your children when they were still babes that seems to always calm them down.

“My sweet.” His voice crackles with sleep, deep and gruffed more than usual. “Why is half of the castle in our bed?”

You chuckle softly, tired yet happy eyes gazing at him. “The storm woke them up. Ormund couldn’t bear sleeping in his own chamber, while Juniper couldn’t fall back to sleep on her own.”

“I understand Orys’ reasoning.” His hand goes over his oldest and over to Orys who looks at him with those curious eyes of his. As Lyonel gently takes his small fist. “But I never expected it from these two.”

“I couldn’t find it within myself to say no.” You give him an apologetic look, but once he reaches for your cheek, the pads of his fingers dancing along your cheekbones, you then smile, knowing that your husband would not be able to say no either. “They won’t make it into a habit.”

Orys gurgles happily, milk bubbles dripping down his pudgy chin. You smile down at your son and wipe his face with such care that Lyonel wants to have another with you.

Lyonel chuckles, rests his head upon his fist as he gazes at his children and over to you fondly. “They better not, or else I’ll put a lock on our chamber door.”

Stifling a laugh, you reach over to him to caress his cheek. “I am sure they’ll grow out of it. Just like you had when you were little.”

“How’d you know that?” His brows furrow, and he has an intense urge to go over to your side of the bed and hold you even if that means that he would fall off the bed if he so moves a muscle.

“The old midwife told me.”

Lyonel hums, nodding as his dark eyes glimmer under the low light of the moon. “Teasing me this early in the day will have you staying abed until the afternoon.”

“Hollow threats, my love, when our children are in between us.”

“When they leave then.” Groaning, he sits up fully, eyeing baby Orys, who looks back at him with a gummy smile. “For now, I shall take away your happiness.”

You gasp, watching as he takes Orys from your side, holding onto him gently and supporting his neck before laying back down and placing him atop his chest. “Lyonel.” You whisper yell. “Give me back my son.”

“No,” he draws the word to add to the teasing. Orys wiggles atop his chest, warm and smelling like milk. From this angle, all swaddled in his Arryn blue blanket, Orys looks like a little worm. “My son and I need to bond. And you need to sleep, can you tell your mother that I am right, Orys?” Carefully grasping his chubby cheek, he makes the babe speak. “‘You are right, father.’” He mimes, talking in a high pitched tone.

You couldn’t help but laugh at his antics as your head plops onto the pillow, muffling your laughter.

—

You have the twins on a fine yet bloody day in the realm. It was during the rebellion, whilst their father and brother were out fighting, you were keeping the stranger away from your birthing bed. They come within two minutes from each other, and you were beyond exhausted, almost giving Lyonel a fright, more terrified than when he faced the Blackfyre army when you fainted from the bloodloss. Thankfully the maester brought you back from the brink, and now you’re chasing your sons down the hallway, dripping wet as they have escaped their baths.

The twins have proven to be a handful. When you thought that Ormund was the more problem child out of the bunch, always out looking for a fight, easily taunted and quick to anger, the twins are rebellious. They never listen to anyone, always running away hand in hand, like a pair of hopping fawns bolting away from the sound of footsteps. In this case, the footsteps are from their maester calling them for their lessons, or their poor septa telling them to stop climbing the walls or setting fire to the gardens.

They’d always go out of their way to play tricks on people, whether the target is their siblings, the servants or even you and Lyonel. The moment you hear their giggles echoing around the halls, you just knew they were up to some mischief.

The only person they would listen to is their father. One stern call of their names has them freezing mid run. You thought that when you named them after your older brother, Robert, and your uncle, Robin, it would be perfect for them. That they would embody their chivalry and kindness, but alas, the seven gave you two rambunctious children that refuse to bathe and attend their lessons.

They would still listen to you of course, only when they see that you are close to calling their father on them, or gods forbid, their aunt Juniper, whom you have called for help to discipline them. You truly needed the extra help when it came to them.

There are times that they would settle down though, and it’s with their older brother, Orys. He’d call for them in the library, and to yours and Lyonel’s surprise, they answered gladly. Orys would calmly read to them as the pair listened intently by his side. They always preferred the wild stories from Essos, and the histories of house Targaryen, to their father’s dismay.

Robert grew to love fishing, Lyonel would take you all on fishing trips when the waters at Ship Breaker’s bay are calmer, and when the summer sun shines upon the glittering tides. Robin grew to love hunting, him and his pet hound that he aptly named Aerion, after his platinum coat, would run around the forests of the Stormlands with either his father or the master at arms. You suspect that he got the name for the hound after Lyonel told him about the story of the Ashford tourney where he met you and participated in the once in a lifetime trial. Whenever Robin calls for Aerion, you bite your tongue lest you let out a guffaw unbefitting your station.

The twins look so alike that even you have trouble distinguishing them from the other. It takes you a few seconds to know which is which twin. Robin has dimples whenever he smiles, and a small mole in the corner of his eye. Whilst Robert’s curls curl the opposite way from his twin’s, and he has a birth mark in the shape of the narrow sea on the back of his hand. But that doesn’t stop them from switching places if they deem it so. To the ire of their maester and septa, they keep finding ways to disguise themselves as the other. Only when Lyonel is called or their aunt Juniper, is when they come running over to you to hide behind your skirt, flashing their big eyes they got from their father as they try to charm their way out of their punishment.

Once the twins are old enough to hold a sword without accidentally stabbing each other in the eye, they took to the sword and shield like you and Lyonel. The lessons were such a delight to them that they would either beg you and Lyonel to be taught, if neither of you weren’t able to, they would grab the master at arms and take him hostage in the training yard until they are satisfied with what they have learned. Ser Andros has many complaints about the pair. Mostly that they would work him to the bone. Not even Ormund was that determined to learn how to fight, and he is considered as the best fighter next to his father.

During the rare days where they would rather be under the covers and in their mother’s arms, you would always take the opportunity to have them settle beside you as they snore the day away. Under the light, the twins look a lot like you, only with Lyonel’s hair, eyes, and lips.

Rob and Rob, you’ve lovingly called them whenever they become petulant, have grown to be remarkable warriors in the making. Even their older brothers weren’t this quick with a sword, a fact that their father is proud of. Day and night, rain or shine, the boys would train together, honing their skills, trying to surpass your brothers, their brothers, and of course their father.

“One day,” you’ve heard Lyonel say to them as he spoke to them in the training yard whilst you pretended not to hear them as you helped Juniper and Orys with their bows. “You will surpass me in skill, for now, do not let your pride drive you, let it be your motivation. Strive to be of great renown through your own. You are a Baratheon and an Arryn, both the noblest of houses in the realm that has borne great warriors. Be good, be better than any of them.”

Their first tourney during Egg’s coronation had the two becoming champions. And they were only two and ten, both taller than children their age, which you did not allow at first just like their brothers had been, but they entered as the mystery knights, wearing both blue and golden colours upon their armour. With a sigil of two antlered falcons soaring above the sea. You knew it was them the moment they stepped foot on the muddy field. And yet you and your husband did not say anything to stop them when they are forging their own paths.

Robert and Robin Baratheon, the king’s champions. Your twin falcons who soared high to great renown before they were three and ten.

—

Lyonel walks through the hunting camp with heavy steps and a frown on his face. He holds onto three hares by their ears, smelling like death and iron as he walks past the many tents that were pitched on the edge of the forest. The hunting trip was a celebration, organized by the Tyrells to bid the betrothal between the houses a good fortune. Unfortunately though, it’s his own child’s betrothal, his Juniper, his flower that is to be wed to a Tyrell boy that she has seemingly, utterly, and unabashedly adores.

He’s happy for his child to have found a love match, but he doesn’t want his little girl, his princess to marry, not yet, it’s too soon for him. Lyonel has said his piece, he has told Juniper that she has to wait a few more years to marry since she is still far too young. To which you have agreed to, and to which both children have reluctantly agreed to, but the one thing you did not agree upon is his clear protest on the union.

You’ve seen how Juniper looks at the Tyrell lordling, the same look you have whenever you turn to Lyonel. And the boy, gods be good, he’s as lovestrucked as her. So much so that you and your future kin had them separate occasionally, lest they ride out of the hunting camp and elope in the middle of nowhere. But you can see the love between them, the innocent kind of love, the purest kind that when Juniper begged for the union, you did not think twice to grant her happiness.

Perhaps that is why Lyonel hasn’t spoken to you in a day and a half. He’s irked, annoyed by the turn of events. And when he was seeking your counsel, you went on and agreed for his little girl to be shipped off in the Reach, so far away, too far away from him.

When he enters the Baratheon pavilion, hares in hand with a scowl so deep that it turned the inside of the tent cold, his children paused from what they were doing.

Ormund stops cleaning his sword, Juniper clamps her mouth shut and stops her conversation with her betrothed on the settee, whilst the Tyrell boy shrinks under his gaze. The twins hastily takes off yours and his helm, hiding it behind their back. All the while Orys stops his reading, and Orys rarely stops his reading for anyone.

“Where’s your mother?” He asks them, and the servants drop what they are doing to curtsy and escape from the tension filling the tent.

Ormund would jest and say, “do you miss her that much, father?” But he doesn’t have a death wish.

“She went on a hunt, father.” Juniper is the only brave soul to answer him.

The hares almost falls from his grip. “Alone?”

“I think so.”

“She’s been away for hours, father.” Orys, the usually quiet one, the one that doesn’t fan the flames, actually fans the flames under his father. “Said that she won’t come back until she hunts a boar for the feast.”

“On her own?” Stepping forward, his heart grows heavy in his chest. “Why didn’t any of you join her?” His dark eyes turn to his oldest son, then over to Juniper. “Hm?” They haven’t seen him this furious ever since prince Aerion came back from his banishment.

Lyonel rarely gets mad, especially at his children. When it comes to his family, he is awfully patient with them, he doesn’t raise his voice, nor use his hand to strike. He promised to be a good father, and he tries to be one. But when it comes to your safety and theirs, they get a glimpse of the storm underneath his fatherly nature.

“She told us to stay.” Juniper replies calmly, ever the voice of reason for her siblings.

“I insisted, father. I tried to accompany her.” Ormund adds, swallowing thickly as Lyonel’s eyes turn to him once again. “I did try.”

Lyonel sighs, and places the hares on the table. He lets out another breath, and another, and another, until he feels himself calm down.

“Which direction did she go?” He utters softer this time around, and he could feel the tension ebb away.

“North.” Orys simply says, before going back to read his hefty book.

“I’m off,” his hands leave the corner of the table. “If she comes back here without me, send a man for me. I have words with your mother.”

“Yes, father.”

He opens the tent, and the sunshine outside nearly blinds him. Lyonel is about to go on his horse when he hears the commotion coming from the northern edge of the forest.

There, basking under the sun, neck and arms coated in fresh blood, hair matted with crimson, is you. Riding on your horse, as a dead stag drags from behind.

People come out of their tents to watch the Lady Baratheon, who has just announced that she is with another child once again, ride into the hunting grounds with her husband’s sigil dead and dragged behind her.

“Gods…” A Tyrell squire, the same age as his Ormund mutters behind him. “I want a wife like that.”

You stop your horse right in front of your husband, looking down at him over your nose. “Husband.”

The crowd and the Lords around the two of you expected a fiery dispute between the two of you. Words hurled, all equally angry, instead of what happens next.

Lyonel lets out a booming guffaw that shakes his whole body. He laughs, the Laughing Storm lives for his name as he almost keels over from laughter. Whilst you, covered in the blood of his house’s sigil, laughs along with him.

“Seven hells, my love.” The laugh lingers in his throat, smiling up at you with reverence as he holds his arms up to you. “Message received.”

You let him get you off your horse, holding onto his steady shoulders as you grin at him. Leaning close, you whisper to him. “Truth be told, this wasn’t my intention. I thought I shot a boar.”

He guffaws again, reaching to grasp at your bloodied cheeks. “We need your eyes looked at by the maester.”

“Perhaps.” You snort out a chuckle. “I am deeply sorry, for the argument we had, and the stag I shot.”

Peeking to your side, looking at the deer, he shrugs. “He’s not my kin, it’s not as if you killed an uncle of mine. Besides, I found it fucking hilarious. You put out a good show for them.”

“I learned from the best,” he pecks your forehead for all to see. “even though it is not my intention.”

“How is the babe?” With a hand upon your armoured stomach, he lets his warmth seep through the leather. “Were you hurt?”

“No, I’m fine, the blood sprayed on me when I took out the arrow.” You can see his worry fade away, hands still holding onto you as he rests his forehead on yours.

“I’m deeply sorry too.” He mumbles, not caring for the eyes on him. He’s holding his wife, they should be the one looking away. “I should’ve heard Juniper’s reasoning.”

“You’re her father,” you take him by his cheek, gazing at him with love. “It is only expected that you wish for her to never leave home. Most fathers are the same. I would wish for her to stay with us forever but it can’t be, not when she has found her love, just like we have.”

“The others fucking geld me.” He inhales deeply, “Why do you always have to be right, hm?” Taking your cheek once again, he peppers your skin with kisses whilst you laugh, also not caring for the stares. Mayhaps a bard would write a song about this encounter. “Come inside, we shall have a bloody feast.”

Lyonel takes you by the hand, not minding the blood on yours when his hand is also bloody. When he turns around, he sees his children look at the two of you with the same expression— disgust.

The older Juniper, your handmaiden is beside them, clearly stifling a laugh. “Now you all know why there are five of you, with the sixth on the way.”

“Did you two have to kiss in front of the whole hunting party?!” Juniper groans, hiding her face in her hands out of embarrassment.

—

Ella was born with a striking resemblance to you. The only child who looks more like you than Lyonel, except for her dark curls and dark eyes, she is you, only a younger, more sweeter version of you. Even your older brothers could see it, especially your father and mother, who cried when she first held Ella during her first nameday.

“Our last babe,” Lyonel has said after Ella’s birth as he carries her in his arms, looking so small, so delicate. “No more, my love.” His words were tender, worried, terrified. He knows about the prophecy you were once told nearly two decades ago, and he has reassured you that no harm will come to them. But who could possibly know what the future holds as you lay sore and still bleeding with the afterbirth? Lyonel loves every single one of his children, but you’re his great love, the one he wants to spend the rest of his life with. He’d rather put the whole realm to the torch than lose you on the birthing bed or any cruel fate that befalls you.

