Quillary Writes

If you were lucky, you would be able to walk without a cane after this. You had to focus on whatever small mercy you could hold, not the fact that you would never dance again— likely to walk with a limp for the rest of your life. Pushing those thoughts as deep as they could go, you reminded yourself that you would still be alive. If you didn’t keep your mind straight, there would be no surviving.

Despite the lack of light, that wasn’t to say that you were entirely devoid of a schedule. By the time Aerion began to prepare for the day, more often than not, you were still awake. He was dressed by servants, as any prince should be, your only indication that it was morning being the bustle of maids as they hurried to tend to your captor’s every need. Even from behind a door, you could almost smell the sour tang of their fear, each woman waiting for that damned dragon to strike.

Nothing ever came. His appetites were satiated.

By you.

Shame choked you whenever you wished for him to turn his cruelty onto someone else, almost as thick as the truth. So long as he had you to take his impulses out on, others would be soared. Noble daughters would be free from scandal, smallfolk women would be safe to perform their duties, no one would want to break this tumultuous peace. You served a purpose, one that no one else wanted to take.

It would be hard, if not impossible, to find help within the staff of the Red Keep. The knowledge that, once you were gone, they could be next, would stay anyone’s hand.

Eventually, Aerion would leave his chambers and abandon you to your waiting. In the beginning, you would spend the lonely hours prepping for the moon to rise, when he would return and his torture would become physical.

You didn’t know how much time passed when there was a change in your routine.

One morning, as you tried to sleep in whatever warmth the sun could bring to the stones of the Red Keep, the door to Aerion’s quarters creaked open. Your eyes slowly opened as an unsteady gait made its way into the room, Daeron’s feet sliding against the floor rather than lifting entirely.

Daeron was not subtle in his explorations, whether it was because he didn’t care or because he had been drinking, you were unsure. Honestly, you didn’t particularly care. He only made your life harder. In the end, Aerion was aware of his brother’s presence, his nightly interrogations leaving you more sore than before.

When Daeron first began his snooping, he would remove the cloth from the door and try to peer under the crack. It was too dark for him to make out much of anything, but you saw him attempt to shove the tips of his fingers inside to widen it. After, he tested the knob, as he did every morning, in hopes that, one day, he would find it unlocked.

You had always assumed princes would be a bit stupid, as mean as that was. Much to your continued misfortune, you came to the realization that you were wrong. Aerion was far more careful than to abandon you in plain view, let alone leave your cage unlocked— life would have been much easier if he had. One particular day, Daeron had knocked. Even called your name. Instinct made you open your mouth to reply, but you quickly snapped it shut. You would not make that mistake again.

Once, you had tried to cry out, the sound coming as no more than a squeak, your throat raw from screaming. Daeron had left after that, the idiot off to confront Aerion. Accuse him, threaten him, you didn’t know. All you knew was that you were the one who paid for his interference. That particular beating had left every breath no more than a sharp wheeze.

This did not stop Daeron, maybe even spurred him on more. You tried your hardest to forgive him, he wasn’t the one hurting you, but the more that he snooped, the more you were the one who suffered. Every day, you would listen to the sounds of Daeron’s clumsy investigations. It lasted for no more than fifteen minutes — you didn’t have much else to do except count the seconds — until he must have decided that was enough effort that you deserved. With a sigh, there was always a sigh, Daeron left, allowing your body to fall slack from the tension that you didn’t realize you were holding.

If Daeron found you, you didn’t know what would happen. Past experience taught you not to hope for much. He had already proven himself rather… useless. It was a cruel way to consider him — you hated how angry you were becoming — no matter the truth tied to the observation. All that would happen when Daeron found you was nothing. He wouldn’t even be the one to pay the price! That would all fall on the broken, pitiful you. Even with a drunk prince’s help, there was no way that you could run with your injuries.

Even if you did, you wouldn’t be able to get very far.

The more time that passed — aching, endless, agonizing — the more you came to one simple conclusion: you would never be free again. There was nothing to be done about it. No use crying, no use fighting, all you could hope for was to still be alive when you were inevitably discarded, not that there was any real chance of that. Aerion was getting rougher, less coordinated. The longer that he had you, the more boring beating you seemed to become.

With a thick sniffle, you curled up as much as you could while keeping your broken leg extended. The bones in your hand had begun to fuse together all wrong, an unfortunate stiffness accompanying every flex. It would only be a matter of time until your leg was the same, the lump in your calf from where your snapped femur prodded against your flesh more evident now than ever. Almost like it was making fun of you. There was no use in a clown that couldn’t perform. What once brought you joy would never belong to you again. You were broken beyond repair. No purpose except for this.

Familiar movements, far too shaky to be Aerion’s, jolted you from your doze. For once, it seemed that you had missed Aerion’s morning routine. You really didn’t care. Maybe if you fell asleep, you would not wake back up. Distantly, you wondered if this was a new day, or if Daeron had returned for a second helping of failure.

Above you, the knob jiggled, this time with a bit more force than usual. You watched while laying on your back, one arm draped over your stomach. It was followed by a stronger one where you assumed that Daeron put the entirety of his weight into the task. Unsurprisingly, given his penchant for letting you down, it didn’t work. You blinked lamely at the slab of wood that separated you from the drunken prince.

There was a frustrated groan this time rather than a sigh. Followed by a thud. Images of Daeron banging his head against the door appeared in your mind, and where you would have once smiled, you felt nothing at all. Rather than allow yourself to dwell, you listened to his loud and certifiably not sneaky attempts at investigating. You heard furniture being moved, followed by drawers opening, then the ruffle of pillows being shaken out.

A new noise made you flinch. The clatter of metal against stone, small enough for you to realize what it was. It took all of your effort to push yourself into a sitting position with that sickening chill deadening the pins and needles in your limbs. Daeron’s clothes rustled as he crawled in search of what had fallen.

His noise of triumph made your pupils flicker to the knob. Great, he had found the key. What awaited you when that damned door opened and your savior was him? No matter Daeron’s intent, there was nothing good, nothing kind, at the end of this particular tunnel. He would open the door, find you inside, and after that, you would be at the mercy of Aerion’s rage. Maybe you would eke out an inkling of joy in the coming hours, feel the sun on your skin, but it would all be eclipsed by the punishment waiting on the horizon. You had to consider this logically, this was not the freedom that you wished for.

It had already been proven that Aerion had been tamed with a little clown in his pocket, you doubted anyone would risk losing that. Not the servants, not the staff, and certainly not the Targaryen royals who cared more about their image than the life of some performer.

You hadn’t had water in about a day, Aerion had forgotten to give you some last night. There was a small puddle in the corner of the closet that you lapped at in times of desperation, when your body acted without the will of your mind. You could not entirely attribute your dry mouth to dehydration.

Above your head, the lock clicked and the knob was pushed down.

Light flooded in— scorched your retinas. Whenever Aerion let you out, it was always well into the night, only dim torches available to highlight your torture. An implication that you were undeserving of even feeling warmth on your skin. Your tongue ran over your gums where one of your molars had been removed. It was somewhere else now, likely with the two fingernails that had been peeled from your broken hand.

Daeron was big enough to cast a shadow over you, his expression hard to decipher through your squinting. He stared at you for a moment, splayed at his feet and shaking, only to run a hand down his face.

“Seven hells, what now?” He mumbled.

Leave, you wanted to say. Nothing came out, so you turned away. Unable to look at the prince who had failed you twice before, sure to do so for a third — and final — time.

As you eyes adjusted, you saw that it wasn’t determination that split his face, there was too much sadness and defeat for it to be pure. It was more of an awkward pinch, his features unused to morphing into such a heroic shape. Daeron shook out his hands and bounced in place, blinking hard several times as if that would leak the wine from his blood. He took a deep breath before he fell into a squat, nearly losing his balance in the process. With more of a gentle touch than you had felt in some time, he slid his palms under you. A wince made you inhale sharply through your teeth. Daeron to flinched back.

“Right then, sorry about this.” That was all the warning you got before he replaced his grip against your back and under your knees to lift you into his arms.

“Ah—” The pain made you cry out, a broken gasp, as your body tensed. Daeron looked awkwardly apologetic, attempting to keep from jostling your broken leg with his clumsy hold. His palms pressed into the bruises on your back, your breathing sharp and body shaking.

Still, you kept quiet. As you had been trained to do.

It became quickly apparent that, despite his size, Daeron was not a particularly strong man. Even after losing a significant portion of your body weight, he struggled to carry you, teetering from side to side as he carried you forward. You realized that he was drunk from the stench of wine on his breath.

“Go away,” you managed to say as he stumbled into the hall. Every few steps, he would hoist you higher in order to get a better grip. Pain made you shiver against his chest. “Aerion will—” A sharp breath of air sucked between your teeth cut you off “—not be happy.”

Daeron snorted, dry despite the circumstances. “No one will be happy if you end up dead, not when my brother turns his sights elsewhere.”

So that was what this was. An intervention to make sure his brother’s plaything didn’t keel over. He looked down to see your face twisted in disdain, and observed your thought with a keenness you thought him incapable of.

“Stop making that face. Nothing can be done if your injuries overwhelm you, so I’m taking you to a Maester.”

“And when Aerion discovers what you have done?” The rawness in your throat sent you into a coughing fit, nearly making Daeron topple over. He appeared to be a little pale in the face, sweat shining against his skin. Swallowing down whatever you believed was coming up, whether it be guilt or his breakfast, he continued his journey. “Who do you think will take the brunt of his wrath?”

Daeron grimaced, unable to look at you, too busy with catching himself on the wall. “At least it won’t kill you after this.”

You didn’t tell him that you wished it would.

After about ten minutes of Daeron’s pathetic struggling, and innumerable eyes boring into the two of you, he entered a small room and dropped you into a chair with a panting huff. The rough treatment, albeit accidental, made you grit your teeth. It did not seem Daeron was much of a knight, let alone a savior.

“Do you think…” You started, your voice soft in spite of the hardness in your expression when you stared at him. Daeron turned his attention from searching the room for the missing Maester to you. Aerion never injured your face, all of your wounds hidden by your rotten clothing. Still, you knew that you looked awful from the stress that tightened his jaw. That, or he saw the blame in your eyes. “Prince Valarr would be of assistance in my… predicament.”

Daeron moved his hands in an awkward, unsure way. “My cousin has a strong sense of justice, the issue arises is him believing my plea to be another drunken rambling.”

You remembered Valarr’s admittance that he paid attention to Daeron’s dreams and doubted that would be true. “Then show him where I am being kept.”

The silence that fell made you slump. Daeron slid his teeth together as he searched for the words that made you want to puke. “… For all of the power that Valarr has, my brother is just as underhanded. You will be set free for a short time before the hounds bring you to your death, away from the prying eyes of nobility.”

“I will just be another dead body in the woods,” you breathed, understanding, though no less hating the truth.

“If you… remain here,” It seemed to be a struggle for Daeron to articulate himself coherently. He spoke slowly, a slight slur curling each syllable around the other. “Then there will be witnesses. Aerion is not foolish enough to drag your corpse in full view of our father, nor the king.”

“Your solution is for the torture to continue?” Defeat tempered whatever anger that built in the space behind your ribs.

Daeron nodded, though it was clear from his hesitation that he didn’t particularly like this solution. Neither did you, not that you could deny that your options were limited. He saw a shadow pass over your face, a bit of realization making him rush to assure you, “Until my brother grows bored. He will grow bored. Then you will be able to leave without a fight.” As a distraction, he began to sort through some of the herbs and potions on the table in the middle of the room. You watched recognition flicker and Daeron slip one of the bottles into the folds of his tunic. He caught your judgment, returning it with a shrug. “Until then, endurance is key.”

“I will succumb to my wounds,” you couldn’t help but counter. There was no real heat, but grief strangling your tongue.

That broken determination twisted his expression once more. “I will see to that. You need medical attention after each… uh. A— Aerion will see reason, my interference is necessary to keep you alive.”

“Forgive me if I see no joy in your ‘solution,’ my prince.”

Daeron looked away, his tone flat. “It is not like you have much else falling at your feet.”

You felt your eyebrow twitch. It was hard to accept whatever kindness that Daeron was giving you, it was hard to care about his apparent guilt. Forgiveness was supposed to come easily to you. The realization that your body was not all that had been twisted hollowed your bones of their very marrow. Eyes burning, you forced yourself not to cry.

“I’m trying so hard not to hate you—”

Whatever you were trying to say was cut short when the Maester entered, much to Daeron’s relief. His shoulders slumped when he met the Master’s surprise to see a prince in his clinic, only to grow in strength when he saw you. The Maester was a middle aged man, maybe five years the senior of Daeron’s father, his body tall and spindly like a willow. Upon meeting your gaze, his eyes trailing to your askew leg, he seemed to understand what was happening.

“Thank you for bringing him here, Prince Daeron.” Carefully, he nudged past Daeron to kneel in front of you. His hands massaged up your calf to find the break as he spoke. It was hard to hear through your own stifled groan. “What happened?”

Daeron burped with his mouth closed, his cheeks puffing, and turned to stare at the adjacent wall. “He fell down a flight of stairs. Fix him up well, Maester Wynn.”

Maester Wynn glanced at you after absorbing Daeron’s cover story, then his pupils flickered to the empty nailbeds on your broken hand. Whether he believed it or not didn’t seem to matter as he did not speak again. Rather, he began to unbutton your filthy shirt to take in the extent of your injuries. The fabric fell away to reveal a kaleidoscope of colors marring your abdomen. Black, purple, green, some merging into a new and horrible hue. You caught Daeron staring, his skin taking on a greenish tinge. Without a word, he left the room, abandoning you to the Maester’s treatment.

For all of Maester Wynn’s gentleness, there was nothing that could be done about the pain that followed— even the few drops of milk of the poppy he provided did little to dull it, or even your mind. Your leg and hand were beyond salvaging without breaking them again, and you weren’t sure you could handle the pain again. Not without Aerion taking advantage of your weakness. No matter what part of your future it would save, it wasn’t worth it. The bones had already begun to heal. He tried to keep you thankful, informing you that his intervention now would only result in limited flexibility and a limp rather than needing a cane. It was hard to manage the smile that you gave him, but you did it anyway.

Your missing fingernails were met with a practiced blankness. He stared at your nail beds, bloody and raw, then dressed them without a word. That was something that you were truly grateful for. As was the fact that your missing molar went unnoticed. If he did, he must have chalked it up to having been knocked out from your fall. There was a cut on the back of your head that should have been stitched, a mercy that it had scabbed over on its own. If not, you likely would have bled to death. You tried not to be disappointed. You were informed that your ribs were not broken, but cracked, little to be done aside from binding them.

He could do little to help you aside from a diagnosis and remedies for the pain. It was hard not to wilt.

Daeron’s footsteps padded down the hall toward the little clinic, recognizable in a way that the other two weren’t. Your hair stood on end, fearing who he could have brought with him. What other poor soul would bear witness to the evidence of your humiliation. Inside of you, relief to not only have a drunk as your protector warred with a healthy dose of shame.

Upon seeing his companions, you nearly drowned in your own mortification.

“Ah. Bruiser, Tiny. Fancy seeing you here.” Whatever humor you tried to push into your tone was drowned out by the pathetic warble it gave.

In the doorway, Dunk seemed dumbfounded at the sight of you, settled in your underwear and visibly battered. That was a better way to put it— battered, not tortured. The irritation he had directed at Daeron melted away into nothingness. His own injuries were less prevalent than last you saw, though there was still slight swelling around his eye. Egg was only at his side for his moment before he scampered over to you, anger etched across his young face.

“I knew it! I told ser that you were here and he didn’t believe me!”

“I believed you enough to come,” Dunk argued weakly, unable to take his eyes off of you. Uncomfortable, you sat up to pull your shirt around your chest.

Maester Wynn looked between those who had gathered, let out a hearty sigh, “I have done all that I can. I will give you and your companions privacy.”

Your assumption was that he did not want to get too involved with the nonsense occurring. Not that you could blame him. What you wouldn’t give to be able to walk away.

The way you were being stared at made you squirm. There were assurances stuck on the tip of your tongue, an I’m fine,bdrawn into a tight little ball against your tonsils, making it hard to swallow. It was a lie, an obvious one that everyone could see the proof of, from the lump in your calf to the watercolors across your chest. Unsure of what else to do, you began to guzzle the water that the Maester had left behind.

Despite the fact that Egg looked just about incandescent — it would have been adorable if not for the righteousness of it — Dunk was the first to break the silence. He couldn’t keep his pupils from flickering over your broken body. “What… happened? You were smiling the last I saw you.”

“Aerion happened,” Egg interrupted. “It’s like I told you, my brother was following him.”

“Yes, but—” Almost at a loss for words, Dunk’s jaw worked, his hands clenching and unclenching. “Why didn’t he tell me?” Turning to address you, he repeated the question, “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I— It isn’t right to push all of my problems onto you. There was already so much that you have done to help me despite n— not knowing me well, I wouldn’t have dared to burden you.” Your justification sounded childish to you now, high-pitched and desperate for acceptance.

“It wouldn’t’ve been a burden,” Dunk fell into a disbelieving huff. “It wouldn’t have.”

Daeron watched the exchange with a feigned sense of disinterest, pointedly ignoring Egg’s questioning glare. You couldn’t bring yourself to look at him for too long, resentment sour on your tongue. “I should have. No one else helped me.”

At that, Daeron ducked his head and clenched his jaw tight enough for his cheek to jump. Damn his guilt, you deserved to be angry with him. More than that, you deserved to hate him. Of course, you couldn’t bring yourself to — not yet — he was finally stepping up.

It was simply… too little, too late.

“How long has he been here?” Egg asked Daeron, who raised his gaze to the ceiling as if to ask for divine intervention.

Whatever. You would save him this time. “Prince Daeron said that I won’t be… interesting for long. Then I can leave.”

Egg frowned and shook his head. “Aerion does not get bored.”

It took everything in your power to not burst into tears. Your voice became strangled. “That is my only hope.”

“What of Valarr? Father? The king?” Egg spouted names like an open faucet.

Daeron quieted him by placing what you assumed was a comforting hand on Egg’s head, though his frustration made him sound short. “It is not that easy. Aerion will move on. Until he does, we will keep the clown alive.”

A scoff ripped from your lungs. “The clown has a name.”

Daeron merely grunted in response.

The atmosphere became almost as oppressive as the silence that descended, encompassing the air like a fog. Your head started to buzz, overwhelmed from everything that had happened — the shame, the grief, the anger — it made it hard to hear Daeron and Dunk’s exchange. Something about taking you back to your closet before Aerion noticed your absence. Daeron insisted that he had done enough for the day, while Dunk wanted to help, he did not know where Aerion’s bedroom was. Let alone what he would do if he saw him near it. Finally, Egg volunteered, a fact that seemed to put Daeron on edge. He thought for a moment, pursed his lips, and muttered some excuse about needing a drink. Dunk told Egg that if he was not back for training in an hour, he would go looking for him.

With an awkward pat on your head from Dunk — the gentle touch nearly bringing you to tears — and one last guilt-ridden stare from Daeron, you were left with only a little boy as your protector.

You really needed to knock some sense into these fools, but given that you could barely stand, you would have to survive long enough until it was possible. That was a good goal. Live long enough to punch Daeron in the face.

Egg was small enough that you were worried that you would crush him if you leaned your entire weight against him. With each slow step, you realized that Egg would make a real knight, his resolve to carry you ahead more than a little admirable. It was slow going considering your leg, but Egg was stubborn, so you would be too.

“I’m sorry.” Whatever you expected from the boy, it was not an apology.

Careful not to hurt yourself, you gave him a small squeeze where your arm was wrapped around him. It was the best hug that you could manage. “There is not a single reason that you should be apologizing to me. There is no anger or blame in my heart directed at you.”

“… I could have stopped him from—”

Harsher than you intended, you cut him off. There was a strained smile on your face in an attempt to temper your unintentional sharpness. “I don’t care. The day I blame a child for the cruelty of a man is the day that I am no longer myself.” Taking a deep breath to force your voice to be softer, you tried your best to calm whatever misplaced guilt Egg felt. “You’re okay, squire-prince. I promise.”

“But you’re not.”

You remained quiet. That was not a fact with which you could argue.

Halfway back to Aerion’s room, a confused call of your name made you, and subsequently Egg, freeze. It was followed by an even more questioning, “Aegon? What are you doing? Is everything alright?”

Slowly, Egg trying to school his grimace as fast as possible, the two of you turned to see Valarr and a woman beside him watching you with curiosity. Her light colored hair, almost pink, contrasted with her dark skin, giving her a sweet look about her. She gave Egg a soft smile of acknowledgement, though met you with a slight furrow of her brow. It wasn’t unkind, instead colored by a bit of concern and a hint of confusion.

“I am helping this clown back to his quarters,” Egg stated and you realized that this boy was dangerously good at lying. It was to your benefit right now, but you would file away for future reference.

Valarr stood a little straighter and set Egg with a look of disapproval. “His quarters should be in the lower levels. If that is the case, why are you all the way up here?”

Egg did not even flinch at being called out. He glanced at you, then at Valarr, his hesitation making you feel cold. “He stays near Aerion’s room in case he needs him. I have been told that he is Aerion’s personal entertainment.”

“I was unaware that you were hired as such,” Valarr was looking at you now. You could almost see behind his eyes to witness the cogs of his mind turning, processing this information in a slow digest. “Tell me, was this before or after the Trial of Seven?”

You did not speak. With wide eyes and a tongue far too thick for accurate articulation. All you managed was a choppy, “Um— I—”

“Before!” Egg interrupted with an annoyed glance in your direction. “It was already too late to go back on the contract by the time of the Trial.”

“How odd,” Valarr hummed. His gaze trailed over your body, the limp that you carried yourself with, the dullness of your skin, how much skinnier that you had become, before ending on the single bruise that peeked from under your collar. The woman behind him followed his stare until she saw it too, her hand flying to her lips. “You did not inform me of this during my time as your guard.”

“I— I did not consider it pertinent, my prince.”

