𝕬𝖇𝖎𝖌𝖆𝖑𝖊

The carriage is far too small, the scent of honeyed wine carried along the drunken words leaving your father’s lips, words that make no sense, that have never made any sense because Jason Lannister has never understood anything a day in his life save for the fact that his daughter is useful. That you are a commodity, set to be bought and sold to the highest bidder, the one who brings him the most glory. The most power. 

            The one who will finally make him better than his brother. 

            You were lucky, honestly, that he had even deigned to give you a choice between the lords, the two that were available for you—Borros Baratheon and Cregan Stark. Both married once, both had children borne to them by their first wives, both were simply doing duty, remarrying and taking a prop, a hollow replacement. Someone to hold a physical place in metaphysical memories. 

            You did not choose out of love, you chose out of necessity. You chose the one with the youngest child, the one who needed a mother. 

            That was all, no more, no less. 

            You were under no illusion that this marriage was anything but politics and duty. You were under no illusion that love would ever be in the equation, you knew it wouldn’t. You love but once and your future husband had loved once. It was not you. 

            Such was the lot of a Lord’s daughter, a bargaining chip, a tool. Nothing truly in the scheme of the world, simply something to further a drunken father’s ambitions. 

            “Must you continue to speak?!” you snap, lifting your head from where it’s been resting against the frosting over glass of the carriage window, your eyes narrowing on your father, his slovenly dress and appearance, the dribbles of honeyed wine caught in the strands of his beard. 

            “You have no right to speak to me like that,” he slurs, lifting a shaking hand to you, a gesture that is familiar from your youth, but holds no more power over you as you roll your eyes, slapping his hand away and down. 

            “I do not want to hear any more of your drunken rambles, Father,” you hiss, watching as he lifts that stupid lion goblet back to his lips, taking another sip of wine, another sip that he does not need. Has never needed. 

            “Watch yourself!” he cries, face screwing up in a drunken imitation, drunken mask of anger, cheeks flushing ruddy underneath his golden, greying beard. “I am your lord father and I control you.”

            “Not for much longer,” you reply, your tone arch, acrid in a way that something can only be when everything is changing, shifting. When one is reminded of their place, when one is reminded of exactly how much they matter in the world. Your father falls silent, ruddy cheeks fading to pale, the kind of pale that happens when things shift for someone who has never had to deal with a world shifting beneath their feet. 

            You would almost say that he looks sad, his hand reaching forwards, shaking as it cups your cheek, thumb rubbing along your cheekbone, the way he always did when you were a child, running through his halls, laughing and giggling. A lion like your house ensured. 

            “I wish that some things could be different,” he whispers, his eyes strangely sober, that drunken glaze leaching away as he looks at you, eyes tracing every inch of your face, the one he’s watched in many stages. The one he’s known since it first drew breath. 

            The one he’ll never know again. 

            You push his hand off, his gnarled wizened hand, turning away from him to look out at the window at the sharp, desolate expanse of North. The beauty in the starkness, the vastness. The pureness. 

            “You’re getting exactly what you wanted, Father,” you whisper, your breath landing on the glass, a patch of steam, fog, spreading across the glass, cloudy tendrils reaching farther, spreading longer and longer, away and away, trying to conquer the window like people are attempting right now to once again conquer a throne of swords. 

            “Not exactly,” he mumbles and you glance back, hope catching in your throat, perhaps an admission that you mattered, that he cared for you, but all you find is him sloshing more wine into his cup, drinking, dribbles of it slipping from the corners of his mouth, catching in the wiry strands of his beard. 

            You can feel a swelling in your throat, a stinging in your eyes as you turn away from him, looking back out the window, at North. At the place you’ve always wanted to be, cursing the warmth of the sun where you grew up, the sharpness of it, the bite with the heat. The pretty lie. 

            Here it seems like truth. Here is the last stand against the evil, here is the beauty of just being. There are no pretty courts, no lies behind made up smiles and cruelty formed of silk dresses and colours, one wrong slip a declaration of war. 

            Here you wonder if among the landscape, you’ll finally feel free. 

            You wonder if you’ll be seen. Truly. But that’s not true, you know it because you are here to be married to a man who has had his love. You are nothing more than a prop, a replacement, something you never wanted. You wanted love, but instead you will bow before a ghost, come second to a memory rather than being the one who would be that first place memory for someone else. 

            You wanted to be the one held first, even in death, like the woman you are standing in for. 

            Rather, you will be nothing but an actor learning lines in a memory already lived. 

            Rickon is growing a startling amount even at just two years old. His hair is dark and hangs into his face in dark curls, eyes wide open, grey and unflinching. A true Northman. A true Stark. 

            But Cregan doesn’t want him to grow up too fast, he doesn’t want to watch his child age too fast, doesn’t want to lose him, his young wolf. His precious only child. The child borne of winter and ice and freedom. The one whose birth was a life for a life, a painful loss even if love the kind touted as ideal was not a part of the equation. 

            Cregan sent the maids away, instead preferring to ready his son himself because there are only so many hours in a day and aside from now, he will not see Rickon until it’s time to put him to bed, to check through the entire room for any lingering monsters and dangerous shadows and very real assassins. He wants all the time with Rickon that he can get because too soon, he will be stepping down from the title of Warden and passing it onto this small, tiny but sturdy two-year-old boy. 

            “A woman is coming today, Rickon,” Cregan says, his voice verging on gruff, an unfortunate reality for himself, something that comes from the hours spent breathing in the coldest air. “She will be staying here after today and we are to greet her.”

            “Mama,” Rickon says, nodding, his small, chubby hands batting Cregan’s away from his shirt buttons, instead fiddling with one of them himself, giggling at it, finding joy in small moments, unaware of the hitch in his father’s breath, the stinging in his eyes and the fear currently a vice around his heart. 

            Rickon looks up, his hands stretching, grabbing, signalling up and Cregan complies, lifting the small boy up and onto his back as he prefers, the chubby, tiny arms tight around his neck, squeezing almost as tight as the fear and hope warring his heart. 

            He hopes beyond hope that you will be a mother to Rickon, but more than that, that this time he will find someone to love. Someone he can love. Someone who can love him back for a thousand lifetimes. For forever. 

            Someone who will see past his gruff exterior, the parts of himself long since frozen by the cold, the parts that he fears will never thaw, too hardened by the world in which he grew up. Someone who will look at him and see someone worth loving, not someone who gives a political advantage, but someone to love. 

            Someone willing to give him more children, not for duty, but for the want of a family. With him. And as he walks down the halls of Winterfell, Rickon babbling in his ear, all he thinks about is you and perhaps, that you will be the one. 

            The one to love him for this lifetime and all others. 

            The carriage has stopped, the cabin jerking with the motion, your hand landing on the door, steadying yourself even as what you steady yourself against moves. You can hear the slosh of your father’s wine, the drips as they spill over the golden lip of the cup, your father’s grunt and the rustle of your skirts, velvet over silk, that particular rustle. 

            “I think we’re here,” your father says, his voice gruff even as you refuse to turn from the window, to acknowledge him, instead attention captured by the man and the little boy outside your door. The man is tall, dark hair falling on his shoulders, body clothed in dark furs and the little boy is holding fast to his hand, cheeks pinked with cold, excitement shining in grey eyes. 

            You reach for the carriage door, the carved wood smooth as you push it open, cold air rushing at you, that momentary breathlessness from the wind and the cold and the sheer strangeness, foreignness of it. 

            “This is not proper protocol,” you hear your father hiss behind you, but you could not care about protocol, not when your future child is standing outside in the cold. And your father has never been one for so-called protocol a day in his life, preferring to do what he wants as drunk as can be. 

            “My lady,” the man calls out, his voice the kind of rough that only exposure to cold and the elements give. The kind of voice that comes from growing up in the harshest of conditions and surviving. 

            “My lord,” you return as you step from the cabin, your foot landing atop the snow, your slipper crunching against the hard-packed layer, the coldness seeping in slowly and then all at once as you step forwards, curtseying as your father lumbers from the carriage, stumbling, wine spilling across the white snow. Staining it with his protocol. “It is wonderful to finally put a face to the name of the man I will marry.”

            “I feel the same, my lady,” Cregan says and his face is softening as he looks at you, the edges eroding the longer he looks at you, the look one that makes your heart leap in your chest even as you curse it. Curse it and its foolish notions, it’s hopefulness. He looks at you like one would look at a friend, someone you hope to get along with and nothing more. 

            If that. 

            “My lord,” you hear Cregan say, but your attention has fallen once again on the small child, the one who holds his father’s hand, free hand closed around a wooden carving of a wolf, small and perfect for his fist. You crouch down, one hand held out to him, the yellow hue of your skirt pooling around you on the ground as Rickon looks at you with excitement gleaming in young grey eyes. 

            He lets go of his father’s hand, his father who is busy speaking with yours, toddling towards you, hand outstretched for you. 

            You are unaware of the way Cregan’s attention is on you and only you, eyes watching the way you smile at Rickon, the way you take his hand in yours and bend in to speak with him, speaking to him as you would anyone else worthy of attention, even though you must be freezing so close to the ground. 

            You seem unaware of any of it. 

            “She chose you, you know,” Jason says and Cregan looks up and over, tearing his gaze from you, the effort needed almost not worth it until he sees the way your father looks at you. Like a man who has realized that he had what he needed and that that was worth more than what he thought he wanted. Like a father who has realized he’s lost his daughter. 

            “Chose me?” he asks and Jason looks over at him, a shadow falling across his face. 

            “Aye,” he answers, gaze flicking back to you, you who is rising Rickon on your hip as a mother would. “I narrowed the options down to you and Lord Borros and let her choose since she’s my eldest. She chose you. Chose your son, really. Said no child should ever be without a mother.”

            “She chose…me,” Cregan whispers, the very fact strange and foreign yet all too true, he realizes as he looks over at you, at the way you hold Rickon, laughing, tweaking his nose, his giggles ringing through the stillness of the air. 

            “Aye,” Jason says and nothing more needs to be said for you turn to them then, face hardening as you look at them, changing from the mother to the lady. 

            “If you do not mind, my lords, the Lord Rickon and I, would like to go play,” you say, your chin held high, façade cracking just once as Rickon reaches for your chin, chubby hand gripping it tightly, your lips curving up a fraction. Just a fraction but enough to free Cregan’s heart from the chains of fear holding tight. 

            That is all he’s ever wanted, a wife, a mother of his child. Someone who sees something worth loving in him and he thinks, more so hopes, for just an instant that within you he can see that. That potential for a love. 

            The one he needs. 

            “Go, my dear,” Jason says, his shaky, drunken hand, waving you off for Cregan’s voice has frozen in his throat. You nod, curtseying and walking off, Rickon’s voice babbling all the while. 

            “…you play knight!” is the last thing Cregan hears before you and Rickon are swallowed by the large stone walls of Winterfell. 

            But even without you in his sight, he can feel it. Hope. 

            And it’s the best feeling he’s ever felt.

            The grove is silent, the wedding not as important as the festivities which follow, rather only three people will bear witness to this. He, your father and you. Cregan has spent the past week falling hopelessly in love with you, dangerously so for you have spent the week with his son, the entire breadth of the courtship contained in the hours which the two of you play games of Rickon’s invention. 

            And every time, Cregan has fallen harder and harder, dangerous because he does not know what he would not do for you. His bride. 

            The woman walking towards him looking like the most beautiful woman in the world, the most precious in the light grey gown, the edge dusted with a decoration of gold, an homage to the lion den from which you come. 

            That’s the part that was strangest for Cregan. He expected you to be full of teeth, armed and cruel and slightly deadly, but rather there is a softness to you. A tenderness that he has never seen in anyone before. 

            You have spent the week becoming Rickon’s mother and now, you will become Cregan’s wife. 