His children are your greatest gift to him, and he’d rather see you watch them grow old with him than fulfill some prophecy. He doesn’t want to be the reason why his children never got to know their mother who loves them dearly.

Ella is the sweetest out of the siblings, but she has the same hidden ferocity as you. When push comes to shove, she will shove back.

She’s tenacious, a fighter who could use her wit as good as a dagger in her hand. She’d either have a scowl on her pretty face or a grin that parts the grey clouds of Storm’s End. To no one’s surprise, she has her father wrapped around her finger. She was as spoiled rotten as her older siblings, you and Lyonel may have grown old but the two of you did not lack in parenting Ella. She was rarely somber, a cry from her happens once in a blue moon, but when it does appear, a sob threatening to spill from her eyes because a toy broke, or her brothers were teasing her too much, or a simple frustration, the whole keep comes to her side. Whether that’s you, her father or her handmaidens, she was truly never alone.

When King Egg announced the betrothal that the three of you have conversed intensely about for nearly a year, Ella was sorrowful at first. Until she met the heir apparent. Prince Duncan was the prince she always had in mind, handsome and chivalrous. The kind of man who would treat your daughter right.

So she begged you to teach her how to be a Lady, how to be a perfect queen once she ascended the iron throne even when the thought alone terrifies you and Lyonel.

She’s your little girl, and Lyonel’s princess. If it were up to you she would not have to marry a prince, that she would marry someone she loves. But it’s for the alliance, an age-old alliance between the Baratheons and the Targaryens that spans beyond you and Lyonel, even King Aegon himself.

So Ella toiled away, read all the books, practiced her etiquette, in preparation to be the queen of the seven kingdoms. You could only hope that you and your husband will be there to protect her, knowing all the dangers the red keep has slithering in the dark corners of their castle.

But you both know that you can’t protect your children forever, but you can teach them how to fight, how to defend themselves. And Ella learned it too, just like her older sister did, just like all her brothers did. So when the time comes that she needs to wield a sword, she would know how.

But alas, no matter how much love, how much care you put all into your youngest, the realm will never know how great of a queen she would’ve been.

—

Lyonel eases his horse in front of a known tavern in his land, whilst you halt yours beside him. You’re both accompanied by guards, all wielding weapons, all sworn to protect your house.

The noise coming from the inside of the tavern echoes outside, and as Lyonel helps you off the horse, and the mud cakes around your boots, you quickly stomp over to the door.

What greets you has you grabbing onto the nearest thing to you— a vase. You hurl it towards all the fighting, shattering it into a million pieces as the patrons and the fighters stop in shock. All staring perplexed at their liege Lord and Lady. Even Lyonel was taken aback.

“Ormund Baratheon.” Your words carry around the tavern, felt by all the unruly sons inside. “Home. Now.”

Lyonel stifles his grin at the sight of Ormund looking far better than his opponent. His nose is bleeding, and there is a blooming bruise on his cheek. But it does not compare to the man in his fist, who is fighting to stay awake.

“Mother, I—” Your son frowns, a mirrored image of your husband whenever you tell him that he has had enough wine. “I did not mean to—”

“Now, Ormund.” You will hear him later, for now, you let your anger out to let him know that you are not in the mood to be charmed. You did not raise a son so he could go out and brawl in a tavern.

His eyes then turns to his father, asking for help.

Lyonel shakes his head, giving him a look that says, “you’re on your own, son, not even I could calm her.”

Sighing, Ormund gathers his belongings, plops a few silver on the table and leaves with his head down.

“As for everyone in this tavern,” they see a stormy side of you, a side that Lyonel adores as much as your softer side whilst you glare at every patron inside. “if I ever see any of your faces in my keep I will shoot an arrow right into your hearts myself.”

Lyonel feels the familiar warmth bloom in the pit of his stomach. “Gods, my doe, that was…”

“Not today, Lyonel.” You say with a pointed gaze. Before sighing, eyes softening as you turn to him once again. “Maybe later if you agree with me when we talk to your son.”

“Now he’s just my son, and not yours—” his mouth clamps shut, he’s not ruining his chances. “yes, of course, my love.”

—

You take a trip in the narrow sea, just a few ways away from Ship Breaker’s bay, accompanied by two more ships filled with guards in case pirates decide that it’s their day to perish from Lord Baratheon’s sword. The waters are calm and warm, as the sun shines all around you. It’s a perfect day for a swim, which Lyonel has decided on a whim that it is time for a quick excursion out at sea.

“It’s the perfect day,” he said, hair greying at the edges, eyes crinkling in the corners and yet looking as handsome as the day you met him. With a kiss from him, you agreed.

The children loved the idea, and so you found yourself on a ship floating in the middle of the narrow sea whilst your children swim and jump into the water.

Juniper shrieks as she gets pushed by Ella into the water, before she hops out of the boat and yelps once the water hits her. Ormund takes laps around the ship, using the time to exercise and increase his endurance, all the while the twins are plotting against their older brother. You could hear the muffled, “pull him under,” and “pull his breeches off,” from them. You decide to let them be, unless someone is drowning then you have no cause for concern as you bathe under the sunshine in a simple cotton dress.

The sun suddenly gets blocked by a Lyonel shaped shadow.

Taking a peek at the intrusion, you smile immediately once you see how red his bare chest has become. His curls are damp from the salty sea, and he has an easy twinkle in his eye, the same one that always appears when he spends time with his family away from duties.

“Didn’t I tell you that the concoction the maester made would prevent exactly that.” You gesture around his chest, ogling it, almost getting lost by staring at the ridges and muscles. “I could help put it on you, my stag.”

“Tempting, but that is not why I am here.” Sitting down beside you on the floor, you just now noticed the two wooden sparring swords in his hands.

“Why do you have that with you?”

“The twins brought it, I had them spar to see how much they’ve improved.” His corded neck tilts back, groaning as he lets the sun shine on him. Gods, you want to sit on his lap and trace his neck with your lips. “They did well.”

“And? What’s the problem with that?”

“I tried to coax Orys out of his corner, using the excuse of sparring with me. Not even Ormund could get him to stand up and fight. The boy annoys him to no end, he would’ve managed to get him to fight him.” He runs a hand through his salt drenched hair. “He’s just so…quiet.”

The mention of your second son has the two of you turning your heads towards him. Orys is tucked in a corner, hiding from the sun in what little shadow he has as best as he could. His long legs are folded, with a tome sitting atop his knees, reading like always.

“I’m afraid that he wants to become a maester. That means he will have to forsake our name one day.” Lyonel says solemnly, words weaved with worry.

“If that’s the path he has chosen then so be it.” Facing your husband with a tight-lipped smile, you hold his hand, weaving your fingers around his own before leaving a peck to each of his knuckles. “What’s so bad at becoming a maester if that’s what would make him happy?”

“He will have to shed the Baratheon name, my love, our name, his legacy, in favour of dusty old books.” Shaking his head, he watches his children play in the water instead. “I worry for him. And I hate that I do not understand our son.”

“Then talk to him.” You say with utmost love for both. “Try to understand him.”

“I don’t understand him, my doe. Sometimes I do think that he’s Duncan’s—” he stops himself, wincing at the words he let out. “I did not mean that.”

“I know.” You touch his face, and leans into your gentle caress. “But he is yours, you and I both know that. He is the splitting image of your Lord father, there is no denying that. He is your son, our son. And I understand him, just like how I understand you and our children. Give him time, spend that time with him. Mayhaps you will learn something about him that you didn’t know.”

Lyonel kisses your palm, eyes closed as his kiss lingers atop your skin before reluctantly pulling away. “I will try.”

“You promised that we will do better, trying is already half of it, my love.” With a kiss to his lips that has him melting in your hands like candle wax, Lyonel chases your lips when you lean away. He would whisk you below deck to the chambers if not for his fatherly duties.

“Wish me luck?”

“If he doesn’t throw the tome on your head then you’re already doing well.” You give him another peck for luck. “Good luck, my stag.”

Groaning, knees creaking as he stands up, he walks over to Orys like how one approaches an animal, slowly, carefully, lest Orys runs and dives away from him.

“What are you reading?” That’s a good start, and you give him a reassuring nod that encourages him even more. The moment Orys gazes up at him, you see your boy subtly smile at his father. The kind that is easily missed by anyone. Perhaps Lyonel could see it now that he is sitting beside him, conversing with Orys in a hushed tone.

“Mother!” Ormund yells from the water, spluttering out gasps of air as his arms flail in the air.

You vault from your seat, screaming at the edge of the ship. “Robert! Robin! Stop trying to drown your brother!”

Ormund takes a deep gasp as the twins surface from under the water and appears beside him. “Sorry, mother…”

“Gods be good.” And yet, you wouldn’t trade this for the world. You thank your lucky stars that you snuck out of the Arryn tent that night, you would never have thought that the single act would give you six children, and a husband who loves and cherishes you and your rumbactious fawns.

A/N: thank you for reading please reblog if you liked it!! ❤️

Sighing, your lower back aches, still weighing heavy even after the birth. Despite your exhaustion, you grab a cloak to tie around your shoulders and over your slip as you head for your daughter’s nursery. If Lyonel isn’t in the shared chambers, surely he would be there watching over her like usual. Recently, he has taken to watching Juniper sleep for a few minutes after you have placed her down on her cot. With a keen eye, he watches little Juniper’s chest rise and fall protectively, and with his hand gently grasping onto her tiny foot.

But when you enter the nursery, you don’t find him there, nor your daughter inside her cot. Your mind must still be addled by the unbalanced humours from the birth, but you were sure that you have put Juniper to bed. You would ask her nursemaid but she would already be fast asleep. So you take a candle from the table and set off to find your family within the vast keep.

Storm’s End is much gloomier and greyer at night. As if there are ghosts lingering around the halls whilst the storm winds howl outside. But you continue on, a hand hitching the skirt of your slip whilst the other keeps the candle upright. No ghosts will stop you from finding them.

As you go through the winding hallway with numerous sculpted Baratheon ancestors on the walls, you see a light flickering from the open doors of the library.

Slowly, you peek inside, seeing a lone figure hunched over a table filled with dozens of thick tomes as the shadow sways softly like a ship on gentle tides.

“You’re well fed, changed, and thank the seven you’re not ill.” Lyonel’s voice whispers at the bundle in his arms. “Gods be good, Juniper, why won’t you sleep, hm? Have you no mercy for your poor mother and father?”

Your giggle takes his attention. His head immediately moves towards the source, the corner of his lips tugging into the signature Lyonel smile that you adore. “Your daughter is petulant.”

“My daughter?” You slowly walk across the threshold and over to him, tender gaze never leaving him. “She is yours as she is mine. And our daughter is merely a month old, it is impossible for her to be petulant.”

“She takes after you.” He utters affectionately.

“She looks the most like you, my love.”

You expect for him to hand the babe over to you, too tired to carry her or too annoyed, so you reach for her, but instead of giving the babe over to you, Lyonel leans her away from your waiting arms. He pouts, brows furrowed at you, as if you have offended him and his child caring skills.

“No, this is my duty, I shall not hand her to you until she has fallen asleep in my arms.” He even dramatically turns her away from you as you bite your lip to hinder the laugh in your throat.

Meanwhile, Juniper gurgles in her father’s arms, legs kicking about under her swaddle as her tiny hand grasps onto Lyonel’s doublet.

“She was already asleep when I placed her down in her cot.” Raising a brow, you accuse him of waking her up just so he could put her to sleep himself, an act he sees through as a jest.

“I did not wake her up.” Defending himself, Lyonel, points accusingly at you. “Mayhaps you didn’t put her to sleep well enough. When I went to check on her she was gurgling and kicking about happily. Now I’m not a midwife but that was a very awake child.”

“Babes wake up for no reason, my love.” You answer lovingly, taking a good look at the tome he was reading. Some of them have dust on the covers, the books seem to have been there for quite some time. And each one is about childbirth or anything pertaining to raising children. Your eyes glistens with unshed tears when you look back at your husband. “You’ve been reading…”

“Contrary to the whispers, I know how to read.”

“Oh, my sweet Lyonel.” Your hands reach out to him, and he meets you halfway, placing his face in your open palms as you cradle his face. “You were learning how to raise our Juniper.” Cooing, Lyonel feels good when he’s the one on the receiving end of your cooing for once.

“Of course, I have.” He says matter-of-factly, eyes closing as your thumbs run along his cheek lovingly. “I can’t let you have all the glory.”

Grinning, you pull his face closer to your own, nudging his nose with yours sweetly. Gods, you want another babe with him. Especially if they’ll have his nose too and his smile.

“Oh, you’re already doing so well, my stag.” The reassurance fills his chest with warmth, the same warmth he feels whenever you place his head on your chest in bed so he could sleep soundly, the same warmth he feels whenever Juniper holds his finger in her tiny hand. “Juniper is lucky to have you as her father.” Peppering his face with kisses, you kiss every inch of his face until you see him give you a lopsided smile.

Pulling away, Lyonel immediately misses your lips upon his skin. “Tell me more about how good I am.”

“You’re doing marvelously, my love.” A grin spreads across his handsome face, beaming at you as his hand pats Juniper to sleep. “How about I accompany you here whenever you read? We could learn together.” Your hands don’t leave his side, holding him and Juniper close.

“That is a tremendous idea, my wife, but you and I both know that there won’t be much reading when we are left to our own devices.” His dark eyes sparkle with something familiar.

You make a face, chortling under your breath, “that is true.” Chuckling, you go to check Juniper in his arms, only to find that the quiet wasn’t just because she’s safely tucked in and content in her father’s arms, but because she has finally fallen asleep. “Look at that, you did it, she’s asleep.”

Lyonel looks at his daughter and grins from ear to ear, as if he just unhorsed another Targaryen. “I did it.” He says it with triumph, that you want to paint his expression on a canvas to look at it whenever you please. “It’s all because I’ve been reading.”

“I am sure it was.” Taking his hand and the candle on the other, you lead him out. “Now come and put her back to her cot so we may do some reading of our own.”

Who is he to say no? “Yes, my love.” He gladly follows your lead.

Your eyes trail over the conference room. It’s rare to see everyone in the same place at the same time if it isn't for an illegal booze break. Flambae thankfully, seems intact after you handed off that lousy reporter. If you could you’d have him blacklisted but his paper is rather popular. People respond to cynicism.

Chase is remarkably calm when he addresses the room. “So…we gettin’ this party started?”