“Is my cousin treating you well?” He was probing, almost urging you to step through the door that he had opened. Your heart felt as though it would pound up your throat.

If there was ever a time to scream for help, it was now. All that had been done to you bubbled in your chest and you had to clamp your teeth to keep it down. Valarr was next in line for the Iron Throne, he had the ear of his grandfather, the king. He could help you. Save you.

The question was for how long.

“Well enough,” was all that you could manage without puking.

Valarr appeared to be a mix of frustrated and disappointed, turning to share a glance with the woman, then to fix Egg with a stern raise of his eyebrows. “I will speak with you later, Aegon.” A puff of air made his nostrils flare as he faced you. “Come visit me when you have the chance. I will be waiting.”

He waited for you to nod before he left, the woman attaching herself onto his arm to whisper in his ear. She gave you one last look, more sad than you had expected. It made your stomach lurch.

“That was close,” Egg breathed as he led you away, in a bit more of a hurry than you were prepared for. You struggled to keep pace. “My brother would lose his mind if Valarr were to intervene. He hates him.”

Great. Wonderful. All on you, if you had to wager a guess. Swallowing down your annoyance, you smiled at Egg. “Thank you for helping me, I am not a good liar.”

“I could tell,” Egg commented.

That made you chuckle, and relief made you sag a little. At least you could still laugh. Aerion hadn’t taken everything from you quite yet.

Upon arriving back in Aerion’s bedroom, Egg stared at the closet with a wrinkle of his nose. “This… is where you’ve been?”

“And where I will remain,” you joked with a small shrug.

Egg did not laugh. He looked more uncomfortable than amused. “I guess I’ll… lock you in then.”

“It’s for the best, I won’t be mad. Promise.” In order to take the responsibility from him, you released Egg and hobbled inside of your cage to sit. Even like this, he was barely taller than you, staring at you so miserably that you wondered if he had you beat. “Don’t forget to lock it behind you, okay? Thank you for coming, Egg. I didn’t— I didn’t know that you and Dunk cared that much.”

He opened his mouth, likely to insist that you were dumb for believing that, only to snap it shut. There was no preamble when the door shut tight, nor when the lock clicked, barely a goodbye before he scampered away. You didn’t know why until, not even two minutes later, Aerion returned to his room. Fear made your joints lock up.

The feeling did not abate, but strengthened when he headed straight for the closet to inspect the lock. Chest heaving, you listened for the sound of his examination to die down— not that it would ever be that easy. You barely had time to whimper when you were grabbed by your hair and yanked at Aerion’s feet.

“You left my room,” He said, stating a fact and not asking a question. Crouched to meet your gaze, his finger was inches from your face and you realized that if you had any pride, you would bite it off. A single snap of your jaws would permanently maim him. There was no reattaching a limb, no matter how superficial. Whatever passed over your face must have betrayed this thought because he cocked his head to the side. Aerion waited, and when you did not strike, he brushed a knuckle over your cheek. “Why did you leave my room?”

“I did not want to,” it left you before you even had time to think. This was pathetic, your lack of a fight— how easily you moved to submit. For the first time in your life, you hated yourself.

Aerion slowly raised to stand and narrowed his eyes, falsely questioning. “Then why did you?”

“Bec— Because, he— And I—”

“Someone let you out.” Pursing his lips in feigned sympathy, he reached to run his thumb under your eye. “And you listened.”

There was nothing that you could do but cry. Your body shook, a short exhale making snot drip onto your upper lip. Even as your head shook to deny it, you knew that there was no point.

“You did not run away. I think that should be rewarded.” That made your chest jump. Upon your watery confusion, Aerion hummed and raised his eyebrows. “I am not entirely cruel. You look surprised by that.”

“I’m n— not. I’m not, I— I swear.” Furiously, you shook your head until your vision spun.

For a moment, he was quiet, absorbing your terror with blown pupils. Aerion reached down to push his fingers past your lips, his nails sharp against the soft insides. He let out a shuddering breath. “You may think me foolish, but I know enough that the longevity of our game is at risk the more that I keep you hidden. Hm?”

It was hard to respond with him pressing against your tongue, so it came out as a strangled moan. Aerion’s breathing hitched. He stroked the roof of your mouth and it made your shiver.

“That is why,” With a tone softer than you have ever heard it, he delved deep enough for you to gag, “I am presenting you to my father as my personal entertainer. You will be on your best behavior and inform him how happy you are to serve me. Do you understand what happens if you betray me?”

An affirmative nod made him smile, indulgent in a way that made your stomach churn.

“If you run, I will find you, but not until you think that you are safe. I’ll wait for you to find your little circus, and that is when you will be punished.” Removing his fingers from your mouth, he wiped them dry on your collarbone. “The dragon does not like to lose what belongs to him.”

When you smiled, Aerion patted your head in a way that made you want to lean into his touch.

That night, you did not sleep in the closet.

That night, you slept at the foot of his bed like a well trained dog.

A/N: I was supposed to post this yesterday but work absolutely demolished me. With a hammer. First day blues I suppose. I don’t have much to say about this one? I kind of feel like everyone’s ooc, but we ball.

If you are enjoying this, let me know in the comments! Shakes you a little. Please. It’s kind of hard to tell if anyone’s really enjoying this save for me and my boyfriend. Thank you for readinggg, byyyyeeee.

Humiliation lanced through your veins. At least what meager food Aerion offered had kept you from ruining your clothes further. The stink would be far worse. You didn’t know if you could take that too.

Awareness was a fickle thing. Eventually, you began to drift, here, then there. A child again, held in the embrace of your mother. Followed by adulthood and her burial, the grave unmarked. That was how all of your troupe would go, only a memory to revisit rather than a physical location. You knew that there would be no flowers left behind, even before Aerion Targaryen got ahold of you. The idea that your corpse would be dressed with care was what kept you from fearing the end.

Once, Jaramy had spoken of settling down somewhere. The elder of the troupe only had so much time before their bodies degraded, unable to perform as they did in their youth. There was a sizable sum of coin set aside for this future, for a house big enough to fit you all. You knew that you were not expected to spend the rest of your days with them, that you would one day make your own way with the knowledge of a safety net waiting for you if it went awry. Little did your aunts and uncles know that you would be content to spend your life with them in that house, both somewhere and nowhere, for the rest of your days.

Would it be a farm? Harvests and dairy cows, mousing cats and stables of horses. Sheep, goats, lambs, and kids, you would get to play with them all, baking under the sun with a smile firmly on your face. The grass would stretch over your head. Lyla would pick the ticks from your skin with care. That was where you went when you could not stand the box anymore. To the tremulous future that did not yet exist. It was better than your piss soaked confines, with sweat building on your skin in a thin film. You were certain that you smelled awful.

It was dark now. When had the sun gone down? You did not remember dusk. Despite the burning of your broken hand, you considered flexing it. Feel the pain, proof that you were still a living thing. A human. Not a doll, locked in a glass case. Your finger twitched and the agony was white hot, making you choke on your own tongue. The tears were even more scorching, your body shivering, no energy left for full blown sobs. The princes were sure to be sleeping in luxury, too far away to hear your plight. Despite that assurance, you didn’t dare release the keening wails that threatened to spill out.

You would never be able to play an instrument again. Chances were that your hand would not heal right, not without a maester’s intervention.

Apparently Jaramy had once considered joining their order. To escape marriage to a woman, he said, spirits loosening his tongue. A metaphorical cage versus a real one. You wondered if you had the mental fortitude to survive one and not the other. The longer this went on, the more you were certain that you lacked the physical strength to make it through.

You would be let out. Soon. All you had to do was endure until then.

Gods, you doubted that you had it in you.

Hunger shriveled your stomach, forming a weakness deep in your bones. Occasionally, Aerion would slip the crusts of bread into your trunk. It tasted sour from the urine it fell into, eaten with gusto all the same. More than likely, it would all you would have to fill the void in your belly for many days more.

How long could you carry on? You had never considered yourself a strong man, only a happy one. It was hard to feel anything but despair in a situation like this.

Night was easier than daytime. Cool winds and darkness soothed you from the humidity that made the air thick. In such an enclosed space, it was almost as unbearable as being incapable of moving your limbs. The trunk was so small that you could hardly turn over. For the past several… hours? Days? No matter— you had spent it all on your side. When you tried to shift, the pain was unfathomable, so you remained still.

It couldn’t be much longer now.

Drifting in and out of sleep, you were awoken by the overpowering stench of filth. Judging by the amount of light coming through the airholes, it was afternoon. Maybe. Your head hurt.

Muffled groans of relief filtered through your ears, though you were certain that your own was stronger than all else’s. King’s Landing, at last. It was hard to believe that two weeks had passed, you felt like twenty had passed in this stuffy heat. Your body screamed to unfurl, all your brain could conjure was how good it would feel to stand again. Logic told you that it would not feel as pleasant as you imagined. Emotion did not care. You were so close to being out. So, so close. All you wanted to do was scream for the horses to hurry up.

Dizziness made your head spin. You felt your trunk be lifted, uncaring for the contents within, and unfairly jostling you.

Anticipation built in your gut. Feeling yourself be carried out of that damnable cart to sweet freedom. You couldn’t begin to care what Aerion would do to you once you were at his side. To be let out would be gift enough. Tears made your eyes burn at the thought. You were going to be out. Finally. Blessedly. At this point, you’d kiss Aerion’s feet for opening up the trunk despite the fact that he was the one who put you there in the first place. It was getting hard to think.

“Brother.” A soft and unrecognizable voice caught your attention. You would not be able to listen for long, the people carrying you were only passing by.

Valarr’s voice drew your attention next. “Matarys. I’m sorry.”

That was the last you heard of it. Maybe you were being heaved up a flight of stairs now, perhaps you’d be tossed from an open window. Release, in whatever way, sounded heavenly. The trunk stopped moving, set on the ground with a thud. Retreating footsteps got quieter the farther they became, only for a new pair to approach. The lock clicked and you were unceremoniously dumped onto the floor with the liquid that had built over your journey. It stank. You stank.

Instinctively, you moved to stretch out. A sob wrenched from your throat. It hurt. Your broken hand curled into a fist while you straightened your knees and tried to crawl into a kneel, only to flop back onto your face. Every movement made your head swim and your vision go blurry. Muscles spasmed at the smallest twitch, your joints felt like someone had shoved shards of glass into them.

A foot found your stomach to roughly flip you over onto your back. A whimper pulled from behind your lips, breath coming out in shaky bursts. Above you was Aerion, both pleased and disgusted.

“You're covered in piss,” he said as he covered his nose. Despite this, his pupils were blown from the noises you were making, fascination making his lips curl into a grin. “Does it hurt?”

Through clenched teeth, you managed to say, “Yes, my prince.”

Your broken hand taught you to not test his patience. Obedience would protect you until you managed to stand.

Aerion’s foot slid to where your broken hand was splayed. An anchor to push yourself into a new position. It twitched closer, then he placed the toe of his boot atop your pinky and pressed. Your arms gave out and a shriek got caught in your throat. Whatever you felt beforehand was eclipsed by what he was doing to you now. Eyes squeezed shut, you heard Aerion chuckle before stepping off of your finger. You curled it against your chest in an attempt to protect your injuries from enduring any further agony.

“Please stop,” you managed to say, your voice watery from barely contained sobs.

A noise left him, signaling he was about to speak. He got cut off by someone calling for him. His father? With one hand tangled in your hair and the other over your mouth to stifle your cry, he held you aloft. “I assume you’re smart enough to know what happens if you leave this room. Stay put, clown.”

With little preamble, he dropped you back into a heap and stomped on top of you on his way out, flattening you with a wheeze. It was only when you heard the door click shut did you allow yourself to cry.

Hours passed with Aerion’s return imminent. All the while, you refused to remain limp on the floor and await your fate. Though your body sharply protested, you worked through the stretches that Lyla taught you. Simple ones, nothing like the contortion that she was known for, all to try and bring feeling back to your addled limbs. Every movement made you cry. You had believed yourself to run out of tears, but even that was proven wrong as you tried to inch toward the door. Luck would have it that Aerion had locked it behind him. That didn’t mean that you wouldn’t check.

If someone knew that you were here, they would help. Valarr came to mind. His father had been a noble man, surely he would not allow this to continue. Even Aerion would have to cow to the man next in line for the Iron Throne.

That was your plan. You had to find Valarr.

It took an hour for you to sit, and then until dark to stand. Even then, you could barely move without a wall to hold you up. At one point, the pain had been so unbearable that you had thrown up stomach bile. It sat in a pile at the foot of Aerion’s bed.

For a prince, his room was not very regal. Likely because his father held Summerhall. That was his usual home. For now, Aerion was a visitor at the Red Keep.

There was a balcony and you considered throwing yourself off of it. Only for a second. If Valarr did not help you, then…

Shaking that thought from your skull, you hobbled to the door and tried the knob. It turned. Not locked. Your eyebrows shot to your matted hairline. It seemed that you had a little luck left in spite of it all. You would not waste it. You refused.

Still, you could hardly move. You were not even able to lift your feet, having to settle for sliding them over the stone. The fact that Aerion did not leave behind any guards implied that he either believed you to be entirely immobile, or that only a handful of his entourage knew about your kidnapping. Either way, you did not intend to look this gift horse in the mouth.

Every few feet, someone would pass and you would stand as tall as possible. Not some injured lamb, but another servant of the Keep. It worked, for the most part. As soon as they passed you with barely a glance, you slumped and sniffled, nose thick with snot. There were only so many times that you could reiterate how much that you hurt. It was all you could think about. How every bend of your knees sent shocks of agony through your veins. Your muscles clenched under spasms, yet determination kept you upright.

Valarr Targaryen would put an end to this and you would go home.

Why would the Seven keep him from you even now? When you could barely breathe through the suffering? Your broken hand would pulse every so often, not a single bone set. It would heal wrong. May as well have been cut off.

A set of stairs descending into the depths of the Keep stretched in front of you. They were dark, barely lit from the torches. Tentatively, you sidled onto the first and as you moved, you nearly doubled over with a closed mouth scream. On your knees now, you tried to crawl and your vision blurred as your eyes rolled back in your head. Sheer willpower kept you from passing out for more than two seconds, but that only had so much influence over the desires of the body.

When you opened your eyes, you were in a heap at the bottom of the stairs with a throbbing behind your sockets. You reached to touch your crown and your fingers came away bloody. A small giggle made you snort. Laughing had no point, but you had to do something other than cry. As you heaved yourself to stand, you nearly stumbled back into a puddle of limbs and misery. A voice from up ahead captured your attention, familiar in a way that made hope leap in your throat.

A burst of adrenaline dulled the pain as you charged head first in the direction of the voice. Caution was thrown to the wayside, your breath coming in frantic gasps. This had to be your salvation, it had to be. You had done nothing to deserve this. Aerion’s grip on you could not last, you were a good person! Someone would come to your aid, get you out of here before it became any more of a prison.

As you passed under an open arch leading to what appeared to be a garden, your energy came to a great and sudden end. There was a step between the inside of the Keep into the grass, a small ledge, and you slipped on it to land on your face. The voice stopped speaking to look at you, a pair of eyes searing into your battered form. You wondered what they saw. A filthy performer, soaked in his own dried piss and blood, barely able to stand. On your forearms, you forced yourself to your knees to see who you had stumbled upon.

Daeron Targaryen stared at you like he had seen a ghost. Even from here, you could smell the alcohol, his gaze glassy and distant giving him away if not for that. Confusion and disbelief left him with parted lips and wide eyes, his pupils darting from you and your drool, to the bloody wound above your eyebrow.

“The clown? Why is the clown here?” It struck you now that no one else was here. Daeron was inebriated enough to have been talking to himself.

Dread tasted sour on your tongue.

“Please,” you croaked, throat dry from disuse. “Help me.”

To your horror, he looked terrified of you, scrambling back on the bench until he was sat and had curled his long legs to his chest. “I am dreaming. How can I be dreaming?” You watched him drop his wine to drag his hands across his face. Like you’d disappear when he removed them. “I’ve been drinking, I shouldn’t be— No, no, I can’t be.”

“My prince, please. Help me.”

He paid you no mind and placed his face in his palms. “No this is… I have indulged too much and I’m hallucinating… a clown.”

Tears flowed down your cheeks, your plea no more than a whimper, “It hurts.”

“Yes, yes, and I have failed you. Here to make me feel guilt, are you? Show me visions of my brother’s wrongdoings after you begged me for my help? I do not control my brother.” Daeron waved you off with a flick of his wrist and it took everything within you not to break down. It was not fair! You had found someone with the power to help you and he did not believe that you were really there. “I warned him. That was more than I have given many, I will not allow a figment of my mind drive me any more mad than it already has.”

Maybe if you touched him, he would see that you were real. Unfortunately, it seemed that your body had entirely given out on you. With a thud, you fell face first into the dirt and realized that you could not even twitch.

A breath left him, as if relieved. You heard Daeron retrieve his cup from the ground. “A figment. I need more wine. It will be gone when I return.”

You could not even cry out, only listen to his receding presence.

Alone again.

Failed again.

By the time Aerion’s guards found you, it was raining. Daeron had not returned to see you still there. He needed to add to his libations. At least the water was cool enough to soothe your overheated body. Soaked to the bone, you could not even squirm as they threw a blanket over you to hide your face and lifted you by your armpits. Maybe you would have fought if you had any fight left in you.

Once you were settled at Aerion’s feet, you wished that you had at least struggled.

He sat back on the edge of his bed, palms behind him and arms straight to root him in place. With his knees apart, he regarded you with a lazy hum as if he were not hot with anger. You could feel it exude from him. Douse the room.

Despite the heat, you shivered.

“I shouldn’t have underestimated you, clown.” The guards had folded you into a deferent kneel at Aerion’s silent request. You supposed that it was so you could see him— submit to him. Aerion’s cheek bulged as he pressed into it with his tongue. “I had thought you immobile, or at the very least intelligent enough to understand the precariousness your situation.”

“I spoke with Prince Daeron.” Every word that slid up your esophagus felt like blades.

Aerion cocked his head to the side in exaggerated thought. “Do you truly believe that anyone would take my drunkard of a brother’s word over my own?” Foolishness made you duck your head. At your lack of response, Aerion continued, “Here is what is to happen.”

“What, my prince.” You channeled all of your malice into those three words. Not an inkling of it affected him, his arms moving to fold in front of him and his stance even.

“You will be mine. My personal entertainment. When you are asked, you will say that you want to be here.”

“My injuries will be seen. Someone will stop you,” you tried to argue.

“Do you really believe that it will not be a relief that I will be taking my impulses out on some meaningless little clown and no one of importance?” The truth of his words settled in the bottom of your stomach like a yawning pit. Your entire body felt cold as reality set in. “No one is coming. Nothing can be done.” Aerion crouched down to manhandle your face, his nails digging into the meat of your cheeks. “You are mine to do with as I wish and no one will care.”

He released your face to grab your wrist and lift you off of the ground. You felt your body dangle with only your limp and useless legs keeping you connected with the floor. Your breathing picked up when Aerion put his boot on your calf.

“So you don’t try to run anymore.”

Pressure made your brain shut off, increasing moment by moment. Aerion wrapped his arm around you, under your neck and your back to his chest, holding you close to his body. He had more leverage that way. Your right leg was at an angle, half lifted from the floor with your foot dead weight against the ground.

“Please. Please don’t.”

He paid you no mind, lifting his foot to bring it down in a stomp.

A scream tried to rip from your lungs. Instead of covering your mouth again, he plugged it closed with his first three fingers. Aerion’s thumb dragged itself through the wetness on your cheeks. Gathering it up before he popped it in his mouth. You gasped, able to breathe clearly for a moment before he stuffed you full again. If you wanted to, you could bite off his fingers. That was the last thought you had before he brought his foot down again with more force than before.

Where the first blow had splintered your fibula, the second had snapped it in half. Writhing in his grasp, your body convulsed, high-pitched and keening wails slipping through his fingers. Aerion laughed and shoved his appendages deeper down your throat until you were retching.

“You have a soft mouth,” he observed. You couldn’t process the implication behind it, too focused on crying and reaching your broken leg. Sobs shuddered through your frame, your thoughts clouded as you used the last of your strength to try and wrench away from Aerion. Like before when he broke your hand, he grabbed you by the hair, the follicles tugging harshly at the wound on your head. “Entertainment is your duty, isn’t it? You love it. Tell me that you love it.”

Unable to respond, all you could do was whimper. He pressed on your discolored calf and the words left you as a desperate shriek, “I love it! I love it when you hurt me!”

That must have pleased him because his hand loosened.

You heard a door open and the world tilted on its axis as it shut behind you. Despite your eyes being open, you couldn’t see. A lock clicked and you realized what he had done.

If you were locked in a closet, you would not be able to escape.

Not unless someone came to let you out.

You would not hold your breath.

Minutes marched on with you passing in and out of consciousness, a blessed relief from the agony pulsing throughout your entire body. The door to Aerion’s bedroom opened once more and your chest shuddered. There was a shuffling gait fumbling through the threshold, marked by Aerion’s grunt of disgust.

“What do you want, brother?”

Daeron’s voice fluttered under the closet door, even more slurred than earlier. “The clown. From the tourney.”

“Who?” Feigning ignorance did not sound like Aerion’s specialty. Even Daeron was quiet for some time, the implication being that he was studying his brother despite his addled mind.

A part of you wanted to alert him of your presence. You doubted that he would do anything if you did.

“The clown,” Daeron repeated as firm as the wine would allow.

Aerion must have shrugged. You heard Daeron shift in place. “There were a lot of clowns at the tourney.”

It took some time for Daeron to find his words, stumbling and slurred, “The one that our cousin said that you accosted. You believed him a woman.”

“Don’t you think that I would remember some chimeric clown-man? I do not recall, brother. Leave, I am trying to rest.”

Daeron tried again, whatever authority he held tempered by his drunkenness. “The king will not be happy if— if you…”

“If I have an entertainer, he is here of his own volition,” Aerion snapped. You heard someone fall and you could only assume that Aerion put his hands on his fellow prince. Would Daeron even remember this? “What does some clown matter to you, anyway?”