            He watches as you walk, your father sober for once, eyes downcast, hand patting your arm as one does with nerves and slight fear. Like a father losing his daughter and unsure if he can let go. If he had been a good father, he would not have to, but Cregan has gleamed that he wasn’t from those hours spent playing with you and his son. He has gleamed that Jason gave his children’s affections away, preferring to lose himself inside the bottles of honeyed wine. The finest, of course. 

            “Hello,” Cregan whispers as you reach him, your father pressing your hand into his, stating his name as that which gave you away. You’re next, your voice ringing with sweetness and softness through the air, stating your name, your status as bride. “Cregan Stark, the groom,” he whispers and you offer him a small smile, a tender smile. Soft. 

            Everything about you is soft and it is exactly what he’s always wanted because that is the one thing he is not. He has never and will never be soft. You fit to all the pieces inside of him that have never been right. 

            “I take thee as my husband,” you whisper. 

            “I take thee as my wife,” he replies, the two of you kneeling down into the cold dirt, the frost covered ground, the skirt of your dress gathering frozen clumps of dirt, yet you do not seem to care, rather your fierce lioness gaze locked on him, a softness still there, gleaming through. He reaches and removes your maiden cloak, replacing it with the grey and white and wife cloak made by his sister Sara’s own hand. 

            He fastens it, rising first and pulling you up, lifting you into his arms, towards the festivities already underway in the Great Hall of Winterfell, laughter and music spilling from the open window. 

            “We are the Wardens now,” he whispers, your hand finding his, your thumb rubbing circles on it, his grip tightening convulsively, the need to feel you in all ways overwhelming him for a moment. 

            “I am naught but your lady,” you argue, but he shakes his head, feeling your gaze upon him. 

            “You are my equal. You are the Warden as I am.”

            Cregan’s touch is featherlight upon your body, fingers skittering as he strips you of your gown, setting it aside, turning you to face him, one hand gripping your chin as lightly as possible, pressing a soft and tender kiss against your lips, one soft and sure and tender in a way that you imagined only came from love. Only came from wanting the other person, from needing them. 

            That is how he kisses you now, your bodies moving back towards the bed, the one devoid of furs and sheets, a fire roaring and heat generating from his body and yours, his one hand still on your chin, the other resting on your hip, digging in, his lips sliding along yours, tongue tracing the shape of yours. 

            He does not move like an inexperienced green boy, but rather a man who knows what he’s doing. He moves like someone sure of their actions as he removes your small clothes, begins to remove his own, guiding you back onto the bed, his hands warm and calloused on your bare skin. 

            There is no time to feel self-conscious, rather there is, but Cregan whispers “beautiful” as you lay back against the bed, stripping himself of his own clothes, his body climbing over yours, lips pressed to skin, a coil growing in your body as he kisses down the length of your body, to your cunt. 

            “Cregan,” you whisper, your skin fevered and flushed and body wanting. Wanting in ways it’s never wanted before, but as he presses his lips against your cunt, you can feel a bit of shame, a bit of revulsion rise inside of you. 

            Until his tongue presses against you and the feelings it elicits says damn it all to hell. You lose yourself in the way his tongue moves against you, lazy circles on the pearl of your clit, fingers sliding between your folds, dipping in and out, stretching you open, readying you, bringing you to the peak, a strange, sudden and deeply pleasure-filled feeling rolling through you, like a shattering. 

            You can feel a strangeness in your body, a heaviness, as he climbs back up your body, whispering that it will hurt, but hopefully only for a moment as he pushes inside, his cock stretching out your walls as he sinks inside of you, building a rhythm as he holds you, his hands tender and sure, lips steady as they kiss you. He whispers assurances and praises as he thrusts in and out of you, over and over again until he comes in thick hot ribbons, your walls pulsing with the after effects of another orgasm.

            When it’s done, you expect him to roll over, for him to abandon you, but he does not. Rather he gathers blankets and furs, tucking them around the two of you, his arms heavy around your body as he pulls you against him, holding you close. He gives you affection and tenderness and you feel safe. 

            You feel safer in the circle of his arms than you have ever felt in your entire life and it is then that you realize you have fallen in love with the man who puts his son first. 

            The man to whom you come second to a memory. 

            The man who can never love you back.

            And as you fall asleep in the circle of his arms, a single tear slips from your cheek, staining your pillow with an admission of sadness. 

            It has been months of being married, months of sharing a bed at his request, months of dinners and duties and raising Rickon. It has been months of torture, loving a man who sometimes looks at you and sometimes looks past you, like he’s seeing something there over your shoulder, like he’s seeing the woman who was before. The woman whom you have replaced. 

            The woman whom he loves and whom you shall never be. 

            You are tired of living like this, playing nice before the boy, acting like the dutiful wife when inside you are dying, withering and fading. 

            Because you love someone who may never love you back. 

            Cregan does not know what has changed. Only that something has. He has spent months learning you, loving you, falling asleep beside you, dining with you and raising his son—your son—with you. Together. 

            Yet now, it feels as though a wall has been erected, like there is a separation. You are together, yet alone. 

            He has let it go for weeks, but as he watches you now, excuse yourself, leaving the room as he enters it, he knows that he cannot let it go any longer. 

            He cannot let you wither like a flower in the wrong soil. 

            He loves you. 

            “Y/n,” you hear Cregan call, his voice deep and soft at the same time, his voice carrying through the slats in the heavy wooden door. “Would you please open the door? I have a gift for you.” You swallow hard, rising from your table, setting aside your quill, hands drifting to wipe your cheeks of any errant tears, the lump still sitting in your throat.

            “Yes, my lord,” you say as you pull open the door, your breath hitching at the sight of Cregan’s dark hair dusted with snow, his hands behind his back, the muscles tensing and untensing. He smiles at you, the smile he has that sets your heart fluttering and crashing in equal measure. Did he smile at her that way?

            “I have a gift. Well,” he pauses, his arms coming around to his front, a small direwolf pup held in one hand, wriggling and ruffing when it sees you, tail wagging. “See, you’re a wolf now and I thought you should have one as all Starks receive. I waited until a new litter came.” You can feel that lump growing larger, chest constricting and eyes stinging as you blink, looking away as you smile, a saddened smile. 

            “I do not want it,” you whisper, your fingers curling into the wood of the door, hard enough that pain lances from them, jolting up your arm. 

            “Why?” he asks and his voice sounds anguished, that sound even more painful to you, your bottom lip caught between your teeth for a moment. 

            “I know I am not a true wolf. I am,” you swallow hard against the tears, “a replacement and I have long since made my place with that and I understand, but I do not wish to be toyed with nor given gifts from sympathy.” Cregan’s face twists and the look on his face is dark and hurt and angry and it makes the hotness in your eyes and your face even worse. 

            “I LOVE YOU,” he yells, his voice loud and angry and hurt and dark just like the look on his face, the look which has eyes filling with tears, a single silver drop slipping from his eye, trailing a path down his cheek, the pup in his hands woofing loudly and hopping from his hands to the floor, running to you and jumping on you, muddy paws leaving prints on your gowns. “I’m sorry,” he whispers, blinking once and re-orienting himself here and now again. “I’m not good with fancy words. I simply love you as I’ve never loved anyone.”

            “What of your first wife?” you whisper, your voice high-pitched and pained, constricted with your tears as Cregan crosses the floor to you, his hands resting on your upper arms, rubbing soothing patterns. 

            “I never loved her,” he whispers. “I knew her and it was not love and before it could ever become love, she was gone. But I know you and you are no replacement, you are everything. My everything.”

            “I thought it was just politics,” you whisper and he lets out a small, broken laugh as he pulls you against him, tight. “I fell for you though,” you continue, “because of the way you are with Rickon and the way you take your time with him and the way you are everything I’ve ever wanted to love.”

            “That’s good right?” he asks, pulling back slightly, but never letting go of you, his face concerned by the tears streaking down your face, searing your skin with the salt. 

            “Yes,” you cry, face pinching as tears continue to fall, to slip down. “I thought I’d never get love…yet here you are.”

            “Here I am,” he whispers, his hands coming to your cheeks, brushing back the tears with his thumbs, attention soft and unwavering. “And I’m not going anywhere.”

            “I thought you’d never love me even when I loved you,” you tell him and he leans forwards, pressing his forehead against yours, his eyes closing for a moment. 

            “But I do love you. I have never loved anyone as I love you.”

            “And I love you. I fell for the softness within you,” you whisper, your one hand reaching out to trace the line of his cheek as his eyes open. 

            “Funny,” he whispers, “that’s what I fell for in you.” And then his lips are on yours, soft and precious and heated. Perfect. 

            The lifetime kind of love you’ve always wanted. 

            That he’s always wanted. 

            The perfect forever.

            “How did you know you loved her?” Jace asks, looking down at you and Rickon, your heavily pregnant form slower than it used to be, but no less enthusiastic as you follow Rickon through the snow-covered grounds. Cregan can feel a smile grow on his face as you look over, waving, a soft and precious smile on your face. One full of love and light and everything he’s ever wanted, ever needed.

            “When I saw the softness within her,” he answers and it’s true. It was the softness in you, in him, that made this love, this forever kind of love bloom. 

            Take root in a way that is stronger and longer than any Godswood grove. 

“Yes Ormund we’re bringing all of them.” Gwayne responds with an eye roll, finding his cousin ridiculous. Willing to put up with your father’s comments to have a brake from his cousin. “All the children and their dragons.”

“Including Daeron and his beast?”

“He is my son is he not?” Gwayne says, referencing the rumours of Daeron being you and Gwayne biological child. You both not paying it any mind, Daeron is your son anyway.

“Brilliant, it shall smell nicely again, even if only for a while.” Ormund nods already planning on having the dragon enclosures deep cleaned while you’re away. “Don’t hurry back.”

“We’ll miss you too.” Gwayne says sarcastically as his cousin walks off, already planning all the cleaning that can be done with you all gone.

-

“Daughter, Ser Gwayne.” Daemon greets, nodding to your husband and giving you a hug with a kiss to the cheek. Him having missed his eldest daughter. Him meeting you outside to lead you in.

“My prince.” Gwayne nods back, holding your two youngest children. Daeron holding Rhae while Baelor, Alerie and Lorcas stood to the side waiting for their grandsire to greet them.

“Who’s this?” He asks, noticing another child from last time you saw each other two years ago at the birth of Bryden. The man staying for a few weeks to spend time with his grandchildren, Aerion loving the man.

“Oh, Kepa meet Layton, your grandson.” You say smiling, knowing he’s just being annoying as you and Rhaenyra write often and your father likes adding bits to the end of some of her letters.

“What number is he?” Daemon asks giving Gwayne a look that the man doesn’t notice to focused on the children.

“Pardon?” You ask, your father deliberately being a dick.

“How many children do you have now?” He asks clearly already knowing the answer and disapproving.

“Nine.” You say smiling, knowing he won’t be happy when he finds out your with child again. You and Gwayne having found out a few days ago, your husband having suspected for a few weeks before you finally agreed to see the maester.

-

“Right little hatchlings time for bed.” Gwayne says to the children, daemon choking on his wine at what the man called his children. “Daeron, Aerion and Lynesse you can stay up a little longer.”

“Why do they get to say up?”

“Because they’re older.” Gwayne responds picking up Baelor and Rhae, the two clearly tired, you already having left to put Bryden and Layton to bed.

“That’s not fair.” Lorcas complains, him being two years younger than Lynesse the boy having just turned 6.

“Yeah not fair!” Alerie agrees, her and Lorcas not liking they’re younger than the ‘big kids’. Your eldest three allowed to stay up later and the boys both old enough to start riding their dragons.

“You can stay up, but you won’t get any stories.” Gwayne say, used to this argument.

“No stories!” Both children exclaim in disbelief, story time being the most important time of day.

“No stories.” Gwayne confirmed, knowing that Lorcas and Alerie love story time. “Come on hatchings.”

“Can we have three?” Lorcas asks trying his luck, them normally getting two anyway.

“I’ll think about it.” Gwayne says leading the children out, lorcas listing off all the stories he wants as they go.