“Yeah, what’s this shit about? Let’s go, come on.” Everyone’s eyes are on Robert but you catch the curious stare from Flambae past his orange tinted sunglasses. You shake your head and gesture back to Robert. You don’t have an answer for him when you’ve been kept out of the loop yourself recently.

“Okay, as you know, by the end of today, one of you will be cut from the Z-Team.”

Again, you’re faced with inquisition from Malevola who leans back in her chair. “This is bullshit.” 

“Yeah, you said that already,” Robert deadpans.

“Cut me from a job I didn’t want in the first place,” Punch Up murmurs.

Don’t do it, you think, closing your eyes. 

“Miss Blazer?” Prism calls out to you too. As if she knows you’re as upset with this outcome as the rest of them are. She waits patiently for your attention before continuing. “Maybe if you gave us a dispatcher who knew what they were doing, you wouldn't have to throw no one out?”

You don’t even have a chance to think of what to say when Robert speaks up. “Hey, Nikki Mirage. I’m standing right here. You can talk to me.”

“I wasn’t talking to you, bitch. Which weak ass superhero team did you come from? Fuckin’ Geek Squad?”

“Doesn’t matter where I’m from, Cardi C. What matters is I’m here to figure out who stays and who goes.”

Don’t do it. Don’t do it. Don’t do it and—you’re doing it.

“Kid,” Chase cautions, “Hold on a minute.”

You raise your hands in a placating manner hoping you can be forgiven for your interruption but name-calling was ridiculous dare you say, childish. You would not tolerate it. “I don’t think you all recognize the severity of your situation.” You say stepping forward. Conscientious of not blocking Robert or Blazer from the z-team’s view.

“What the fucks that mean?”

“I’m not done talking!” You raise your voice. Flambae falls silent and sits up straighter.

“Let me make something abundantly clear to you all. If someone is leaving the program, it isn’t because we’ve decided to send you on your way. It’s because you decide you aren’t good enough to be here.” Your eyes are scalding as you scan the room. The team looks reluctant to even breathe. 

“I have worked my ass off—” You gesture to Blazer next because although you’re angry and definitely going above her head right now, she’s still your friend. “—We have worked our asses off trying to make you half decent heroes. If you want to go, go. No-one is stopping you, including myself. I will not have you jeopardizing our time and our money because you want to fuck around.”

Deciding to take a turn about the room you stop beside Malevola. Kicking the legs of the chair to her right until Invisigal appears. She’s holding onto the table for dear life when Sonar practically pivots toward the ceiling when you walk by. Golem, the gentleman he is, allows you to pass without making a scene which you appreciate in the appearance of trying to look serious.

“Your effort shows me just how little you care. I can’t convince the world you’re heroes if you don’t even think it’s worth being here. You know there are plenty of other people dying for this opportunity but I wanted to give you all the benefit of the doubt in the face of your enormous screw ups.”

Your heart is pounding in your ears by the time you’re at the front of the room again. 

“Maybe they’re right about you. All of the people who’ve cut you down and if that’s true then…” You pause. Covering the waver in your voice with a well timed clearing of your throat. “They're right about me too. I’ve wasted my time.”

The silence is deafening but you choose to brave it anyway and step past your co-workers to open the door. An ounce of pride fills your chest at the proud expression Chase wears when you risk a glance at him. It’s short lived but revitalizing nonetheless. “I’m going to talk with Blazer now. I expect you all to be on your best behavior. You’re not children to need me to remind you.”

A chorus of 'yes' fly around the room behind your back as you make your way to Blazer’s office. Once the door shuts behind you, Blazer’s amulet comes off. She feels you require that much when you sag into your unofficially assigned seat. 

Blonde Blazer was many things. A hero, an icon, a mascot, but most importantly to her, she was a friend. Someone you could trust. Someone you could rely on when the world got too big to carry on your shoulders.

“What’s going on?”

But Mandy, Mandy was different. She was only human.

You sigh, “drink first.” 

Reaching your hand out you wait until a glass is in your hands. A sharp pop followed by fizz alerts you that the coke in your palm is ready for consumption and you douse it like a shot of tequila. You can’t remember the last time you had a night out. Not that you particularly enjoy getting piss drunk. The only time you ever leave your apartment now is for grocery runs and Chase’s apartment.

“Better?”

“Much better,” you reply with a lighter sigh.

“Good.” She smiles, finally settling in beside you. It’s obvious she feels nervous. Not on edge per say because realistically she could snap your bones like a toothpick, but Mandy is clearly unnerved by your current behavior. She crosses her legs then uncrosses them. “So…I take it the interview didn’t go to plan?”

You groan. Taking another swig of soda. “No he was awful. Add him to the list of people we won’t help when they pop a tire.” 

Mandy scolds you like she’s caught you with your hand in the cookie jar. Eventually though, she relents and agrees Kingsley is a complete pain in the ass after bringing up the fact Robert himself had trouble with him during a press conference. Which actually manages to make you feel better.

“That doesn’t explain what happened in there. You’re usually so…” She waves her hand around. Searching for a nice way to talk about your behavior. 

Your face grows hot but you ignore it. You can worry about apologizing to Mecha Man later. 

“I know.” You slide a hand down your face. 

If Mandy didn’t know any better, she would say it looked like someone had personally gone out of their way to kick your puppy then proceed to run it over on the side of the highway. 

Sighing heavily you ponder your options. You’re not sure if addressing the elephant in the room is the right phrase to describe your current situation as Mandy is none-the-wiser to your (for lack of a better word) beef with her. You could use your stress as an excuse. Was it really worth potentially ruining your trust in one another because you were angry she wasn’t consulting you anymore? It wasn’t technically your job. More of an informality. It wouldn’t be smart to ignore your feelings however. What if the next time you had a meltdown it was at a completely inconvenient time like a charity banquet. You can’t forget you work for a corporation, their name matters more than yours and why screw up your only opportunity to help people?

You take a steadying breath. Gritting your teeth, the sting of pride opens up like an old wound. “I’m frustrated because today of all days I’m brought back to how I felt when I was seventeen. I really needed your support but now I feel like I don’t even have that. How can you cut members of the team without telling me? How does Robert know about this before I do? I know he’s supposed to be helping us but are you relying on him more because he’s—”

“No.” Mandy reads your mind before you can finish.“I would never.” Her face is somber. It drives away the heavy cloud of doubt from your mind because she seems truly remorseful. “You’re important to me. I wouldn’t choose my career over you. Not if they dragged my name through the mud or blacklisted me from my favorite restaurant.”

You fidget with a loose thread off the couch. “Really?”

“Really.” She relaxes. “I could live without Tokyo Dream Sushi.”

Snorting forces yourself to look up. “Wow, you love that place.” 

“Love is such a strong word.”

The weight in your chest feels lighter and easier to bear again. Crossing your arms you open up about the interview. About how angry you are that the universe doesn’t seem to want you to forget your place.

If Charles Kingsley wanted to piss you off he should have just asked about your parents. What did he hope to achieve by bringing up the Brigade? You’re glad Chase doesn’t have to deal with this tomfoolery. He’s done more than enough to warrant peace and quiet in his early retirement. So, is it so selfish of you to want more than that for your team? Why couldn’t they get their act together when you gave them more than enough support after failing abysmally.

“I’m sure Robert was impressed.” Mandy teases. Bringing you back to the present. You groan in response because if anyone knows about your Mecha Man obsession it’s only because Chase rats you out like the rat he is. Master Splinter ah.

“He told me not to step in but for you, I’m sure he’ll make an exception,” she sings.

The smugness in her face makes your stomach drop to your toes.

“What? He did?”

Now that you think about it, Chase had mentioned Robert was the one to call the whole team into the conference room, not Blazer. Had you completely rained on his parade? 

“Oh my god he’s going to hate me.” You whine and sink into your chair. Willing the cushions to take you, your fingers dig into the arms on either side of you. “I’m gonna kill myself.”

“You’ve been spending way too much time with the interns,” she chortles. Patting your shoulder sympathetically. “The worst that could happen is—”

“He could hate me and I could die.” You reiterate. Are you blind? Are you stupid? You want to ask but these are thoughts better kept to yourself. 

“No, the worst that could happen is he refuses to work with you after this.”

You spiral.

“Ok bring it back,” she laughs. “I was only joking. Of course, I should have remembered you can dish it out but can’t take the heat.”

Her grin, once ear to ear, slowly retreats. 

“I never meant to make you feel like I was shutting you out, I’m sorry. I’ve just been so preoccupied with this gala coming up and I have another commercial to shoot and…”

“We’ve both been pretty busy.” Your eyes soften along with your voice. “It’s ok.”

She huffs quietly through her nose. “I appreciate you being so understanding.”

“What are friends for?” you smile. Mandy returns your gesture

A beat passes before she speaks up again. “Before we get into the whole cutting someone from the team, there’s something else you should know. I guess it’s why I’ve been avoiding you recently.”

Your curiosity outweighs the dreadful looming sensation in your gut. It can’t be worse than getting fired. Dipping your head slightly you urge her to continue. Without realizing it you’re shifting towards the edge of your seat.

“How would you feel about reinstating your hero license?” 

-

The hours tick by quickly after this morning. Your office once filled with sunlight, streams with moonlight and the many stars in the sky in spite of city smog. If you’re being honest with yourself, you’re avoiding Robert and you’re doing it as long as possible because losing the opportunity to become friends with Mecha Man would be like turning down a picture with Madonna. 

Clack Clack Clack! is your perpetual melody until you muster enough courage to leave your desk. With only a few hours to go before your shift was over, it was imperative you grabbed a late night snack.

“Hey Lana,” you wave. Receiving a nod back, you pass each other in the hall. 

Calls are still coming in but less frequently when grandmothers don’t need their cats rescued and couples are finally settling into their new apartments. Chase and Robert are so busy you’re able to sneak by their shared cubicle. Buying yourself a few more minutes to think about what you want to say to Robert in the first place. Maybe you can reimburse him for the Twinkies he gave to Sonar. It wasn’t bribery, it was science.

You’re almost to the breakroom when something gives you pause. You squeeze your eyes shut tightly because maybe you’re hallucinating but nothing changes except for the colorful dots now flooding your eyelids. They don’t even scatter when they’ve noticed you’ve seen them.

“What going on?” You say slowly.

Flambae puts a hand on your back. Coaxing you into a now open spot between Coop and Prism which was already pretty wide to begin with. The z-team huddles back together to look at the monitor you think was abandoned by Galan for a bathroom break. 

“Shh! You’ll miss it. This shit box is already quiet enough as it is. When was this thing made anyway? 1984?”

Malevola raises a brow. “Isn’t that a book?”

Prism shrugs, “What? I can't know my shit?”

“Just shut the fuck up already!” Flambae hisses. When he sees your disapproval he clears his throat and adds on. “Like, chill out for a sec.”

You can vaguely make out a few kids at the edge of a park on a bench in a neighborhood you don’t recognize when Invisigal’s voice leaks out of the speakers.

“Being a villain is my fate. It’s in the fucking stars. In the same way Blonde Blazer was always meant to be a hero.” She ends bitterly.

Robert’s voice follows not even a second after. “There’s no such thing as fate. It’s bullshit. It’s just something we cling to because we think we’re the main character of life. We’re not.”

“Is that supposed to be comforting?”

“Yeah. Cause no one’s paying attention if you want to switch things up.”

You’re mindful of the rest of the conversation but mostly focused on Invisigal. The cigarette between her fingers curls into waves of smoke with how intensely she seems to be listening to Robert and that is a first.

Out of the corner of your eye you see how invested the rest of the team is. How unified they look. Like there’s nothing more important than supporting a teammate.

“Fate. Destiny. Not having powers. Seasonal depression. None of these things kept me from being a hero before. And they won’t keep me from being a hero again.”

You’re startled awake by a red warning sign flashing on the screen. Without much thought you reach forward. Clicking the mouse into action and pulling up a map of a jewelry store about five minutes away from Visi’s location.

“Oh my God,” Robert chuckles. “You want to talk about fate? That Lightningstruck fuck that’s been on a spree is two blocks from your location. Maybe the third time’s the charm.”

“I told you. I’m out.” 

“You really want this idiot get one over on you a third time?”

“What makes you think it’d be any different?”

Your eyes trail over the conference room. It’s rare to see everyone in the same place at the same time if it isn't for an illegal booze break. Flambae thankfully, seems intact after you handed off that lousy reporter. If you could you’d have him blacklisted but his paper is rather popular. People respond to cynicism.

Chase is remarkably calm when he addresses the room. “So…we gettin’ this party started?”

“Yeah, what’s this shit about? Let’s go, come on.” Everyone’s eyes are on Robert but you catch the curious stare from Flambae past his orange tinted sunglasses. You shake your head and gesture back to Robert. You don’t have an answer for him when you’ve been kept out of the loop yourself recently.

“Okay, as you know, by the end of today, one of you will be cut from the Z-Team.”

Again, you’re faced with inquisition from Malevola who leans back in her chair. “This is bullshit.” 

“Yeah, you said that already,” Robert deadpans.

“Cut me from a job I didn’t want in the first place,” Punch Up murmurs.

Don’t do it, you think, closing your eyes. 

“Miss Blazer?” Prism calls out to you too. As if she knows you’re as upset with this outcome as the rest of them are. She waits patiently for your attention before continuing. “Maybe if you gave us a dispatcher who knew what they were doing, you wouldn't have to throw no one out?”

You don’t even have a chance to think of what to say when Robert speaks up. “Hey, Nikki Mirage. I’m standing right here. You can talk to me.”

“I wasn’t talking to you, bitch. Which weak ass superhero team did you come from? Fuckin’ Geek Squad?”

“Doesn’t matter where I’m from, Cardi C. What matters is I’m here to figure out who stays and who goes.”

Don’t do it. Don’t do it. Don’t do it and—you’re doing it.

“Kid,” Chase cautions, “Hold on a minute.”

You raise your hands in a placating manner hoping you can be forgiven for your interruption but name-calling was ridiculous dare you say, childish. You would not tolerate it. “I don’t think you all recognize the severity of your situation.” You say stepping forward. Conscientious of not blocking Robert or Blazer from the z-team’s view.

“What the fucks that mean?”

“I’m not done talking!” You raise your voice. Flambae falls silent and sits up straighter.

“Let me make something abundantly clear to you all. If someone is leaving the program, it isn’t because we’ve decided to send you on your way. It’s because you decide you aren’t good enough to be here.” Your eyes are scalding as you scan the room. The team looks reluctant to even breathe. 