“You didn’t. Tell me that you didn’t,” Daeron breathed, somewhat strangled.

“I didn’t do anything,” Aerion insisted with a hiss, almost like a snake. “Tell your lies to whoever you want, especially your drunken hallucinations.” You could picture the wrinkle of Aerion’s nose as he spoke his next words, “Come back when you have become more than a failure.”

The door to Aerion’s room slammed, a testament to Daeron’s frustration.

Defeat tasted sour in the back of your throat.

At least in a closet, you could move. Not that you really wanted to.

A/N: One of the benefits of writing shorter chapters is that I can knock one out in a day rather than chip away at it for, like, four. But yes, now that the first five chapters are over the angst is here. It will be maximized. I’m doing some Jigsaw shit.

I don’t have a lot to say this time, but if you enjoyed, let me know! I’d love to hear people’s thoughts :]

It was awkward to have been with him when he had heard the news. Valarr had clenched his jaw so tight that a muscle in his face jumped. You wanted to say something, but no words came out. This was your fault, in a way. He must have agreed considering that he would not even look at you, his command for you to leave was clipped with both grief and blame.

No, you would not dare to approach him after what he had lost. That would be self-absorbed and cruel.

Informing any of your family would be… a half-decent option if you weren’t certain that Lynus would throw himself into a fight almost immediately. Your brother-cousin was a particularly protective man, his brother, Gregg, not too far behind him. They did not abide by the baby of the family experiencing any negativity. Jaramy would stress himself into an open grave, Violetta would try her best to reel everyone in, Faye would allow her anxiety to halt her breathing, Nikolaos would have to wrangle his sons, and Lyla would hop a horse to get as far as possible. Yet another nonviable option. You were honestly at a loss. Tanselle was long gone, leaving your only ally as your sheeply half-brother, Raymun, and yourself. All on your lonesome.

If only you knew where Raymun was. He was impossible to hunt down now that the Trial was over, the only time you really saw him was a quick wave to assure one another that you were both still standing. After that, he had completely disappeared. With your luck, he was already gone. You massaged your temples to calm the pounding in your head. None of this was good. As far as you knew, Aerion Targaryen was bedridden, but, <i>obviously,</i> that did not stop him from sending his personal guard after you. The thought of dancing at the foot of his bed for his entertainment sent a surge of frustration through your body, so powerful that it left you lightheaded.

What did you do from here? Seven above, what were you supposed to do?

Aside from Raymun, Egg… maintained a slight possibility that he would be of assistance, but he was naught more than a boy. Were you meant to implore his father for an audience? The prince whose name that you couldn’t remember? Egg was a good boy, but that particular Targaryen had also sired Aerion, so there was a significant chance that he could not be relied on. Keeping your head low, you marched forward as best you could, weaving through the crowds and stalls in search of someone — anyone — who would deign to save you. Maybe you would have to send your family tumbling head first into a tizzy. The longer you thought, the more it was looking like that was what you would have to do.

Your teeth worried your lower lip. It wasn’t as if that would remedy the problem, all it would serve would be to entice Aerion to set hounds upon each and every one of you. He did not seem to be a man who gave up easily, as was glaringly evident, and you would not damn your loved ones into a life of running. There had to be something to be done!

Eventually, your feet carried you to Ser Dunk’s camp, unsure of where else to go. Before the Trial, you would have never been able to find him, nor his tree whose branches he called his roof. Now, though, he was the talk of the tourney, and you doubted that he had any lack of nosy smallfolk poking their beaks into his business. Perhaps even Lords and highborn knights looking to hire him into their envoy. You meant it— the fact that you would ask Dunk for no more help. That did not mean that appreciation was not sorely due.

When you found him, you could not stop yourself from choking on your tongue. It was for the best that you did not watch the Trial of Seven, it would have sent you spiraling into tears. Even now, staring at the aftermath, you felt your eyes begin to burn. All from merely looking at his battered and bruise-soaked body. Dunk saw you approach, wary until you pulled back your hood to reveal who you were. Even then, he still appeared to be lost in his own misery, his jaw clenched tight, though blessedly not at you. The last thing you needed was more blame than you had already been given. None of this was you or Dunk’s fault, Aerion was the one whose shoulders should weigh heavy! Alas, that was a sentiment only you seemed to hold.

When you smiled at Dunk, he softened ever so slightly.

“Ser, I truly cannot begin to say—” You were cut off by a grunt when he tried to sit up straighter. With your eyebrows disappearing into your hairline, you hurried over to do naught much else but hover and chide. “Dunk, don’t move for my sake! Stay still! Allow me to fetch you something, I— Certainly you have a pillow somewhere…”

Gods, you sounded like Jaramy.

“Don’t,” His voice was short and strained, no small amount of self-loathing leaking from between his clenched teeth. It made your chest ache.

You froze. Turning to him from where you were crouched with your arms stretched in front of you, you began rocking in place. “… Don’t fetch you a pillow?”

Dunk shook his head. “No. Don’t thank me.”

“I think if anyone has a right to make that decision, it should be me.” It came out blander than you had intended. Your attempt at adding a playful flair fell short in your worry. As you muttered to yourself, you continued to crawl through the surrounding foliage in an attempt to ease some of Dunk’s suffering, “Surely, there is some kind of cushion nearby…”

“I don’t need a cushion. I don’t need thanks. What I need is to be left alone.” It came out harsher than he seemed to mean, judging by his wince.

A tiny frown pulled at your lips. You were not selfish enough to deny him this one wish, no matter the safety that his presence afforded. Slowly, you straightened and fixed your face into a pleasant one — a thankful one — and you circled the tree so that you were once again facing him.

“I… I will never be able to repay you.” You could not keep from speaking.

“Baelor Targaryen is dead and I am alive.” That was all he said in response before he turned his gaze away from you, fixing it firmly on the ground. Again your eyes burned, but you kept your smile in place. It took biting your lip to keep the tears from flowing. There was so much you wanted to say, one thousand rebuttals sitting on the tip of your tongue.

It’s not your fault, being one of them. It was none of your faults! The one to blame was Aerion. You looked at Dunk again, at his black eye and split lip, then the swelling of his face and the slump of his shoulders. Rather than say anything that you wanted, you gave Ser Duncan the Tall one last smile and asked the gods that maybe, one day, you would see him again.

As you rejoined the tourney crowd and Aerion’s personal guard began to follow once again, you doubted that you ever would.

Raymun was next on your list of people to find. Not because you believed him capable of fending off your attackers conaidering the battering that his body took at the Trial — although, you did hear that he held his own and your heart swelled with pride — but you hoped that maybe he would have an idea of what to do. That was all you had hope for. An idea. You knew that you were entirely at a loss, growing more and more desperate by the minute. Raymun had proved himself a good confidant many times in the past. At the very least, you could remove this weight from off of your chest. All you had to do was find him.

Careful to keep your guard up, you ducked into tents, only to sneak out of the back in an attempt to lose the men hunting you. What you had come to find was that, for the life of you, no matter what you did, they would not leave you be. Your heart thundered as sweat began to make your skin slick. It was all you could do to not begin to panic.

Gasping in great lungfuls of air, you slipped into another bustling tent that looked to be in the middle of a party. Music made your ears ring, the voices of those surrounding you enveloped your eardrums in an endless cacophony. Your vision began to blur despite your perceived safety in the crowd. They were all drunk, no one would notice, no one would care. Despite how hard you tried to think straight, it was getting almost impossible to breathe.

A hand on your arm made you scream. The tent went silent. Music stopped, all of the singing, speaking voices fell quiet all at once, every eye directed at you. The man shaking uncontrollably for what appeared to be no reason. You must have looked half mad.

Your eyes snapped to the hand, to see it hovering a few inches away now, beset by a brief tremor. Following the appendage along the arm it belonged to, you came face to face with yet another prince. Your salvation with purple eyes. Daeron Targaryen stared at you like you had just ripped off your skin and begun to float around the tent. No matter. You couldn’t help the relief that cooled the fire in your veins.

“My prince.” With a small bow, you took the spot next to him, perhaps sitting closer than necessary in your enthusiasm. His judgemental once over went unnoticed, though not the rank smell of rum coming off of him in waves. “You— You warned me of Prince Aerion before, surely you must know how I can…”

Slowly, you trailed off when his glassy pupils slid away from you. Daeron’s disinterest was palpable. “I warned you. I have done my duty enough.”

“B— But I am being—!” Upon realizing that you were shouting, the muffled whispers of bystanders coiling against your ears, you leaned in even closer and dropped your voice to a whisper. As close as you were, the smell of alcohol was stomach churning. He must have been drinking heavily for some time now. All at once, the realization that Baelor was his uncle hit you like a herd of cattle. “Followed… I— I apologize. I was not thinking, I thought…”

Daeron waved you off and you noticed that a part of his ear was missing, along with a cut upon his face. Though his skin was clammy, it was unblemished, save for the dark stubble on his chin. You tried not to stare. When he spoke, you leaned back with a wrinkle of your nose despite every bone in your body tensing to maintain a polite smile rather than a grimace. “Nothing to be done.”

He looked down at his half-empty cup. Except drink, you finished for him. Anxious, you began to play with your fingers. “My prince, I fear your brother has set men upon me.”

With no amount of subtlety, Daeron leaned forward to scan the tent and the surrounding area outside. There was no indication that he saw anything, but his next words made your blood run cold, spoken as if they weren’t as damning as they were, “I do not see anyone.”

He did not believe you. It seemed that you were doomed.

“But they’re there! What d— What do I do?” You were unable to keep your voice from shaking.

He ran a hand down his face, his expression pinching. It was now that you noticed that his hair was tied behind his head, and if you weren’t so frazzled, you would think that it suited him. Once again, you were reminded of his uncle, and your guilt for burdening him with your woes made your chest feel heavy. Daeron was likely dressed for a funeral.

Finally, he turned to you and gave you a full body jolt that could only be read as a shrug. “Leave, I don’t know. Do you not have family with which you can confide this with? Why are you wasting time on me when you should be running?”

“It cannot be that easy!” You burst.

Annoyed, and evidently nursing a brand new headache, Daeron groaned, “Yes it is. My brother is bedridden, I don’t know what you expect him to do.”

“But—”

“If you are so incensed, speak with my father. He will attest that my brother is entirely immobile and you can leave without fear.” With that sense of finality, he turned his entire body away from you, returning to nursing his drink. You could take a hint, though you felt no better than you did when you arrived. At least you had the makings of a plan, which was better than nothing.

Despite Daeron’s drunken rudeness, you gave him a small bow. “Thank you, my prince.”

He did not deign to grant you with a response. You forced the twitching of your eyebrow to cease in case he turned around and saw. Straightening your tunic, you sped out of the tent, on the hunt for the prince whose name you could not remember. If Daeron had not been so… preoccupied by his cups you would have asked him for his father’s name. It seemed that you would have to make do with honorifics and hope that he did not notice.

Distantly, your earlier fears that Aerion’s father was another cruel man reared their ugly head as you searched for the sigil of the Dragon House. If that was the case, you told yourself, then Daeron would not have suggested his father’s aid.

Surely, this would be it. The solution that you have been looking for all morning.

It took an embarrassing amount of time to find Daeron’s father, especially considering that you were trying to keep from being cornered at every step. Each movement had to be planned, the location well thought out and full of enough people that you could consider it safe. More than a trek, this was a dance, intricate and purposeful. Your skill at such wound up with you alone for the first time that day, the guards who had been hot on your heels finally shucking off into nothingness. At first, you had believed that it was because of your humble abilities.

When you scampered directly into the prince in question’s path, you realized it was due to another reason entirely. It seemed that Aerion’s hounds didn’t want to be seen by his father. This would work well in your favor. Unfortunately, the prince paid you no mind, his upper lip curled when his eyes flickered over you. It was almost enough to make you cow.

He was middle aged, with Targaryen white hair that his most incorrigible son shared. While Aerion was clean shaven, his father sported a beard and the same air of frustrated distaste for those around him. It seemed that he was lost in thought, his jaw tight, and while you felt horrible guilt for pestering the poor man in the wake of his brother’s death, you could not stop. Now when you were so close.

“M— My prince!” You called, picking up your pace so that you did not lose him. Of course, this only served for his guards to turn with their hands on their blades. That was what made you blanch, your hands held up in surrender. When he faced you, he did not motion the guards to fall at ease, no part of him happy about being interrupted. He lifted his chin to stare down at you, that Valyrian purple boring into you with a vengeance. “I— I— I must speak with you.”

“And here I thought that you’d never spit it out,” He sneered. It appeared that he wanted to draw himself up higher, but there was a slouch to him that he could not discard. Your jaw worked up and down, hands clammy. Irritation made his teeth grind together. “What is it? Out with it, man. You stopped me in the streets on the day of my brother’s funeral for what exactly?”

“Your son, Aerion. He is going to— I don’t know, do something terrible to me — and I don’t know what to d—”

The prince ground his teeth so tightly that you could hear it. “What accusations do you dare set upon my son, even now.”

“I am being followed!”

“That has nothing to do with any of my children.” You opened your mouth to respond, only to be cut off. “I will not waste my time with this. My son is laying bloodied in his own bed and you have the gall to imply otherwise?”

“I—”

“I am done with this.” That was all he left you with as he spun on his heel and strode away, even angrier than when he began. Tears welled in your eyes once more as your last hope crumbled within your grasp.

It was all over, it seemed.

A call of your name, followed by a hiss, made you jolt. Your hackles raised, casting fervent glances through the empty streets. Someone was trying to lure you elsewhere— somewhere private. Likely Aerion’s guards. You had no weapons, body tensed to run somewhere crowded, when you heard it again.

“Psst!”

Whipping around, you stared down at little Egg. You relaxed and attempted the easiest smile that you could manage given the circumstances. “Hello, squire-prince. What do you need of me?”

Motioning for you to follow him into the darkened corner in which he had squeezed, you cast another furtive look at your surroundings, and followed. Once sequestered away, he wasted no time. “You are being followed. I heard you talking to my father.”

“That is not the business of a child,” You said softly. Egg’s expression pinched and his hands balled into little fists. Regret made your stomach drop. “I… that was not what I meant, Egg. It is not the job of the child to remedy the ills of the old, it is the other way around. I will not burden you with this.”

“If anything is a burden, it is having a brother like Aerion.” He was so young, his voice shuddered into a crack mid-sentence. It was not something he seemed ashamed over, more upset than embarrassed. “He has ruined everything, he always has, for my entire life.”

Encouragement died on your tongue. For all that you wanted to tell Prince Aegon, that family was family, it was not something that you chose, you knew that was a lie. Though you were born into your troupe, and related to none, save for your mother, by blood, they were the family you wanted all the same. Why would you doom this boy to heritage when he should be making real ties and connections?

“Your brother is cruel—”

“Yes. ‘But he is my brother,’” He finished for you. “I know that, I have heard it all my life. It does not change that I hate him!”

“Brothers do not treat their brothers the way that he treats you.” Conceding was not what Egg seemed to expect. He blinked his big eyes at you, urging you to continue. To tell him what he had wanted to hear. “Family is blood, yes, but the bonds that we forge through loyalty and kindness perhaps… can matter more and be just as fulfilling. I cannot pretend to know what the life of a prince is like, but I do know family. You are too good a boy for a brother like Prince Aerion.”

Though he looked about to cry, he furiously stifled any tears before they could flow. That didn’t change how watery his tone was. “I do not want him to hurt you. I don’t want him to hurt anyone else ever again.”

“That is not your decision to make, Prince Egg.”

He paid the playful title mixed with his nickname no mind. Realization made him stiffen. “What if it was?”

“What… do you mean?”

“I can make Aerion stop.” A child’s determination would normally warm you. What lodged itself into Egg’s voice chilled you to the bone. “I can keep him from ruining anything ever again.”

Watching his mind set, you weren’t sure what to say. As you licked your dry lips, you tried, “A boy’s duty is to play, not…”

“I am a prince, not a boy.”

“Boy-prince,” You joked, though your heart was not in it. When you swallowed, your saliva scraped against the walls of your throat. What else was there to say except what you thought was best. “If you ever need anything, and I am near, all you need is to ask. I can teach you how to do some tricks.”

He nodded, albeit distracted, too lost in his thoughts to really digest what you had said. “Good day, clown.”

Your meeting with your last hope was over, and all you could feel was that you steered him wrong. That you didn’t do enough. With a small, huffed sigh, you slipped free from the alleyway and tried to make your way back into the crowd.

Your mind was made up.

You needed to find Raymun.

You needed to say goodbye.

As it turned out, your half-brother was hiding in plain sight the entire time, his tent not all that far from your troupe’s. Everything was being packed up now, the tourney was coming to an end. Honestly, it still felt as though you had just arrived.

In the distance, you made out Raymun’s mop of brown hair and made a beeline straight for him. Honestly, you likely resembled more of a rampaging bull than anyone’s bastard brother. He lifted his arm to wave, and you fixed your face before he could notice the misery oozing from you like slime. Limping to meet you half way, he seemed more than a little surprised when you hugged him.

“Careful.” He sucked in a breath through his teeth. “I’m still sore.”

Pulling back, you beamed at him. “I heard the rumors, you were like a one man army, Ser Raymun. A knight at last!”

“If you think I was impressive, you should have seen— Nevermind.” Raymun’s smile returned, his arm around your shoulders as he hobbled to his tent. “I’m glad you found me. There’s someone I’d like you to meet.”

“Before that, there’s—”

As a woman peeked from out of the tent, red curls cascading around her shoulders and a smile like a summer breeze, you cut yourself off. Chivalry took precendence over dire matters of attempted kidnappings. You gave a theatric bowed with your arm curled at your waist. “Who might you be, m’lady?”

“Rowan,” She introduced, unfurling into a stand. Raymun released you to give her a kiss that… lasted a mite too long for you to be comfortable. You wiped the grimace off of your face before either noticed. Unfortunately, Rowan caught the tail end of it and swallowed a bit of a snort at your bashfulness.

“This is my wife! We got married!” Wasting no time, Raymun introduced you with a sweep of his hand. “This is my brother.”

“Bastard,” You clarified.

Her lips twitched. “Always had a fondness for those.”

There was no way that you could tell Raymun about what plagued you, not with him glowing like this. You could not ruin your brother’s day. Once again, you could feel eyes on you— not noticing that a certain red-head also recognized that you were being tailed. As soon as you returned to your troupe, you knew that there would be no time at all. Someone would get hurt.

You would rather it be you.

“And I’ve always wanted a sister.” Sobering, you tried to keep smiling, only to find it harder than you expected. What did you say now? It came to you easily, “Raymun, I love you and I’m glad I met you.”

That made him pause. “What’s this all about?”

When you didn’t respond, he said your name, snapping you from your thoughts. “Nothing. I don’t say it enough, is all.”

Before he could continue to question your motives, you gave one final bow, and left.

Alone, save for the hounds.

You walked through the rows of vendors, one in particular catching your eye. It was the stall that housed the little jester doll that you had seen when you first arrived. By now, it seemed a little worse for wear, its owner locking it away in a glass case. You averted your eyes and continued on your way, your head down so no one would recognize you as you passed your family’s tent.

There was no point in dragging anyone else into your mess.

Maybe you had a martyr complex, maybe you were simply stupid, all that mattered to you that no one else suffered in your stead. Especially not the ones you cared about. The men following you knew your weaknesses, they knew about Raymun and his new wife, Rowan. They knew where your family was packing, they knew of Dunk’s tree and the fact that no royal who could help had deigned to. Distantly, Egg flashed in your mind, concern gnawing in your gut.

Maybe, you thought as you broke free from the crowd and into the treeline, you would be able to guide him from wherever he ended up. Aerion was his brother, after all. Where he went, you would be forced to follow, and where you were following, you wondered if Egg would be there too.

That was if he didn’t squire for Ser Duncan. You hoped for that outcome more than anything.

After a full day of what was, at its core, a wild goose chase, the two men tasked with following you were none too pleased when they finally caught up. You had expected to get a little roughed up— though, the broken nose was entirely unnecessary. In the end, what really surprised you, as you were carried dizzy and bleeding toward your destination, was the box.

No one had expected the box.

No one noticed the box, even, tucked away with the rest of Aerion’s belongings.

When everyone began looking for the little clown-boy performer, it did not cross a single person’s mind to check inside of any of the innumerable trunks in the back of Aerion’s wagon.

Not once during the entire two week journey from Ashford Meadow to King’s Landing.

A/N: It has been a while!! To be honest, I remembered my plans for this fic and how I was one chapter away from making this my twisted and evil whump playground, so I locked in and finished this one. As of chapter five, the prologue is over and we are going full AU mode.

In the effort of being real, Aerion fans, I am so sorry, but he is doing some saw trap shit to the main character. The upcoming loop is a slice of life interspersed with the main character either experiences joy or the utmost misery, to later be comforted. I intend to put them through the wringer and I may or may not be projecting that innate desire I have to be ‘saved.’ Is it truly such a crime to want to be weak and fragile, at the end of your rope and someone blessedly holds you. Maybe this is because I used to daydream about getting hit by a car as a kid so that everyone could dote on me. Okay, I’m getting a little too real, but I know my ass is not the only one who has been in these twisted caverns.

There are a couple of things I want to point out and also delve into. For starters, if you did not pick up what I was putting down with the Egg conversation, he like… beelined into trying to murder Aerion. He failed, unfortunately. Hence the whole box of it all. Secondly, I’m being so serious when I say that I genuinely think Valarr would have helped if the main character had asked him. Alas, they did not. So, now they’re in a box. Speaking of the box, suspend your disbelief about them surviving two full weeks in a trunk. Aerion feeds them bread crumbs when he remembers. I do want the effects of such a journey to be relatively realistic. Y’know. For the whump factor. The main character will suffer genuine physical consequences, along with being generally filthy. Aerion can’t risk his dad finding out that he kidnapped a clown to give them bathroom breaks. I don’t even think it crosses his mind.