-

“So Daeron, how do you feel about having so many siblings?” Daemon asks his eldest grandchild once Gwayne has left with the young children. Daeron playing cyvasse with Jace and Aerion, both boys having to team up against Daeron so they have a chance. Luke and Lynesse playing a card game on the floor with Baela and Rhaena. Baela occasionally helping Jace and Aerion.

“I like it, I do get a bit nervous when the labour’s start but I like having a big family. It makes me feel wanted.” He say moving a piece on the board.

“Oh, Aerion what about you?” Daemon asks, knowing his second grandchild is more opinionated than Daeron.

“Well Rhae is annoying she keeps hiding my toys.” The silver hair boy responds, looking at Baela for help. Him and Jace not sure what to do next.

“That’s because you do the same to her.” Lynesse says giving her brother a look. Knowing that he loves teasing his younger siblings, Rhae being his favourite.

“I don’t see what that has to do with anything.” He says innocently, smiling at Baela when she moves a piece for them. Jace telling her ‘thank you’.

-

“He calls them hatchings.” Daemon vents to Rhaenyra later that night as they get ready for bed. All the older children having a sleepover in the library. All knowing that they won’t sleep to exited to all be together again.

“Who?” Rhaenyra asks, taking off her jewellery knowing this was going to happen. Daemon always complaining about your husband, not liking that he’s a Hightower.

“Hightower, he calls the children hatchings.”

“Well they are.” She responds raising an eyebrow at him, the man doing the same with their children.

“He’s defiling my poor girl.” Daemon scoffs moving to help Rhaenyra untie her dress, him having dismissed the servants. Wanting to complain to his wife in peace.

“What?”

“Hightower, he won’t get off her.” He stresses, loosening the dress before dramatically flopping on the bed. “Nine children!”

“Well it’s only nine if you include Daeron.” She smirks, knowing that your with child again. You two having spoken after putting the children to bed.

“So Nine!”

-

“I’m with child.” You announce to your father a few days later. Rhaenyra asking you to tell daemon before she gives birth. You and Gwayne planing on telling the children soon anyway.

“Again?” Daemon asks in shock. You only having given birth 10 moons ago. Him hoping you were done with babies.

“Yes again.” You reply rolling your eyes at your father.

“But, that’s baby number ten.” He says as if you didn’t know.

“Well done Kepa you can count.” You respond sarcastically, knowing a part of his dislike is after what happened to Laena but finding his reaction annoying. Him only being happy when you announced you were having Aerion and even then he glared at Gwayne as he congratulated you.

-

“He’s corrupted her.” Daemon complains storming into his and Rhaenyra’s chambers. The woman laying in bed reading, her needing a rest after flying with you some of the children.

“I think you mean she corrupted him.” Rhaenyra corrects closing her book knowing she won’t get the peace she wanted.

“What? No, before him she was a perfect angel.”

“A perfect angel who would drag Gwayne out of balls to kiss him before they even announced they were courting.” She says, knowing daemon ignores all the scandalous things you got up to, blaming most on Gwayne.

“What?” He asks, shocked at the thought. “I didn’t know that!”

“That’s because you had already snuck out to kiss or fuck someone.” Rhaenyra responds, knowing that once him and Laena married it was her he was sneaking off with. “And before you go fight him, Gwayne refused to have sex until they wed. Not from a lack of trying on her part.”

“Stop talking.” Daemon says flopping on the bed and covering his ears, not wanting to hear about what you and your husband got up to.

“So is it not the best time to mention the times that Harwin and I would join them?” Rhaenyra asks smirking, deciding it best not to mention that you don’t know who Lorcas’s biological father is. It being a toss up between Gwayne and Harwin. You only knowing that Joffrey is harwins given the boys looks.

“Rhaenyra!”

-

“Hightower, we need to talk.” Daemon say cornering Gwayne while you are with Rhaenyra and the children.

“Of course my prince.” Gwayne responds with a sassy tone, daemon not picking up on it. “What do you want to discuss?”

“Get off my daughter.”

“Pardon?” Gwayne asks voice dropping in anger but not showing it, clenching his fist to calm himself.

“Stop fucking my daughter, she hasn’t had a brake in years.” Daemon hisses, trying to intimidate the man. But failing.

“She wants it.” Gwayne responds tightly, trying to control his anger.

“Of course she does.” Daemon say rolling his eyes giving Gwayne a disgusted look. “I know you’re religious but I didn’t expect you to force her to have so many children.”

“What the fuck are you talking about?” Gwayne snaps, furious at the accusation.

“Stop mounting my daughter!”

“She’s the one who mounts me!” Gwayne shouts back going to storm off. “Talk to your daughter, but you even accuse me of forcing my wife to do anything again I will hurt you. I don’t care if you’re a prince and her father, you don’t get to disrespect us like that.”

-

“He what?” You ask furious, no one allowed do disrespect your husband like that. Your father included. You storming off to find your father before Gwayne can even attempt to stop you.

“Father!” You shout, making his stop in his tracks. The man on his way to the dragon pits. “There’s some thinks you need to know.”

“What is it?” He asks impatiently, wanting to go for a ride to clear his head.

“I’m the one who’s ’mounting’ my husband all the time. The reason we have so many children? I want them. I love all my children and I also love when my husband fucks them into me!” You shout grateful that the children are all in the library with Rhaenyra so they can’t hear this conversation.

“Daughter-.” He tries, you interrupting him fed up with is treatment of your husband.

“No! I’m fed up with your attitude! I’m a grown woman! And if you keep disrespecting my husband I won’t speak to you again!”

-

“I fucked up.” Daemon says later on after his ride, even sliverwing upset with him as she grumbled when he flew past her and Vermithor.

“I know.” Rhaenyra replies having just spoken with you about everything.

“What do I do?” He wines, wanting things to go back to normal.

“Have you tried apologising?” She offers, knowing that he’ll have to make it up to Gwayne before you even think of speaking to him.

“I’ll apologise to her tomorrow.”

“Not just her.” Rhaenyra tells him firmly, wanting you all to get along. “Daemon, she loves him. She won’t forgive you until you apologise to him and start treating him with respect.”

“Do I have to?”

“Do you like having her as a daughter?” She counters raising an eyebrow at the sulky man.

-

“Gwayne, come walk with me.” Daemon say the next day, finding you and Gwayne sat cuddling by the fire. Some of the children playing around you. Jace and Aerion practicing Cyvasse Daeron having beaten them once again.

“Father-.”

“It’s fine, my love.” Gwayne says reassuring you that all will be well. Kissing your cheek before standing up and flowing the man out.

“I’m sorry.” Daemon say a while later, gwayne fine walking in silence.

“Thank you.” Your husband responds, not bothering to say anything else.

“Is that all you’re going to say?”

“What would you like me to say? You disrespected my wife and children.” Gwayne tells him, willing to put up with the comments made about him but drawing the line at you and the children being insulted. Even if it was meant to just insult him. “I don’t like you. I know you love her and worry about her safety but all your comments just push her away.”

“I don’t like you either.” Daemon agrees. Not liking the man entirely because of the man’s father.

“I know you’ve made it obvious, the difference between us is that I keep my comments to myself for the sake of the women I love.” Gwanye says, not caring about insulting the man anymore and just deciding to speak his truth. “I don’t like you, I never have and never will but I know that my wife loves you and my children deserve one grandparent in their life so don’t fuck it up.”

“What about Otto?” Daemon asks, having assumed that the man was active in your lives. Him still believing that Otto orchestrated your whole relationship.

“We don’t talk.” Gwayne says simply him having cut contact with his father a few years before. Him only speaking with Alicent every so often to update her on Daeron.

“Why?”

“He called my wife a whore and Lorcas a bastard given the boys hair.” He responds still angry about it.

“He has his grandmothers hair.” Daemon says in slight confusion, the boy having dark hair like your mother.

“We know that, but he thinks he’s Harwins.”

“Is he?” Daemon asks curiosity, having been wondering since Rhaenyra mentioned you all sharing a bed.

“Is that important?”

“No.” Daemon relents, Lorcas being his grandchild either way. “How many times have you slept with my wife?”

“I’m not answering that.” Gwayne says, smile appearing on his lips when he sees Joffrey and Lorcas playing hide and seek together.

-

“Are you alright?” You ask as soon as Gwanye appears back in the room. The older children having run off to get food from the kitchens. The younger playing on the floor, not paying attention to you and Gwayne.

“Stop panicking my love.” He says joining you on the large chair, arm going over your shoulders to bring you closer. Kissing your head as he does so. “He’s apologised.”

“Really? My father apologised?” You ask, not believing the man. Daemon only having apologised to 3 other people you included.

“He did, he also asked how often we’ve slept with Rhaenyra.” He whispers into your ear, smirk on his lips, finding the question hilarious.

“That doesn’t surprise me.” You sigh before looking into your husband eyes. Not feeling like you show him you love him often enough despite you telling him daily. “I love you.”

“I love you too.” He says giving you a soft kiss placing his hand on your stomach. “Now, what are we going to name this one?”

-

Bonus

“No!” Ormund shouts Gwanye having just told his cousin the news. You all arriving back home a day ago, Rhaenyra having a little boy a few days before that.

“Ormund.”

“Eleven dragons!” Ormund interrupts, having enjoyed his time without smelly dragons and sticky children. “Eleven fucking stinky dragons! That’s not even including the other one that comes to see your wife’s one! I was happy you’re continuing the Hightower line but I refuse to have more dragons!”

It’s hot all of a sudden. Or cold. You cannot tell. The atmosphere feels strange, and in the distance, you hear a heart-wrenching echo. It’s the cry of a mother who has lost her son. It echoes against the walls. Yet still, you do not move. You look at the woman with blonde hair, on her knees, who is pleading and shaking her son in the hope of waking him up. A miracle that will never come. You ceased believing in miracles after – 

You are struggling to breathe. The part of you that was torn away, it's wounds you still. You are in pain. A hellish pain you cannot describe. It grips you everywhere, it paralyzes you, it plunges you into a numbness beyond feeling. Will the tears ever come? Will you ever be able to feel anything again?

The walls of Dragonstone welcome the Stranger once more, all too soon.

It is too much. Overwhelming. No one moves. Only Rhaenyra’s screams and cries break the deafening silence of death, and you gaze upon the lifeless body of your twin brother.

You are alone, utterly alone.

*** *** ***

[two years earlier]

It felt strange to return to the Red Keep after all those years spent among the cold, watchful stones of Dragostone. The island had been a refuge where you were lulled by the waves, a kind of interlude that had now come to its end. The hallways felt both familiar and foreign. Your bedroom, too. It was different in your memories, but then again, perhaps it was childhood nostalgia that had tinged them with a very particular hue.

Clearly, you had to play your role, fulfill your duty. It was for your family, for your mother, for your brothers. After Aegon and Helaena’s wedding, you were now the last hope of uniting the two families. And it could not be so terrible. You and Aemond were alike; you shared a love of learning, history, and languages. He had been a close friend, and you had been his source of comfort after the incident.

Returning to the Red Keep meant making the official announcement of the betrothals between Baela and Jace, Rhaena and Luke, and you and Aemond. It was part of the agreement, and you had accepted it because you knew how important it was to your mother. You were willing to make any sacrifice for peace and the greater good. - Still got your head in the clouds ?

A warm embrace wrapped around your shoulders, grounding you in reality. You found yourself face to face with the features you knew so well - the ones that were so similar to your own - No, I was just…

Just what? You left the end of your sentence hanging. - There is something I would have you keep, you said, unfastening the necklace you'd been wearing around your neck. I... I know it's foolish, but...Take that. That way, you shall never forget me.

He held out his hand, and you placed the piece of jewellery in the palm of his hand. He studied it as if it were the most precious object he had ever held. - Is that concern I hear in your voice, dear sister? Jace asked, his tone a mix of teasing and worry. For you know I won’t forget you.