“I have worked my ass off—” You gesture to Blazer next because although you’re angry and definitely going above her head right now, she’s still your friend. “—We have worked our asses off trying to make you half decent heroes. If you want to go, go. No-one is stopping you, including myself. I will not have you jeopardizing our time and our money because you want to fuck around.”

Deciding to take a turn about the room you stop beside Malevola. Kicking the legs of the chair to her right until Invisigal appears. She’s holding onto the table for dear life when Sonar practically pivots toward the ceiling when you walk by. Golem, the gentleman he is, allows you to pass without making a scene which you appreciate in the appearance of trying to look serious.

“Your effort shows me just how little you care. I can’t convince the world you’re heroes if you don’t even think it’s worth being here. You know there are plenty of other people dying for this opportunity but I wanted to give you all the benefit of the doubt in the face of your enormous screw ups.”

Your heart is pounding in your ears by the time you’re at the front of the room again. 

“Maybe they’re right about you. All of the people who’ve cut you down and if that’s true then…” You pause. Covering the waver in your voice with a well timed clearing of your throat. “They're right about me too. I’ve wasted my time.”

The silence is deafening but you choose to brave it anyway and step past your co-workers to open the door. An ounce of pride fills your chest at the proud expression Chase wears when you risk a glance at him. It’s short lived but revitalizing nonetheless. “I’m going to talk with Blazer now. I expect you all to be on your best behavior. You’re not children to need me to remind you.”

A chorus of 'yes' fly around the room behind your back as you make your way to Blazer’s office. Once the door shuts behind you, Blazer’s amulet comes off. She feels you require that much when you sag into your unofficially assigned seat. 

Blonde Blazer was many things. A hero, an icon, a mascot, but most importantly to her, she was a friend. Someone you could trust. Someone you could rely on when the world got too big to carry on your shoulders.

“What’s going on?”

But Mandy, Mandy was different. She was only human.

You sigh, “drink first.” 

Reaching your hand out you wait until a glass is in your hands. A sharp pop followed by fizz alerts you that the coke in your palm is ready for consumption and you douse it like a shot of tequila. You can’t remember the last time you had a night out. Not that you particularly enjoy getting piss drunk. The only time you ever leave your apartment now is for grocery runs and Chase’s apartment.

“Better?”

“Much better,” you reply with a lighter sigh.

“Good.” She smiles, finally settling in beside you. It’s obvious she feels nervous. Not on edge per say because realistically she could snap your bones like a toothpick, but Mandy is clearly unnerved by your current behavior. She crosses her legs then uncrosses them. “So…I take it the interview didn’t go to plan?”

You groan. Taking another swig of soda. “No he was awful. Add him to the list of people we won’t help when they pop a tire.” 

Mandy scolds you like she’s caught you with your hand in the cookie jar. Eventually though, she relents and agrees Kingsley is a complete pain in the ass after bringing up the fact Robert himself had trouble with him during a press conference. Which actually manages to make you feel better.

“That doesn’t explain what happened in there. You’re usually so…” She waves her hand around. Searching for a nice way to talk about your behavior. 

Your face grows hot but you ignore it. You can worry about apologizing to Mecha Man later. 

“I know.” You slide a hand down your face. 

If Mandy didn’t know any better, she would say it looked like someone had personally gone out of their way to kick your puppy then proceed to run it over on the side of the highway. 

Sighing heavily you ponder your options. You’re not sure if addressing the elephant in the room is the right phrase to describe your current situation as Mandy is none-the-wiser to your (for lack of a better word) beef with her. You could use your stress as an excuse. Was it really worth potentially ruining your trust in one another because you were angry she wasn’t consulting you anymore? It wasn’t technically your job. More of an informality. It wouldn’t be smart to ignore your feelings however. What if the next time you had a meltdown it was at a completely inconvenient time like a charity banquet. You can’t forget you work for a corporation, their name matters more than yours and why screw up your only opportunity to help people?

You take a steadying breath. Gritting your teeth, the sting of pride opens up like an old wound. “I’m frustrated because today of all days I’m brought back to how I felt when I was seventeen. I really needed your support but now I feel like I don’t even have that. How can you cut members of the team without telling me? How does Robert know about this before I do? I know he’s supposed to be helping us but are you relying on him more because he’s—”

“No.” Mandy reads your mind before you can finish.“I would never.” Her face is somber. It drives away the heavy cloud of doubt from your mind because she seems truly remorseful. “You’re important to me. I wouldn’t choose my career over you. Not if they dragged my name through the mud or blacklisted me from my favorite restaurant.”

You fidget with a loose thread off the couch. “Really?”

“Really.” She relaxes. “I could live without Tokyo Dream Sushi.”

Snorting forces yourself to look up. “Wow, you love that place.” 

“Love is such a strong word.”

The weight in your chest feels lighter and easier to bear again. Crossing your arms you open up about the interview. About how angry you are that the universe doesn’t seem to want you to forget your place.

If Charles Kingsley wanted to piss you off he should have just asked about your parents. What did he hope to achieve by bringing up the Brigade? You’re glad Chase doesn’t have to deal with this tomfoolery. He’s done more than enough to warrant peace and quiet in his early retirement. So, is it so selfish of you to want more than that for your team? Why couldn’t they get their act together when you gave them more than enough support after failing abysmally.

“I’m sure Robert was impressed.” Mandy teases. Bringing you back to the present. You groan in response because if anyone knows about your Mecha Man obsession it’s only because Chase rats you out like the rat he is. Master Splinter ah.

“He told me not to step in but for you, I’m sure he’ll make an exception,” she sings.

The smugness in her face makes your stomach drop to your toes.

“What? He did?”

Now that you think about it, Chase had mentioned Robert was the one to call the whole team into the conference room, not Blazer. Had you completely rained on his parade? 

“Oh my god he’s going to hate me.” You whine and sink into your chair. Willing the cushions to take you, your fingers dig into the arms on either side of you. “I’m gonna kill myself.”

“You’ve been spending way too much time with the interns,” she chortles. Patting your shoulder sympathetically. “The worst that could happen is—”

“He could hate me and I could die.” You reiterate. Are you blind? Are you stupid? You want to ask but these are thoughts better kept to yourself. 

“No, the worst that could happen is he refuses to work with you after this.”

You spiral.

“Ok bring it back,” she laughs. “I was only joking. Of course, I should have remembered you can dish it out but can’t take the heat.”

Her grin, once ear to ear, slowly retreats. 

“I never meant to make you feel like I was shutting you out, I’m sorry. I’ve just been so preoccupied with this gala coming up and I have another commercial to shoot and…”

“We’ve both been pretty busy.” Your eyes soften along with your voice. “It’s ok.”

She huffs quietly through her nose. “I appreciate you being so understanding.”

“What are friends for?” you smile. Mandy returns your gesture

A beat passes before she speaks up again. “Before we get into the whole cutting someone from the team, there’s something else you should know. I guess it’s why I’ve been avoiding you recently.”

Your curiosity outweighs the dreadful looming sensation in your gut. It can’t be worse than getting fired. Dipping your head slightly you urge her to continue. Without realizing it you’re shifting towards the edge of your seat.

“How would you feel about reinstating your hero license?” 

-

The hours tick by quickly after this morning. Your office once filled with sunlight, streams with moonlight and the many stars in the sky in spite of city smog. If you’re being honest with yourself, you’re avoiding Robert and you’re doing it as long as possible because losing the opportunity to become friends with Mecha Man would be like turning down a picture with Madonna. 

Clack Clack Clack! is your perpetual melody until you muster enough courage to leave your desk. With only a few hours to go before your shift was over, it was imperative you grabbed a late night snack.

“Hey Lana,” you wave. Receiving a nod back, you pass each other in the hall. 

Calls are still coming in but less frequently when grandmothers don’t need their cats rescued and couples are finally settling into their new apartments. Chase and Robert are so busy you’re able to sneak by their shared cubicle. Buying yourself a few more minutes to think about what you want to say to Robert in the first place. Maybe you can reimburse him for the Twinkies he gave to Sonar. It wasn’t bribery, it was science.

You’re almost to the breakroom when something gives you pause. You squeeze your eyes shut tightly because maybe you’re hallucinating but nothing changes except for the colorful dots now flooding your eyelids. They don’t even scatter when they’ve noticed you’ve seen them.

“What going on?” You say slowly.

Flambae puts a hand on your back. Coaxing you into a now open spot between Coop and Prism which was already pretty wide to begin with. The z-team huddles back together to look at the monitor you think was abandoned by Galan for a bathroom break. 

“Shh! You’ll miss it. This shit box is already quiet enough as it is. When was this thing made anyway? 1984?”

Malevola raises a brow. “Isn’t that a book?”

Prism shrugs, “What? I can't know my shit?”

“Just shut the fuck up already!” Flambae hisses. When he sees your disapproval he clears his throat and adds on. “Like, chill out for a sec.”

You can vaguely make out a few kids at the edge of a park on a bench in a neighborhood you don’t recognize when Invisigal’s voice leaks out of the speakers.

“Being a villain is my fate. It’s in the fucking stars. In the same way Blonde Blazer was always meant to be a hero.” She ends bitterly.

Robert’s voice follows not even a second after. “There’s no such thing as fate. It’s bullshit. It’s just something we cling to because we think we’re the main character of life. We’re not.”

“Is that supposed to be comforting?”

“Yeah. Cause no one’s paying attention if you want to switch things up.”

You’re mindful of the rest of the conversation but mostly focused on Invisigal. The cigarette between her fingers curls into waves of smoke with how intensely she seems to be listening to Robert and that is a first.

Out of the corner of your eye you see how invested the rest of the team is. How unified they look. Like there’s nothing more important than supporting a teammate.

“Fate. Destiny. Not having powers. Seasonal depression. None of these things kept me from being a hero before. And they won’t keep me from being a hero again.”

You’re startled awake by a red warning sign flashing on the screen. Without much thought you reach forward. Clicking the mouse into action and pulling up a map of a jewelry store about five minutes away from Visi’s location.

“Oh my God,” Robert chuckles. “You want to talk about fate? That Lightningstruck fuck that’s been on a spree is two blocks from your location. Maybe the third time’s the charm.”

“I told you. I’m out.” 

“You really want this idiot get one over on you a third time?”

“What makes you think it’d be any different?”

Your eyes trail over the conference room. It’s rare to see everyone in the same place at the same time if it isn't for an illegal booze break. Flambae thankfully, seems intact after you handed off that lousy reporter. If you could you’d have him blacklisted but his paper is rather popular. People respond to cynicism.

Chase is remarkably calm when he addresses the room. “So…we gettin’ this party started?”

“Yeah, what’s this shit about? Let’s go, come on.” Everyone’s eyes are on Robert but you catch the curious stare from Flambae past his orange tinted sunglasses. You shake your head and gesture back to Robert. You don’t have an answer for him when you’ve been kept out of the loop yourself recently.

“Okay, as you know, by the end of today, one of you will be cut from the Z-Team.”

Again, you’re faced with inquisition from Malevola who leans back in her chair. “This is bullshit.” 

“Yeah, you said that already,” Robert deadpans.

“Cut me from a job I didn’t want in the first place,” Punch Up murmurs.

Don’t do it, you think, closing your eyes. 

“Miss Blazer?” Prism calls out to you too. As if she knows you’re as upset with this outcome as the rest of them are. She waits patiently for your attention before continuing. “Maybe if you gave us a dispatcher who knew what they were doing, you wouldn't have to throw no one out?”

You don’t even have a chance to think of what to say when Robert speaks up. “Hey, Nikki Mirage. I’m standing right here. You can talk to me.”

“I wasn’t talking to you, bitch. Which weak ass superhero team did you come from? Fuckin’ Geek Squad?”

“Doesn’t matter where I’m from, Cardi C. What matters is I’m here to figure out who stays and who goes.”

Don’t do it. Don’t do it. Don’t do it and—you’re doing it.

“Kid,” Chase cautions, “Hold on a minute.”

You raise your hands in a placating manner hoping you can be forgiven for your interruption but name-calling was ridiculous dare you say, childish. You would not tolerate it. “I don’t think you all recognize the severity of your situation.” You say stepping forward. Conscientious of not blocking Robert or Blazer from the z-team’s view.

“What the fucks that mean?”

“I’m not done talking!” You raise your voice. Flambae falls silent and sits up straighter.

“Let me make something abundantly clear to you all. If someone is leaving the program, it isn’t because we’ve decided to send you on your way. It’s because you decide you aren’t good enough to be here.” Your eyes are scalding as you scan the room. The team looks reluctant to even breathe. 

“I have worked my ass off—” You gesture to Blazer next because although you’re angry and definitely going above her head right now, she’s still your friend. “—We have worked our asses off trying to make you half decent heroes. If you want to go, go. No-one is stopping you, including myself. I will not have you jeopardizing our time and our money because you want to fuck around.”

Deciding to take a turn about the room you stop beside Malevola. Kicking the legs of the chair to her right until Invisigal appears. She’s holding onto the table for dear life when Sonar practically pivots toward the ceiling when you walk by. Golem, the gentleman he is, allows you to pass without making a scene which you appreciate in the appearance of trying to look serious.

“Your effort shows me just how little you care. I can’t convince the world you’re heroes if you don’t even think it’s worth being here. You know there are plenty of other people dying for this opportunity but I wanted to give you all the benefit of the doubt in the face of your enormous screw ups.”

Your heart is pounding in your ears by the time you’re at the front of the room again. 

“Maybe they’re right about you. All of the people who’ve cut you down and if that’s true then…” You pause. Covering the waver in your voice with a well timed clearing of your throat. “They're right about me too. I’ve wasted my time.”

The silence is deafening but you choose to brave it anyway and step past your co-workers to open the door. An ounce of pride fills your chest at the proud expression Chase wears when you risk a glance at him. It’s short lived but revitalizing nonetheless. “I’m going to talk with Blazer now. I expect you all to be on your best behavior. You’re not children to need me to remind you.”

A chorus of 'yes' fly around the room behind your back as you make your way to Blazer’s office. Once the door shuts behind you, Blazer’s amulet comes off. She feels you require that much when you sag into your unofficially assigned seat. 

Blonde Blazer was many things. A hero, an icon, a mascot, but most importantly to her, she was a friend. Someone you could trust. Someone you could rely on when the world got too big to carry on your shoulders.

“What’s going on?”

But Mandy, Mandy was different. She was only human.

You sigh, “drink first.” 