I don’t remember if I’ve mentioned it before, but there will be characters who don’t have “set canon” personalities in this fic. To be so entirely real, I don’t read a lot of fanfiction in this fandom so these characters will be my personal interpretation. I can’t guarantee they will be accurate to what the popular fanon is. Guy who is making things up alert!!

If you like this fic, I implore you to comment! Like obviously, you don’t HAVE to, but it makes me happy and also shows me that there’s actual interest in this outside of me and my boyfriend. But yes, that is all. I’m taking a lot of liberties with this if I’m being honest and really just having fun. OH WAIT. One more thing. I have decided that this fic will have multiple different endings for each love interest/love interests. Toying with the idea of DunkDaeron polyamory ending and a queer platonic running away with Kiera of Tyrosh ending. I’m turning the damn frogs gay.

Anyway, yeah, comment, like, interact in some way, pleaseeeee. I will beg, don’t test me.

Prologue

Part one

Part two

Part three

Part four

Part five

Part six

Part seven

Part eight

Part nine

Part ten

Part eleven

Part twelve

Part thirteen

Part fourteen

Part fifteen

Part sixteen

Part seventeen

Part eighteen

Part nineteen

Part twenty

Part twenty - one

Part twenty - two

Part twenty - three

Part twenty - four

Part twenty - five

Part twenty - six

The fact that you were cleaning yourself in his shower and then falling asleep next to him in his bed wasn’t lesson-worthy either, but something more. Something you were both aware of but not aware enough to speak about. You didn't think it would be spoken for a long time, for many more lessons that were much more emotional than just lessons.  

Whilst wrapping the towel around your damp body, you find yourself sweetly imagining tonight, the way Spencer's hands would feel around your waist, whether his head would rest in your neck, breathing hot air, or just above your head where it would lie all night.

You wondered if he would pull away, if you were to turn around in bed, face him and let the sheets shuffle down your breasts, if you leaned in and kissed him without the previous sex haze. 

If a sober kiss was what he wanted. 

After wrapping the softness of the towel around you and drying your hair with another smaller towel as much as you could, you unlock the bathroom door with a quiet click. 

When your elbow nudges the door open to Spencer's bedroom, you become aware of the silence that swallows the room. The bed is made neatly, the quilt without a wrinkle, the blue plaid blanket placed over the bottom of the bed is folded with precision, and the pillows are fluffed up and arranged perfectly. 

Nothing that gives away the fact that this was a place of worship less than an hour ago, not a stain or misplaced pillow that discloses the mess you were when you withered and arched your back to push yourself deeper into his mouth.

Your clothes, messily discarded on the floor when your brain was too pleasure-fried to care where they landed, are now neatly folded on the end of the bed. Your white lace underwear is at the top of the pile; you just hoped they weren’t too damp, that whilst Spencer had sorted them out, he had clocked how aroused you were before he even let his touch linger on your bare pussy. 

All of the neatness reeked of Spencer, the way he ordered his books, colour-coded his closet, and the little germaphobe thing he had going on was shown through the way he had gone through the room whilst you were in the shower and placed everything where he deemed tidy. 

You shiver slightly when the coldness drops from your hair and trickles down your back as though its goal is to send an unwelcome tingle up your spine. You tighten the soft cotton around your body in hopes of drying up all of the running water droplets that cascade down your skin, holding it to you like a warm hug. 

“Spencer?” you call out. You don’t have the energy to raise your voice or shout, so you can only hope that your airy question reached his ears.

He wouldn’t have gone out, you know he’s not like that, and even so, it is his house after all. You doubt very much that Spencer would feast on your pussy the way he did and then leave his own apartment so you could be alone. 

You know you're right when you hear the creak of floorboards, the floorboards you told him to replace multiple times because you still weren’t over the fact that the last time you were in his apartment, you had gotten a splinter in your foot. 

A splinter that he had later plucked out using tweezers, with your foot in his lap and your back against the chair's armrest. You still remember the small caress his thumb rubbed up and down your heel.

So co-worker like. 

Because that was normal.

You turn around the second you hear his footsteps and face the door as Spencer walks through. His hair is more controlled, the strands aren’t as dishevelled as they had previously been, and his cheeks are his normal shade, no longer correlative to a tomato; nothing shows the flustered state he was in, nor does his appearance come across as anxious.  

“What's up?” he responds with curiosity, his eyes gaze over your face, his brows furrowed with question. 

It’s only when he takes notice of the wet strands of your hair and the droplets falling down the side of your face, which annoyingly tickle, that his attention drops to the towel clothed around your body. 

He seems to come to a realisation that you are in the middle of his room, naked, in only a towel, and for some reason, the blush that wasn’t there for a good while makes a reappearance.  

He goes to turn around, reacting as he had just looked at something he wasn’t meant to, as though he wasn’t knuckle deep in you not long ago. “I- do you need some clothes?” 

He stumbles over his words; you can’t see him since his back is turned to you, but you already know his nonchalant attitude that he ‘tried on’ was replaced with a wide-eyed, guilty look. 

It had you blushing over the fact of the matter, the way Spencer's whole demeanour changes so quickly when it comes to you, you could bite your lip with frustration when looking through a case, and he would admire it, treasure such a thing. You never realised it until now, all the glances and reactions he would give you that you just brushed off as you being a woman in the presence of an inexperienced man. 

“Spencer, you can look, you know, you're allowed too” You smile even though he can't see it. “You don’t need permission, not after that” The last word spoken through your lips is said gently, close to a whisper.  

Cocking your head to the side, you watch as Spencer hesitantly turns around, his khaki eyes don’t find you until he’s fully facing you, and when they do, his gaze is only planted on your face. You almost feel the nervousness pulsing around him in waves, thick waves that weakly deplete when he becomes aware of the small smile on your face. The smile that eases the tension that’s built up in his shoulders. 

“Sorry”, he mutters, his face smooths as he copies your small smile, his own lopsided one planted on the lips you’d do anything to melt into again. 

He looks down at you through thick lashes, his brows slightly furrowed as he watches you step forward, one long step leaves you directly in front of him, chest to chest. 

His eyes sparkle in the dim lighting, the hazel more of a dark brown, so you can’t really make out the widening of his pupils, but you know it’s there. The fact that his attention is focused solely on you and your movements has your insides doing funny things, things that weren’t just a result of his warm breath fanning over your forehead, but because of the very non-friend-like feelings deep-rooted through your body. 

You hold eye contact with him, every breath you both take vibrates through the other; he exhales gently, pushing his chest closer to yours. Your hands, pressed around the towel, loosen. His eyes still don’t move from your face at the sound of the cotton hitting the floor. 

“You're really pretty”, he says softly, his hand coming to move a stand of wet hair from out of your face and tuck it behind your ear.

Your cheeks burn. 

“Always thought I looked better after an orgasm, lips puffy, flustered, you know,” you shrug playfully, “hot.” 

His eyes crinkle in amusement, and he nods with agreement, “You know, there are studies suggesting that after orgasm, the release of endorphins and oxytocin can temporarily relax facial muscles and increase blood flow, which may make someone appear more attractive from a neurological perspective.” 

Your brows raise, watching the way his mouth moves as he speaks, his tongue peaking out to swipe along his top lip. “So are you saying my attractiveness is placebo?”   

His cheeks warm at your words, “No thats- that’s not what I'm saying” 

Your smile broadens at his boyish state of embarrassment, worried that he said the wrong thing, and now stumbling over his words as a result. You lean on your tippytoes to get closer to him, your lips hovering over his and your hot breath mixing between the small space, getting lost dancing with each other's unspoken wants. 

“I know”, you smile against his lips, not quite a kiss but more of a whisper of touch, a ‘you can have this if you want it.’ 

His eyes finally move to your body, glancing down at your naked breasts pushed against his chest, the water that had descended your body now dried. 

“I think you're attractive, v-very very attractive” 

His hand comes to rest on the bare skin of your waist, the touch causing a soft sigh to slip from your lips, a soft sigh that makes a smug smile grow across his mouth, content with the conclusion of his touch. 

Tonight had been a huge change in your relationship with Spencer, going from close co-workers, friends who put their trust in each other daily, in the field with guns in hand or something as simple as trusting Spencer to hold your drink in a crowded bar. Friends who would tease each other all the time, like that month you both had an ongoing prank war that Derek insisted he was a part of. 

You loved him as a friend and a co-worker, and you could always rely on him. 

Now it was different.

You loved him, trusted him and relied on him just the same, but everything felt heightened tenfold. You're no longer catching glances with him or brushing his shoulder purposely when walking past him; you're now standing naked in his house with his lips hovering over yours, the same lips that were eating you out only a couple of hours ago. 

You made peace with the fact that you were falling for him, the moment on the jet just a few days ago when Spencer had confessed his inexperience, and you both met eyes, the second the sparks flew, you consciously became aware of your feelings. When you made the decision to send the drunken text that you blamed the alcohol for, your feelings were set in place. 

You could only hope and assume that Spencer had the same feelings as you, with the way he reacted around you and the words he spoke sweetly a couple of hours ago. And the fact that you both knew the moment his lips wrapped around your clit that it was no longer a lesson but a devotion of pleasure, a goal he had to make you feel the best his virgin fingers could. 

Because you were you. 

It’s a quick movement; in fact, you don’t really have to think about what you're doing, as you press your lips to his. It feels right when your lips meet, as though your life purpose was entwined with his touch.

His grip tightens on your waist, not enough to hurt but enough that you're aware he needs something to tether to, so he knows it’s real. It’s short and sweet, a kiss that makes you melt into each other; it eases everything in and around both of you. 

You pull back, Spencer chases it again, pecking your lips tenderly. Your forehead rests against his, and you catch the way his lips tilt up in a small side smile. 

“Are you sleeping like this?” he whispers, breaking the room's silence.

“Naked?” 

“Yeah”, he looks down at your body again, tracing your curves with his eyes. 

“If you're okay with it”, your voice is just as quiet as his, almost timid. 

He nods, looking down at you as you move off your tippytoes, leaving you to your normal height, almost a foot shorter than him. Your eyes move over his form, still in his grey t-shirt and plaid pyjama pants, only now they were slightly more wrinkled than before, you wondered if that annoyed him. 

“Are you sleeping in this?” you ask, pinching the fabric of his shirt between your fingers. Although soft and comfortable, you couldn’t help but hope it was his bare chest you would lie on tonight instead. 

“Um, what do you want me to wear?” his brows furrow as he waits for your answer, behaving like he would wear whatever you asked him to, no matter how stupid. 

You pick up on it, tempted to tease him, but decide a moment like this is best in its honest and vulnerable state. “Would I be too eager if I were to ask if you could sleep in just boxers?” 

His cheeks deepen a shade, and he swipes his tongue across his lip again, “I wouldn’t say eager, hopeful, yes. But I will, if you want me to. If that’s what you want” 

“So you're alright with it?” 

“Yeah, yeah, I'm alright with it” 

                            ⊹₊˚‧︵‿₊୨ᰔ୧₊‿︵‧˚₊⊹

After brushing your teeth and pulling your hair up in a ponytail, you find yourself wrapped in the warmth of Spencer's bedsheets. His pillows smell of peppermint, coffee, and a musky, masculine scent that has you feeling like an animal in heat. 

The warmth between your thighs has only just settled, the small ache that caused unwelcome friction at your entrance has thankfully eased, so you're able to lie on your side with your legs pressed together without any pain or discomfort. 

A soft yellow glow from the bathroom leaks from the crack at the bottom of the door. The buzz of Spencer's electric toothbrush is soon followed by the sound of him swishing his mouth out and spitting. After a few moments, you listen to the ruffle of fabric, the unmistakable sound of him taking his clothing off, and folding them too, of course. 

When he eventually steps out of the bathroom and into the dimness of the bedroom, your eyes unapologetically descend from his shadowed face, trailing the length of his body and landing on the scattering of dark curly hair leading from his belly button to the top of his plaid boxers. 

You physically restrict yourself from scurrying out of the bed, kneeling and licking a line up his stomach, your hand bunches in the blanket draped over the quilt. 

You watch him walk around the bedroom, placing his clothes and messing up his hair a few times. The angles of his pacing do wonders for his appearance, the way the streetlights shine through the window paint the sharpness of his jawline and the soft slope of his nose.  

His body isn’t muscular or toned; you always knew that, but seeing him in just underwear proves just how right you were. He isn’t an unhealthy skinny, more of a tall skinny. Being that he’s six foot one, it would be hard to put on weight that would actually do much to increase his body fat, and his activity in the field burns more than he eats. 

His skinniness doesn’t change his attractiveness; it never did. His prominent V-line decorating his pelvis is the definition of masculinity; it’s pronounced against his stomach so beautifully. It’s as though his V-line is hills and the line of hair is a flowing river, so picturesque on such a perfect frame.  

You start to feel regret for not hopping out of bed and licking him as your thoughts had insisted. 

The bed is enveloped in the snuggness of body heat as he slides into the space next to you. The mattress dips slightly under his weight, and it has you sliding closer to him without even moving a muscle. 

His eyes soften when he meets your gaze, like he’s only just welcomed rest. But the small switch at the corner of his eyelid has you thinking he’s trying to stay awake longer than his body wants. 

It’s nice. How he scoots closer to you, his eyes never falling from your face. How his warmth radiates through you, not just the temperature from his body, but the electric charge he causes deep in your chest. How, through his drowsiness, he wills his hand to move off the mattress and onto the curve of your waist. 

Your breath stills with every gesture he makes, even the twitch of his slender fingers against your skin has your breath hitching and a small smile grazing your mouth.

You're not sure how long Spencer had been shuffling closer to you, but you become very aware of the proximity when your bare feet at the bottom of the bed knock his… clothed feet?

Furrowing your brows in confusion, you rub your feet against his, all while looking at the blush rising on his cheeks. “Are you wearing socks in bed?” 

He moves his feet, twitching his toes a little before he speaks up, “My feet tend to stick out; they get cold.” 

“Do they have to be odd?” you ask after peering beneath the covers, making out the patterns in the darkness. His right sock is baby blue with white and yellow poka dots, whilst the other one is a striped purple and pink design. 

“Good luck”, he nods after his words, an act he does to emphasise his conversation. 

“You do it for good luck?” 

“Growing up, it just became a habit of mine. And the one time I wore matching socks, I broke my ankle”, he says matter-of-factly, “additionally, asymmetry is quite comforting to me.” 

“I always wondered that about you. You seem so put together, neat and in order, just to have odd socks” You prop yourself up more, slipping your elbow under your head to get a better view of his emotions as he speaks, the light of the passing cars bouncing off his face now and then.

“It’s an occasional reminder-” his throat bobs “that not everything is perfect, or put together as you said. Sometimes I need that reminder, in the field, briefing or even, even talking to my mom” 

You notice the way his breath shakes at the talk of his mother, you file it away as something to ask him on a better date. 

“I like that”, you whisper. 

There's a comforting feeling that manipulates the air; it holds hands with the buzzing tension no one is doing anything about. His hand starts moving up and down the curve of your waist, the tiredness that you saw earlier in Spencer's eyes is reflected in your own as your eyelids begin to feel heavy, an effort to keep open. You find it almost impossible to stay awake when such a thing as Spencer's hand is almost pulling you under the pleasure of sleep. 

“Do you think, um, would you be okay with cuddling?” He asks, voice timid. 

“Silly question,” you speak in a light-hearted way. You knew he already knew your answer, or at least he had some suspicion.   

He huffs a laugh, his lips welcoming a tender smile, “I know, just thought I should ask on the off chance that you would say no.” 

“Do you want me to turn around or…” You shrug, questioning where exactly he wanted you, how he wanted to hold you and if he would find it hard falling asleep, depending on how he was wrapped around you. 

He nods twice; he doesn’t have to say anything, and you're turning around to face the window, watching the lights distort the room in a warm orange hue. 

The weight of his palm against your stomach settles over you. He pushes his hand against you to bring your back flush against his stomach without much effort. Skin-to-skin has never felt so nice, such a welcome respite from the hustle and bustle of your daily life. It's just as if the buzzing and banging of your struggles in and out of work, the chaos of catching and killing, has suddenly tempered to a small, friendly hum. 

 The dictionary in your head toggles itself, changing the definition of comfort to a few words: the feeling you get when your curly-haired, genius, IQ of 187 coworker holds you close in the warmth of his bed.  

Your eyes close, welcoming sleep, answering its invitation that it had sent you many hours ago. A small, fleeting peck of the lips is left on the side of your forehead that you're partly aware of as you slow yourself into the realm of unconsciousness. 

                            ⊹ ₊˚‧︵‿₊୨ᰔ୧₊‿︵‧˚₊⊹

The first three things that you take notice of as you wake up are that- 

One: The light of the morning sun enveloping the room, shining off everything, as though it's greeting you for another day. 

Two: The beautiful melody of the birds chirping and singing their hearts away, something you always look forward to when your eyes blink open every day without fail. 

Three: Warm hardness against your ass, clothed hardness that in this moment in time was unrhythmically rutting against your bare cheeks. 

Your whole body freezes, stilling so much your not even sure you're breathing. He’s asleep, you know that. 

But oh my god, he’s rock hard grinding against your ass??

Small whimpers fall from his mouth, his lips grazing upon the shell of your ear, his hot breath stutters, an occasional nondescript mutter unintentionally slips from his mouth and lands in your ear. 

You're not exactly sure what to do, what would someone do in a situation like this? You can’t just turn around and tell him you know that he was having some dirty sex dream that must have been so good that he was rutting against you like a needy dog who needed a release. 

Can you? 

The hot length underneath Spencer's boxers wasn’t stopping anytime soon; you were almost certain his unconscious self would keep going even after he cums in his pants. 

What bites into your skin, sinking its teeth into you, is the fact that you like it, you like feeling him against you, using you for pleasure even when he was unaware of it. Guilt gnaws at you, leaving you feeling lost in an unknown part of the world, unsure where to go or how to move. 

You're hesitant to proceed, cognizant of all of the pulse points in your body, the blood rushing around your body far too loud, your heart beating far too fast. 

It takes all of the courage you have to actually move a muscle, that muscle being a twitch of your finger… but it’s a start. 

When he stills for a moment, you take that as your opening, taking a deep breath before turning around as quickly but quietly as you can. You're not sure where to look first, his flushed face, mouth slightly open, eyes shut peacefully or down where his boxers are moulded against his cock, now visible since the cover has been relocated to the bottom of the bed. 

You didn’t want to embarrass him; this was normal, having sex dreams was completely normal, in fact, you’d woken up wet and needy a few times in the loneliness of your bed. Yeah, you suppose that it’s slightly different when it results in humping against your coworker unknowingly, but same hormonal reasoning and all, right?  

His cock twitches beneath his boxers, the action leaving its mark on you; your own twitching between your legs finding a steady rhythm. You inhale a breath louder than you anticipate, and Spencer stirs slightly in his sleep, turning around to lie on his back. Whether it is the outcome of your inhale, you're not sure. 

Fuck it. 

It isn’t an easy task to wake up Spencer because it turns out he sleeps like the dead. Okay, the first nudge was a feather touch to his shoulder, but you thought it would at least elicit a small jerk of his hand. The second and third nudges to his shoulder were harder, hard enough that you were absolutely certain he would open his eyes. 

He didn’t.

“Spencer?” you say lowly, not a whisper but not spoken at much volume either. 

Nothing. 

Courage finally decides to greet itself with you, some form of confidence holding your hand. “Spencer, wake up”, you groan as you shake his shoulders. 

That finally seems to get something out of him; he moans in confusion, eyes blinking open slowly to accommodate the brightness of the morning sun. His hands come up to his face, rubbing his palms into his eyes with the purpose of knocking some sense into himself. 

“What's wrong? Who's dead?” His voice is more groggy than usual, unused and rough.

“What?” You look at him with furrowed brows, your voice a pitch higher. “Do you say that every time you wake up?” 

“Every time I wake- what?” he sits up on his elbows, spotting a confused look. He has yet to notice the hardness throbbing between his legs; you're not sure if he will notice it on his own terms. “Do we have a case?”

“No- no,” you shake your head. You had managed to take enough deep breaths to calm yourself down, using fake courage to will some confidence into yourself. “Spencer.” 

“What’s the time?” his voice is still tittering on the edge of bewilderment, the morning haze making his brain foggy. He reaches for the clock on his bedside table. 

“Spencer”, you repeat, hoping with some greater glory his attention would turn to you. 

He hums with acknowledgement as he reads the clock, then turns his focus back to you. “I didn’t think you’d be awake at this time; you went to sleep quite late.” 

His eyes watch your face, taking in your slightly dishevelled appearance whilst waiting for your response. He looks so innocent, it has your insides turning to mush. His brown puppy dog eyes are the complete opposite of the whimpers he exhaled the previous minute. 

“Yeah, yeah, you kinda woke me up” You're half tempted to move your line of sight down to his boxers, but Spencer is bound to have double the embarrassment if you were to do such a thing. Honestly, you didn’t think words would help lessen his guilt much, but at least you could voice your understanding. 

“Oh. Did I- Did I snore?” You didn’t even know his puppy eyes could get more pathetic, but they do. 

You inch closer to him, and in response, Spencer lifts his arm to welcome you closer to him, accepting any comfort you were to offer him, as if it were a normal occurrence. As his arm comes to rest on you leisurely, you wonder if Spencer is aware of the hardness yet again pressed against you. Perhaps his mind was busy with something; perhaps the way he was looking down at you, observing everything you did, was the only thing on his mind.

“You didn’t snore”, you manage to whisper out, not breaking a single second of eye contact. Even when the look he’s giving you, furrowed brows, doe brown eyes, rewires your brain chemistry to the point where all you want to do is kiss him. 

“Sleep talk?” he questions, cocking an eyebrow. 

“Um- not, not really” You stutter your words, spending a good few seconds figuring out how to word it right. “You woke me up, but you didn’t wake me up” 

Fuck that was fucking stupid. 

“Yeah”, he looks even more confused than he was before you offered him an explanation “, not really picking up what you're putting down.” 

Understandable. 