You hated it when he showed concern for you. You were the older sister by mere minutes – it was yourplace to worry about him, even if he liked to contradict you. - Jace. Please. You know I’m not afraid. I’m doing this for the family. It’s my duty. It’s our duty.

With his hands upon your shoulders, he turned you round. One of his fingers wrapped around a strand of hair that had loosed from your braid and he tucked it behind your ear. He sought your gaze, his brown eyes locking with yours. - Just because it’s your duty doesn’t mean you can’t feel a little fear. I feel a little fear, too. - Baela is nice. And beautiful, you added to reassure him. She’ll make you happy. - I do love Baela, he replied with a little chuckle. And yet, I am afraid. There is the wedding. And what comes after.

You nodded. You knew that Jace understood how you felt better than an other. As the eldest son, he shared the burden of responsibility with you. He knew what it was like to be crushed beneath obligations you hadn’t chosen - and to live in ceaseless dread of failing. Ever since childhood, both of you had borne that role, serving as examples for Lucerys, Joffrey, Aegon and Viserys.

Jace gently stroked your cheek, his thumb tracing the crest of your cheekbone. You stayed like that for a moment, revelling in the warmth radiating from his palm against your cheek. It seemed a distant memory, the days when he would come to you because he was afraid of the storm. Back then, you had made a habit of telling him tales you made up about dragons, princes and forgotten kingdoms or female pirates ; a blend of the history you knew and subtle inventions. Sometimes, when sleep would not find you, he was the one who lulled you to sleep with his words. And some other times, you would spend nights talking in the dark, his hand in yours. 

Thunderstorms frightened him no longer now, and you had learned to face your night-time thoughts alone. - You shall make a good king, Jace, you said, taking his hand and tracing the lines of his palm.

He fell silent for a moment. You let go of his hand. - That… that is precisely what troubles me, he sighed. I fear I will make a poor king. There is still so much I must learn, and I am not ready.

At that very moment, he became the frightened boy from those stormy nights once again. His fingers laced with yours as you sought for the right words, the ones that could help him. You rested your head against his shoulder and closed your eyes.

 If only you could stay by his side, but you were a daughter, he was a son, and your paths were inevitably fated to part.

*** *** ***

Following the disaster that had been dinner, you returned to Dragonstone. You knew that this was only temporary : soon, you would return to King's Landing as you had promised Aemond, to honour your betrothal and then your marriage. It was surely all the more needful now that the wounds of the past had been reopened. You might be the only hope of maintaining some semblance of unity between your families. 

Your throat tightened. You were going to miss Dragonstone. You were going to miss your family. You were going to miss Jace. You were not ready to leave this place of comfort, where for so many long years you had been soothed by the familiar sound of churning waves crashing against the rocks. Would you ever grow used to this gilded cage, far from the freedom you had known here? - Am I intruding ?

Your heart filled with a familiar warmth. Jace. Your troubles seemed lighter when he was near.  - I’m sorry for how things went at supper, you began. - It’s not your fault. Let us just say Aemond is... Aemond.

You nodded. - Aemond is Aemond. Indeed.

You knew it wasn’t your fault - you couldn’t control your betrothed’s impulsive temper, but you could not help feeling a twinge of guilt. After all, he was still to be your husband. 

There was a moment of silence. It was as though each of you were hesitating. This shyness was something new. You needed him; you needed to run and take refuge in your twin brother’s arms. Just as in the old days. To feel the warmth of his body wrapped around you, shielding you from everything else. To breathe in his scent, so familiar, so comforting. So why did you seem unable to move?

He stepped towards you at last. There was something almost childlike about his movements, as though he were not quite sure of himself yet. You hated the awkwardness that had crept in between the two of you. Had it begun after the betrothals? After the supper ? 

Your fingers felt cold in his. If he noticed, he gave nothing away.  - So I suppose this is when you leave us, is it?

Jace had learnt to bottle up his feelings, to wall himself behind a shield so as not to betray what he truly felt. At such times, he would throw his shoulders back and hold his head high. It was his way of showing that he was worthy of being king, for kings, after all, felt nothing. Kings were brave. Kings were not ruled by their hearts.  

But you knew your brother better than any other. You understood him better than any other. Was there anything you hadn’t shared? You could read him like an open book. - I suppose so.

You gave a comforting smile. You did not wish to see his sorrow ; it would only make your leaving all the more difficult.

For now, you would not think about that. - Do not miss my wedding to Baela. - I will not, Jace. - Promise me. I need you at my wedding, he insisted.  - I promise, Jace, you replied with a chuckle, rolling your eyes, and he drew you close, pressing you against his chest. 

For a long time, you had stood taller than him and it had annoyed him. But now that he was a man grown, he was perhaps a few inches taller than you. Yet if you rose on your toes, you could still tower over him.  - I would not miss my little brother’s wedding for anything in the world, you added, rising on tiptoe to tease him, your arms wrapped around the back of his neck.

He hated it when you reminded him that you were the elder. He pouted, crossing his arms before him, and you stepped back. You were about to walk away, but he caught your hand. - Wait, he said.

You waited. His thumb traced idly the back of your hand. With his head down, he seemed lost in thought, as if he wanted to tell you something important but could not quite find the words. Turning your hand, he outlined your palm with his thumb, moving gently up towards your wrist. Still he was searching for the right words.  

Suddenly, he frowned. You gave him a questioning look. - Hey. What is that ? he asked, lifting your wrist to look closer.

Your heart raced. Fuck. You’d overlooked that detail.

Things had turned sour, just before the supper. You were no longer certain how. Perhaps it had been something you had said that struck a spark of rage in Aemond, the start of a quarrel like those that sometimes happened between you. You were both fire when you were together. You were fire and water, destroying each other by nature. You had wished to cut the conversation short, but he had held you back. His grip had tightened around your wrist, he had pulled you, perhaps a little too hard, leaving a bracelet of purplish marks around it.  - It’s nothing.

You could see the alarm in his eyes; the worry and the anger too. You could guess at the storm that was raging within him. His blood must have been boiling. His desire to -

That was one of the reasons you had kept silent. It might have been selfish, it might have been foolish of you, but you had wished to avoid making things worse. Aemond, you could deal with him on your own.  - It is not nothing, he retorted, his voice edged with anger. I swear to the Seven that I’m going to - -  It’s fine, Jace. I’m fine, you cut him off. 

He wanted to retort, he wanted to explain just how much it was not fine, but the sensation of the soft warmth radiating from the palm of your hand against his cheek stilled him. You had cupped his cheek gently, stroking his hair with your thumb to soothe him. 

Was it not ironic, reassuring your brother about something that had been done to you ? - There is something we can do. We can yet call off the wedding. You’re my sister. I will not let him hurt you.  - I swear it. I am fine.

His hand closed around the wrist stroking his cheek, as though to feel you closer to him, as though he were clinging to what remained of you, his sister, for the moment. For soon, you would be leaving, and soon you would have to face your hardships alone. You swallowed the tears threatening at the corners of your eyes. Everything would be well. You had promised that. Everything would be well.

Jace pulled you close and you buried your head in the nape of his neck, your hair, so alike, mingling into a dark mass. You wrapped your arms around his waist and pressed yourself against him as if seeking to become one with him. As if you never wanted to lose him. What would your days be like without Jace ? You dared not imagine it. He was your rock. You were inseparable. You were born together, and together you would die. - Promise me you willl tell me if he does not treat you well.

You held him a little tighter in response. With your eyes closed, you buried your head a little deeper into the crook of his neck, your breath tickling his skin.  - Promise me. Please. Promise me. - I promise, you finally managed to say. 

You stayed there against him a moment, in silence, muffling a sob against the fabric of his gambeson. - Will you stay the night ?  Your voice took on a timid tone. Please. Before I leave.

Just as it had been then. Just as when you were children. You wished to have him close to you for one night. Only for one last night. - I shall stay.

He pressed a chaste kiss upon your lips. For a long time, you had wondered who would eventually cross that unseen line. You had played with the forbidden, for you knew you could not cross it. He was your brother, your twin brother. He was promised already to another, just as you were promised already. But it was only a matter of time before you yielded to the desire that consumed you both. It was impossible to fight against the unique bond that united you. 

He kept his promise to remain at your side through the night, lying close beside you. It was not a good idea to let him into your bed, but you tried to silence the voice of reason in your head.  - I do not want you to go, he murmured. - I know.

Slowly, your hand trailed the delicate contours of his chest, sliding between his thighs over the fabric. He was already hard against your hand, and your fingers traced the bulge growing against the linen of his breeches. He was about to pull away, to apologise for his body’s reaction, but you silenced him. -  Let me, you murmured against his lips.

His warm member twitched between your fingers, and you muffled a moan escaping his lips. - Let me make you feel good.

You applied more pressure. His own fingers found refuge against your breast, caressing your hardened nipples through the fabric of your nightdress. You slid your hand under the waistband of his breeches to close it around his cock, the tip of which was already drooling.

You began to move, and he threw his head back. You were perfect. Your movements were perfect. He needed more. He was about to -

You felt him stiffen beneath you, his member throbbing until his hot seed covered your hand. He slowly caught his breath.  - Sorry, he whispered. I did not mean to - - It is fine, you replied immediately, wiping your still-sticky fingers against the fabric of his underclothes.

Once he had regained his composure, Jace lifted your nightdress to roll your nipples between his fingers. You needed him between your thighs, where your crotch was aching with desire. You grabbed his wrist, guiding him lower. - Here, you murmured. I want you here.

His fingers ventured between your thighs, through your curls, where the wetness was already gathering. Timidly at first, he explored the entrance of your opening, before moving up through your folds, to your desire-swollen clit. He traced small circles, his fingers drenched in your pleasure.  - Fuck. You are soaked.

The tip of his index finger pressed gently, shyly against your opening, as if to make sure it was all right, as if to make sure that it was not too much. When he got your approval, he slid his finger inside your warmth, caressing that delicious spot within. You could not suppress a moan. He quickly added a second finger, making sure not to hurt you, then a third. There were bigger than yours. But gods, it stretched you just right, just as it should.

His thumb against your clit, his fingers inside you, pressing against the spot that made you see stars, you were about to reach your climax. He picked up the pace slightly, admiring your face contorted with the pleasure that only he could give you. He was learning your body, taking in every sigh, every moan that escaped your lips, memorising what made you shiver.

Suddenly, your whole body tensed and you clung to him as you were overwhelmed by an indescribable sensation. He let you come down from your peak, keeping his fingers inside you for a moment, before withdrawing them gradually, slowly, and bringing them to his own lips. - You taste good, sister.

He did that to make you blush, and it worked perfectly. - It is inappropriate, you said with a sigh, just for the sake of it. 

Glancing down between your bodies, you realised your brother was growing hard again, his large member standing erect against his lower abdomen and poking against you. So you pulled him towards you, letting him take his place between your parted legs, and he pressed his lips against yours.  - We should not be doing this, you whispered between kisses. - No, we should not, he replied. Then tell me to stop. Tell me to stop now, if that is your wish. 

But neither you nor he wished to stop. The night was still young. In reply, you slid your hand between your bodies, around his length, to guide it towards your entrance.

It might have been the only thing you could ever grant him, the only thing that would be his alone, forever. Whatever came after, he would always be the first.

*** *** ***

As soon as you passed through the gates of Dragonstone, you were overcome with the urge to throw yourself into your brother’s arms. You buried your head in the crook of his neck, just as you had done for the last time weeks before, breathing in his scent, pressing his body close to yours. Your feet left the ground as he spun you round. Gods be good, it had been so long since you had last seen him. - By the Seven, I cannot believe you are truly here, he murmured in your ear, and the words sent a shiver down your spine. I have missed you so much.

You felt near crying with joy. 

Everything had happened so quickly. One evening your grandsire, the king, died, and the very next day Aegon was already being crowned his successor before the masses. You had fled with the aid of ser Erryk and your grandmother Rhaenys. You had thought you would die. But you were here, you were truly here, home again.