Reaching your hand out you wait until a glass is in your hands. A sharp pop followed by fizz alerts you that the coke in your palm is ready for consumption and you douse it like a shot of tequila. You can’t remember the last time you had a night out. Not that you particularly enjoy getting piss drunk. The only time you ever leave your apartment now is for grocery runs and Chase’s apartment.

“Better?”

“Much better,” you reply with a lighter sigh.

“Good.” She smiles, finally settling in beside you. It’s obvious she feels nervous. Not on edge per say because realistically she could snap your bones like a toothpick, but Mandy is clearly unnerved by your current behavior. She crosses her legs then uncrosses them. “So…I take it the interview didn’t go to plan?”

You groan. Taking another swig of soda. “No he was awful. Add him to the list of people we won’t help when they pop a tire.” 

Mandy scolds you like she’s caught you with your hand in the cookie jar. Eventually though, she relents and agrees Kingsley is a complete pain in the ass after bringing up the fact Robert himself had trouble with him during a press conference. Which actually manages to make you feel better.

“That doesn’t explain what happened in there. You’re usually so…” She waves her hand around. Searching for a nice way to talk about your behavior. 

Your face grows hot but you ignore it. You can worry about apologizing to Mecha Man later. 

“I know.” You slide a hand down your face. 

If Mandy didn’t know any better, she would say it looked like someone had personally gone out of their way to kick your puppy then proceed to run it over on the side of the highway. 

Sighing heavily you ponder your options. You’re not sure if addressing the elephant in the room is the right phrase to describe your current situation as Mandy is none-the-wiser to your (for lack of a better word) beef with her. You could use your stress as an excuse. Was it really worth potentially ruining your trust in one another because you were angry she wasn’t consulting you anymore? It wasn’t technically your job. More of an informality. It wouldn’t be smart to ignore your feelings however. What if the next time you had a meltdown it was at a completely inconvenient time like a charity banquet. You can’t forget you work for a corporation, their name matters more than yours and why screw up your only opportunity to help people?

You take a steadying breath. Gritting your teeth, the sting of pride opens up like an old wound. “I’m frustrated because today of all days I’m brought back to how I felt when I was seventeen. I really needed your support but now I feel like I don’t even have that. How can you cut members of the team without telling me? How does Robert know about this before I do? I know he’s supposed to be helping us but are you relying on him more because he’s—”

“No.” Mandy reads your mind before you can finish.“I would never.” Her face is somber. It drives away the heavy cloud of doubt from your mind because she seems truly remorseful. “You’re important to me. I wouldn’t choose my career over you. Not if they dragged my name through the mud or blacklisted me from my favorite restaurant.”

You fidget with a loose thread off the couch. “Really?”

“Really.” She relaxes. “I could live without Tokyo Dream Sushi.”

Snorting forces yourself to look up. “Wow, you love that place.” 

“Love is such a strong word.”

The weight in your chest feels lighter and easier to bear again. Crossing your arms you open up about the interview. About how angry you are that the universe doesn’t seem to want you to forget your place.

If Charles Kingsley wanted to piss you off he should have just asked about your parents. What did he hope to achieve by bringing up the Brigade? You’re glad Chase doesn’t have to deal with this tomfoolery. He’s done more than enough to warrant peace and quiet in his early retirement. So, is it so selfish of you to want more than that for your team? Why couldn’t they get their act together when you gave them more than enough support after failing abysmally.

“I’m sure Robert was impressed.” Mandy teases. Bringing you back to the present. You groan in response because if anyone knows about your Mecha Man obsession it’s only because Chase rats you out like the rat he is. Master Splinter ah.

“He told me not to step in but for you, I’m sure he’ll make an exception,” she sings.

The smugness in her face makes your stomach drop to your toes.

“What? He did?”

Now that you think about it, Chase had mentioned Robert was the one to call the whole team into the conference room, not Blazer. Had you completely rained on his parade? 

“Oh my god he’s going to hate me.” You whine and sink into your chair. Willing the cushions to take you, your fingers dig into the arms on either side of you. “I’m gonna kill myself.”

“You’ve been spending way too much time with the interns,” she chortles. Patting your shoulder sympathetically. “The worst that could happen is—”

“He could hate me and I could die.” You reiterate. Are you blind? Are you stupid? You want to ask but these are thoughts better kept to yourself. 

“No, the worst that could happen is he refuses to work with you after this.”

You spiral.

“Ok bring it back,” she laughs. “I was only joking. Of course, I should have remembered you can dish it out but can’t take the heat.”

Her grin, once ear to ear, slowly retreats. 

“I never meant to make you feel like I was shutting you out, I’m sorry. I’ve just been so preoccupied with this gala coming up and I have another commercial to shoot and…”

“We’ve both been pretty busy.” Your eyes soften along with your voice. “It’s ok.”

She huffs quietly through her nose. “I appreciate you being so understanding.”

“What are friends for?” you smile. Mandy returns your gesture

A beat passes before she speaks up again. “Before we get into the whole cutting someone from the team, there’s something else you should know. I guess it’s why I’ve been avoiding you recently.”

Your curiosity outweighs the dreadful looming sensation in your gut. It can’t be worse than getting fired. Dipping your head slightly you urge her to continue. Without realizing it you’re shifting towards the edge of your seat.

“How would you feel about reinstating your hero license?” 

-

The hours tick by quickly after this morning. Your office once filled with sunlight, streams with moonlight and the many stars in the sky in spite of city smog. If you’re being honest with yourself, you’re avoiding Robert and you’re doing it as long as possible because losing the opportunity to become friends with Mecha Man would be like turning down a picture with Madonna. 

Clack Clack Clack! is your perpetual melody until you muster enough courage to leave your desk. With only a few hours to go before your shift was over, it was imperative you grabbed a late night snack.

“Hey Lana,” you wave. Receiving a nod back, you pass each other in the hall. 

Calls are still coming in but less frequently when grandmothers don’t need their cats rescued and couples are finally settling into their new apartments. Chase and Robert are so busy you’re able to sneak by their shared cubicle. Buying yourself a few more minutes to think about what you want to say to Robert in the first place. Maybe you can reimburse him for the Twinkies he gave to Sonar. It wasn’t bribery, it was science.

You’re almost to the breakroom when something gives you pause. You squeeze your eyes shut tightly because maybe you’re hallucinating but nothing changes except for the colorful dots now flooding your eyelids. They don’t even scatter when they’ve noticed you’ve seen them.

“What going on?” You say slowly.

Flambae puts a hand on your back. Coaxing you into a now open spot between Coop and Prism which was already pretty wide to begin with. The z-team huddles back together to look at the monitor you think was abandoned by Galan for a bathroom break. 

“Shh! You’ll miss it. This shit box is already quiet enough as it is. When was this thing made anyway? 1984?”

Malevola raises a brow. “Isn’t that a book?”

Prism shrugs, “What? I can't know my shit?”

“Just shut the fuck up already!” Flambae hisses. When he sees your disapproval he clears his throat and adds on. “Like, chill out for a sec.”

You can vaguely make out a few kids at the edge of a park on a bench in a neighborhood you don’t recognize when Invisigal’s voice leaks out of the speakers.

“Being a villain is my fate. It’s in the fucking stars. In the same way Blonde Blazer was always meant to be a hero.” She ends bitterly.

Robert’s voice follows not even a second after. “There’s no such thing as fate. It’s bullshit. It’s just something we cling to because we think we’re the main character of life. We’re not.”

“Is that supposed to be comforting?”

“Yeah. Cause no one’s paying attention if you want to switch things up.”

You’re mindful of the rest of the conversation but mostly focused on Invisigal. The cigarette between her fingers curls into waves of smoke with how intensely she seems to be listening to Robert and that is a first.

Out of the corner of your eye you see how invested the rest of the team is. How unified they look. Like there’s nothing more important than supporting a teammate.

“Fate. Destiny. Not having powers. Seasonal depression. None of these things kept me from being a hero before. And they won’t keep me from being a hero again.”

You’re startled awake by a red warning sign flashing on the screen. Without much thought you reach forward. Clicking the mouse into action and pulling up a map of a jewelry store about five minutes away from Visi’s location.

“Oh my God,” Robert chuckles. “You want to talk about fate? That Lightningstruck fuck that’s been on a spree is two blocks from your location. Maybe the third time’s the charm.”

“I told you. I’m out.” 

“You really want this idiot get one over on you a third time?”

“What makes you think it’d be any different?”

Yawning for the umpteenth time, the crappy reality TV you put on doesn’t even help you stay awake anymore. You’d crawl in bed but you want to wait for Robert to get home when you feel like you haven’t seen him in ages. The only times that the two of you have crossed paths this week can be counted in one hand. Whenever you’d kiss him goodbye while he’s still half asleep, and when he’d greet you with a kiss when you’re already deep into slumber. Your schedules haven’t matched up as well as before with the amount of work the two of you had to do. If you’re not at home, he is, but when you’re home, he’s out there burning the midnight oil with the Z-team. Forget meeting up for lunch at work either when your breaks don’t match with his.

But now that it’s the weekend, you’re both free to see each other, hopefully more of each other.

Your hearing picks up the sound of keys outside and you immediately perk up with a smile. As if you were jolted with lightning, you’re vaulting over the couch and towards him in the speed that even Chase would be proud of.

The second the door opens, Robert is met with your smiling face, like a golden retriever, who’s excited to see him home.

“Hi.” Tilting his head, Robert smiles softly at you, feeling that you’re practically vibrating from the longing, waiting for his go signal. “C’mere.” He opens his arms and you’re immediately right on him like velcro. “Missed me?”

“Do you even have to ask?” You say whilst peppering his face with kisses. “I feel like I haven’t seen you in ages.”

“Fuck,” his facade falls as he drops his bag and keys onto the floor, arms patting the back of your leg as he tells you to hop and wrap yourself around him. You do as you’re asked without a second thought as he kicks the front door closed. He can’t ignore the fact that he heard his knees creak when he carried you, but if you did hear it, you didn’t say a word. But you did hear it though. “I missed you.”

Your back meets with the wall, his hand tucked in between your head and the hard wall, acting like a cushion to shield you. “I missed you too— wait, where’s beef?”

Robert clings to your warmth and the cucumber scent of your soap as he inhales deeply atop your neck. “With Chase.” Voice muffled, he tilts your head up with a nudge of his nose on your throat as you comply happily and give him space. “I figured…” his lips peck you sweetly, teeth grazing your skin, tongue brushing along your pulse point. “That we need alone time.”

“And you’re absolutely right.” Sighing with longing, your fingers dig into his hair as you push him impossibly close against you. Pulling his hair back to kiss him, you meet with his glossy eyes, cheeks flushed, mouth agape as he heaves and waits for your next move. And yet, you find his tired eyes and blanched face worrisome. “Have you eaten anything yet?”

“Does half a granola bar and three cups of coffee count?” He jokes, but you don’t find the humour in it when he tries to lean into your lips only for you to tug at him back. Robert would let out a satisfied hum if not for the worried look in your eyes. “Sweetheart, I’m fine, it’s just been a busy day. Fuck, I just need you, please—”

“What you need is food.” Unwrapping your legs around him, you stand and peck his cheek with a promise. While he looks utterly disappointed, like you dangled a candy bar to his face only to yank it back. “And sleep.” Brows furrowed, you wince at the heavy dark bags under his eyes. “And moisturizer. Lots of it.”

“Am I that crusty?” He chortles, hands still on your hips, thumbs pushing aside the waistband cheekily, waiting for you to change your mind.

“No,” you shake your head with a gentle smile. Taking his wrists away and pecking his knuckles. “Just a bit, come on, I’ll warm your food.”

“I’m really fine—”

“It’s lasagna.”

He doesn’t even contemplate or protest some more as he gratefully follows after you in the kitchen.

—

His stomach is so full of pasta and cheese that he could barely stand up from his seat. You went somewhere else while he was unbuttoning his pants to give him some breathing room. Robert signs in content, a hand wrapped around a glass of wine, that he doesn’t even know he had in the apartment, as his nails click against the glass rhythmically.

Robert hears the faucet squeak, and the sound of running water, as he tilts his head to take a peek inside the bathroom. He swears that you already took a bath judging from your still damp hair and the scent of the cucumber and citrus soap on your skin when he got home.

You feel his eyes on your back whilst you pour bubble bath inside the tub. “This’ll only take a minute, babe.”

“Take all the time you need.” Ogling you unabashedly, Robert smiles as you twist your hand back to flip him the bird playfully as if you have eyes on the back of your head. “Those shorts look good on you.”

“They’re your boxers.” Your voice bounces off the tiles, grabbing a clean fluffy robe from the cabinets, the same one that is all pink and girly that Chase gifted to Robert as a gag gift for his birthday. It even has his name bedazzled on the back like he’s some Victoria’s secret model.

Robert usually loves seeing you use it, especially when it has his name right on your back. But he can’t lie when he occasionally uses it to feel how soft it is after a shower.

“Everything looks good on you, sweetheart.” He watches you with a fond smile, eyes glimmering with want as you saunter out of the bathroom with the bathrobe in tow.

“You’re not getting lucky tonight until you’re properly taken care of.” Opening the robe and showing him how fluffy it is, you smile over it, wiggling your brows. “Take your clothes off. After this I’m putting a face mask on you and lathering you up in my finest lotion.”

“Can I suggest one thing though?”

“Of course.”

“How about a massage too?” He asks innocently, but you just know from the glint in his eyes and the slight smirk on his lips that it’s not so innocent.

“If you don’t fall asleep before then, sure.” You lean against the doorframe casually, acting nonchalant from his proposition and hugging the towel. You’re not the best at massages, but you’ll try your best, or at least for a minute or so before he pulls you on his lap instead. Or fall asleep the moment you squeeze his aching muscles.

He’s already stripping his clothes off with excitement. Starting from unbuttoning his work shirt that has become associated with your boyfriend. The colour does suit him though, but you’d rather see him wear something else that doesn’t smell like day old coffee.

You don’t notice him walking closer and closer to you whilst you’re utterly fixated to his bare torso.

“Calm down, Robert, this is for relaxing—” you’re suddenly lifted off the ground, finding that Robert has you over his shoulder, smacking your behind as he takes you to the bathroom. For someone who has only eaten a granola bar and inhaled three cups of caffeine today, he’s stronger than he looks. Maybe this is what people say when it comes to adrenaline, this is his lifting the car moment. “Robert!”