“You were very…happy” Your brows furrow at your own incompetence, “fuck- okay, you were obviously having a very good dream, and so you got um happy, you know” 

His eyes widen like he’s just clocked it, but is still missing a big puzzle piece, one you weren’t sure you were competent enough to say. “Did I touch you?” his voice drops, worry evident in the way he speaks. 

“Yeah, I guess, uh-humped.” You felt like every word you said was a spade to the mud, the hole dug deeper with every syllable spoken. “But- it’s okay, I swear,” you rush to reassure him, watching the way his eyes fill with guilt. 

“Spencer, it’s fine, honestly” Your hand comes up to his cheek, setting it on his skin softly. 

His eyes don’t stop searching yours, ready to apologise if any form of unease was to twinkle in your eyes. “I- did I make you uncomfortable?” 

The shake of your head is easy; you don’t have to think about it. “No, not at all. I-” I liked it. “It’s a normal thing, and since you were sexually active in some form last night, it’s probably just a response to it. Your body probably- possibly might have just wanted more” Your voice stills a bit, still on edge about saying the wrong thing, something that would worsen the guilt and embarrassment already holding Spencer's reins, “maybe.” 

“That's not really scientifically correct” 

Of course it’s not. 

“You're actually less likely to have a wet dream, nocturnal emission, after sexual activity” he looks as though he’s going through his ‘know everything’ catalogue that’s stored in his brain. “But since I didn’t uh orgasm, I suppose you're correct.” 

You almost gave yourself a pat on the back; you technically didn’t outsmart him, but you let your ego expand for your own peace of mind. 

“Do you want to?” you say. 

You don’t know which one of the little ‘inside out guys’ controlling your head, let that slip out of your mouth, but you want them fired, or promoted. Depending on the outcome. 

His eyes go a shade darker at the same time the tips of his ears go red, blush looked good on anyone, but sometimes you felt like it belonged to Spencer. “You want to make me orgasm?” 

Well, when he says it like that, it seems a little out of pocket, but yeah, you suppose he's right. You suppose you're thinking out loud comment was one of the better decisions you’ve decided to make, that and the white lace you wore last night. 

His cock had previously gone soft when he thought he had hurt you, but with the request from your pretty pink lips, it begins to grow against your thigh. 

Your fingernail softly draws a line down his stomach, starting from his collarbone down to the spot of hair above his boxers, where his stomach clenches in response. “Depends if you want me to, you can tell me what you like,” you say with a soft voice “, I can teach you about touch, what to say and do when someone touches you.”

The word teach feels bitter in your mouth, something fake you want to spit out, and you think the feeling is mutual with the way his eyes explore yours at the hollowness of the word, wondering if he was the only one who felt it.

When your hand moves lower and hesitantly cups Spencer's length, you discover how hard he has become, coupled with the pre cum soaking the front of his boxers. A soft groan slips from his throat, one you're not sure agreed with him before escaping his mouth. 

“Please”, he whimpers, his lips grazing your forehead. You feel an embarrassing amount of arousal leave your pussy at the sound you elicit from him. 

“Do you want my mouth or hand?” you say half teasingly, lifting your head to meet his eyes again. He looks as hungry as he did yesterday, only this time, hunger for his own pleasure. 

“Both? Is that an option?” he says, his tone mousey but needy all rolled into one. His hips buck up against your hand, an invitation that you were allowed to touch him. Well, more so that he wanted you to touch him, to slip your hand under his boxers and make him cum. 

Smirking slightly, you nod along to his words, “You're sure? It’s a lot for your first time.” 

“Yeah- I'm- I'm sure” his blinks are slow, fascinated by watching your half-lidded eyes flutter up at him “very sure actually.” 

The soft glow radiating from outside has the room glowing in more of a white-yellow rather than the warm orangey yellow it was when you woke up. The brightness of it splays across Spencer, the trees outside the window dancing in the breeze paint skinny, flowing shadows across his pale skin. The shadows don’t hit his boxers, so the brightness of the sun makes the hard length of his bulge very visible and, in your opinion, very appetising. 

Your thumb rubs over his clothed tip, precum leaking through his boxers. “Have- mh, have you done this before? Sorry, stupid- stupid question.” 

You smile at the stuttering of his words, the boyish embarrassment displayed over his cheeks. “Yeah, a few times, heard I'm pretty good at it.”  

Something like jealousy comes across his fixed gaze, but it leaves quickly, as though he, too, became aware of its presence. 

“How many people?” 

“Spencer- what?” 

“I'm just ask-” 

You roll your eyes, his inexperience shown through one simple question that would be best asked when your hand isn’t on his cock. 

“Spence”, you move your hand from his hardness and lift a finger in front of his face, something you find works well in silencing him. “There’s a rule you have when it comes to asking questions during any sexual encounter. Don’t ask a woman's body count or anything- just don’t” 

You don’t say it strictly, not with a raised voice or any sort of primal dominance, and yet he looks like a hurt puppy, subtle but definitely there. “I just thought- just- I mean, you’re you, so I just thought I could ask.”  

“I'm me?”

“We’re close, and I did kinda have you in my mouth last night. It didn’t seem like a silly question at the time,” he crinkles his eyes like he needs emphasis on the last sentence. 

Despite the fact that he looks like a sad puppy, his cock is still hard against you, throbbing with destitution that doesn’t go unnoticed by you. 

“It’s not silly”, you whisper with intent to soothe his worries. You avoid eye contact when you speak next, your focus solely on the way he twitches in his boxers “three.” 

“Three you’ve had sex with or just-” 

His words cut off, fading quickly at the glance you give him. Your eyes bore into his; no words need to be spoken because the look that burns into your gaze is enough to silence the conversation. To be fair, it's the kindest look you could have given him for attempting to speak the words ‘seriously, please stop’ through only your eyes.  

“Are you going to let me touch you now?” You ask cockily, raising your brows in question. 

“You’ve been allowed to touch me”, he looks at you with half-lidded eyes, his big brown eyes looking at you through thick lashes. 

“I mean touching you without being stopped” 

“I never told you to stop” 

You're not even sure Spencer meant to make it sound that dirty, but to you, as the words leave his mouth your almost certain that was the dirtiest thing ever spoken to you, the throbbing between your legs can testify. He didn’t say it lowly; his voice didn’t waver or drop to something rough; he said it like it was an absolutely normal thing to say. 

It should be his brain short-circuiting, not yours.

You shuffle your body down the length of his, stopping when your feet hang over the bottom of the bed, and the soft breeze wraps itself around your toes. Your face is so close to his cock that you can feel the heat practically radiating from him in waves. When you finally tear your eyes away from his cock to look up at him, you notice just how blissed out he looks, how eager he is to have you wrapped around him. 

His hair is bed messy, cheeks flushed, mouth slightly open as if he was having problems regulating his breathing. And when you do finally grip the waistband of his boxers and nudge them down with the help of him lifting his hips, he looks even more flustered than before. And not just his face. 

Was it normal to think a dick was pretty? 

He was a lot more impressive than what his bulge gave away; he wasn’t thick as so, but he was long, like a good seven inches long. It half excited you, and the other half was more timid, thoughts on how exactly the physics of fitting that into your mouth was possible.   

The tip is flushed pink, with clear beads of precum pearling the slit; they gleam in the sunlight, like the cherry on top of something that already looked desirable. 

You can feel his eyes on you, not wavering for even a second as he watches what flits across your eyes. Desire you suppose. His body is tense, pulled tight as though he isn't sure of anything going through his head, whether he should buck his hips into your mouth to get what he so desperately needs or if he should wait for you to move first, with patience he wasn't sure he had. 

Saltiness swims your taste buds as you move down and caress the flatness of your tongue across his soft tip, you lick up every bead of precum like a delicacy to be savoured. Just the act of it is enough to elicit a soft gasp from Spencer; his hips bucking up a little, you assume he didn't have much control over it. His tip nudges your closed lips, and you gently open up to him. 

The head of his cock nudges into your mouth, your lips wrapping around the soft velvetness of it. It throbs against your tongue, demanding your attention. As you hollow your cheeks and suck the tip, Spencer exhales a small, ragged breath.

All the noises spilling from his mouth edge you on; the whimpers and gasps give you a feeling of empowerment. 

“Feels so good”, Spencer weakly whimpers. 

“Yeah?” you ask, wittiness laced into your words. Your mouth pops off, and your hand comes to hold the base of his length for some sort of contact between the two of you. Facing him, you look into his half-lidded eyes, and you feel complacent over the way his face displays his emotions. “Do you want me to go deeper?” 

He nods eagerly as though he's never heard something he wants as much as that. 

You keep your hand wrapped around the base of his cock when your mouth comes down on him again. You let him in even more this time. He hits the back of your throat easily, and it takes a minute, but your throat accommodates him so that you're not gagging or salivating excessively but taking him in with genuine determination. 

After spitting on your hand, you enclose it back around the base of his cock, and after thinking about it, you decide that you want to try something you had only done once, but honestly, you loved it as much as the last guy did. It was such an easy thing to do for such a pleasurable reaction. 

“Can I try something?” you ask. 

“Mhm, what- what is it?” 

You smirk against his tip and don't answer him verbally, but instead show him. You spit on his dick, your bubbly saliva trickling down his length to where your hand sits. The movement of your hand sliding upward has Spencer whimpering, your hand tightens around his tip, and your mouth presses against the opening of your fist where his tip pokes out. 

When your hand moves back down his hardness, so does your mouth. You time it right so that with every stroke of your hand, your mouth copies. His tip slips in and out of your mouth with precision that you have mastered after only very little practice. 

‘That- holy shit, where did you learn that?” 

You would smile around in response to him swearing, but you didn't want his first time to be accompanied by you accidentally biting him or scraping your teeth against him. You hum against him, not much of an answer at all, but you wanted to acknowledge his words. It wasn't unusual for him to swear, but you had never heard it come from him so easily. 

You keep pumping your hand, occasionally switching to just a handjob or just a blowjob. You take notice of every reaction he shows, where exactly he likes to be touched more, and you show him just how good it can feel when the giver knows what the receiver wants. You take mental notes of when to flatten your tongue, hollow your cheeks, tighten your hand and moan around his cock. 

The room is filled with the noise of Spencer's whimpers and moans as well as the sexual sounds of your slurping, sucking and deep throating that had you groaning around him. 

It was a sound better than any song you had ever heard, something more special than the awakening of birds chirping. This was a sound to be treasured, something only you have ever had the opportunity to drink in; no one else but you has had the pleasure of being the cause of such sounds slipping from Spencer's mouth.

Billions of people treasured the sound of the birds chirping, and billions of people drank in the sound of the seaside. But only you had ever heard the melody of Spencer's wants and begs, his needs for more, his whimpers of thankfulness. 

You were the only person who knew how Spencer Reid sounded on the edge of an orgasm. 

You can tell how close he is based on the hand that grips your hair, the redness decorating his neck like watercolour and the way his breathing picks up. When the words “I'm close” claw themself out of Spencer’s throat, you take it as a slight indication too. 

Spencer has a weak attempt at pulling you off, tugging your hair with the same strength as a duckling. He doesn’t want you off him, it's so obvious, but of course, the gentleman he is, how would he ever allow himself to flood your mouth with his cum.

“You- mh- you don't have to, I haven’t drunk enough-” he gasps as you deep throat him “, I haven’t drunk enough water, it's probably not- oh god- nice or anything. You really don't have t-” Every word seems like a struggle, as though looking through a haze. 

The last thing going through your mind was his taste; it was at the bottom of your ‘I care about this’ list. You don't stop your mouth because you know he doesn’t want you to. The hand pulling your hair gives up after a few seconds, but when his hips buck, and a strangled gasp stumbles from his mouth, he tugs it back harder. 

You're blissfully aware that if he wanted to pull you off, he would have used that strength before. 

A small, barely there pain sparks in your scalp as he pulls you off his cock. Your hand slips from around him, and his own takes over the space yours abandoned. He jerks his length, chasing his high with purpose. His mouth is open on a silent gasp, his chest falls and rises nimbly, and the lust on his face is vibrant.  

His grip on your hair doesn't flatter; in fact, it tightens the closer he gets to his orgasm. Your face is still close to his cock, so close that with every upstroke, his knuckles nudge your nose. 

You can see the moment the elasticity in the pit of his stomach snaps, and the moment you do, sticking your tongue out seems like the only reasonable response. He sees your tongue as a welcome despite the way he pulled you off before, you don’t wrap your mouth around him, but instead let him watch as his cum lands on your tongue. It pools in your mouth, the warmth a pleasing feeling. 

His eyes don't leave your mouth, even when he’s spent dry, and the cum residing in your mouth drips down your chin and onto his stomach. He watches in awe, his eyes glowing boyishly as you bring your tongue in and close your mouth. 

He isn’t clumpy or uncomfortable to take down; his release is smooth and flows down your throat with ease. He doesn’t taste as bad as he was worried he would; it is more bitter than salty or sweet, but the copious amounts of coffee he consumes daily probably doesn’t help. He doesn’t taste amazing, but definitely not bad, you're sure you would have swallowed even if it was disgusting anyway. 

The blush on his cheeks and his dilated pupils seem like a deserving enough reward for you. 

“Mh’ sorry”, he says softly, the scratchiness of his voice a faintness. 

Your eyes soften, furrowing at the embarrassment in his voice, “Why?” 

“I didn't mean to- that quick and in your mouth” Avoiding eye contact, he watches his cock rest against his stomach in its worn-out form. 

“Spence”, you put two fingers under his chin to get him to look at you “It's okay. I wanted it in my mouth more than not, and the quickness, dont- dont worry about that. I would be slightly embarrassed if it took you longer; it's normal to finish that quickly for the first time. Honest.” 

His glance switches between your eyes, looking for any lie in your words. He's never going to find it because it's not there. Being his first was something special to you, and the way it went was perfect; you didn't want it any other way. 

“It didn't taste bad?” 

You shake your head. 

“Did it taste like coffee?” 

You laugh at that “slightly.” 

He tilts his head, the space between his eyebrows creasing, “You don't like the coffee I drink” 

Rolling your eyes, you huff out another laugh, “Yeah, well, I liked your cum” 

His eyes widen slightly, his puppy eyes making a reappearance, “I- am I meant to have a response to that?” 

“Not if you can't think of one” 

He seems content with that; he goes to lean in to plant a kiss on your lips, but you pull back with a smile before he can. “You have morning breath, and I've just swallowed your semen.” 

“Not even a peck?” he whispers, not at all deterred by your specifics. 

“One, you get more after we brush our teeth.” You cave in; you've never been one for morning kisses, but Spencer brings out things in you that you weren't sure were even there until he came along. 

You're surprised that he even wanted to kiss you, given his whole germaphobe thing, but perhaps he has a reason for it? 

He extends the kiss for longer than it needs to be, two seconds becoming five. His lips are softer in the morning, not as soft as the head of his cock, but soft in its own ‘sink in’ way. 

“Okay cmon” you nod your head over to the bathroom. 

“Can't walk”, he lies.

“Spencer, come and brush your teeth” 

“Come and kiss me again” 

“Spence”, you say firmly, determined not to fall flat on your face and crawl into his comfort. 

“Really?” 

You give him a look that gets him rolling his eyes, but thankfully, moving up. 

                           ⊹ ₊˚‧︵‿₊୨ᰔ୧₊‿︵‧˚₊⊹

“Do you really have to go?” he whispers against your lips, tightening his arms around your waist and pressing your chest closer to his. 

Your sat in his lap on the leather couch in his living room, the birds stopped chirping a while ago, sometime between the shower running and Spencer dragging you to the couch for his much-needed makeout session. 

His tie needs fixing again, you thought you had done it tight enough, but the hum he did when you pulled on it earlier was too much to resist, so it had become slightly loose. The top button on your top was undone, but that was a fashion choice; you're not so sure you're red and used lips were much of a statement, though.

Well, depending on what type of statement you were going for. 

‘Spencer, you're coming with me, Hotch asked for both of us on this case,” you chuckle, bringing the knot of his tie up more to tighten it. 

“I know”, he whispers, “but it means that we can’t do this, that this version of you, of us is gone.”

You search his eyes, not sure what to search for, but perhaps something that digs up his words and gives away the true meaning, “What is this version of us?” 

You find something, but you're not sure if it's what you want. 

“I'm not sure”, he hesitates, his thumb strokes the skin of your stomach where your top rides up. 

The conversation ends with a kiss, and another one and more after. They all have heaviness to them, unspoken feelings that you can't depict; his mouth is home, and you're not sure why. 

Climbing off him feels cold, packing your bag and pulling your shoes on feels wrong. Putting your gun in your holster and your badge in your pocket feels normal. 

You're a whirlwind of emotion when you step through the door, Spencer at your side. 

He’s in one of his sweaters that he wears to work, such a difference from the nothing he was wearing earlier. The air outside the apartment is easier to breathe in, or perhaps its placebo. 

You don’t look at him as you both walk down to your cars, you smile at him in the friendliest ‘I don’t still have your cum in my throat’ look you can manage. 

It's normal, your friendship is normal, and the way you act as co-workers together at work is normal, the briefing and plane ride are normal, but everything feels compact.

You're glad it's not awkward, that work isn't tension-filled, but occasionally you catch yourself wondering what's fake and what's not.

There is so much to let out of the box, and you're not sure when the box is to be opened. At the moment, it is tied up with a pretty bow that both you and Spencer had a hand in tying. 

tags: @anausr78 @killjoynotes @matilde-333 @mrs-spencer-reid26 @prettypan-blog2 @ayumimegami @dor4kk @somewhereingermany563 @s0rc3r3r @kissesbya @aalyyssa @patslondonstuff @baucumdumpster  @elle-wlkr @samanthaw16 @heypyre @cakebootyscaca @hobisunshine13 @perfectballoonblaze @hiddentattooodyssey @theoneeees @bxbyysstuff @acescutejeans-1247@somo-69@cynbx@random-writer-person @blasaah@jooordinary @aurorafloraa @cessixja@crazyobsessedsmutreader@amatiswayland@djfjbfh@z3ph-was-h3r3@emma-e-a@hellfirehottie@gglittergoddess@noxx-starr @karmel07 @atlasdreaming@mmmunson@lizzylynch1@waywardhunter95@bigchungusdrinksspritecranberry@boxcletter@itspalaly@sp1derst0rrr

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peter doesn’t usually think of himself as perverted or dirty-minded, and it’s not something anyone would think of him either when he presented as the most elegant and refined of royalty. the first curve he notices on a person is their smile rather than their chest or their ass, regardless of how provocative their clothing may be, and he’s much more interested in one’s personality and ethics instead of their body. that being said, once he starts catching romantic feelings for someone, things begin to change. once he started falling in love with you, he started feeling more physically attracted to you, while fantasies began running through his mind. it only got worse as time went on, as if he was experiencing puberty years too late, and it embarrassed him to the point where he would struggle to maintain eye contact as all he could think about was how pretty you look underneath him. by the time you got married, he was infatuated with you to a degree that he never thought he would ever experience, reaching a point where it was actually worrisome of how much power you had over him.

while he knew such feelings were only natural between lovers, there was a part of him that wondered if he was dirty for having such thoughts when you were so… innocent…

most would describe you as an angel who descended from the heavens to bless and bring joy to everyone’s day. you’re so sweet and kind, pure of heart, generous, and faultfully naive. it was a normal occurrence for the people around you to make a dirty joke every now and then that flew over your head, causing a lot of amusement from them as they continued to use double meanings just to watch you look even more confused. it’s so endearing, as if you never thought of intimacy even once, and it made peter so nervous about bringing up the topic when he laid you down on your wedding bed. he didn’t want to make you feel uncomfortable, nor did he want to corrupt your innocence, but little did he know, there was never any innocence to corrupt in the first place and that you were far more knowledgeable about the topic than anyone could have anticipating. 

you blame how much of a hopeless romantic you used to be, leading to an excessive consumption of romance novels which grew to include erotica as well, but you were far too shy to admit that you spend a good chunk of your freetime reading about lewd topics. as a result, you just acted like you never quite learned about it and maintained the persona of an innocent girl that everyone knew you as. in truth, you understood every dirty joke others threw around in conversation, you got flustered at double meanings directed at you, and you lay awake late at night fantasizing, particularly about the high king of narnia. you still can’t believe the stroke of luck that brought you two together and led to marriage, and while you love him with all your heart and soul, you were also so goddamn needy for him in ways that shouldn’t even be possible.

that’s why on your wedding night, you wouldn’t let go of him while he kissed you, pulling him on top of you and allowing the night to progress naturally. it was everything you’ve ever dreamed of and more, but when you woke up next to him in the morning, light started to filter through the curtains and illuminate your entangled nude bodies, and you feared he may have unlocked a monster within you that was previously trapped.

you tried to hide it at first, but it was impossible when you were even more attracted to him now that you’ve had a taste, something you didn’t even know was possible. when he’s doing the most mundane things and his kingly duties, you can’t help but stare with all sorts of indecent things running through your mind. everything from his broad shoulders in his garments, to his muscular arms that flexed while he was training, to how his tongue would dart out to lick his lips when he was thinking— oh, it was so much worse than you even could have predicted.

it made you nervous that he would eventually catch on over the next few days, especially with the way you’re constantly dragging him back into the bedroom once he was finished for the day, but even if he did figure out how much of a pervert you were, it’s not like he was any better.

peter could hardly focus on his kingly duties without his mind circling back to you. it was wholesome at first, thinking about how he would love to have you around to brighten up his dull office, but it quickly took a turn when he started thinking about the events that transpired last night. soon enough, he’s thinking about what it would be like to fuck outside of his bedroom and be in his office instead, doing all sorts of different positions, hiding you under his desk, having you laid out naked on the wooden surface, or maybe pushing you up against the bookshelves. actually, there’s hardly been a night when the two of you haven’t been intimate to some degree, and while some would find it exhausting, he doesn’t think he’s ever felt so relaxed while being under the pressure of the crown. 

how lucky for him that you two seem to have a special connection, hearing you knocking on the large double doors that his desk was facing before discreetly slipping in to visit him. you were wearing a breezy and rather thin dress, which could only be compared to a sundress in the world he originated from, and while it covered up enough to leave plenty to the imagination, it did not help the aroused state he was already in when he could perfectly visualize what you looked like underneath. “i thought you were having tea with some friends.”