You stayed like that for a moment, perhaps a little too long. His hands on your waist, your eyes locked with his, your faces so near, and above all, your heart beating, pounding. There was nowhere else you would have wished to be at that precise moment.

Lucerys ran towards you and you drew back from Jace, of a sudden feeling ashamed. It was as though you had been caught red-handed, as though you had been caught doing something forbidden. 

But what could be so forbidden in wishing to be reunited with your twin brother?

You took Lucerys into your arms and your heart swelled with happiness. You had missed Lucerys so greatly, too. Of course, it was not the same feeling as when you had embraced Jace - Jace was a part of you, something no other could ever understand. Lucerys was the little brother you had looked after for so long, the one most like both you and Jace.

And when you were reunited with your mother, when you were reunited with Baela, and Rhaena, and Daemon, and Joffrey, and the rest of your family, you were certain that everything would be well. Yes. Everything would be well, so long as you were together.

As expected, your marriage to Aemond was annulled. Now that war had more or less been declared, every possible strategy had to be employed to secure allies, which included your worth as an unwed princess. That was one of the reasons why you were soon to journey to the North with Jace. To meet your potential husband: Cregan Stark.

Cregan Stark, by your mother’s accounts and the few letters you had exchanged, seemed a charming young man, of a temperament quite unlike Aemond’s. Your meeting with him only confirmed that first impression: Cregan was, indeed, a charming man. He had arranged everything for your arrival, from a place for your dragon to rest – he feared him, as you teased him about when you arrived – to cakes made with blackberries, your favourite fruit. You knew well how much effort he had spent into making you glad. He held a small banquet, he danced with you, he complimented you, and you had gotten along at once.

It was as though you had known each other all your lives. He was handsome. He was playful. He was kind. He had a fine wit.

If Aemond was a moon, mysterious and solitary, Cregan was a blazing sun.

Despite the cold of Winterfell, you could definitely see yourself living by his side. Perhaps it was for the best.

Perhaps.

*** *** ***

It is strange to think about all that now. It all seems so far away.

It is as though you have lived dozens of lives, despite your young age. Time seems like a strange thing to you now. Something distorted, twisted out of shape. What is a day ? What is a week ? What will time, what will life, be, now that Jace is gone? It is all so absurd. All of it is absurd.

Your thoughts turn back to Cregan. You will have to tell him the news. How do you tell him something your mind refuses to accept? It is the same hell all over again. It has been the same hell ever since – 

*** *** ***

When Lucerys died, you refused to believe it. 

Aemond.

Aemond had slain your little brother.

It was impossible. He had not done it. He could not have done it.

Aemond, your once-betrothed. The man who was supposed to become your husband. The man with whom you had shared your childhood. The man you had defended after the incident.

Squeezing your arm so hard that it left bruises was one thing.

Killing your little brother, his own nephew, was another matter entirely.

Were Lucerys’s deeds worth the price of his life?

Lucerys. You would never see him again. You would never run your hand through his thick brown hair again. You would never see him grow into a man. You would never see him become an uncle, a husband, a father.

Should you fly to King’s Landing? Seek your vengeance at the cost of your own life, in some desperate attempt?

He would never look at you again with those wide eyes of his. He would never again slip his little hand into yours seeking comfort. He would never again ask you to help him with his High Valyrian.

There would never again be Lucerys, that lively boy, at times unsure of himself, at times full of mischief.

Was it your fault? A part of you could not help but lay the blame upon yourself. A hundred of other paths raced through your mind. What if you had stayed with Aemond despite all ? Could you have dissuaded him from attacking your little brother? And what if you had gone with Lucerys to Storm’s End, as he had asked you to, because he was afraid ? Could you have protected him? You had failed in your role as elder sister. You had not been there, and he had died all alone. In fear, and in the icy grip of death.

Jace had tried to keep his composure when he returned, after having won alliances on Rhaenyra’s behalf. The North. The Vale. The Freys. His shoulders thrown back, he swallowed his tears, each step harder than the last as he fought to hold them back. In the deathly silence hanging within the walls of Dragostone, only the steady sound of his footsteps echoed. - Lady Jeyne Arryn has pledged her support, in exchange for a dragon to guard the Vale.

Despite all his efforts to remain dignified, you could mark the faint tremors in his voice, the ones that betrayed what he truly felt. He strove so hard to remain composed, to do what was expected of him – of a king.

But he could no longer fight grief that overwhelmed him, and he collapsed into his mother’s arms just as you had done moments before. He bore the weight of guilt crushing his shoulders just as much as you did – you knew that. He, too, blamed himself for not having been there, for not having been able to shield his little brother. He thought, as you did, that he had failed. That perhaps he might have changed the outcome. He hated himself just as much as you hated yourself. - Jace, you whispered, taking him in your arms, pressing your body against his. He smelled of a blend of leather, dragon and sweat, but that mattered not ; you needed him close to you. Jace, I am so sorry.

His hand found your hair. He buried his face in your long, loose curls and tightened his embrace around your body as though he feared you might vanish too. You fell to your knees, and he sank down beside you. You could no longer hold back the tears you had held in for so long, nor all the sorrow, anger, injustice, nor all the rage, despair and hatred you had gathered within you. All those feelings exploded alongside your tears. - I am so sorry. I am so, so sorry.

That was all you could keep repeating. He stroked your hair and you clung to him, desperate. You had tried to be strong. You had really tried. - I know, he whispered, planting a kiss on the top of your head. He was weeping, too. It is not your fault.

Perhaps he was talking to himself. Perhaps he was trying to convince himself more than you. Either way, something irreparable had broken within both of you.

*** *** ***

As night fell, Dragonstone was plunged into silence, broken only by the sound of the waves. Driven by the wind, they crashed against the rocks with a wild roar. You stared at them, seated with your elbows resting on the cold windowsill of your chamber. It was the same expanse of salt water that had claimed what remained of your little brother’s body. It was the same storm that had led him to his end. You pictured his small body, alone, amid the raging sea, and you could not stop the tears rising in the corners of your eyes. You had been the only one among your siblings who loved the sea, but now you were not sure if you could set foot upon a ship again. Everything would ceaselessly remind you of him.

The door opened behind you and you immediately recognised the sound of steady, confident footsteps. - You should be sleeping.

You shrugged, not troubling to answer. Your chin resting on your folded arms, you simply kept your gaze fixed ahead. You did not want to see the pity in his eyes, nor hear him repeat words you did not believe. -  I cannot sleep.

How could you, when such horrific visions filled your mind the moment your eyes closed ? - I thought as much. I wished to check if you… if you were holding up.

He moved closer until he stood behind you. He carried about him a reassuring presence. You knew it had not been easy for him either. After word came of Luke’s death, he threw himself heart and soul into readying for what was to come. And what was to come inevitably included war. The thought made you wince. With war came ruin, bloodshed and… and more deaths, of course. But Jace burned with purpose. Together with Corlys and Daemon, he started devising strategies designed to secure Rhaenyra’s victory.

The thought of celebrating your wedding amid such chaos seemed absurd to you. You were to be sent north, where you would be safe, whilst your brother, whilst Baela, whilst your mother and all the others risked their lives.

Was it not your rightful place at their side? You were not made of glass. You could help. You could avenge Luke.

You were going mad.

Jace wrapped his arms around your shoulders. He drew you gently towards him, until your upper body and the back of your head were resting against his chest. You raised your eyes. You could see him upside down. You stayed like that for a moment. You against him. His eyes in yours.

He leaned forward, his curls tickling your face, and pressed a kiss to your forehead. You wanted him to go on : to trace your nose with the tip of his lips, to move down to your mouth, to seal your lips together. You needed him like that. - You can talk to me.

You knew that. But what could you say ? No words would bring your little brother back to life. -  I know.

Your nose brushed against Jace’s and you shaped a small smile. You hesitated a moment, biting the inside of your cheek. - Stay with me tonight.

There. It was said. It was not quite a command, nor quite a question. It was more a need. A necessity.

The same you had felt weeks ago. - Please, you added. - Very well. I stay. - Thank you.

He caressed your face, tracing the shape of your nose with his thumb, then your parted lips, your throat. He needed your presence as much as you needed his. It was no chance that had brought him to your chamber. He had deliberately sought your presence. You were is solace. - You know I will not let what befell Lucerys befall you.

His eyes shone with seriousness. He wore his big-brother demeanour, the one he took on when he acted as if he were the eldest. It was like a game between you - you had always end in bickering over who had been born first. - Do not trouble yourself over me.

His face was so near now. Fuck. You could make out those long lashes framing his eyes, his straight nose, his beautifully shaped lips and his delicately arched eyebrows. How could you stop the heat spreading through your body? How could you stop this desire from consuming you from within? - You’re my sister. Of course I shall always worry for you, fool.

You hesitated to close the space between you. You hesitated, and then it was already too late. A twinge of regret gripped your heart, but you convinced yourself it was for the best.

Later, when you lay down in your bed, he curled up behind you as he always did. You could not bring yourself to close your eyes. The images were still there, despite your brother’s presence. Once, simply being there for one another had been enough to chase away the demons that haunted either of you. But those days were long past.

He had his arm around you, his hand absently resting on your breast, and he held you close against him. You moved back a little, rubbing your bottom against his lower stomach. You knew he was not asleep. You could feel that he was not asleep. On the contrary, he was wide awake, his erection poking against your bottom. - Do not. It is uncomfortable enough already, sister.

But you were not listening to him. You did it again, deliberately, to provoke him, to push him to his limits, so that he could finally release the tension he had built up. It had become your way of finding solace: in each other’s arms. What you were doing was perhaps wrong, perhaps a sin, but who cares? It was your secret. The two of you alone. 

So you turned to face him, your nose brushing against his. You cupped his cheek, and your lips whispered against his the same words they had whispered weeks ago. - We should not.

He knew it, yet he made no move to stop you. Your hands slid slowly down his chest and lifted the linen fabric of his tunic to caress his lower abdomen, seeking the object of your desire. Your fingers brushed the line of fine hair that disappeared into the waistband of his breeches. - No, we should not, he repeated, panting, subtly shifting his hips in search of contact.

His forehead pressed against yours. Eyes closed, he tried to fight the passion that consumed him, he tried not to yield. For if he did, it would be too late.

Your lips melted against his, cutting off what he was about to say. It was all the invitation he needed to draw you beneath him, his hands cupping your face as he deepened the kiss passionately. He had missed you. He had missed you so much. His body over yours, his lips against yours - only then did the nightmares fall silent. Fuck. You needed to be united with him, to become one with him, to feel him inside of you so you could be whole again and mend all those little pieces that had shattered inside your heart.

Without a moment’s hesitation, Jace rained kisses down your throat, then along your collarbone. He slipped off your nightdress, revealing your small breasts, which he knew so well. He mapped them out with his lips once more, his tongue caressing your hardened nipples. Between your thighs, a familiar, feverish heat spread, becoming almost unbearable. - Jace. I need you inside. Please. I fucking need you. - I know. Just a little more patience.

But you ran out of patience. And even more so when your brother slid his fingers down your stomach, down to your thighs. You instinctively spread your legs apart, and he traced the sensitive skin on the inside of your upper thighs before moving back up, slowly. With his fingertips, he collected your moisture at the very entrance to your opening. Then, he traced the length of your slit, between your folds, and found your clit. You moved your hips. It was not enough. The small circular movements against your button were not enough. - You are doing well, he whispered against your ear. How many? - Th-three. I- I can take three.

Jace did not wait any longer. His fingers entered you. Not one after the other, as he usually did, but all three at once. They stretched you so well. You could feel him, against your inner walls. Inside. Deep inside. You clung to him, moving your hips to show him you could take more. His fingers rubbed a spot that sent waves of delightful warmth through your entire body. You wished it would never stop. - Jace, I’m close. I think I’m going to - - No. Not yet, he said, pulling his fingers away to stop you from reaching your climax. 

He wanted it to happen around him. He wanted you to be united in the most complete way possible.