“What? If I’m going to relax then so will you.” He says casually, entering the steaming bathroom as he kicks the door shut with his foot.

Your squeals echo around the tiled walls, as Robert’s amused laughter mingles with the sound of splashing water and the towel landing right over his face.

The bathroom is quickly flooded with bubbles and sweet scented soap, and you find yourself back in the bath once again with him joining you.

—

The hair dryer blows hot air right at his silky tresses, now free from oil and whatever Golem accidentally spilled on him during his lunch break. Robert sits in between your legs, back pressed against your front, and eyes closed as the hot air flutters his lashes. He looks utterly blissed out, smelling like a bed and body works. He’s absolutely content in your arms as you gently rake the comb through his hair.

He has a face mask on, “it’s aloe vera,” you said, he doesn’t care whatever it is but it’s doing wonders to him. It’s like having a slice of frozen ham slapped right on your face minus the smell but with twice the cooling effect.

Robert feels fucking amazing.

His palms cup around your knees, thumbs drawing small gentle circles all over your well moisturized skin. The two of you smell incredibly good, enough to eat, and he’d kiss every bit of your skin if he wasn’t so sleepy.

Robert could sleep right there and then, he would, if not for the loud whirr of the hair dryer and the hot air blowing right at his head.

“You okay?” You whisper to the shell of his ear, gooseflesh immediately rises on his arms as he hums a reply. The hair dryer shuts off, and he could feel sleep take him. “I guess you’re too tired for massages.”

His eyes suddenly open at the speed of light. “No, I’m not.”

“Really?” Your hands knead at his arms tenderly, like you’re massaging herbs and spices onto a slab of beef. You truly have no idea what you’re doing, but it seems that Robert loves it. “Let me take care of you this time, okay?”

He would be on his knees begging for it if he wasn’t already in bed. Eyes gazing up at you sweetly, Robert’s brows furrow, lips pouting slightly as he lets out a sound from the back of his throat that is akin to a whine. “Please.”

“Anything for my Robert.” With a smile, fingers grasping at his chin, you lean down to press a saccharine kiss on his forehead, one of many for tonight.

—

“So I said to him, go suck a fat— what the fuck is that?” Sonar looks perturbed, eyes wide and staring at something, or someone that just walked through the door.

Malevola follows his line of sight, gasping at the sight, almost stumbling over herself. “What happened to you?” She asks, almost disturbed by the sight.

Chase hears the commotion from the bullpen, he peeks over the breakroom doorway and sees Robert walk in normally. “What the fuck are you two gawking at?” He asks, walking closer to the pair as he holds onto his cup of coffee.

“That!” Mal takes his head and turns him to face Robert.

“Holy shit…” he utters, spluttering out his coffee all over Sonar’s suit, earning an intense bat screech from the man bat that is quickly ignored by the others, who are completely perplexed at the sight in front of them. “Alright, who died?”

Robert makes a face, nose scrunched as he places his things on his table. “No one? Why do you all look at me like I just killed someone right in front of you?”

“Yeah, you killed Robert Robertson.” Chase sidles beside him, leaning against his table with suspicion in his eyes. “Why do you look like that?”

“Like what?” The dispatcher asks, lashes fluttering on the apples of his pinkish cheeks, looking healthy and glowing.

His lips shine with raspberry chapstick, and the dark circles underneath his eyes are almost non-existent, as if he made a deal with the devil to get rid of it and make him look ten years younger. The best part is the soft smile that is seemingly permanently etched on his face that remains even when he almost got a face full of Waterboy’s water splashed on him when he first walked inside the building.

“You look like how a skin walker would wear Robert’s skin.” Sonar says, leaning close to his face to examine him further. When he tries to poke him with his claw, Robert pushes him away with a grimace.

Robert rolls his eyes, he does feel rejuvenated, almost reborn from your pampering. Throughout the whole weekend, you took your pledge to heart, you did not let him lift a finger, and the two of you spent the whole weekend in bed together. Eating meals on it, catching up on your shows whilst cuddling underneath the covers while the blackout curtains are completely covering the light outside. Not to mention the ‘strenuous exercises’ that you two did together. It was absolute bliss, and Robert almost did not go to work today to extend the peace.

“You look good, buddy.” Malevola is the first to compliment him with a friendly clasp on his shoulder.

“Smells good too.” Sonar adds, taking a whiff of him. “Looking too good. Which way is the fountain of youth? Chase could use it.” He teases before chuckling at his own joke.

Chase punches him right in the gut, making him curl around himself with a sharp inhale through his nose. The others act like this is a normal occurrence in the office.

“Seriously though, what products did you use? I could use a good under eye mask.” Mal pulls down at her under eye for emphasis. “What’s your secret?”

Robert shrugs with a knowing smile. “Get the best girlfriend in the whole damn world.” The chorus of groans echo around the office that has him smiling in satisfaction.

Egg follows close with the same urgency, squeezing beside and overtaking you as he runs down the stairs that is unbecoming of a prince such as himself. But you don’t judge when you’re doing the exact same thing.

You make quick work of the stairs, skipping a few steps, almost tripping down from your skirts but you manage to steady yourself upon the last step.

“Sister, could you just— fucking wait, shit!” Jon almost stumbles but catches himself by clutching onto the wall.

Egg freezes in front of you, eyes wide, heaving and frowning deeply at the sight before him.

The stench of iron, one that you’re awfully familiar with collides into your lungs, burrowing there as you take a needed breath. You know it well before you could even follow the young prince’s gaze.

Ser Duncan is being hauled by Ser Raymun and the blacksmith, his huge form is dragged along by the two men with strain. He looks as though the gods punished him, striking him where he stood in the tourney field. Although it is the opposite when he has won the trial, a proven innocent in the seven’s eyes and the whole realm. The hedge knight’s eye is blackened, swollen and purple as he bleeds from every cut and wound upon his body. Blood seeps from his mouth, coating his clenched teeth and broken lips. He’s merely a sack of potatoes as the pair brings him towards where you are, right under the arch and besides the stands.

Raymun looks worse for wear, scratched and bleeding, but Duncan is faring worse than him as he slumps onto the bench, crimson leaking through his chainmail. If the blood isn’t stanched, it could spell his end.

Your legs weaken at the sight of your friend, but you persist. “I shall have my own maester tend to you, Ser Duncan.” You utter clearly, commandingly, already half leaving. “Brother, get Maester Grover.” Jon doesn’t protest as he starts to walk ahead of you, waiting for you.

“Thank you, my lady.” Raymun thanks you on Dunk’s behalf as the man just nods weakly, head bowed down, breathing heavily.

Egg looks up at you with pinched brows, and you clasp his shoulder reassuringly. “He will be alright, the seven have granted him life and they shall not take it back, not today.” The boy’s face twists before giving you his thanks.

You hesitate to leave for a beat, but Duncan is in good hands, so you continue on in pursuit of your knight. In your peripheral, you see prince Baelor walk slowly towards where Duncan and the others are after helping his brother get help from a maester. Aerion is hauled away in a stretcher, groaning in pain whilst clutching his bleeding thigh. His lips form a whimper, calling for his mother. While his older brother, you surmised by his dirty blond hair and the dragon sigil on his gorget, is helped by a stable hand, waddling into the castle. He takes a look at you through his purple eyes, brows pinching, but not in pain, more like sympathy.

You look away and back to Baelor, thanking him with a look and a polite nod, as he regards you through tired eyes before continuing his trek.

Mud squelching under your boots, you follow the retreating backs of Lyonel’s bannermen as they bring him to his pavilion. The crowned stag flutters in the wind, beckoning you amidst the crowd.

When Jon sidles beside you, keeping up with your quick strides, you spare him a glare. “Didn’t I tell you to go get the maester?”

“I am, we’re heading in the same direction.” He answers with the same bite. “Love has made your senses dull, sister.” Scoffing, he pats your arm for good luck before turning a corner towards the dancing Arryn sigil in the distance.

Grabbing a fistful of your skirts, you sprint despite the wandering crowd hindering you, blocking the way. And yet you run, hood falling away from your head as you bolt past the Baratheon guards, but none stop you the moment you walk inside his personal tent.

The smell of incense and bitter concoctions garners a scrunched look on your face. With the whole tent filled with his people, all having the same worried look on their faces, the air is hot and stifling inside. The old maester is hunched over Lyonel on the bed, his armour is half undone as the old man fixes his hold onto his leg with worry.

“I believe it is broken, my lord.” The scholar coughs out, chain links clinking against the other as he procures a potion from his leather bag. “There is nothing to be done.”

“Then fucking fix it.” Lyonel utters between clenched teeth, clutching at his knee in pain whilst his squire takes the remaining armour off him. “Or give me something for the pain and let me die.”

“I have given you a few drops of milk of the poppy, but it will take some time to work, my lord.”

You assess him from a distance. His left eye is slowly turning black, with purple rings around it, and there are various cuts on his face. His hand has a deep gash that is hastily wrapped, blood still soaking through the fabric that concerns you. But his leg is what needs more attention, knee bent at an awkward painful angle. If not set in place it would heal wrong, then this tourney would be his last.

“I don’t think it is.” Panting for air from the trek, your voice garners everyone’s attention. “And you are not allowed to die, remember?” People part for you, making a curious face before they recognize you. “May I?”

Lyonel’s eyes brighten, a smile slowly creeping upon his lips from the sight of you. “My doe.” He immediately reaches for your warmth, taking your palm in his weakly. “Thought you left me for dead.”

“Never, I had to run here, my apologies.” You stand beside the old maester, squeezing Lyonel’s hand before moving to take hold of his ankle and knee, surveying the damage closely. He watches you with something intense swirling in his dark eyes. “I believe that the knee bone moved away from its socket. It needs to be set.”

“I mean no offense, my lady, but you are no maester.” The ancient man scoffs out a laugh at his attempt at humour.

“I know that I am no old man with a long white beard but I am well read in the matters of the body.” You side glance at him, glowering, garnering a chill to run through the tent. “Are you? I see the chain for healing around your neck is rusted, maester.”

“She just called you inept, old man.” Lyonel laughs loudly before his injuries catch up to him as he coughs, a wave of pain ebbing through his body. Hissing, he faces you again with a pinched expression. “I trust you more than this wretch.”

The maester’s head looks down with embarrassment. “My lady.” You expect him to help you but he moves away, giving you space to do what you need to do.

Everyone’s eyes are on you, doubt creeps on the back of your head as you hesitate.

Lyonel calls your name gently, taking your attention away from your mind as he nods at you, soft eyes reassuring you wordlessly. He trusts you wholeheartedly, but you’re afraid of hurting him, or making his injury worse when you’ve only seen this done in a book.

Swallowing down your trepidation, recalling your studies, you look upon the small crowd, before honing in on Lyonel’s squire. “You, help me. I need muscle.” Judging by the resemblance to his knight, he’s a Baratheon just like him.

The man nods, walking towards you determinedly. “Where do you need me, my lady?”

“By his ankle.” You exchange places with him as you situate yourself by Lyonel’s knee, you could feel his eyes on you, watching you with bated breath and awe. “I need you to pull fucking hard, like you’re reining in a horse and then push in gently when I tell you to.”

“I just got compared to a horse.” Lyonel still finds it in him to jest despite all the aches. His hand finds your cloak, gripping it tightly in his hold.

“A handsome horse, Lyonel.” Your hands grip at the back of his knee tightly as you feel his heat radiate off him. When you spare him one last glance, you see his glossy eyes look absolutely delighted at how you hold him. You would lean down for a kiss if not for the small crowd around you. “Maester, make yourself useful and grab that piece of leather for me.”

Surprisingly enough, he does what he’s told as the rough leather belt is placed in your palm. Lyonel watches you closely as you lean over him, a palm hovering above his chest, feeling how his heart beats with your own.

“Bite.” You ask simply, and he obeys gladly, opening his mouth as you place the leather inside his mouth, and he bites into it obediently. “Good man.” You swear that you heard him hum, a purr, chest rumbling from the deep sound.

You return to your place, hugging his leg with your hands over and under his knee. “This will hurt. Pull now.” The squire complies, and Lyonel’s muffled scream will come back in your sleep. Fixing the angle of his leg, you feel for the socket. “Push!” You have to yell above his pained screeching.

With the faint sound of the bones clicking, you manage to set his leg back in place to your relief. Placing his leg down slowly, testing the knee gently, you thank the squire with a friendly clasp on his shoulder before he walks away on his wobbly knees, looking a bit green in the face.

Lyonel spits out the leather, panting, sweat dribbling off his brow and reaching his eyes as he lets out a shaky breath. “You didn’t warn me.”

“You would’ve clenched.”

“I wouldn’t have.”

“Yes, you would have.”

A beat passes, and the air fills with tension that can be compared to a lighting strike.

He turns to his men awaiting his orders. “Leave us, all of you.” With the simple words, they turn away, feet shuffling on the carpet. Before the maester could gather his things, you grab the leather bag of potions with a shake of your head. And he leaves with the others with a sigh. A moment passes and his eyes smile before a grin spreads across his face. “You manhandled me.”

“You enjoyed it.” You use your own palm to wipe the sweat off his handsome face whilst he leans into your touch. Head tilted with a smile, you pull away to rummage through the maester’s bag, looking for the right tincture, smelling each one with a pop of a cork.

“It is dishonourable to lie so I shall not.” His hand takes you by the helm of your cloak, pulling you close weakly. “Come sit with me.” Voice tender, he gazes up at you through those big dark eyes that you adore.

“Give me a moment, you are impatient.” Finding the right scent that you know all too well, you pour it on a clean piece of fabric.

“Only because you are taking too long.” Wheezing, Lyonel moves to the side on the bed to give you space, patting his side as you sit beside him, hip to hip.

“That is the meaning of being impatient.” Humming, you lean down to dab the tincture upon the cuts on his face. He hisses between his teeth, but he puts up a brave face whilst his eyes gaze at you the whole time, as if he’s memorizing your face.

The golden light of the pavilion from the shining sunshine outside kisses the side of your face, and Lyonel thinks that Baratheon yellow suits you perfectly.

You continue to work on him in silence, as people mill about outside, some shouts were heard but barely coherent from the distance. Probably the consequences of the trial that has taken root around each tent. The candles burn on the table, and the scent of incense lulls him to sleep, but you could tell that he is fighting it. His tent is as opulent inside, decorated with his house colours and sigil. It is unabashedly Baratheon. You could get used to his regalia.