“well, we wrapped up early, so i thought i would come bother you.”

“you know you’ll never be a bother to me.”

his words brought heat to your cheeks while you closed the door behind you and made your way over to him. truth be told, the only reason you wrapped up early was that you admitted that you were already missing him, and after a barrage of teasing, they were willing to allow it this time. what else did they expect from newlyweds who only made their marriage official a week ago? “what are you working on?” as you made your way over to him, you noticed that there was a dark puddle on the page he was writing on, caused by ink dripping off his quill, as if he was so engrossed in his thoughts that he forgot to write anything. “or should i say, what are you thinking about?”

peter’s gaze faltered, and you could already tell that he was thinking of something he wasn’t supposed to be thinking about, something far too inappropriate for a royal like him. he was embarrassed to admit that he was procrastinating his work because he was thinking of bending you over and dicking you down on his desk, but he already knew that he couldn’t keep it a secret when he isn’t exactly someone who could easily hide, so he decided to make his fantasy come true by bringing you into his lap and capturing you a rather passionate kiss.

by the way he kissed you alone, you could immediately feel his want and melted into him, feeling his hands start to roam your body. the first time he’s touched you like this, he was a little awkward and stiff at first, clearly nervous about making you feel uncomfortable before you placed your hands over his and guided him to where you wanted him first, but he’s improved so much with more confidence in his motions due to all the “practice” he’s been having. now, he’s a natural at feeling you up and making you feel like the most desirable woman in the entire universe, pulling you close until you were tightly lined up against each other, and you could feel his heartbeat as well as his growing erection forming a sizable tent in his pants.

he steals your breath away as though it was never yours to begin with, his tongue darting out to push past your lips and taste the lingering bitter tea mixed with sweet pasties leftover from your little party earlier. it’s so easy to get drunk and slightly light-headed when he’s kissing you that he’s never quite sure if you’re actually using some sort of witchy spell on him to make him dangerously in love with you, but he isn’t sure if he cares in the first place when the feeling of loving you and being loved by your is more addictive than any drug out there.

as the minutes pass, he finds you getting more impatient to get to the main act, rolling your hips into his and hastily unbuttoning his top. little sighs were escaping from your lips, all breathy and pitched with fire burning in your loins, causing you to be a bit more aggressive and forthcoming with your actions. he couldn’t help but chuckle at your desperation, “looks like i’m not the only one who’s needy.”

“i’m always needy when it comes to you… you don’t know how crazy you make me, even before we got together…” you muttered bashfully. now was as good a time as ever to admit just how obsessed you are with him and how deep it runs. it wasn’t just because of his physical looks and your sexual chemistry together, that’s not completely enough to turn you into the deviant you were today, but because of his soul and essence seemed to tie in with yours. your connection ran deeper than what was on the surface, making you feel more like soulmates than just lovers. it reached a point where neither of you could even start to imagine a timeline where you could have fallen in love with anyone else, and being intimate was simply a reminder of how magical it was to have found and fallen for each other. 

“i don’t know how crazy i make you?” he repeated in disbelief, never expecting to hear such words come from your mouth. he had his suspicions, of course, especially with the way you were getting increasingly worse at hiding your true nature and dirty mind as the days went on, but he didn’t mind in the least bit. if anything, he was elated to know that he wasn’t the only one who was hiding his growing perversion, keeping everything hidden under the cover of his regalness and nobility, when he was constantly holding himself back from pouncing on you like an animal behind closed doors. “i think it’s you who doesn’t know the power you have over me, darling, how about you i show you just how crazy you make me?”

request:

please, please, please do a Peter Smut. I'm thinking that maybe the Sweet/Innocent Reader is very polite in front of others but in reality she is almost always needy, as if like she's constantly trying to drag Peter into her bedroom because she's just so desperate for him.

You were one of the few children that lived in Shimotsuki Village who hadn’t come from the doujou — one of the few children he knew that (at least to the best of his knowledge) had a thing called family. A mother to braid your hair, a father to chase the darkness away, a warm bed and a kitchen that always smelled of freshly made rice. And perhaps it was jealousy, or some other more complicated emotion that had been then too big to name with one single word, but he’d never gone out of his way to befriend you like the other kids from the doujou did — fascinated as they were by your soft hands and round cheeks and the bright, glittering array of homemade sweets you’d bring with you once every couple of weeks.

He’d learn later on that it was because Shimotsuki-sensei had saved your father’s life at some point in time; the story now lost to the annals of legend and withering memory, but back then, he’d only assumed it was the natural way of things. Of waking up for kata practice and then settling in for lunch, and then maybe, if it was to be a good day, you, with your basket of sweets and your blue-bell laughter.

And perhaps this is why, years later, when he meets you again in a dark, nameless village tavern, he doesn’t recognize you — not at first. Because you’d looked so different. Gone was the roundness in your cheeks, or the natural star-bright light in your eyes. Gone, too, were the bright braids that your hair had always been set in — he remembers so clearly, watching the other boys from the doujou jab their fingers into the rings of your pinned up braids, pulling down just to hear you squeak. He hadn’t said anything then, stupidly thinking him above it all, watching as you tried to jerk away, but laughing when the boys finally relented with half-hearted apologies.

You always threatened to take their sweets away; you never did, in the end.

But there, then, in that tiny tavern, you’d been thin, your hair dark as an oil spill, loose and inky as it cascades over your shoulders, your eyes lightless as the windows to an abandoned house — the hollowness made all the more visceral by the light he knew once inhabited them. The way loneliness is always more potent when coming back to it, the second time around.

He wanders up to the bar, slates you a glance before rapping his knuckles on the worn wood to catch the bartender’s attention.

“I’ll have beer and a refill of whatever the lady’s having.”

You shift slightly, shoulders hunching towards your ears.

“Thanks, but no thanks,” you say, shifting to shield your face from his gaze.

Zoro cocks his head, tossing a few Berry towards the bartender as they set down a stein of beer and a champagne flute to replace the one in front of you.

“Can’t a guy buy a girl a drink?” Zoro asks, rolling his shoulders as he reaches out for his beer. You eye him warily.

“Not for a guy that’s been tracking me for three weeks straight.”

Zoro hums, thumb poised on the hilt of his swords.

“We just happened to be going in the same direction.”

You reach out to run a forefinger along the rim of the thin champagne flute before swirling it once by the base. You watch the bubbles fizzle before leaning in to take a dainty sip.

“And they say chivalry is dead…” you murmur, almost too softly for him to hear. Zoro scoffs, allowing himself a twinge of a smirk before his mouth falls flat.

“You let me track you for three whole weeks.”

There’s no question in his words, only a harsh, accusatory certainty.

You lick your lips, leaning back in your stool, tugging your glass of champagne with you.

“Maybe I wanted the company.”

“Or maybe… you wanted me to follow you here.”

Every muscle in his body is tense, drawn taut as a tightrope, coiled tight as a spring.

You sigh, twisting a single lock of your hair around a finger, examining the ends as if looking for split hairs.

Then, quick as a flash, you’re at each other’s throats — him with a sword poised at your jugular, you with a knife pressed against his stomach.

“One move —” you warn, digging the knife slightly further into his skin. Distinctly, Zoro feels the pressure slice through his thick linen shirt, the cool kiss of the blade against his abdomen. And he’s killed enough by now to know that you’ve picked a major artery — one that would hurt, and take minutes for him bleed out. Just long enough for him to suffer, but not enough to get help.

The edge of his mouth ticks upward — not bad.

It’s then, in the infinitesimal flicker of your eyes meeting his, that he realizes who you are.

He nearly topples back, jerking away slightly with the revelation. Your eyes go wide, jolted by his sudden movement. But he’s quick enough to evade the sharp jab of your knife and a second later, you’re on either ends of the tavern, drawn blades and bared teeth.

“Y-you!” the word rips from Zoro like an unripe scab, thick and hard and still bloody underneath.

You lick your lips, eyes narrowing to slits beneath your long, lanky hair.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“The hell you don’t.”

“Oi! No fighting in the bar!” the barkeep’s voice is gruff and loud, and for a second, Zoro wonders if you’ll listen. The next, the sharp clang of metal on metal stuns him backwards a few steps as you wrest your knives from between two of his katanas, snarling.

“If you’re so much of a gentleman — let’s take this outside.”

“Ladies first,” Zoro spits out as he whips both swords through the air before sheathing them. He makes a show of holding the tavern door for you as you stalk out in front of him, your hackles raised, your knives jutting out from your belt like so many pairs of sharpened claws.

“What do you want?” you ask, as soon as you’re both out of the bar and standing in the moonlit street outside, the wharf to your left, the strip of small, rundown taverns to your right.

The air twangs with the metallic smell of fish and the thick, oppressive sweetness of rotting wood.

“An explanation,” Zoro says, crossing his arms and planting his feet.

“I don’t owe you anything.”

Zoro nods, “Sure. But that doesn’t mean I don’t wanna know.”

You lick your lips, glaring at him for a second longer before turning and marching down the rickety boardwalk. A moment later, Zoro levels himself with you as you round a corner onto a small stretch of beach, pillowed against a backdrop of sharp, unrelenting rocks, the tips bleached white by the round, silver moon.

“There was a beach just like this,” you say, stepping onto the tide-soaked sand, leaning down to pick up a fragment of a broken seashell, washed ashore by an errant wave.

It takes Zoro a second to realize you’re talking about Shimotsuki village, and the tiny little beach on the other side of the dense, cedar wood.

“Yeah. A bunch of us used to play there — see who can throw rocks out the furthest.”

“You were always the best at that,” you say, your voice softer than he’d heard all night.

“Yeah, well…” Zoro shrugs, leaning down to pick up a piece of rock, weighing it in his palm a few times before whipping his arm back to snap it into the gentle, shushing waves. You both watch as the rock skids out over the water before plunking into the sea, “Guess I’ve always been kind of a show-off.”

The sound of your laughter sends summertime sparklers racing up his spine.

The quiet pools between you like spilt blood, rank and dripping.

“So. You go by Ms. Double Nines now, I heard,” Zoro says, in a flagging attempt to be casual as he turns to glance at you, both his hands resting on the hilt of his swords.

You stand next to him, your eyes focused on a point far out on the horizon, still as statue.

“What’s it to you?”

Zoro sighs, looking down. In the pale, cool moonlight, his earrings glint like baring teeth.

“What happened?”

You suck in a breath.

"Life happened,” you say, turning back towards him with a steely glint in your eyes. Zoro stiffens, his grip tightening on his swords as he sizes you up. He does the mental calculations — you’re just far enough for him to defend against an attack, but close enough where if things were to go south entirely, he’d have a hard time getting back to safety.

You grin, seemingly noticing his rough internal calculations.

“Do yourself a favor, Roronoa — and don’t ask questions you don’t wanna know the answers to,” you say, flicking out one of your blades and tossing it up into the air, only to catch it around your finger, swinging it round and round, the sharp edge of the blade nicking the air just shy of your cheekbone.

“Who said I didn’t want to know?” Zoro presses, bracing himself for a fight.

You chuckle, the sound harsh and mirthless.

“If you’d wanted to fight me properly, you wouldn’t have waited till I got you onto this stretch of deserted beach.”

“Maybe I just wanted a quiet place to kill you.”

“Or maybe…” your voice is so low Zoro almost doesn’t catch the stomach-wrenching longing in your words, “I just wanted a quiet place to die.”

The sharp shink of blades being drawn is heart-rendingly familiar, but the bone-rattling clash of metal on metal still shakes him to the roots of his teeth. Zoro grunts as he parries a blow from either side, before crossing his swords to catch your assault down the center.

You’re fast, he’ll give you that, your body smaller and quicker. You slip through the shadows with the comfort of a person who knows nothing but and he can’t help wondering at the life you’ve led that had pushed you to this point.

To having a mark on your back, a bounty on your head.

You’re a good fighter — this much, he acknowledges. But good isn’t usually good enough to best him. This much, he also knows. Yet somehow, you’re keeping up, somehow, you’re pushing him back, forcing him to retreat one step and then another. It’s not until you duck beneath one of his pin-wheeling blades and force yourself into a knife’s-breath of his space that he realizes — it isn’t that you’re good, it’s that you’re reckless.

Reckless with your own body in a way that makes him stumble back at the realization. Reckless, in the way you charge forward and thrust your body into spaces where he’d easily be able to slip a blade between your ribs — and later, when he’s wiping his swords clean of your oxidizing blood, he’d wonder why he didn’t.

Still, there’s something terrifying in the way you barely flinch when he knicks your arm, drawing a dark line of blood through your clothes, or how you jerk yourself forward when the tip of his sword catches your stomach, almost as if daring him to impale you in one fell swoop.

“You — you used to be… someone else,” he says, panting as he steadies himself against a sharp jut of moonlit rocks. Behind you, the ocean churns, dark and foaming as it throws itself onto the jagged reefs.

You lick your lips, wiping a smear of blood from your cheek. Your chest heaves with the exertion, but there’s a pale, flickering ache behind your eyes that sets Zoro’s whole body on edge.

He shivers as you grin, savage and unrecognizable as the tiny girl with mochi-round cheeks who had once upon a time offered him sweets in a hand-woven basket.

“Yeah? Well — so did you.”

Every one of your suspicions had been confirmed as soon as you arrived at that little village, too small to be considered much else. It couldn’t’ve had a population more than a couple hundred, the houses obvious in the fact that they had been built by hand rather than a cookie-cutter contractor. Even in the deepest, most rural land, you doubted there was anything quite like this.

The road was mud, thick and goopy, no matter how well trod. If a home wasn’t made of cobblestone, it was made of wood and logs, none bigger than a few rooms at most. A few people milled about, dressed in drab colors and threadbare clothes. Health seemed to be a distant apparition to these people, those you talked to were missing more teeth than the woman you killed had, and most were too skinny than what could be right. More of them had a hacking a lung rattling cough than those who weren’t. In comparison, you were well cared for, which was ridiculous considering that most back home would know you as a holler boy just from looking at you. You were missing a molar or two, unwilling to shell out cash to a dentist for what you could take care of at home. Admittedly, your diet had left your bigger frame less filled out than other men due to your insistence to only eat meat if it came from one of your own, and your hair was greasier than those who had a shower to their name. All you really used was some soap and a hose, if not a bucket with some holes poked in.

That didn’t mean that, in comparison to these folks, you weren’t the picture of health, maybe even of beauty. You were watched with no small amount of caution, made even worse once you got to talking with that accent of yours. It seemed everyone here was English in some way, your distinctly American manner of speech othering you in a way that you couldn’t say that you were unused to. Even back home, people had their own opinions on hillbillies, their prejudice apparently soon as they heard that accent slip from your lips. Classism was an insidious little beast, another one of humanity's great sins, though it seemed these people believed you to be upper crust and foreign rather than native and common. Honestly, you’d’ve preferred to be considered poor rather’n some hoity-toity snob.

“You’ll be sellin’ all of them?” The man perched on a bench in one of the merchant stalls asked, a single eyebrow raised. Behind him were stables full of animals, for sale or for holding, there were no labels back there. You assumed the man knew off the top of his head. “Horse, too?”

Shaking your head, you gave him a small smile and patted your horse on the snout. “Ah, nah, sir. Hazelnut’s mine.”

For some reason, he sat a little taller and regarded you with a severity that you found yourself offended by. There would be no point in allowing his once over to make you blanch because you knew that, if it came to blows, you would be the one who came out alive. He sniffed and looked at you with disdain. “I’m no knight, boy. What’s your accent? Where are you from?”

“You wouldn’t know it if I told you.” With a final grin, you held out your hand for your payment. Your livestock were already in his pen but the man had yet to hand over the coin he had promised. As much as you’d rather not make a scene, your temper was frayed and you weren’t sure if you could hold back if this kept up. “C’mon, now. Y’all got my stock, payment is due.”

“Dornish?” The man continued his rather rude inquiries, though he put the sack of coin in your hand causing your hackles to lower. He sniffed and sat back with his arms crossed. “I’ve never heard an accent like yours. From Essos, maybe. Never seen one of them before.”

You shook your head and slipped the coin into one of your newfound cloaks, one that you hadn’t taken ribbons from to dress your wounds. “Ain’t never heard of those places, neither. I’m from farther, I reckon. Keep safe.”

All of the response you got was a shooing motion and an annoyed chuff. With your horse’s reins in hand, you led her off and away from the man. There was an urge to take his throat out itching beneath your skin, but you held steadfast. This was a small town, likely tight-knit. Even if you caught him alone, he’d be missed and all eyes’d turn to the newcomer with the strange accent. At the very least, the people who you’d killed a week ago lived far enough away and were — <i>hopefully</i> — ornery enough that they didn’t come into town often. You hummed and limped to another stall to browse their wares with your newfound coin.

Everywhere you went, you were met with rudeness and barely concealed suspicion. Thankfully, that didn’t stop no one from taking your money, and with your rucksack full of everything you wanted, you hopped back into the cart, drawn by Hazelnut, and returned to the cottage. As you traveled, you took stock of your inventory to try and figure out how you’d be spending your night. Traveling by horse took a lot longer than by car. What was only a few miles took several hours to get to, which left you with enough time to let your mind run free with plans.

First, you’d need a way to continue making money. There was still that dairy cow on the farm and you could always sell her milk— pasteurized, of course, a particular treatment those around wouldn’t be privy to. Your garden was self sufficient and enough to feed you until the winter, possibly longer if you started canning now. Of course, while you had no real intention of tending to the fields, you’d take what you could of the harvest. Sell that, or what have you.

Most of your money’d be made the same way you’d gathered it back home. Killing and robbing travelers, or your moonshine. Despite the medieval setting, you had stumbled upon some stores of corn, likely a crop that Addam and his wife grew the past season. While you much preferred using sugar for the cleaner taste, corn made a much more traditional spirit and was what you had started with when you began distilling. You knew how to brew a jar that could knock even the strongest alcoholic on their ass, a skill you could use to your advantage here. Killin’ would take more caution that you’d employed in some time considering the dwindling population nearby, so, for now, you’d begun fermenting. Legality didn’t matter much to you — never did, once you got in the habit of murder everything felt like small potatoes after — and you doubted there was no regulation ‘round here like there was back home. You were golden as long as you had buyers.

Within your rucksack, what had been considered trash was taken by you as a treasure. Old horseshoes, nails, and scrap that you could use at your discretion. You had no illusions of setting yourself up with electricity, nothing in regards to anything of that magnitude. All you really wanted was a drill and a nail gun, two items you could reverse engineer from the mechanics of your handsaw. Before you’d gone out, you took it apart, laying out its insides in a neat row. Once you returned home, you’d compare the motor to what you’d gathered. From your estimations, you could build what you wanted no problem. It’d be nice to have more of your tools at your disposal, less for construction, more for enjoyment.

Hazelnut whinnied and you jerked your head up to see that you were home now. Ahead of you, the sun hung low in the horizon, not yet sunset, but getting there rather soon. You took care stepping out of the cart so as not to put too much pressure on your injured leg. Taking Hazelnut’s reins and unhooking her from the cart to house her at her stable, you gave her a small kiss on the snout. As a thank you, an apple was pulled from your rucksack. She ate it with vigor.

Mango meowed, muffled by the rat in her mouth, pattering over to drop it at your feet. You gave her a skritch between the ears, picking her up under your arm before she could get to eating. Something much better laid in your rucksack. To your surprise, she hardly squirmed. Instead, Mango dug her claws into your cloak in an attempt to scale you so she could rub her face against yours. It all made you smile, her untainted affection enough to make your heart swell.

Animals were untouched by evil, you believed that to be truer than nothin’ else there was. Humanity was cruel, but animals were the last innocence there was left. Your duty was to tend to that loyally. Even the most rotten of beasts could hardly conceptualize the pain they had wrought, quite unlike their masters who were capable of unfathomable cruelty.

You were not exempt from that. Being human was what had made you the way you were. In a better world, you were some predator animal, lunching on his prey with wild abandon. Instead, you were a man, sick in the head, and human to your core. One day, you’d pay for that crime, though it wouldn’t be your own blade that’d bring you to justice.

Once inside, you set Mango down on the kitchen floor, smiling as she purred and weaved between your calves. From your rucksack, you pulled out a medium sized fish, unwrapping the paper that kept its juice from staining your sack’s insides. With a cleaver, you chopped off its head, taking great care to butcher it with perfect precision. Its offal was swept off to the side, to be disposed of in the garden. The rest was sliced into bite sized cubes for Mango to feast upon. As soon as you’d fixed it in the same wooden bowl you’d filled full of brain, you set it on the floor, allowing her to eat. Loud, open mouthed purrs rumbled from Mango’s little body as she gorged herself. With a final, satisfied pat, you exited into a nearby room where your disassembled handsaw sat, ready to be put back together at will. An empty notebook full of your own doodled diagrams of what you wanted to craft laid open beside it.

Piece by piece, you puzzled the handsaw back together, only to take it apart again. You hummed, examining the motor and drew up a few possible ways that you could cobble one together for a drill. Rather than a bit, you could melt some scrap metal into a handmade mold to increase the pain it’d cause. Already, ideas ran wild through your skull, a giggle escaping from behind your lips. You held up a rusty nail and examined it under the light, a softened wonder in your gaze as you imagined how it would feel, spinning in the flesh of your shoulder.

A frantic knock at the door made you startle. You set aside the nail, confusion inching your eyebrows together until they were met in the middle. Who could it be all the way out here, at this hour, no less? Maybe one of the villagers decided to follow you home. It was a shame that you hadn’t been able to put your handsaw back together quite yet. Another knock came, both hurried and insistent, continuing for several seconds longer than was polite. You plucked your cleaver from where it was buried in the cutting board as you made your way to answer the door.