Soon, he dropped his breeches to the floor and settled himself between your legs. With his right hand, he guided his length towards your crotch, gathering your wetness with its round, glistening tip. You lifted your hips, as if to help him find the best angle. Finally, he entered you with a long thrust, uniting your bodies, and your arms closed behind the nape of his neck.

It felt so good, to have him inside you, right there. It felt so good to feel whole again.

It was a form of solace. Of security. Of peace.

In the beam of moonlight, the shadow of your entwined bodies rippled against the wall in time with your movements. It was slow. It was deep. It was desperate. Jace’s forehead was pressed against yours, your breath mingling in the thin air between your lips. You tried to pull him closer to you as he continued to move in and out of you.

At that precise moment, nothing else existed apart from you and your twin brother, apart from your bodies pressed against one another, apart from him inside of you and the feeling of being exactly where you were meant to be. The bond that united you was stronger than anything, and no one could ever understand it. You were more than siblings, more than lovers. You shared a single soul. - I love you, he breathed against your lips. I love you more than anything. Never forget that.

Your lips found their other half once more, and you kissed him as if you were running out of breath. -  I love you too, brother, you repeated between kisses.

His hair, so like yours, fell on either side of his face, veiling you both, brushing your cheeks. You had not yet released your embrace, or his lips, or anything at all.

You were almost there.

His movements, too, became increasingly sloppy, increasingly jerky. He clung to you as if he feared you might vanish. He was almost there, too. Just like you.

The pleasure washed over you, flooding your entire body. Powerful. Devastating. It was the best thing you had ever felt. Jace followed you almost immediately: he gave one last thrust before going still, deep inside you, his forehead against yours, his hand against your cheek, as his warm seed spilled into you.

He remained in that position a moment longer. Neither of you wished to risk shattering the perfection of the moment.

Because if you broke that fragile peace, then you would return to reality. 

Eventually, you drew closer against him, rested your head under his chin and nestled in his arms, hoping to fall asleep. He placed one last kiss on the crown of your head before closing his eyes.

Saying goodbye to your brother when you left for the North was going to be painful.

*** *** ***

Snowflakes swirled, silently covering the roof of Winterfell with a thick layer of white The courtyard was already disappearing beneath the cold blanket of snow. Yet, it was never cold inside the castle. The fire burning in the fireplace was more than enough to warm the chamber. 

You rolled onto your back, pulling the thick furs up over your body. Even though you missed Dragonstone terribly, life in the North was peaceful. Cregan Stark had proved a caring husband who, you had to admit, was an undeniably pleasant sight to behold. Different from Aemond. Different from Jace. Jace was the same height as you. But Cregan was tall and broad-shouldered, and you felt safe in his arms. He looked at you as though you were the most precious treasure in the world.  

He had promised Jace that he would take good care of you.

As well as his handsome appearance and friendly personality, Cregan had a great sense of humour. You could tease him freely, without fear of offending him, unlike Aemond who tended to be susceptible. He laughed often. He ate well. He loved feasts. Although the North was cold, life there was warm, and everyone had been so kind to you. You had been welcomed as if you had always been one of them. A Stark.

On your wedding day, Cregan took you to a secluded hot spring that only he knew about. Your cheeks flushed at the memory of how he had made love to you that day. His slow but powerful movements, his warm body against yours, under the water. He knew what he was doing. He knew where to touch you, where to caress you to make you melt. He had been patient. Unhurried. Certain. Drawing shivers from you.  - You will be the death of me, woman, he teased, still drunk on you, catching his breath after his orgasm. 

Despite the peaceful life you led on the far side of the world, your thoughts kept returning to your family. To Jace. You missed him more than anything, and you could not help but fear : what if you were not there to protect Joffrey? Aegon or Viserys? You knew they were in safe hands with Rhaena, but your role as the eldest had left the heavy weight of duty upon your shoulders. - This bed is too comfortable. I never wish to rise again.

The bed shifted beside you. Your thoughts were interrupted by a voice you knew well. You raised your eyebrows and turned your head to find those familiar brown eyes staring at you. Jace had come to visit you as soon as he could. - We still have time, you replied, a touch of mischief in your voice.

Jace moved closer to you and rolled onto his stomach to face you. He propped himself up slightly on one forearm, letting the furs slide down his bare chest. He wished to admire you some more, whilst he still could, taking in every feature of your face. He could not fathom how anyone could look so beautiful upon waking, but perhaps you the gods had simply favoured you. His fingers caught one of your locks, which he tucked behind your ear, brushing against the skin of your cheekbones. - He is nice, is he not ? your brother asked, absent-mindedly stroking your soft skin. Cregan, I mean.

Between your thighs, your core throbbed with longing for your brother. The seed he had poured into you a few hours earlier, when he had fucked you as if it were the last time he would ever see you, was now cold and trickling out of you. - He is, you replied sincerely. I do like him well.

But I love you more, you wanted to say. The unspoken words hung in the air above you. Jace knew it – somehow, he always did. Perhaps in another life, you would not be condemned to live your love in secrecy and lies? Perhaps in another life, he could love you openly and make you his wife?

For now, all he had hoped for was that you would find a charming and kind husband, and Cregan exceeded his expectations. More than a caring husband, he was a friend. At least he knew you were safe, he knew Cregan would not hurt you. He would cherish you. He would love you.

For your part, you knew that Baela was the perfect wife for Jace. She was beautiful. She was kind. She was brave. And above all, she would make a wonderful queen by his side.

Perhaps it was for the best. Perhaps it was better to avoid saying things that would end up doing more harm than good.

Love was sometimes a cruel thing.  - Come here, Jace said quietly, drawing you into his arms. He kissed you, slow and unhurried, his warm, full lips resting gently against yours. You said there is time yet.

*** *** ***

When had you returned to your chamber ? You cannot recall walking there. You remember only staring at that lifeless form before you – you cannot bring yourself to think his name. It is too painful. If you name the body, then he is truly dead, and this you cannot accept.

You lie upon your bed. You are not beneath the sheets, you are not in your nightdress, you simply lie there. It seems to you that someone moves about near you – a maester? 

She has not spoken at all, you hear them say, in the distance, like a distorted echo.

Did you cry? Did you scream? You cannot remember, but your cheeks are still damp. Your throat ache. You feel empty. Completely empty. You will never be whole again.

The knowing comes slowly. Not all at once, but in cruel small pieces. It is as though your mind begins to understand. The emptiness. The absence. The loneliness. It as though your mind realises that this is what awaits you.

And it is terrifying. It is dizzying.

You can hear the waves. The sea is no longer so calm as it was this morning. It rages, mirroring the anger and grief within you, and the image of your brother upon its surface, desperate amid that vast water, takes shape behind your eyelids. You picture him losing his footing, pierced by the arrows on the battlefield. You picture him swallowed by the water. The waves. You hate that sound now. You cannot understand how you once loved it, how that very sound once lulled you to sleep, once banished your fears.

At least you will never hear it in the North again. The snow made no sound.

You would never return to Dragonstone. - They found this pendant in Jace’s gambeson.

Your mother’s voice is gentle, despite her boundless grief. She places the necklace in you open palm. She sits beside you. Part of you longs to curl against her, to become once more the little girl in need of comfort, but you do not move. She strokes your cheek. You wonder if it hurts her to see Jace’s features upon your face. You wonder if you will ever again be able to look upon yourself in the glass without seeing him.

Your mother stands up. She leaves you to your grief a while. Your fingers close around the cold metal of the necklace.

B = Body part (their favorite body part of theirs and also their partner’s)

Gwayne likes his arms, years of knighthood have toned and defined them. It’s where he holds most of his strength. His forearms and biceps. He enjoys the way most eyes go wide when they the muscle he had labored for. Not just a high born little lord-ling.

Your waist. He enjoys the way it sinches in, your round bosom and wide hips framing it. He loves when you wear dresses that come in tight and show off your womanly figure. He traces every curve with his eyes. His fingertips.

C = Cum (anything to do with cum, basically)

He will pry your legs open after sex, while your cunt is still puffy and raw. Glistening with your spend and his. And he will lap at it, at the mixture of you and him. Earth and salty and sweet, fuck it’s so good. You have to pry him away by his hair a lot of the times. Overstimulation is only fun to a point!

D = Dirty secret (pretty self explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs)

He doesn’t mind sex during the days of your moon blood. Doesn’t think it dirty at all. Enjoys how reactive you are, how tight you are due to being swollen and needy. It’s all very erotic and he waves off any embarrassment or hesitance you have for it. He’s a knight. Blood scares him not.

E = Experience (how experienced are they? do they know what they’re doing?)

Hot Take, but especially with the new episode 3x06 and how just like bored Gwayne seemed when Ormound brought up his sexuality- idk that doesn’t scream virgin to me. That doesn’t scream shamed into never touching another person by his near cult of a family.

I think Gwayne has taken lovers. Whores in brothels on the road, highborn ladies who flutter their lashes at him.

But he is extremely discreet. And makes sure to never come inside of anyone(we all know the pull out method isn’t safe sex, but, at least he tries) he refuses to sire bastards.

F = Favorite position (this goes without saying)

Ride him. He wants to be ridden. His cock. His face. His fingers. All of it, please. He is lowkey a pillow princess but we won’t get too into that.

G = Goofy (are they more serious in the moment? are they humorous? etc.)

It depends. If it is the two of you getting handsy in a hidden, shadowed alcove while a feast gathers in the other room he’s all wide smiles. Almost boyish as he kisses your neck and rucks up your skirts.

If it’s after a long campaign on the battlefield, and he’s war worn, mind in shambles, body battered it’s intense. More intense than you’d know what to do with at first. You literally cradle him in your arms as he finds solace inside of you and it’s enough to bring the two of you to tears.

H = Hair (how well groomed are they? does the carpet match the drapes? etc.)

He’s groomed but far from bare. He has a thick thatch of auburn hair at his base, and even lighter strawberry blonde hair that runs up his belly button and across his chest.

I = Intimacy (how are they during the moment? the romantic aspect)

Gwayne will completely flay himself open for you during sex. It’s cathartic for him.

In private.

It’s scary for you how quickly after he can put back on his mask. Switch back into the role of dutiful and Hightower knight.

Once you had been interrupted merely necking by his father. Just kissing. Newly wed. His face pressed to the soft skin under your ear. You hadn't realized the hand of the king had entered the solar until he cleared his throat.

He had snapped to attention and gone cold. Instantly out distance between you physically but also- it’s like he retreated into himself. His fathers presence instantly making him close off. It was extremely awkward and uncomfortable on all parts.

Otto never walked into you private chambers without knocking again.

J = Jack off (masturbation headcanon)

Gwayne remembers his father telling him and his male cousins that The Crone would know if they touched themselves…but would look away in order for them to satisfy their own flesh and not go seeking out rosy cheeked girls willing to give away their maidenheads.

Horrific, he knows.

Still. He went through a phase where there was so much pressure on him, all around, during the day that at night he’d wring himself dry. Couldn’t sleep if he didn’t. That didn’t do him any good his first time in the road, in the middle of battle. He’d sneak away into the trees to find pleasure in his hand.

Can make himself come in 20 seconds flat. A practiced skill.

K = Kink (one or more of their kinks)

Gwayne loves being rimmed. It’s taboo and he’s only experienced a few times but it makes him come hard, the sight, the feeling. Knowing it’s so shameful.

When you do it, you’re pretty eyes looking up at him from between his thighs he loses it.

L = Location (favorite places to do the do)

Don’t test him because he can be a little freak and especially when you’re wed? Oh it’s on. He did it the right way, married his woman. Now why can’t he have her wherever he wants? Why is it such an aphrodisiac for both of you to test the boundaries of what is acceptable. Of being seen.

He gropes when his queen sister is turned around, speaking with a septa during one of your afternoon teas with her that he ever rudely intrudes on. Cups your cunt from behind, grabs at your ass-

Your manicured hand runs up his thigh at an important dinner- hidden by the mahogany of the table. You watch him speak politically, sure mindedly while you get closer to his bulge.