Lyonel doesn’t speak, nor fill the quiet with the usual banter. He just holds onto the hem of your cloak with two fingers, as if you would fly away once he lets go. He watches you work, from how you clean his wounds gently with precision, and how you wrap his wounded hand with clean cloth, redoing everything that the maester did. You do it diligently, carefully, better than his maester, or any measter could.

You take his watchful gaze and silence as a question. Or perhaps to fill the silence and muffle your thudding heartbeat.

“I learned how to tend to wounds from my brothers, they were always getting cuts and bruises in the training yard and they would rather have me tend to them than the maester. Citing that I had gentler hands, and that they wouldn’t get a chastising from our mother.” Chuckling, he shifts his gaze down to your lips longingly before gazing up at your eyes. “From then on, I stole our maester’s healing tomes to learn to help them better. And I managed to read every single passage before he noticed it gone.”

With a small smile, you finish wrapping his wounds. You then move to unclasp the remaining armour as gently as you could to see if there are any hidden injuries you need to tend to. Fingers tracing his muscles gently, a featherlight touch that has him shuddering a breath. “He was livid that I stole, and had me recite what I have learned while he corrected the parts I have mistaken. He was actually teaching, disguised as punishment. Have I told you about that already?”

He’s uncharacteristically meek, completely enamored by you as his eyes gloss over, blinking slowly as you ramble on.

“You did well today, Lyonel, gave me a fright but you did marvelously. Ser Duncan and the others would’ve fared worse without you.” Your words tugs him awake. There’s a lump in your throat as your gaze rakes over his injured leg and up to his wounded face. “T–thank the gods they brought you back to me alive.” A cry escapes from your wobbly lips but you swallow it down as his hand reaches for your cheek, holding you tenderly, a rough thumb brushing along your skin, caressing, tracing your features lovingly. “Lyonel?”

When Lyonel doesn’t answer, except for more staring and more caressing, you figure that the milk of the poppy is working. Until.

“Marry me.”

“What?” His croaked out words have you pausing from unclasping the last metal plate on his bicep. Leaving him in only his soaked gambeson. “Lyonel…”

“I choose you.” You have heard his voice go soft before, as soft as raindrops upon your skin, but not like this. It’s almost pained, desperate, a final call. “Not someone who was chosen for me.” He wheezes out a breath, and you rest your palm right on his chest, rubbing gently. “Please choose me too.”

Your body reacts before you could, tears collect in your lashes as you chuckle weakly. “You want to marry me?”

“Who wouldn’t? I adore you.” He simply says with a brave cadence, a palm holding you right by your nape, lovingly holding onto you like you’re about to fade away in his vision. “Gods, do I need to tell you how much you mean to me? I have made a list, it’s in writing.”

“No, need, I know it enough through your kiss alone, my stag.” You shake your head, eyes downcast as you laugh against your palm that smells of the bitter tincture. Taking a deep breath, you look into his eyes, taking his hand from your face as you peck his bruised knuckles before placing him above your heart. “Do me a favour, my lord, meet with the Arryn girl.”

His face falls, brows pinched. “You’re breaking my heart, my love.”

Shaking your head, you move closer to him until you could feel his heat radiate onto your cotton dress. “No, I’m mending it. You will be glad for it, I promise the seven above that you will be glad for it.”

“How could I be glad when I can’t call you my wife?” Lyonel sounds offended, as if the option you have given him is less than fool’s gold. That you’re worth more than anything in the world.

“How about a wager?” You fight the grin on your face, clasping his hand with both hands whilst he looks at you with aching devotion. “You’ll love her, just like how you have loved me.”

“That is impossible to win when I know I could not love another that isn’t you.”

“Meet with her,” your voice lowers, leaning down to his face as your hair crowds around him. He’s surrounded by you, your scent, your eyes that look at him lovingly as if he is the only man in the world. And your blue dress, distinctly you that he thinks of you whenever he looks up at the sky. It always reminds him of you, especially when it is paired with feathers and a moon, embellishments that he has seen you in. “do it for me.”

His eyes widen in realization, sitting up as he heaves, and you protest, trying to lay him down but instead he persists whilst you see his eyes swim with the bold truth. “Lady Arryn?” You nod with a growing smile. “My lady Arryn?” You nod again as he takes your face in his hands.

“I am your lady Arryn.”

Lyonel laughs. Really laughs, a bold boisterous laughter that is surely carried by the wind around the whole meadow. He takes you in his arms, face buried in your neck as he takes a deep breath, almost relieved, or hopeful perhaps.

“My love, you’ll strain yourself.” Your voice reverberates through him as you utter it against his cheek. His beard tickles you as you chortle above his skin.

Leaning away, Lyonel chuckles, teeth biting into the bottom of his cracked lip as he cradles your face in his rough hands. “Oh you’re cruel, my lady.” He utters, hands squeezing you gently until your eyes smile and your worry ebbs away. “I shouldn’t have underestimated you.”

“It’s dangerous, underestimating me my lord.” Pressing close, you lay your forehead atop his own, not minding the acrid scent of the tincture that covers his wounds nor the sweat clinging to his curls. “You are not angry at me?”

“Why would I be?” His answer is as clear as day. Moving away slightly, he ducks to meet with your eyes despite the discomfort he feels from the different wounds on his body. He doesn’t care for it as long as he could hold you like this. “I saw the real you and you saw the real me. I should thank you for being such a scheming little wench.” Lyonel says the last word lovingly.

“Don’t thank me, thank my sorry excuse of acting like a common born.” Your heart won’t stop racing as he embraces you. A falcon and a stag melding together harmoniously.

“I think you did quite well, you had my drunk self fooled for a moment there.” He would sit you upon his lap if not for his injured leg that protests with a wave of pain whenever he moves. Instead, he’s content with having you in his arms, hands running along your back and sides. This would be a scandalous sight, but he does not care at all, and nor do you.

“Yes, but you remembered it all, didn’t you?” Fingers clasped around his earring, you lean away but your head still rests upon his shoulder, trying not to fully press your weight against him whilst he grasps at your chin, pulling your eyes onto him.

“Every moment with you.” He whispers atop your lips, before brushing it on yours, pecking softly as he could feel the milk of the poppy coursing through his veins, feeling sluggish. When he pulls away from the lazy yet tender kiss, he asks the same question, saying your name with affection weaved through like a golden thread laced around a fine silver cloth. “Marry me, Lady Arryn, what say you?”

From your eyes alone, Lyonel could see your answer, he hopes.

Your lips tighten into a line, swallowing thickly. “I’m still betrothed to Aerion, unless the hand or his father says otherwise, I am still his.”

His corded neck stiffens, eyes closing briefly as his face presses against your temple. Pulling away, Lyonel takes a deep breath. “Fuck that. Fuck him. He cannot, you’ll— I will draw my sword against him, against the fucking crown if—” Your kiss tames him, a gentle palm atop his heart, caressing his chest while his shoulders slump, body easing from your kiss.

“He may have me,” you whisper, barely a breath away from his lips. “but you have my heart forevermore.”

“Marry me.” Chasing your lips, Lyonel gives you a desperate kiss, again, and again, until your heart shatters in between you, until he feels his heart cleaved open, laid out in front of you on a silver platter. “Gods, please marry me.”

“You’re hurt, and you’re addled by milk of the poppy.” You’re torn, in denial, and distraught as you feel a sob crawling up to your throat. “You may not even remember this conversation.”

You love him, and he loves you, but it’s not that simple.

“No, I will remember it,” Lyonel’s nose flares, taking a deep breath, fighting the medicine in him to stay awake as his vision blurs and you’re merely a reflection on a murky looking glass in his eyes. “because you’re here and I will remember this until the day I die.” And yet his words are the confession of a sober man.

With your hands cradling him, you carefully lay him back to bed, touch lingering as you see his breath slow. “You can commit treason later, for now, sleep, rest, please, for me.”

“My doe…”

“I am yours.” It’s not a promise when it is already true. You hope that you don’t break that promise. Or perhaps you are not his to keep, and your own honour will be your undoing.

—

It’s been two days since the trial. The whole Ashford meadow seems to grieve for the sudden loss of Prince Baelor Targaryen. It’s apparent when your father has asked you to dress in all black when he heard the news, his face as solemn as the wandering common folk around you as they pick up the pieces of the failed tourney.

Lord Ashford has concluded that the tourney is finished not long after Baelor has gone cold, rightfully so after what transpired on his land. You've given Lady Gwin, his daughter, a small token to cheer her up just after the announcement. The gift is a simple silver bangle with flowers encrusted on it right from your own jewelry box. But after seeing you in your black ensemble, it didn't brighten her expression much. She was thankful though, giving you a proper curtsy, a tight-lipped smile and a few words. You pity the poor girl, when all she wanted was a tourney to celebrate her coming of age.

You have no idea how to make of the news when you never knew the prince fully to give your opinion on his character. But your father has found himself on the bottom of a bottle when he heard of his death. They fought together during the rebellion, and he’s kin through marriage. From his dull expression alone and how Baelor came to Dunk’s rescue, the prince was a good man.

The looking glass seems to have gone murkier as you stare at yourself in the mirror. You don on the mourning gown, a sleek black dress embellished with silver trimmings and of your house sigil right on the bodice. It’s simple but pretty in a macabre way. You don’t know why Juniper would even pack a few black gowns for you at the tourney that was supposed to be for a happy occasion, but somehow she had the foresight to do so.

Putting on your jewelry, you take a silver ring with a ruby in the middle, a nameday gift from your aunt that she sent directly from King’s Landing. The ring reminds you of the one you gave Lyonel, the thought of him has haunted you each day since you tended to him. You’ve even bribed a few falcon knights to see if he’s recovering well, same goes for Ser Duncan and Ser Raymun, all seems to be well for them, but why does your heart clench every time you think of the laughing storm and his proposal?

As if you willed him into existence, you see a silhouette of Lyonel standing by your tent through the reflection of the looking glass. It’s so familiar that you could recognize him by shadow alone.

“Lyonel?” You whirl towards him, taking hurried steps to his shadow. “You should be abed.”

“Truthfully, I could not stay for one more day in my tent without you beside me.” He lets out a sigh, clearing his throat as he fixes his hold onto his cane. “How fucking foolish is that?”

“Not at all.” You smile, and you wish you could see him through the fabric of the tent. “I feel the same.”

“You feel empty when you are not beside yourself?” He teases, despite the ache on his cheek that tugs whenever he smiles.

“No, I feel utterly somber when you’re not with me.” You could hear his staggered breath at your confession. “It’s as if the world crumbled beneath my feet and swallowed me whole before spitting me out onto a flaming sea of dragons.” It’s meant to be a tease, but your words are anything but false.

“Alright, it’s not a bloody competition.” He feigns an offended scoff as you chortle.

“How are you faring?” Inhaling, you try to see his face through the fabric but fail to do so. “Does the maester clean your wounds every day?”

“Yes, that bumbling oaf has managed to keep me alive.”

“Your leg?” The lump in your throat persists, just seeing him hobbling on a cane even if it’s a mere silhouette brings you such sadness that it burrows right in your ribcage.

“It’s faring well. You need not worry.” Lyonel tries to straighten up, only for his whole body to groan in protest, aches rolling around as he hisses in between his teeth. “Have you thought it through?” His voice lowers into a softer cadence. “I wasn't jesting when I asked. And I remembered it all.”

Your fists close on your sides, gripping at the silks of your gown as you let out a shuddered breath. “Lyonel, the princes— Maekar, and my father hasn’t granted me leave of my betrothal to Aerion. He did not try to ask him when the prince is in mourning. I would but…I did not dare to disturb him.”

He nods, eyes downcast as he sucks in his teeth. “Straight to business, hm?” His jape falls short as he feels fury, not for you, but for the men holding your tether. He's disappointed at fate, and his longing rises through his heated skin like a lightning strike. “I will ask them myself if need be. You cannot marry into that fucking family— you—” he clenches his fists, and he eases himself when he sees your palm rest on the fabric, trying to calm him even though there is a wall in between you. “I will have words with them, I promise you. Even if you do not want to marry me at least let me help you from marrying that fucking monster.”

“Who says I do not want to marry you?” You said it too quickly to be a lie. He smiles like a lovelorn fool from that. “But what if they do not release me? I cannot— I cannot accept anyone that isn’t you.”

Lyonel feels his chest ache from your words, a lump forming in his throat that is hard to swallow. He wants this so bad, he wants to marry you badly that he is willing to risk it all. He loves you like how one needs air.

“I understand that you had no say. That you never chose this. I want to at least give you one now—will you come with me to Storm’s End?” He pauses when his chest throbs from the bruise right on his torso. And you want to see him, to tend to him and hold him. “There is a war coming, we’d be a force to be reckoned with that my father would be sickened by us. We could protect each other, just be with each other.”

“Run away?” You want to reach through the tent and take his hand in yours.

“Yes, it is dishonourable I know, but if there isn’t any other way, I am prepared to fight for you.” His grip upon the stag cane trembles from how strong he is gripping it. “Fight the Targaryens if they decide to stand against us. Fight your family if I have to. ‘Ours is the fury,’ my love, and I intend to live by those words especially when it comes to you. Just say the words, and I will be your man.”

“Lyonel…”

“I will have words with them. My caravan leaves after the roast, I shall await your answer until then. If not,” his tone snags at the end. “then I shall mourn us, and think of you everyday for the rest of my life. There will be no other than you. No one.” He lingers outside, gazing at your silhouette with yearning, until your family’s horses arrive, hooves thumping against the ground. “But if those men refuse without your say, it is war.”

“M’lady, it is time.” Juniper calls for you, waiting by the entrance of your tent.

“Coming.” When you look back at Lyonel, his shadow is gone.

—

The smoke from the pyre sears your cheeks and clogs your eyes. The ceremony atop the hill was solemn, as the only sound you could hear was the crackling of the fire eating away at the bones of Baelor Breakspear.

You held onto your father’s arm the whole ceremony, keeping him afloat as your brothers stood stiffly behind him. Despite the fighting and the heavy words that were hurled at him from your brothers, the three of you decided to stay by him whilst watching another father burn right in front of you.

Your family has said your condolences to Baelor’s grieving family. You’ve held Valarr’s arm in a sorry attempt at comfort, and he nodded at you curtly, eyes watery, lips drawn tightly before looking away. His wife was beside him the whole time as you exchanged comforting words with her, The lady Kiera was sorrowful, trying and failing to hide her weeping as you provided a shoulder to cry on although briefly, despite only knowing each other for nigh an hour. And yet her husband’s attention was on the pile of ashes that the silent sisters were currently sweeping onto an ornate vase that carries the dragon sigil.