The pounding continued, even as you turned the knob, causing the perpetrator to stumble past the threshold and into the cottage. Your intruder was smaller than you, almost dainty, barely paying you any mind considering that they were far more focused on closing the door behind them. Alcohol was what you smelled first, followed by the sourness of vomit and the metallic stench of blood. Your gaze was pulled to the intruder's feet where a few drops of red were smeared onto the floorboards when they turned around.

His voice held a hint of a nasal to it, far more posh than the villagers. “Barricade the door!”

Not a request, rather a command. Rude, if not adorable coming from a man that you could pick up by the head. Rather than obey, you took him in with a slow, confused blink.

You had read Lord of the Rings in middle school, taken by the otherworldly beauty of the elves within the pages, though unable to truly conceptualize it. Here and now, staring at this befuddled man when you failed to obey, you understood now. Silver-white hair, though ragged, hung in loose waves just at his jaw. His bone structure was both square and doll-like, an imperial delicateness to it that made you wonder if he was made of porcelain. Purposefully widened eyes met yours as he held the door closed with his weight, palms flat against the wood, his irises a shade of purple that you were certain was alien.

He growled, a genuinely animal sound and gasped out the demand from before punctuated by pushes of his palms against the wood. “Barricade the fucking door!”

Above his head, you lifted your hand to hook the latch and grinned. You tossed the cleaver across the room, uncaring and far more taken with the man in front of you. To your surprise, he hardly paid the weapon any mind, fixated on your rudimentary lock. His side was bleeding, though he was unwilling to release the door to put pressure on the wound. Within his silver strands, there were clumped pieces stained red, thankfully dried rather than wet. When all you did was stand there, he gave you a bewildered sort of glare. Slowly, he enunciated every word like one would to a child, “Can you understand what I am saying?”

“Lookit you, sweet puppy, you’re hurt.” Carefully, you encircled his wrists with your fingers and pried him from the door. His jaw fell agape as if you’d gone insane. He didn’t pull away, though, more afraid of whatever laid outside than he was of you.

“Puppy?” His lips twitched downward, feet seemingly moving of their own accord as you led him to the bedroom. With his jaw working, even his confusion looked adorable, his eyes wide and round, no matter how much he tried to narrow them. “Have you gone mad? Do you know who I am?” He cast a glance behind you at the door, then at you, thinking for a moment before he decided he’d rather a mad man than whatever waited outside.

“Nah. Am I s’possed to?” Now that he was sitting on the bed, his hand was pressed on his leaking wound to try and staunch the flow of blood. The more you talked, your accent anything but unnoticeable, the more his features twisted. His lips were parted and his head gave a little twitch as he studied you. “Someone comin’ after you? Looks like they got you on the head. Let me check, puppy?”

“Pu— If you do not know who I am, then what are you doing in the Crownlands?” Humor at your expense made him snort. “You must be a foreigner, but even a foreigner would never dare to call me that.”

Ignoring his rudeness, you found yourself taken by the softness of his hair as you prodded at his scalp. There was a cut at the top of his head and he sucked in a breath through his teeth when you brushed the pad of your finger against it. “Not bleedin’ no more. Lucky, lucky you, sometimes cuts like these bleed ‘till there’s no more left in you.”

He swatted you away and gestured to the cut on his side. “Do not focus on what has stopped bleeding and focus on my gushing wound. Agh, I feel dizzy.”

“Blood loss, puppy, need’ta fill you full of red meat and water after this.” You stepped away to find a pair of scissors to cut away his clothes around the cut. It was hard not to nick him with how much he flinched, but you held fast until you could see how deep it went. No stitches. That was good. All you had to do was patch him up.

The man snorted while you studied him, genuine sarcasm dry on his tongue. “I’d rather some wine.”

Tsk’ing, you wagged your finger at him. “Need your wits about you. You were bein’ followed, weren’t you?”

“I can do as a please,” He sneered despite the anxiety that was slowly inching onto his expression. As he craned his neck to see the front door, a bit of him lifted on the bed. You pushed him back flat by his shoulders. “I doubt they were able to follow me… I’m quick when I put my mind to it.”

With a hum, you stood and cocked your head to the side. “You really think that your hunter would let such a handsome doe get away so easily?”

His pupils jerked from the front door to you, no small amount of warning in them. “So I am a doe now to you, not even a stag, let alone a prince? If you were not my savior, I would have you hanged. The prospect grows ever tempting.”

“Stags are majestic, does’re pretty and so are princes. ‘Sides, you got these big eyes, sir, and such a pretty purple, too. Can’t fault a man for admirin’.” Without waiting for a response, though you heard the man let out a bemused hum, you left the room to retrieve some supplies. A bucket full of water, a rag, and some herbs to make a poultice. When you returned, the man was snooping, digging through a nearby drawer, the letters from Addam’s son unfolded haphazardly on the desk. The only reason you weren’t offended was because this wasn’t yours— not really. Honestly, you weren’t sure if you could stay mad at a man as cute as this one. “Sniffin’ around, puppy?”

While his jump made it evident he was startled, he looked in no way apologetic. Rather than answer your question, his eyes trailed to your supplies and he gripped his side a little tighter. “No leeches?”

“Now that’s old fashioned. I got some herbs from the garden, they’ll keep infection from settin’ in.” You didn’t gesture for him to sit, you simply stared until his skin visibly crawled and he had no choice but to obey. Nothing about his movements were dainty as he flopped back onto the bed, allowing his legs to kick straight out. He removed his hand, bracing it behind him instead.

“On with it, then,” came his frustrated sigh. Under his breath, he added, “Never known a maester to look quite like you.”

You didn’t grace the grumble with a response. Rather, you cleaned his cut with the rag and water, ignoring every hiss he made, oddly snake-like as you dabbed at his skin. He ran hotter than you expected, as if his blood was made of fire. Once the wound was clear, you took note of any inflammation. The herbs would help with that in the end. You popped several leaves in your mouth and began to chew before spitting the poultice into your hand. Only an inch away from touching him, he seemed to realize what you’d done and flinched away from you.

“Mortar and pestle?” He insisted. You ignored him, holding his squirming body still as you rubbed the mixture into the wound. Another hiss left him, mingling with a strange chirping growl that was impossible to mistake for anything but disgust.

“So prissy, you must be a prince,” You said with a laugh.

Another round of disbelief made his eyebrows merge, still angled away from you. “Are you— Do you not know who I am? Everyone in the Seven Kingdoms knows who I am.”

Ah. So there were seven kingdoms, that was good to know. Maybe that meant there were seven kings, making your intruder-pup more likely to be a prince than he was before. Honestly, the more you looked at him, the more royal he looked. No one in the village looked as healthy and well-fed as he, only you matched that particular description, although he didn’t seem to notice that. Maybe you had a real hound on your hands despite not knowing what to do with one. It was thankful that the Lord blessed you with patience, normally a man like this would make your stomach bubble, especially with so many snide remarks. Staring at him, you took in those pretty purple eyes, so big and wide, just like what you had dubbed him. He was so small, smaller still with that gash on his side, and you had never been one to kick a dog when it was down.

“I don’t,” You answered honestly. Confusion made him purse his lips. “Haven’t been around here for very long, just showed up ‘bout a week ago. Been a bit of a culture shock, in truth.”

“… Where… are you from?” The man started with a quick, almost bird-like of his head, more incredulous than genuine. There was no goodwill in the question, only a selfish sort of confusion that indicated that he cared very little for your personhood, merely from what could be gained. “Are those letters not from your brother?”

“I have no brothers or sisters,” You said with a shrug.

He looked even more befuddled as he rolled his head to take in the room. Slowly, as if you were the one who couldn’t understand, he asked, “This is… your house.”

“Nah, told you I got here a week ago. Ain’t my house, sir.” A laugh made you throw your head back as you reached to pat the pup on the head. Pulling back his lips, he jerked from your palm, eyeing the offending appendage with obvious dislike. All the honorific did was make him look positively befuddled.

“Prince,” He corrected with a quick wag of his wrist, pointing his finger at you. “I am a prince. Son of Viserys Targaryen. You speak to Aegon Targaryen.” He let out a chuckle, genuine this time. “A knight? Knight of his chambers, perhaps.”

His name was said in a way that seemed to indicate that this should explain everything to you. When all you did was blink, he blew air from his lips, looking about the room as if he was on one of those pranking programs. “Seven kingdoms an’ one prince? Doubt that. I’m sure you’re a dime a dozen.”

“Dime a do— What are you—? Am I still drunk?” Aegon let out a huff and slapped his palms on his thighs. As one would a child, he spoke slowly and precisely in a way that could only be taken as condescending. All you really thought was that he was sort of cute. “There are seven kingdoms, each held by a liege lord, and all bending the knee to one king, my father, Viserys Targaryen. How do you— How do you not know this, really?”

A thunderous wail on the door cut off your response and Aegon’s face fell from incredulity to terror. “I was kidnapped from King’s Landing while I was— Doesn’t matter.” He pointed at the front door, and without shame, he dropped to his knees to crawl under the bed. “Protect me and you will be rewarded. Handsomely.”

You looked down at him, eyes alight with mirth. “Said you weren’t no pup, but here you are on your hands and knees.” Anger flashed across his expression only to give way to a grimace when the fist pounded against the door again.

“Rewarded,” He reiterated. “Handsomely.”

“Stay here,” Unable to believe what you were about to say, you snorted. How European. “My prince.”

His puppydog eyes narrowed, but he said nothing else as you softly shut the door behind you. It was time to greet some fellow hunters. You grinned. This was sure to be fun.

The pounding on the door continued, even as you pulled it open to reveal your ever present grin. Outside were three men, each with a blade, and every one of them more rugged than the last. They stank of filth, hair stringy with grease and teeth so rotten you could almost see them crumble when the man knocking clenched them. With Addam’s sword, you plunged forward your arm to bury it in the knocking man’s gut, all before anyone had time to blink. He sputtered, blood and spit covering your bare hand as you angled the blade up with a twist. Quick, you pulled back to draw the blade from his belly and the sick plop of his entrails hitting the floor made your smile widen. He wasn’t dead yet, but he would be by the time you would be done. The groans of the damned would be your choir as you made quick work of his friends.

The one in the back let out an exclamation preoccupied by his own ever looming mortality, “Seven hells!”

Meanwhile, his remaining friend was the kind to let adrenaline guide him rather than cause him to freeze. His knuckles crunched into your nasal ridge, your vision going black for a moment. Stumbling back a few paces, you could taste your own blood on your lips. It only invigorated you, even as the room spun.

“Fucking cunt!”

Another blow came, this time snapping your head to the side. The noise that left you was somewhere between a wheeze and a laugh that, for some reason, seemed to chill your assailant to the bone. Thinking better of it, he unsheathed his blade, fumbling for a moment to hold it steady. That was more than enough time to swing your own sword into the side of his skull. It didn’t sink in all the way, about five inches, a little less than halfway into his face. You let out another laugh and released the sword to focus on the one remaining man. He was younger than the others, frozen as you headed for him, wiping the blood from your bruised nose with your sleeve.

“No, no, please.” You were used to begging, and even if you weren’t, it’d never phased you before. “I have money, I have—!”

Uppercut to the ribs, bringing his head low enough for you to grab him by the hair on the back of his head. Though the world was still spinning and your vision still a bit fuzzy, you had enough spatial awareness to find the cobblestone wall of the cottage, right by the door. It was, after all, right in front of you. There was a crunch — his nose, not his skull, that didn’t cave so easily. You reared back, strings of blood and snot connecting him to the stone, then slammed him forward once more. Again and again and again until whatever was left of him was nothing but a stain beside the front door.

Gasping laughter made it hard to breathe. You let his limp body crumple and threw your hands into the air. “Woo!”

Drunk from the kill, you stumbled back into the house, nearly tripping on the still twitching man you had disemboweled, giggling all the way back to the bedroom. You stood in front of the closed door, debating on whether or not you should enter, before deciding to call through the wood. “Safe to come out, puppy! Took care’a all your problems, but I made a bit of a mess doin’ it. Stay in there or come on out, up to you. Don’t expect you to stay long if you do, though!”

It was quiet for a moment before his response came, “I think I will remain in here!”

“Suit yourself!” Another giddy little giggle left you, the world spinning in the opposite direction that you turned in. You teetered to the left, then to the right, the last thing you felt being your eyes rolling back into your head when the world went dark.

Two head injuries in such a short period of time. Not good, indeed.

You didn’t know how long you were out for when you felt a bit of pressure poking at your side. Slowly, through a blurry haze and a throbbing against your nasal ridge, you saw Aegon kicking at you, his expression entirely at a loss. He had been looking at you earlier, you were almost certain, but right now, he was staring at the mess in the living room. A gag made him double over, his hand over his mouth. Thankfully, nothing came up considering you were right in the splash zone.

“‘Llo, my puppy-prince,” You said, your accent thicker than usual. That got him to tear his gaze from the bodies and back to you. Relief was not in his expression, though he did seem pleased to not be left alone with four bodies.

“Why do you— stop calling me that.” Licking his lips, he glanced back into the front room, seemingly unable to remove his gaze. “Did you… do all of that? Three armed men?”

There was something left out and you couldn’t begin to fill in the blanks given how hard your face pounded. “Was fun, my prince. Was real fun. One got a lick in, but it felt good, so ‘m not mad ‘bout it.”

“Felt good?” Aegon turned back to you, his nose scrunched in judgement. “And here I thought that I was the whore-mongering pervert.”

You heaved yourself to your feet and gave Aegon a self-indulgent pat on the head. This time, he didn’t swat you away, but he still looked at you like you had lost your mind. “Gonna go bury ‘em in the garden. Feed the plants full.”

“No,” Aegon stressed. “You will return me to King’s Landing where, I must reiterate, you will be rewarded.” He pursed his lips and twitched his head. “Handsomely.”

Instead of responding, you passed him by to grab the disemboweled man by the ankles and begin dragging him through the house, toward the back door. Aegon retched again, but didn’t return to the bedroom, a look of rapt fascination on his face as the corpse left behind a trail of blood and entrails. He pattered after you into the garden. “Are you deaf or intentionally slow? Or are you simply pretending that you don’t hear me? I was kidnapped.”

“Is that what’s got you in such a hurry?” The spade hadn’t been put away from your last kill, simply sticking upright in the dirt, awaiting the next. You found an empty spot and began to dig a trench anew. Enough for three corpses.

“No, I am not safe in some smallfolk farm, I must return to King’s Landing where I won’t be—”

“Kidnapped?” You offered between slices of your spade into the soft earth. Aegon paused and you could feel his stare burn into the back of your head. It made you chuckle. “‘m not ready to leave here yet, my prince. I could, if you really wanted me to, but why do I get the feelin’ that you’d rather not go back just yet.”

There was a pause. “What gives you that impression?”

“I just think it’s odd is all. A prince kidnapped from the castle walls, or maybe you’ere out ‘n about. The question is why.” Pausing, you waited for a response, and when none came, you continued, “I’ll take care of you, like I would any limpin’ pup that showed up at my door. I’d already killed for you, I could do it again.”

Aegon took a few steps forward, eyes searching your face. “Why would I want to stay in some shit shack when I have a castle to live in?”

“You’d be missed?”

“What?”

That strangle in his voice made you laugh. Nail on the head, it seemed. This puppy was lonelier than you were. “Make ‘em wonder where you went. Worry their little ol’ hearts out. Mourn for their prince who might never return. Then, when you come trottin’ back, they’ll’ve really missed you.”

He swallowed audibly. “What makes you think that they’d miss me?”

“I’d miss you when you were gone, I reckon.” You stopped digging to face him, watching his fists clench and unclench at his sides. “I’d always be thinkin’ about the prince I killed for. You got a cute look about you, like one of them poor creatures you’d see at the pound. Like you’d been kicked a couple’a times.”

No one had ever wanted to keep you around after they found out what you found enjoyment in. Prince Aegon wanted to reward you. Whether he’d continue to once he got to know you was still up in the air. There was no denying that you’d be more than a little hurt if he turned his nose up at you after all of this nonsense, even if you wouldn’t particularly blame him. It would be nice, after all this time, to have a friend, and a cute one to boot. Easy on the eyes, this was the first time that you understood that particular saying.

Pulling you from your thoughts, he let out a scoff.

“Well, that’s a wonderful way to endear yourself to me. Insults,” Aegon said sarcastically. Yet, he didn’t leave. He stayed standing in your garden, staring at you, and occasionally at the corpse by your feet.

“Will you stay?”

A beat passed in silence. Aegon looked at you, then the shovel, the corpse, the cottage, then, at the horizon. He placed both hands against his face and scrubbed at his eyes with either an annoyed or a resigned sigh. “I cannot make the journey myself, not without a guard, and I have no coin to buy any sell-sword around. Not that there’d be men of much use near here.” Allowing his arms to flop by his sides, his jaw worked in sheer disbelief. “Save for you, I guess. Missed, it’ll be, then!”

“I’ll make supper after I finish cleanin’.” Aegon didn’t respond, fixated on his own frustration.

So quietly, you almost didn’t hear it over the scuff of dirt, he grumbled, “They’ll be glad to be rid of me. At least the whores will miss me, not mother, and certainly not father.”

After he spoke, you felt his eyes on you, checking to see if you heard him. You pretended that you didn’t. His stare seared a hole into the back of your head for nearly a minute when he let out another breath. “I’ll be helping myself to the wine if it’s not yours. Dig until your back breaks.”

With a twitch of his lips betraying the joke, he headed back inside. You turned back to your trench, knowing what would come next. The stench was always rough to people who weren’t used to it. Barely a second passed before he was retching into the grass. “It smells wretched in there!”

“That’d be the bile, my prince. Wouldn’t mind the company,” You offered.

Aegon plopped himself on a nearby stone bench with his elbow on his knee and his chin in his palm, pouting like a child. It endeared you far more than you’d like to admit. “It seems that I have no other choice. Enjoy me to your heart’s content.”

To be quite honest, you intended to. For the first time in your life, there was a presence of another rather than what was merely you and a corpse. To your surprise, it made the kill even sweeter.

You hoped Aegon would ask you to kill again. Maybe next time he could watch. Would he be disgusted, or would he be fascinated?

In truth, you knew which that you hoped for.

A/N: I’ve had this written for weeks now and I’m so excited to post this. Chapter three is also already written and I’ll post it probably on Tuesday, but after that, updates will probably be weekly-ish. My schedule tends to be I work weds-fri ans then I’m off sat-tues and I use those days to write! Occasionally, I will write at work, if I can get away with it.

I hope I wrote Aegon in character. Like… hope and fucking pray that I did. Writing a character for the first time is always the most stressful thing ever because you’re trying to find the Groove for the character and it’s like… does this work? Is this good? Am I capturing his ‘isms’ correctly? I sure hope I am. I’m having a lot of fun writing Y/N’s inner monologue too, they’re genuinely so very odd. Their contradictions make for a lot of fun. Someone who is emotionally intelligent, but also just… is a murderer, is super fun to write.

Idk, idk, just let me know what you think in the comments!!! It’d be much appreciated and mean the world to me! I love comments, yay!

Tag list: Ask to be added!

“Been with him all night, have you?” Where most uncles would ask that as a show of relief for your safety, there was suspicion there. Mingled with an awkward hope that you hadn’t unwittingly gotten frisky with your own blood. The very concept made your skin crawl.

Still, no one but your Uncle Jaramy, more of a fair maid than a man, would assume a night between two men could be anything but chaste. While your half-brother was aware of many aspects of your life, the secrets of your family were ones you would never allow to fall from your lips. You trusted Raymun, but these were not your truths to tell. So rather than blanch with disgust like you wanted, you kept your smile even. “Raymun is a friend.”

Jaramy’s shoulders loosened. “Is he now?” Finally, with a huff, he nodded to Raymun with a sharp jerk of his chin. “Good day.”

When he disappeared, Raymun relaxed. “Intimidatin’ for a small man.”

“Imagine him being your uncle. I can hardly ever get away with mischief with Jaramy’s discerning eye.” Dramatically, you pressed your knuckles to your forehead and feigned dizziness. Raymun chuckled despite looking like he had more that he wanted to ask.

You sobered, watching him as he mulled over his words.

Finally, with his body hunched and his fingers casually gripping the edge of the bench, no matter how forced, he asked, “How are you… related to your family? None of them look quite like you do.”

“Only my mother by blood and she has—” You swallowed with a lame shrug. “No matter. They all helped raise me, every one of them. Both aunts and mothers, and uncles and fathers. Brothers and cousins too.” A laugh escaped you, awkward in a way as you met Raymun’s befuddled stare. “It’s odd, I know. What’s the shame in having more people to love you, I say.”

A huff of a laugh left him and he gave you a firm, yet understanding, nod. “Would be nice to have an uncle-father, I suppose.”

“A duo of them!” Holding your hand aloft, you extended two fingers, your grin blinding. “Three auntie-mothers, and two cousin-brothers.” With a nudge of your elbow, you felt your lips twitch into something more genuine than it’d been since your encounter with Aerion. “And one blood-brother to top it all off.”

Raymun threw an arm over your shoulders and gave you a few thuds on the back. “I’m the cream atop the cake, aren’t I, brother?” Your only response was a snort and a coy swing of your legs as he let his arm fall away. Letting out a sigh, he turned to you fully, looking more like a sweet, little lamb than a man. “Have you ever given any thought as to who is older? You or I?”

You shrugged. “Does it matter?”

The grin that spread across Raymun’s face told you that was the wrong answer. In fact, it was the most sorely incorrect that you had ever been in your short life, and he was thankful for it. He laughed again. You joined him despite knowing the next words out of his mouth would be the most annoying you had heard in a while, “Guess that means I’m the eldest.” His face fell into mock seriousness as he prodded you on the chest with a single finger. “Which means you have to mind me.”

“Seven Hells, man, already power has gone to your head.” Rather than be irritated, like many would like to be, you let out an amused snort and rolled your shoulders in a lazy motion. Raymun sat back, his smile in place as you met his gaze. “If you want to be older than me, have at it. There’s no other brother I’d rather have.”