M = Motivation (what turns them on, gets them going)

A look. It starts with a look, and a lingering touch in the morning, before breakfast. Before you both take on the duties of the day. It’s a coy little thing. You pressing a kiss to his cheek for a bit too long. A gaze under your eyelashes as you bite into a ripe strawberry. He knows he’s about to be played with all day long. He isn’t opposed.

For you it’s always words from him. Him telling you he likes the shade of your gown, or the way your hair is styled. He likes your tits in that corset. The way you look when you’re blushing for him. His words get more and more vulgar and they always have you squirming.

N = No (something they wouldn’t do, turn offs)

Hard No? He doesn’t have many of those. Although I don’t see him being interested in bringing anyone else into your marriage bed. He can be a jealous little lord-long. And also just for propriety’s sake.

He’d given you the most disgusted look when you divulged a juicy piece of gossip you’d gathered at luncheon with your handmaidens. Lady and Lord Lannister invited chamber maids into their bed! She watched as he fucked them-

“Absolutley not” he’d said, and you cackled and called him a prude.

O = Oral (preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc.)

He loves receiving head, but loves giving it even more. It’s his secret skill. Could be his career path had he not been born a Hightower and chosen Knighthood, you tease him. Far and wide women would come to have their pussies eaten by him. To ride his tongue as he grinned up at them. Very satisfied in his own abilities to please.

P = Pace (are they fast and rough? slow and sensual? etc.)

Gwayne’s jackhammering you. That’s just the vibe I get from him. I don’t see him slow thrusting on a regular day. He wants it hard and you want it deep.

Q = Quickie (their opinions on quickies, how often, etc.)

Often. You both can get so busy. You will take the time to have each other whenever you can.

R = Risk (are they game to experiment? do they take risks? etc.)

At first? He’s hesitant. Especially if you two don’t know each other very well before your betrothal. He will try to be the perfect husband, pious and duty bound. As he’s always tried to be the perfect son.

As you peel away his layers you find a side to Gwayne that is endlessly fascinating and wondrously open. He’s willing to try anything once. Whether it’s a foreign Dornish pastry or letting you bound his hands with lacing from one of your gowns. He’s willing to try just about anything.

S = Stamina (how many rounds can they go for? how long do they last?)

He’s athletic and young? You’re going multiple rounds. The only time he’s really reluctant to it is when he’s physically unable- after a rough day of sword training or when he gets home from actual battle.

T = Toys (do they own toys? do they use them? on a partner or themselves?)

Skip. But in a modern AU? Gwayne would love vibrators. He’s very into overstimulation.

U = Unfair (how much they like to tease)

The. Fucking. Worst.

Like, torturously so-

But.

Only in the beginning.

Only if he knows you like him more then he likes you. You’re more attracted to him, or have bigger feelings for him then he does you. If the scales of power are imbalanced.

The moment he is in love? And those scales tip? Oop. He’s begging for it. You even look at him right and he’s dropping his trousers. Let’s you fondle his soft dick, just to touch him, not even for intimacy as the two of you lay in bed. Leans into your kisses automatically. So easy for you.

V = Volume (how loud they are, what sounds they make, etc.)

He thought he was good at being quiet. He’d been forced for many years for any sexual experiences he had with himself or with others be discreet. On the quieter side.

The first time you jerk his cock while licking across his hole he’s shouting so loud you’re actually worried that he’s woken someone and they’re going to come looking. He’s a bit mortified, grits his teeth. Steeling himself.

You just kiss his inner thigh and reassure him that you love it, you love knowing he feels good. Love hearing him in the throws.

W = Wild card (a random headcanon for the character)

Gwayne loves pretty things. Loves the look and feel of them. Loves when you wear silky, feminine night dresses. Gauzy things. He can see your nipples through them in the right light- they look so pretty against your skin.

He makes you keep them on sometimes while he fucks you. Suckles at your breasts through the thin fabric. Licks at the lace on the neckline.

When you’re pregnant? It’s even worse. He’ll gather the bottoms of the nightgown and rest it right under your taught belly, hands rubbing at your sides through the barley there material as he ruts into you.

X = X-ray (let’s see what’s going on under those clothes)

Average width- but longer in length. 6.5-7 inches. Pretty and pink and flushed.

Y = Yearning (how high is their sex drive?)

Again? He’s a little freak. Being away form you kills him because he honestly always wants to fuck you at any given moment.

Z = Zzz (how quickly they fall asleep afterwards)

What is the Westerosi version of NyQuil? For Gwayne it’s pussy. He kind of pavloved himself when he was younger- when he needed the release of an orgasm to come down from a stressful day.

Literally will be knocked out drooling against your clavicale after while you flip the pages of your latest book by candlelight.

"Don't you have a beggar to insult," you said, not wanting to give in to him just yet.

"I told you, I'm sorry about that," he sighed, throwing his head back dramatically before resting his chin on your shoulder as you moved on to sort the yellow threads.

"I was too deep in drink," he said against you, now placing a kiss on your neck which you still ignored.

"That seems to be the case all the time," you snapped once more, yet you didn't even try to escape his hold.

"Are you still cross with me about that?" He asked, nuzzling deeper into the side of your neck.

"I'm cross with you all the time," you said.

"That is true," he relented, kissing your neck again before letting his teeth sink into your flesh ever so slightly, the action making you gasp.

"Well, I guess maybe not all the time," he chuckled as you slapped one of his hands that rested upon your waist.

"I'm working Antinous," you said again, this time finally leaning into his touch.

"You know you like it," he teased, and you slapped his hand once more.

"What about a little kiss?" He tried.

"No," you said, moving on to sort the green threads.

"I'll stop bothering you after," he offered.

"I doubt that."

"Please, my love," he now begged, using the tone he knew made you melt. It was softer than usual, more boyish in comparison to the front he put up amongst the other men in the palace. And it was reserved only for you.

You let out a sigh. "You promise to leave me to work?" 

"Soldier's honor," he promised, a grin on his face, knowing that he had won.

"We both know you're no soldier Antinous," you rolled your eyes, yet still turning around and reaching out to cup his cheek.

"So handsome though," you admitted, taking in his sharp features that almost softened at your touch.

"Was that a compliment?" He asked, raising a teasing brow that matched his equally teasing grin.

"Maybe," you said, leaning into him, finally closing the gap between you in a kiss. 

It was quick, just a peck, and you were already pulling away, but he pulled you toward him again by the waist.

"Antinous," you let out a gasp that turned into a chuckle as you saw his face. The so-called soldier was pouting, and as always it got to you more than you cared to admit.

"That was no kiss my lady," he said, almost whining, and before he could do so even more you rolled your eyes again and pulled him in again by his cloak, giving him a searing kiss.

Your hand had found his hair, making a mess of the curls at the base of his neck, and his arm wrapped tighter around your waist making you cave into him. 

His free hand made its way to your cheek, his thumb rubbing soft circles on your now burning skin.

The kiss was a long one, one that made a mess of both your clothes, with some of the elaborately placed pins in your hair also beginning to come loose. 

Yet you both continued on, pulling away every few seconds, your hot breath fanning each other's lips before you both leaned in again. 

It was when he hiked your leg up to his waist you realized you had lost yourself.

You pulled away quickly, placing your hand on his chest and pushing him away, the action was met with another pout.

"That is quite enough," you said, beginning to fix your clothes, and despite his disappointment, Antinous helped you. 

He straightened out the strap of your dress that now hung lower on your shoulder than intended, and gently tucked the hair that stuck to your cheeks behind your ear.

"Beautiful," he whispered, not intending for you to hear, but the proximity failed him.

"Flattery will get you nowhere," you said simply, now satisfied with your appearance.

"I must now get to work," you said, giving his chest another push so you could squeeze past him, holding up your dress so you could sprint away back to do another task.

The stone temple was often quiet during the early hours of the morning. It was once a part of the palace meant only for the royal family, but like many things in Ithaca, that too changed after the years that followed the Trojan War. Now at times, drunken suitors could be found loitering by the flames to seek warmth. They rarely were awake in the early hours due to their long nights of heavy drinking, so you found solace at dawn.

You felt a gentle flicker of the candle nearest to you. You would have missed it had it not been for your own keen senses. You did not turn, nor did you halt your prayers. Instead, you kept your head bowed and continued your quiet murmurings to Athena. You could hear Antinous’ quiet footsteps, the clacking of his sandals against hard marble. 

“Oh Goddess,” you whispered quietly. You knew he stood behind you now, and yet you did not greet him. It was not in disrespect, but rather something you could not name. It was as though you understood him, as he did you. You were beyond greetings, and common social conditions. You often did not greet each other in the halls, not unless your mother or Telemachus was present. That was when Antinous would make a grand show of things.  A kiss to the back of your hand with eyes that peered deeply but did not linger. Your mother did not like you to be near any of her suitors, as she thought of them as leeches, lecherous men who took and took and took from her crumbling kingdom. 

“Deliver my father from the seas. Please, may he return, wise and kind. I ask that he recognize me, for I was merely a babe in my mother’s belly when he left to war. I ask that my father may know me, I beg of it.” You did not sit up from your kneeling position, and instead shut your eyes and breathed in the scent of honey that you offered to the shrine. An old spinster told you once that an offering of honey would sweeten your words. The gods enjoyed flattery of any kind, even the wisest of them. 

You tensed at the feeling of Antinous’ outer thigh against yours. He kneeled next to you facing the tall statue of Athena, but his eyes were focused on you. You could feel it, the sensation was a familiar one and not always unwelcomed. 

“Did you come to pray?” You questioned quietly, a tone you took often in his presence. Something about him softened you, like a cat that showed its belly at the sight of a reaching hand. Antinous was nearly sixteen years your senior; he was on the cusp of manhood when your father left for Troy. Not quite a boy, but not yet a man. But old enough to have left with the other men and not yet men. You had never questioned why he had not joined your father, as it did not matter to you. After all, they were the only kind of men you knew, the men who stayed. You’d grown to learn that most of your mother’s suitors had not been able to sail for one reason or another. 

“My prayers have been answered,” he stated with what you could only imagine to be a half smile. You could feel it prickling at your skin, goosebumps raising on your arms at the sensation of his quiet fixation. 

“Oh? What did you ask for?” 

“I asked to be in the presence of a beautiful maiden, and instead they brought me a princess.” Warmth suddenly filled your stomach, his words were tender and his lips neared your ear. “A princess,” he whispered. “So beautiful that her mommy dearest never let her roam outside her palace walls.” His lower lip now tickled the shell of your ear, and you inhaled sharply at the sensation. 

“And what did my princess pray for?” You turned to him now, his face close to yours. His pupils dark, and mouth agape as he stared at your lips.

”I pray for my father’s return,” you said and suddenly the illusion shattered. Antinous blinked and leaned back, curious. You felt unsure of yourself all of a sudden, your thoughts frantic at the subtle movement of him furthering your distance. “I prayed that he would know me, I pray he comes so that he may bless our union.” 

A dry chuckle emerged from his throat, and suddenly you felt even more aware of the gap between you. You turned to look at your knees which were concealed by the fabric of your dress. Heat rose to your cheeks, and you remembered that you are a girl, barely twenty, and he was a man nearly double your age. 

A man who knew your father, the one who left you before you even grew a soul. One who may not even know your name, or if you lived to take your first breath. But Antinous had known him, and so that made them all the more closer. It frustrated you at times how it felt as though the entire castle knew Odysseus. Your father had many stories, even prior to the war, and yet you only knew them through others’ accounts. A father that was not your own, a father that belonged to everyone but his lone daughter. 

The kingdom did not pay you any mind. You were a great beauty or so you had been told, but it did not rival your mother’s. A second born, a daughter at that, had no value not when she did not have a father present to negotiate the terms of a betrothal. Antinous only began to seek you out recently, he had ignored you like many of the men who lingered in the halls of the palace. You were not sure what had changed in him or in you for this development to have occurred. But you were scared to question it, as if it would lead him to question himself. You did not want to risk losing his affections, not when it was something you were so unused to. It often felt as though you were cursed to live alone, and potentially die alone. For as long as your mother proclaimed that Odysseus lived, you could not marry— not without your father’s blessing. 