Egg lingers behind for a moment, watching his father’s retreating back. His eyes gaze falls to his older cousin, he takes a step, hesitates, and retreats with a deep frown.

“My prince.” You curtsy for politeness sake, smiling gently at the boy.

“Lady Arryn.” He answers, voice taut as he clears it away with a cough. “How are you faring?”

“After that, not quite well I suppose…” your eyes linger on Valarr’s back as he sits upon a rock, watching his father’s ashes with glossy eyes and a furrowed brow.

“I should thank you, I think.” Aegon looks up at you with his big purple eyes. You never really noticed the hue when it always looked darker, almost black whenever you see him. It would’ve been a dead giveaway.

“For what?”

“For helping Ser Duncan by sending your own maester, he might’ve died if not.”

“It’s the least I could do.” Your voice lowers as you take a deep breath of the cool air. It’s too much of a fine day for a loss. “But I should’ve helped more, perhaps if there was time I could’ve suited up in armour—”

“No, just for you to die too?” He shakes his head, his hat almost flying in the breeze if not for his hand holding it down. “Ser Lyonel wouldn’t be able to perform well if you two shared the field. And we would have the whole Vale and the Storm Lands rebelling if you have died in place of my uncle.”

Despite his dark words, you manage a soft chuckle. “Has anyone told you that you’re quite irksome?”

“They have.”

“Perhaps it is because you’re right.” Sighing, you tuck your hands in front of you, seeing your brothers gesture for you to follow them. Egg gives you a tight lipped smile. “You know the only good thing that would’ve come out of my betrothal with your brother is that you would be my brother by law. I always wanted a little sibling.”

“And yet you called me irksome.”

“That I did,” the two of you mirror each other’s gentle expression. “little siblings are always irksome, or so I’ve heard from my own brothers.”

He nods, a scoff akin to a laugh escaping from him. “Take care, my lady.”

“You as well, my prince.” With a gentle pat on his shoulder, you lean forward a little to utter words that you hope will remain by him. “Be good, please. No matter where you go, just…be good.” The little prince pats the back of your hand, lingering for a moment before turning away.

You leave, feeling the heaviness hang in the air as you’re helped upon your horse by your father. He looks up at you through his glossy eyes, a hand wrapped protectively around your ankle. You share a knowing look at him, and he nods before walking away. You’re not ready to lose him, when the time comes for the stranger to take him, you wouldn’t be able to hold it as well as the new heir apparent to the throne.

“M’lady Arryn.” A Targaryen man-at-arms appears from behind, panting as he calls for you before your horse could trot away. “The prince calls for you.”

You needn’t ask which prince. With a sigh, you hop off your horse as your father and brothers do the same to accompany you.

“Just lady Arryn, m’lords.” The guard states, waiting for you as you give your family a reassuring nod.

The man-at-arms brings you to Maekar as he stares off into the distance towards where King’s Landing would be. His head is held up high, shoulders taut, back straight as his expression is akin to a carved marble statue of the warrior himself.

“My prince.” You curtsy politely. “You called for me?”

“Lady Arryn.” Maekar turns slowly, a precise movement that he seems to have thought through. “I must apologize for the dishonour of what my son has done that dragged your house along with it. I shall relieve you of the betrothal with my son. I bear no ill will towards you, we’re kin.”

You try not to show your happiness. “Thank you, my prince.” He nods, turning away. That should be the end of it, but you stay. “My sincere condolences to you and your family. Prince Baelor was a good man.”

It was nigh impossible for a man’s shoulders to be so tightly wounded but the prince manages to stiffen his shoulders even more from your words.

“I met your son, Egg, before I knew him as Aegon.” That gets his attention as he looks over his shoulder, regarding you with the same coldness that you saw in his son, but no cruelty underneath his purple eyes. “The hedge knight is a good man too, prince Baelor saw the same thing your son did. I may be speaking out of turn but please do not blame yourself. I found that the guilt eats right at you together with the grief.”

His eyes glance away briefly, chest rising as he unwinds his fists, rolling a ring around his finger. “When did you know of Aegon?”

“We played tug-of-war, my prince. I never thought I was slugging it through the mud with a prince of the realm though.” You let out a quiet chortle at the memory as he fully turns to you. “He’s a glad child, brilliant too.” Your words hang in the air, right in between you. “Thank you for relieving me of my duty, my prince. You have given me something to look forward to.” With a final curtsy, you turn to leave.

The smell of ash and bone curdles in your nostrils as you go down the hill slowly, letting your thoughts simmer, lugging it around like a heavy trunk filled with rocks. But instead of taking it with you, you leave it at the foot of the hill.

Duncan’s shambling form is impossible to miss as he goes up the hill with some strain.

“Ser Duncan.” You call with relief that is palpable in your bones. “You are alright.” He looks horrendous, almost half dead but at least he is alive.

“M’lady,” he smiles, but winces when his injured skin tugs. “Yes, thank you for sending your maester, he was of great help. But what—what are you doing here?”

“My family is kin by law with the late prince,” you stifle a smile when his blue eyes widen. “I’m lady Arryn, good Ser.”

“You are?” He’s immediately trying to kneel before you, despite his makeshift cane underneath his arm. “Gods, I am terribly sorry, I should’ve—”

“Seven hells, Dunk.” Chuckling, you grab him gently by his arms to lift him up. “That is not necessary. I purposely hid my true identity.”

“We—” he blinks blearily at you, one eye half open whilst the other is blackened shut. “—we drank together, gods, I still have your handkerchief— hold on.” He proceeds to pat his pockets. You can’t believe that this is the same man that managed to win the trial against a more well trained knight.

You stop him with a hand upon his elbow. His cheeks turn flush with pink from your touch. “Keep it, it’s yours, something to remind you of the day you saved me. To remind you of your honour.” Patting his hand that is holding onto the cane, you stand on your tip toes to peck his cheek. “Stay safe, Ser Duncan. You shall be a knight of great renown, I know of it.”

“Thank you, m’lady…” He’s flabbergasted, gawking at the space you left as you leave him standing there like a rooted tree.

When you get back to your horse, unsurprisingly, you find your father and brothers waiting for you.

“Well?” Both Robert and Jon ask simultaneously.

“The prince has relieved me of my betrothal to his son.”

“Thank the gods.” Jon exhales out a relieved breath as Ser Andros, who is standing beside your horse, lets out the same sigh of relief. Robert’s shoulders ease, eyes closing and head tilting to the sky, as if to thank the gods for the good news.

“I am glad.” Your father announces, steadying his horse as he sets the pace while everyone follows suit. His smile is genuine, a hand reaching out to you as he squeezes your hand. “Your mother shall be glad for it too.”

“Just say how relieved you are.” You cannot hide your happiness now that you’re free to choose Lyonel as he chose you. There will be no war held because of your hand for now.

“I am relieved, sweetling.” His eyes crinkles in the corners, mirroring his children’s expressions. “I shall inform your prospects, mayhaps they could reconsider their offers.”

“Prospect, just one is worthy, father.” The grin on your face stretches wide as you see the sea of tents down below, right where the familiar crowned stag sigil flutters in the wind. Your brothers share a look.

“Who might that be?” The lord Arryn asks.

And you grin knowingly.

—

Your father enters your tent whilst Juniper finishes your hair, securing a net of pearls atop your head. Your things are already kept in the trunks, waiting to be placed in your carriage, whether it is bound for the Eyrie, or Storm’s End, you already know where you would go.

You’re now in your Arryn regalia, dark blue silks that hugs you in the right places. The sleeves are long and cut in the latest fashion, it drags at the hem with a slit in the middle. And the embroidery is intricate without looking too gaudy, you wanted to look like you. The same person Lyonel adores.

Juniper dabs a perfume oil right at your neck, lavender and roses, before giving you a gentle smile and a squeeze for good luck.

The lord Arryn smiles faintly through the reflection of you in the looking glass.

“He asks for you to meet with him.” He simply says, an answer you already knew would come from him. Your father’s arm reaches out for you to take. “Are you sure about him, sweetling?”

“More than sure, father.” The smile you don on was enough of an answer for him.

—

“Where in the seven hells is he?” Your father’s words echo inside the barren Baratheon pavilion that used to be filled with life.

The place is empty now, devoid of the long tables and chairs, whilst the braziers run cold without its flickering flames. A few of his people gather the rest of the furniture as the wooden crates creaks in the silence. Even though your very impatient father is tapping his foot incessantly against the floor, and probably cursing Lyonel under his breath, you wait with a soft smile upon your face, looking up at the golden tapered ceiling of the tent, dreamily sighing.

The warden of the Vale cranes his attention towards you, brows furrowed with concern at your calm demeanor. “Do you feel sick, sweetling? Perhaps you should take off your cloak, it is warm here.”

Shaking your head, you felt Lyonel before he could even enter the tent. His cane thumps quietly, getting closer and closer until he stops midstep. You continue to stare at the wall, where a hanging stag antlers is displayed; whilst you purposely turn your back away from him as you feel his eyes on you.

“Ah, finally, Ser Lyonel!” Your father clasps his hands together with a big smile on his face. “My apologies for the abrupt…request. And I thank you for hearing us at the last minute.”

“No need for the formalities, lord Arryn.” You could hear the smile in his tone. “I shall gladly marry your daughter.”

“Wha— that’s wonderful,” he answers with a wobbly cadence, chuckling unsurely. “but you haven’t even seen her yet. Sweetling, come meet your betrothed.”

“Oh, haven’t you heard, my lord? It’s not all about looks these days.” he teases his future father by law with a clasp upon his shoulder. “Although it wouldn’t hurt to see my lady Arryn.”

Turning slowly, you pull your hood away, revealing the same smile you have given him. His face is bruised, one eye blackened and his gait is uneven from the healing leg, despite it all, he gazes at you with such tenderness, like how a sailor would look at land after sailing the open waters for years.

“Ser Lyonel,” with a proper curtsy, you see his grin stretch, bottom lip bitten from stifling his own laughter. “A pleasure to finally meet my betrothed.” You say it like how it should’ve been at the start, it sounds right, it sounds perfect.

The lord Arryn glances between you and Lyonel with a befuddled look on his face, sensing the electrified air. “Well, this is going better than I imagined.”

“Just like I thought it would when I asked you to marry me to Lyonel during our first night here, father.” Closing the small distance, you rile up your father, holding his previous decision over his head like a rock until you’re satisfied.

“Sweetling—” he panics, head turning towards Lyonel, only to find the laughing storm’s cheeks dusted with pink, and an amused chuckle rising from his throat. “Oh, that’s…” He knows that the man is completely enamored by you, and it concerns him slightly, confused even.

“My lord Arryn.” Lyonel pries his eyes off of you briefly to regard him in his sights. “May I have a moment with my betrothed? I have a few words to say to her in private.”

“Sweetling?” He gulps, asking if you are keen to be alone with this apparent ‘stranger.’ “If my daughter is—”

“Yes,” you quickly say, too quickly to have been innocent. “I mean, yes, I would like to have some words with Lyonel.”

“Alright…” clearing his throat, your father hesitates for a moment before walking slowly outside.

Once the tent flaps closes behind him, the two of you are immediately on each other like rain drops on a bird’s feather.

“I thought he’d never leave. It gladdens me that you wanted to marry me from the start.” Lyonel mutters atop your lips, pressing saccharine kisses upon you with every giggle you let out. He tastes like honeyed wine, and his arms are around you, pressing you against him tenderly, as close as he could to feel your laughter rumble in your chest and your heart flutter with every touch upon your body.

“Not exactly from the very start, but it’s close.”

He gives every space of your face a kiss, from your temple to your jaw, to the tip of your nose. “Mayhaps I should give you your ring back.”

You shake your head, pushing him closer by his nape, fingers toying with his loose curls. “It is yours, I gave it to you. It’s my favour for you to keep.”

“Perhaps it is for the best when I’m supposed to give you a new ring.” His heart syncs with yours, a stag and a falcon, finally together. His fingers roll around the pearls in your hair. “I like this, gods, you look marvelous.”

“We’re truly betrothed.” There’s palpable relief between the two of you. Your hands are in his hair, pushing him closer, tugging his curls as he lets out a satisfied rumble in his throat. “Gods, I can’t wait—” the kisses become more fervent that you could barely get any words out. But you don’t mind as your leg hooks behind his knee in an attempt to bring yourself impossibly closer. “—Can’t wait to marry you.”

He laughs against your parted lips, giving you breath as he tugs your chin down with his thumb to kiss you deeper.

You both lean away for air, panting and heaving against each other as his hair is a mess from your fingers raking through his curls, and your lips are properly kissed with a sheen covering your smile.

“I can kiss you whenever I want.” He says it like he couldn’t believe it himself. “Hold you whenever you please.”

“Perhaps more than kisses.” You give the corner of his lips a peck.

He beams at you, brightening up his expression despite the purple bruises marring his handsome face. “Oh, a lot more, my love. So much more, you’d get sick of me.” Rubbing his nose against yours, hands wandering your sides, he leans into your lips, continuing the kiss.

“Never,” kiss, “I’ll never,” kiss, “get sick of you, Lyonel.” You’re almost out of breath, and his hands squeeze your waist so much that you could feel his rough palms despite your dress over it. “My stag, my Lyonel.”

Lyonel makes a sound from the back of his throat that makes you pull at his hair harder and kiss him deeper.

A loud gasp can be heard from behind, and your father unsheathes his sword, eyes wide as he stares at the compromising position he found you two in. “You—!”

“Seven hells!”

“We shall be married in the morn!” Lyonel fixes the blunder immediately, as you wholeheartedly agree with a wide grin.

Your father eases his hold on the sword, completely befuddled, looking as if he missed reading a page. But he sees how you look at Lyonel and how he looks at you. So he accepts, already thinking how he would tell your mother without getting her mad.

“I will need an explanation.”

“Gladly, preferably after the wedding.” Lyonel answers, not taking any chances of losing you if your father hears of the circumstances you two have met and of your excursions.

Eyes gazing at your future husband, your fingers pushing his fallen curls away, and knuckles gliding along his corded neck lovingly. Whilst he holds you as if you are already his wife.

You say the same three words to him during that one fateful foggy morning, this time, he could hear it. And he answers with the same sweetened three words that would repeat in your head forevermore.