Raymun chuckled and you followed his gaze to the rising sun. He stood, patting the dirt from his pants, before offering you a brotherly flick on your forehead. “Must be goin’ now or my cousin’ll have my head. You’re feeling better?” When you nodded, Raymun let out a breath you didn’t know he was holding. “Good. I’ll be seeing you then. When’s your next show?”

“… I don’t know if I’ll perform today. I’ll let you know when I see you next.”

“Right, then.”

With a final wave, your half-brother was off to wake up his cousin, leaving the bastard behind on the bench. You cast a glance at your family’s tent and saliva formed into a thick ball at the back of your throat. Violetta would know something had happened simply by looking at you, she had a sixth sense about her, that much was certain. Distantly, you could hear her voice asking for you from deeper in the tent. You kicked your legs a little, listening to her footsteps pad closer to the entrance where you waited.

By the time that she arrived, you were gone. Off on a different adventure, away from the perils of family and performing, deeper into the woods surrounding Ashford Meadow where, surely, no one would find you. Maybe it was a poor idea to go off on your own, especially to a place where there would be no witnesses should someone catch wind of you and follow. Despite that, despite knowing and acknowledging the truth of the matter, you carried on deeper into the wilderness and as far away from the tourney as you could get.

Birdsong twittered overhead, mingling with the crunch of undergrowth beneath your slippers. With your toe, you kicked a pinecone through the foliage, weaving between trees to keep up with your poorly aimed strikes. Last night played in your head, the memory making your stomach roll.

You were no true man, and while that had never bothered you — not really — you hated how your existence would forever be molded by that fact. There was a prettiness to you, a slightness of your frame, and a curve to your hips that very few men had. No matter how hard you tried, you could never build muscle like Nikolaos. Even Jaramy was stronger than you, his femininity far different than your own. Between your legs laid the real decider, a cunt hidden beneath a smattering of hair and a cock smaller than any real man’s peeking from between the folds. If Aerion had somehow figured that out about you, then—

No! He had simply mistaken you for a woman, too drunken to see clearly through the evening's gloom. The memory of how pushy he had been made your skin crawl, even more once you remembered how resigned that you had been. In the end, though, even without Prince Valarr’s interference, you doubted that he would have gotten far. Even you would have been able to fight him off given how off-kilter his movements were, no matter how trained of a knight he may be. More than likely, he couldn’t remember anything beyond the jousting, let alone the stranger who he had accosted on his way back to his chambers.

You sighed and kicked the pinecone again. It was of no consequence, you would endeavor to forget that last night ever happened. That was for the best, you were rather sure. Violetta could hound and pry all she wished, she would get nothing from you. For the foreseeable future, your lips were sealed.

A child’s cry caught your attention. Your head whipped in the direction of the sound, and without really processing if that was terror in their voice or not, you took off in the direction that you heard it from. Branches whipped against your face, your arm raised to protect your eyes. Beneath your feet, roots and bushes very nearly sent you toppling. The closer you got to the child, the louder their voice became, until you realized, much too late, that this was no cry for help.

It was of excitement.

You stumbled into a clearing and barely had time to register the galloping of hooves before you jumped backwards, landing directly on your ass. Heaving breaths filled your lungs, quickly but not fully, your hand clutching your shirt over your breast to try to calm your beating heart. Now that you were here, you realized that you recognized that little voice. Your theories were confirmed when an adorably bald head popped into view.

“You’re the clown,” Egg said, far more prim than some gutter-boy should. He blinked down at you as the horse trotted back to his side. Once it was within arms reach, Egg grabbed its reins to steady it. “What are you doing all the way out here?”

All you could really do was try to steady your ragged gasps and crawl to your feet. “I should be asking you that! I heard you yelling, I had thought—!” With your hands clenched at your sides, you inhaled through your nose and exhaled out of your mouth. You took care to make your voice calm rather than angry. “You must be more careful. Being alone is a danger and your noise could draw the wrong eye.”

“I’m not alone, I have Thunder.” Despite his argument, seemingly coming on instinct, Egg looked at least a little guilty in a stubborn sort of way. His jaw was set, though he could not look you in the eyes.

You placed your hands on your thighs, an exaggerated display of your weakness in order to cheer the boy up. It was easy to pretend to be out of breath when you really were. “I really took a tumble back there. Did you see it?”

Egg looked as though he was desperately trying to swallow a smile. Instead, he gave you a grim sort of nod. “I did.”

“Was rather funny, don’t you think?” That got him to crack a tiny grin, ducking his head in order to hide it. You laughed, a short one, then turned to acknowledge the horse. “Thunder, was it? Good to meet you, Thunder.” The horse hardly gave you a whinny in response. Tough crowd. Careful to keep suspicion from your expression, you rocked on your heels to display nonchalance. “Big horse for a little boy.”

Egg became stern again, his shoulders squared despite his tiny frame. It was something you could appreciate, being quite small yourself. “I’m training him for the tourney.”

“With your Ser’s permission?” You prodded, watching his mouth pull back in a small grimace, gone before you could truly register it.

To his credit, he met your gaze, nowhere near the cowed child you came to expect of the lowborn, especially not after his horse nearly ran you down. A distant theory took root in your mind, one you would not deign to water. None of your business after all. “He was asleep. I did not wish to wake him.”

“Very considerate of you.” With your arms behind your back, you leaned back to stare up at the, now risen, sun. “I’m sure he’s awake by now, though. Better get back ‘fore you earn a clout on the ears.”

Startled, Egg flinched his gaze upward and frowned. “It was good talking to you, clown. You are right, I should return.”

“Give Dunk my regards!” You called with a theatric wave. Egg returned it, albeit much more subdued, and disappeared off into the distance. If you were any nosier than you were, he would have been easy to follow, if only to see Dunk again. You were more polite than you were anything else, though, so with a skip in your step and a significantly lighter mood, you turned on your heels to make your way back to the tourney. Perhaps, if the gods shined brightly upon you, Dunk and Egg would cross your path yet again.

The rest of the morning was spent staying as far away from your family’s tent as possible, while also avoiding any princes that may come into view. Some people had recognized you from your show and requested you juggle, or perform a few contortion tricks, which you did readily, happy for the distraction. Unfortunately, it seemed that Violetta’s nose was twitching in your direction because several times you had seen Nikolaos, or his eldest son, Lynus, scanning the crowd. Assumedly, for you. Staying in one place for too long was most certainly out of the question, so you found yourself ducking and weaving through stalls, careful to keep your tails off of your heels. An easier said than done task. Nikolaos had been a bounty hunter before he was a strong man. He’d find you sooner than late.

The blare of trumpets signaled that the jousting would begin anew, likely featuring one of the Dragon House’s members if that tempo was anything to go by. Upon the reminder of what had happened last night, a shiver crawled up your spine. You knew that Nikolaos would be waiting outside of the gates to catch you on the way out — at the very least he would allow you to watch the tournament rather than drag you by your ear back home — but a crowd would hide you better than not. Falling into step with the others who found their heart in bloodsport, you took care not to get trampled underfoot. Without Dunk to guide you, the chances of a good seat were low, not that you really minded after yesterday. For now, you were content to remain at the back of the line, listening rather than watching, if even that.

Your mind was running at one thousand miles a minute. So much so that you barely registered Egg’s shout and Dunk’s baritone until they were right upon you. It seemed that the Seven still smiled upon you after all.

“Egg told me he ran into you this morning.” To punctuate any left over displeasure, Dunk shot the boy a small glare. Egg met it with his own, much to your amusement, and Dunk’s frustration. When he turned back to you, his expression softened. “We were going to watch one of your shows this morning, but you weren’t there.”

The unspoken question wasn’t missed by you. Rather than answer it, you gave him a shrug and a somewhat bashful smile. “Working with family has its perks until you want a day off. Uncle Nikolaos has been hunting me all morning.”

“You mean him?” With no subtlety whatsoever, Egg pointed directly at your dark haired uncle, leaning against the entrance to the tourney’s ring. Behind his head, his long hair was tied into a ponytail, his beard kept well in spite of the muscles that bulged underneath his tunic. He nodded at you, his amused snort barely noticeable aside from the flaring of his nostrils. Aside from that — and your grimace — there was little interaction. It seemed Nikolaos intended to give you one more moment of peace before the end of it all.

Maybe, if you had not avoided Violetta, what happened the previous night wouldn’t have to be pried from your lips. Now, though, you’d more than likely undergo techniques even the finest confessor would blanch at until you spilled your guts. It was not something you were looking forward to.

“Yes. That is my uncle,” You sighed as you pinched the bridge of your nose.

Dunk clapped you on the back, both for reassurance and to lead you through the crowd, his other hand atop Egg’s head for prime steering. “Can’t be that mad with you. He’s not storming you down.”

“It’s not him I’m worried about. My aunts are worse than any man.”

That earned you a sympathetic puff of air. “The girls are always the scarier.”

“You speak rightly, ser,” came your easy agreement.

Without another word, and Dunk’s palm between your shoulder blades, you were led right up to the front yet again. You tried not to let your disappointment show, far more enticed to sit back and listen than watch what was sure to be a bloody match. Especially when you saw who the first competitor was. You shrank back, desperate to not be seen. Dunk noticed with a questioning hum that you refused to acknowledge, your gaze fixated, instead, on Aerion Targaryen and his black and red armor. Upon his helm were what seemed to be flames. You wondered what it felt like to melt within them, and a part of you hated that you felt as though you would soon find out.

He rode his horse with grace that he lacked the previous night. Using his hips, he guided it in a trot along the arena, seemingly hunting for an opponent. Your gaze flickered to where the Targaryens sat the previous night to find the seat beside Baelor empty. Something akin to dread settled in your gut, though the reason why was lost on you.

Aerion rode up to Valarr, staring him down with an intensity that made your skin crawl. Did he remember the last night, the way his cousin had steered him away from you— or in his drink-addled mind, some womanly man? Valarr watched Aerion with a challenging cock of his head, standing now in order to display his interest. Your breath caught in your throat when Aerion’s voice rang out through the crowd:

“I won’t embarrass you today, cousin.” As soon as he spoke, his horse trotted a few paces to a nearby tent, “Come out little knight! It’s time to face the dragon.”

Instinctively, you clutched Dunk’s sleeve as you would with one of your aunts, your hand shaking ever so slightly. He noticed, and you could feel his blue eyes burning a hole into the side of your head, though you refused to look. So long as you didn’t acknowledge him, his confusion would never have to be addressed. To his credit, he didn’t shake you off, even if judgement practically radiated off of him in waves. Instead, your gaze was fixated on the knights settling on opposite sides of the arena, their squires readying their lances.

“Kill him! Kill him!” Egg screamed, his little voice nearly lost in the din. Whose head he was calling for, you did not know, but you found yourself hoping for Aerion’s end, as horrible as that was.

With the thunder of hooves, the knights charged, and your fingers buried into Dunk’s flesh as you squeezed your eyes shut. There was no clang, or the sound of armor hitting the ground, only galloping and cheers from the crowd. Egg’s voice had joined in, though Dunk flipping his wrist to close his hand around yours was what caught your attention. You opened your eyes to see Ser Hardyng and Prince Aerion prepared to charge again, and, like a child, you covered your eyes with your free hand. A tiny groan pulled from you, that terrible feeling in your gut doing little to assure you that nothing terrible was to happen.

Like before, you could hear the hooves hitting the ground. It lasted only a second before one of the horses let out this horrible, gurgling whinny, the sound of flesh hitting the ground rather than armor echoing through the open air. It was quiet for a beat, all you could hear being the struggling of one of the horses and human cries of pain from a voice that decidedly did not sound like Aerion. Disappointment within you was barely able to be processed before the crowd reacted with fury. A push from behind caused your hand to fall from your face, though Dunk only gripped your harder, and you saw what had happened.

On the ground was Hardyng and his horse, Aerion’s lance skewered through its throat. It thrashed weakly, blood spurting from crevices around the lance, its death doomed to be both slow and agonizing. Underneath it was Hardyng, his pained groaning barely audible. From your angle, you couldn’t see what had happened to him exactly, all you knew was that it couldn’t be good. At the very least, a bone was broken. The crowd bulged toward Aerion, only held back by guards. Barely. It was hard to remain sure of your footing with so many people pushing and shoving forward, rocks and mud being flung overhead. All that kept you grounded was Dunk’s hand gripping yours, hurriedly pulling you from the throng, Egg by his other side. Your ears were ringing, the unnecessary cruelty bringing back memories from what had happened last night and how much farther it could have gone.

For all you knew, you would have never returned home. Would they have even found your body? Unable to hide your harrowed expression, you realized the truth. Was there really any difference between a knight’s horse and some smallfolk man-woman? As Dunk pulled you forward, your hand began to rub at your throat to make sure it was whole, intact, and free of any puncture wounds.

“That was no accident,” You heard Egg proclaim through the linen in your ears.

Dunk shushed him, his hand releasing you to grip your shoulder and give you a shake. “Not now, Egg. You okay, man? You look a little pale.”

“I— I ran into Prince Aerion last night, he—” The words got caught in your throat with a swallow. Dunk watched you with a furrow between his eyebrows, while Egg looked as sympathetic as an eleven year old could be, despite his visible nerves at your words. There was a glint in his round eyes that indicated he had experienced a similar cruelty. You tried desperately not to water the seed in your mind. Against your will, it formed into a little sprout. “He is most cruel.”

“I told you!” Egg exclaimed at Dunk, who shook his head in disbelief.

“No. No knight, no prince would do something like that on purpose.” Though it almost sounded like Dunk was trying to convince himself more than he was anyone else. You pulled yourself from his grip and took a few steps forward in a daze. Dunk followed and slotted his palm against your arm to hold you steady. “Where is your uncle? You seem… not right.”

“Right here,” Nikolaos made your eyes snap from your slippers to his face. Despite what would follow your uncle finding you, all you could feel was relief upon seeing him. If anyone would keep you safe, it would be him. It took everything not to throw yourself into his arms as a child would. He gave Dunk a smile, nearly hidden behind his beard. “I’ll take it from here, ser. Thank you for taking care of my nephew.”

"He's a good man.” Dunk looked about ready to follow before he thought better of it and tilted his chin in farewell. It took everything in your power to return it with a smile, practically clinging to Nikolaos’ side with shaking hands. Your uncle wrapped an arm around your shoulders and began to lead you toward your family’s tent.

Right unto your doom. Despite the anxiety that wrung in your stomach, all you could feel was relief when you arrived and Violetta threw her body around you. You buried your face into her shoulder, trembling against her frame, as embarrassing as that was. This was childish, you were a grown man for gods’ sake, and yet you couldn’t help the way you relaxed as her fingers combed through your hair, practically carrying you inside. It felt like when you were small and had fallen asleep, needing one of your uncles to carry you to bed lest you wake with a crick in your neck.

Violetta settled you on your unused sleeping mat on the floor of a private tent. Behind her, Jaramy glared, his arms crossed and his toe tapping, albeit easily waved away by a flick of your auntie’s wrist. His eyes told you that this conversation wasn’t over, a proper tongue lashing awaiting you after Violetta weaseled out whatever plagued you.

“What ever happened, my d—”

Perhaps underhanded tactics were unnecessary considering that it all burst out of you in a frenzy, “I ran into Prince Aerion last night, and he mistook me for a woman and attempted to take me to bed, but Prince Valarr intervened. He said that Prince Aerion would not remember, yet I fear that he did! He threatened my family too! He threatened us all!”

Violetta sat back, her eyes wide as she processed your words. From deeper in the tent, you could hear Jaramy let out a terrified cry, proving that either he’d been listening or you had been louder than you intended.

Smoothing her hands down your arms, she gave you a sad sort of smile. “That is the life that the fair lead, man or woman. We know who you are. Your family knows the truth, though you must understand now, more than ever, assumptions will be made.” You nodded and she let out a sigh, pinching your cheek fondly. “Once, a very long time ago, I lived as a man. A deeply unhappy one. There will be people who will find you exotic and enticing, my love. They will see you as an object for pleasure before that of a person. Worse still, they may even find you disgusting. You must stand tall in the face of it all. Do you understand me?”

“We will be leaving.” It wasn’t a question, it was a fact. Violetta hummed, her smile still in place despite the melancholic atmosphere seeping into the tent. The answer went unspoken, but understood well enough. “I ruined everything.”

Your aunt kissed you on the forehead. Upon pulling away, she ran her fingers through your hair, tucking it behind your ears. “You ruined nothing, my love. We will find coin elsewhere.” Affection softened her features even more, her brown eyes honeyed by love. “Besides, I would rather you than food in my belly, and I do not say that lightly. You know how much your auntie loves to eat.”

That got a laugh out of you. Though you didn’t feel entirely better, you stood and brushed the dirt from your bottom. “Must I speak to Uncle Jaramy now? I wish to say goodbye to Tanselle, if anyone.”

“What of the Fossoway boy?” Violetta probed.

You looked away, shame making your face feel hot. “He already knows.”

Thankfully, she found that admittance amusing, a tittering giggle falling from her full lips. Understanding made her fold her hands in her lap, far too observant for her own good. “You must trust him well.” You didn’t respond and she nodded to the exit at the back of the tent, away from any prying eyes. “I will handle your uncle. Do not make me send Nikolaos after you again, boy.”

“I will return within the hour, auntie.” With that, you ducked out of the tent and looped around into the crowd. Tanselle’s show was performed not too far from your family’s own cabaret, though it was enough time to allow your mind to wander.

Maybe one day, you would see Dunk and Egg again. In truth, you would rather not run into them tonight, too raw to do much else aside from cry. Now, that would be humiliating, you hardly knew either one of them, bursting into tears at the thought of being parted would only make you appear more womanly.

Along with that, there was the fact that, if your assumptions were correct, tiny Egg had more connections to the royal family than the average boy. The purple in his eyes had not gone unnoticed by you, nor had his proper accent, or the way he carried himself more like a little lordling than a smallfolk boy. While you doubted he held any fondness for Aerion if his comments were anything to go by, that didn’t mean that you would risk finding out.

You inhaled a deep breath when you heard Tanselle’s play continue unhurried. Using your size to your advantage, you weaved through the crowd to get closer to the stage. At the very front was the familiar bald head of Egg, and you had to purposely tense your muscles to keep from greeting him.

Tanselle Too-Tall weaved a wonderful story, the flames from the dragon puppet bursting forth. She dodged, as according to staging, it would never hit her anyway, and jabbed the beast in the neck. You felt this part more than ever. How could you ever hope to escape a dragon?

Petals spurted from the wound, simulating blood, though no applause followed. Tanselle turned to face the crowd, her confusion shattering to terror when her eyes locked into someone. You followed her gaze and had to bite your tongue to keep from gasping. Slowly, you began to back out toward the exit, Egg moving much faster than you as the world erupted into screams.

Through it all, you could make out Tanselle’s terror, Aerion hissing at her from between his teeth. It was impossible to move, people shifting and bubbling into a wall that made it impossible for a mouse like you to break free.

You lifted your head to see Aerion staring at you, though Tanselle’s gaze was cast upward in what seemed to be prayer. In his hand was her finger, her palm held tightly in his other. His lips twitched upwards when your teeth began to chatter. How he heard it was beyond you, but you’d have to be deaf to miss what came next. There was a snap, followed by a pained shriek from your friend. Your pupils snapped down to see her finger bent back at an unnatural angle. You clutched your stomach to keep from vomiting. There wasn’t any time to wonder what to do next as Dunk erupted from the crowd to slam his fist into Aerion’s jaw. There was no sense of justice, no feeling of witnessing an act of heroism, only that sickening dread you felt while watching the joust.

Aerion was bleeding, Dunk held down by three of his guards now. Behind the scene, Tanselle was sobbing and you gave into instinct, rushing over to take her into your arms. Gasping sobs sent her breath hot against your face. She shook uncontrollably as you wrapped your arms around her.

“You would really give up your life for this whore?” Aerion’s eyes met yours again, though he spoke to Dunk, a chill sending gooseflesh trailing up your arms when recognition flashed in their depths.

Whether Dunk responded or not, you couldn’t make out. All you knew was that that monster of a prince dragged his gaze away from you, giving you time to pull Tanselle deeper into the tent.

“Your finger, is that all?” You managed to say, out of breath from the nerves alight in your chest. Behind you, Egg called Aerion ‘brother’ and you hated to have your theories confirmed.

Tanselle looked up at you with glassy eyes. “It— I— All— That is… That is all.”

The pain caused her to suck in a shuddering breath. You looked up to see her father frozen in his approach, staring behind you as if there was a dragon about to snap you into its maw. Lithe fingers grabbed the back of your collar, and on instinct, you reacted, driving your elbow into your assailant. It did very little except draw a breathy laugh from Aerion Targaryen.

Using the back of your shirt for leverage, he tossed you onto the stage. “This one too! Struck a prince with his elbow and it is sure to leave a bruise. Take him with that brute.”

As the King’s Guard picked you up under your armpits, you were too shocked to struggle. Every inch of you felt cold, limp in their arms, each inhale short and choppy. Tears burned your eyes, watching Aerion lean down until his face was inches from your ear from out of the corner of your eye.

“I remember you, clown-boy.”

A blow to the back of your skull made your eyes roll back. The world went dark around you.

At least, for now, it was better than awareness.

A/N: Oh my god, I am SO sorry that this took so long to write. Normally, my updates tend to be once a week, but fuck me man, this chapter would not get down on the page. I hope once we move on to King’s Landing the chapters will be easier to write because I’m very, very excited to get to the torment nexus that portion of this fic will be.

If you didn’t notice, Maekar has become a love interest. He has bewitched me all of a sudden and I needed to add him to the harem. I hope this is as exciting for you guys as it is for me. I also hope that any errors with geography or continuity aren’t too egregious. I’m writing this more for fun than I am accuracy, so please bear with me 🐻

That is really it for this author’s note, sigh. I don’t have a lot to say and I’m still half asleep despite having been up for two hours already. Please comment, it definitely motivates me more than I’d like to admit!! Again, I am sooooo sorry how long it took for this update. Hopefully the words will flow hard as FUCK soon. Byyyyeeee <3