The maids of the palace would snicker and call you the virgin princess. It was befitting that you took such a liking to Athena. 

But Antinous, over the past few months… At times, he stared at you with a look you were unfamiliar with. A steeled focus on your body before it would settle on your face and linger long and hard. It confused you at first, until the evenings where he would take you by the arm and lead you through hidden halls. In the dark he would touch you, his hands would turn your face and admire you. Then they would settle on your breasts, pulling and kneading harshly until you cried. He would coo softly into your ear before pressing his hand under your skirts. His fingers plunging into your softness, spreading your cunt open. 

You were so used to being forgotten. The child that her father never knew, a father who could not delay his departure in another man’s war a few days to see the delivery of his second child. So, you learnt to crave Antinous’ affections, alongside his sharp eyes and skillful fingers from the moment he set his sights on you. 

But you could not marry him, not until your father returned and gave his favour. 

“You have no reason to feel embarrassed,” he said. “Your words flatter me, and I admit in a perfect world, your wish would be fulfilled.” His arms moved to encircle you, and you tensed, nervous that a servant would see. But when you looked around the temple room, you realized you were both still alone. “But my love, it bothers me to see how your mother has made a mockery of you.” 

You turned to look at him, shocked. “What do you mean?” You bring your hand to his cheek, and he leans in as his eyes roll back in pleasure. The image is erotic, and instantly you feel wetness pool between your inner thighs. 

“Twenty years,” he says softly. “Perhaps her grief has blinded her, and I misjudge her. But twenty years she has sat alone on the throne unwilling to even pass it to Telemachus who is nearing manhood with nothing to show for it because of her coddling. She keeps you locked away too, as though afraid. She wants you alone,  she can’t see you happy because it’ll force her to realize she is a widow. I know you understand, for you did not know your father, so you have no reason to trust in his return. I know deep down that you know he is dead.” The words cut deep, and instantly you have the feeling of wanting to lash out, to yell at him for making such a claim.

But while speaking, he lowered you onto your back. His body over yours like the hanging dome of a cradle. The palm of his hand pressed to the back of your head, protecting you from the hardness of the ground. It was a delicate touch, caring and considerate, and for a moment you wonder if a father’s touch was any similar. You don’t think this for long however, at the press of his hardness against your inner thigh. You stiffen, a bit shy. You had felt him before, but never this closely as he insisted he did not want to risk taking your virtue. 

“I don’t think my mother means to hurt me,” you say softly. He is looking down at you, his other hand latched onto your hip squeezing with lust. A contrast to the other behind your head. 

“No mother ever wishes to hurt her child,” he says as though to sound comforting. “But that does not mean she still cannot cause you pain. It is a sad truth, but you are wise enough to see it.” He presses his lips to your neck, the hand not holding your head reaches under your skirts and suddenly you are aware of the virgin goddess’ statue above you. You face up as his teeth sink gently into your tender flesh, and his fingers part your lips to play with your pearl. His hands are dry, so the feeling is a bit unpleasant but not unwelcome. Soon they are slathered in your essence and despite the bubbling of pleasure, you can’t help but speak.

”Why did you not join my father?” His hand freezes, but does not pull away at first until you feel a gentle pinch. It resettles on the floor as he uses it to adjust his position, and level his eyes with yours. 

He kisses you first, a light peck against your lips before he replies. “I begged so badly to go. I wanted to be a man, I wanted to fight a worthy cause. But it was your father who clasped my hand, the same hand I use now to keep your head off the ground. He told me: “please take care of my son, you must stay. Please take care of the child in my wife’s belly. If it be a boy, treat him like your own. If it be a girl, wait for her to bloom and marry her when she is ready. Love her and protect her, and if I do not return know that you have my blessing.” So you see, that is why your prayer amused me. I have had your father’s blessing for many years but your mother refuses to listen to me. I would marry you now if I could,” he presses himself closer to you, the fabric doing little to block the hard mass eager to slide into your cunt. “If I could, I would marry you right now if I could. So that I could bury myself into you every night, so that my seed would take root so deeply, it would have no choice but to fill you with my babes. Perhaps a son, we would name him after your father. That way he would know you, and you would not have to seek him out in every man. Don’t cry, my love.” 

You had not realized the tears had been streaming down your face until you felt his lips wet against your cheeks. He peppered kisses all over, eager to comfort you in your distress. “A child,” he says. “An heir,” he whispers between kisses. “They cannot refuse, and they will not. You would like that, wouldn’t you?” You nodded quietly, unsure of what to say. A baby would not desert you, a baby could not go to war. A baby would belong to you, not to the crown and certainly not to the fallen Troy.

…

You did not see Antinous that evening, nor did you see him the next day amongst the drunks who sipped on your family’s wine and crowded your halls. 

It wouldn’t be for another three days until you would feel him slip into your bed in the dead of night. Your gown was nearly transparent, but your candles had long gone out so you did not have to worry much for modesty. You could still see him however, due to the moonlight that crept into your bedroom. 

“What are you doing here?” You asked startled. Your lover was often eager, but never had he entered your chambers before. 

“My love, how you tempt me,” he whispers against your lips. He presses them softly against yours and you accept with a soft sigh. How you missed him, the softness of his lips and the way his hands wrapped around yours as though there was no question of who you belonged to. 

“Tempt?” You questioned as soon as his lips turned to your neck, softly biting your skin hard enough to claim but not enough to leave a mark. “My love, I have not seen you for days. I had began to think you had deserted me.” 

A deep chuckle emerged from his chest. His nimble fingers gripped your chin, turning it so that you could look deeply into his eyes. “I am not your father, my love,” the words turned your stomach cold. It wasn’t even in your thoughts, or perhaps it was. It was hard to say, as oftentimes it felt as though the shadow of your father loomed over everything. His departure haunted you, but it did not feel like your own. His departure haunted everyone and everything in Ithaca. “I would never leave you, I simply needed time away. I wanted to control myself, but I kept remembering how eager you looked under the lights of the temple. You would have let me deface you, wouldn’t you? Under the eye of your beloved goddess, yes? Had I sank my savage cock between your legs, you would have simply taken it along with my bastard seed. It sickened me to think about taking advantage of you in such a way, in such a holy place.” It seemed as though he was anything but sick as you could feel the sign of his health pressed against your stomach. Large and demanding, twitching through his chiffon. 

Deface, he said. As though loving you was something he did to you rather than a partnership. Often he spoke this way, as though all his actions were an act of war, not against you but an idea of you. The forgotten princess of Ithaca, known only for her frozen cunt, at least according to the maids. 

“But we didn’t,” you said. “You did not take me, and if you did, why would the gods punish two lovers?” 

“I do not fear the gods’ punishment,” he whispered. His fingers still holding your chin while the other lifted your dress and bared your pussy to the cold air. His fingers danced over your slit, the sound of wetness filling the room as two fingers pressed inside you. You hissed a little at the intrusion, but soon let out a moan at the feeling of him. “I fear your eagerness. Is it me you love? Or the thought of any man taking you? Sliding his cock in you and pulling out the sounds of a wanton whore.” 

“How dare you!” You moved to sit up, but he did not let you, the fingers on your chin moved to hold your shoulder. His other hand continued to play in your cunt, making a mess of your thighs. Nonetheless you continued, “how can you say such a cruel thing, my love? Of course, it is you I love. The thought of any other man sickens me. It is you, it has always been you who has fascinated me since I was a girl even when you had ignored me so often. It was you who my father gave his blessing, as you claimed, so is it not reasonable to think you my only man?” 

“That is the problem,” he said. His hand pulled out of you, leaving you with a sudden feeling of cold and emptiness. You watched as he sucked his fingers, his eyes shut as he cherished the taste. You felt the urge to clench your thighs but could not as your legs were spread around his. “Your father, merely a shade. He plagues you, he plagues everything in this land.” He sits up to slide his chiffon over his shoulders, tossing it away somewhere near the edge of the bed. His body is revealed to you, bare for the first time. A solid wall of pale skin, unmarked from battle. Standing below it, a large cock heavy and leaking at its reddened tip. He strokes it with the hand that was inside you. 

“What do you mean?” You ask nervously, for you had never seen his appendage before. You could not move your eyes from it, mesmerized by its stark difference from what your own body possessed. 

“He is everywhere, in everything. A man who so shamelessly abandoned you without even waiting a measly three days for your birth. Why? Because he knew he was leaving a healthy first born son behind. So what mattered of you or his wife’s health.” 

“What would you have me do? I was taught we must wait for him, and I was told he had no choice but to leave when he did. He cared enough to ask you to take care of me, of us.” He leaned forward, placing his elbow next to your head to prop himself up. You froze at the sensation of his cock nudging your entrance. 

As if sensing your fear, he spoke, “I promise only the tip, my love. I have to feel you. No more than that, not unless you beg me for more then perhaps I may give into instinct.” You breathed shallowly as you felt it penetrate you, a light pain as even his fingers had not been able to stretch you this widely before. Then suddenly he stopped, keeping to his word.

“He did care enough to ask, but not enough to stay nor enough to come back. Every other man who returned to his kingdom only took at most two years. Assuming your father is still alive, that would mean an additional eighteen years of nothing. What has kept him so far gone? Do not say he is lost, for we know not a single person could match his navigational expertise.” Antinous’ words made sense, but the hollow delivery did nothing to soothe your heart. You felt empty all of a sudden, not until you felt his tip slip out of you and push back in. You gasped at the feeling, the sensation shooting pleasure through your body. 

“What can I do?” You asked, your voice laced with pleasure and with longing. Longing for what? You felt unsure. 

“Replace this idea, this idea of the man Odysseus. This man who is only your father through seed. Replace him with me, and I promise you will never feel so lonely again.” He continued to rock shallowly into you, his face strained as though it took all his power to hold back. You reached for his shoulder to grasp, but he harshly pinned your hand to the bed. Sweat rolled down his face, dripping onto yours. Its saltiness catching on the side of your lip. 

“But how? He is so deep within me.” At the word deep, Antinous shuddered. His cock buried itself slightly deeper before pulling out entirely, and rubbing itself between your folds. 

“I remember hearing your cries as a girl, for daddy. A daddy you did not know, sniffling for him. For this idea of a man.” He practically spat the words out, his fist moving to pump itself against your slick entrance.  “I am no idea, I am a man eager and fertile between your legs. Call me by this name, I am more deserving than he is. Do it now, whisper it.” The thought left you sick, a perversion of a title only meant for one man. But you listened nonetheless, and so you said:

”Daddy,” and Antinous shuddered harshly. His cock sliding shallowly through your wet folds. His hips rocked so as to not quite fill you, but as you continued to murmur the word, as it slurred and felt less like a word and more like mindless babbling— his cock began to slip in deeper. 

“Who am I?” 

“Da..” You could feel his cock slide deeper, his hips slowing to accommodate the stretch you felt. “Oh Antinous!” You cried, only for a light slap to be delivered to your cheek. 

“Do not forget who I am,” he said with a snarl. His hand gently held your throat, forcing your eyes to follow his. “Say my title, and remember no man but me has done enough to earn it.” His hips continued to rut against you harshly, the tip having already been buried in your sweetest depths brushing against your cervix. 

“Daddy,” you said, humiliated. He shuddered, his hips angling to bury his shaft impossibly deeper into your wet heat. You chanted the title, encouraging him to fuck you faster and harder. His hands pressed against your throat and stomach, forcing you down as he continued his pursuit. Pursuit of what? You did not know.

Soon, neither did you know where you ended and he began, the words only the tip barely a memory now. You hardly remember lifting your hips to aid him further in you, his weeping cock filling you in its entirety as you moaned for him, his scent, his sweat, his breath and cock replacing the foggy images you had for a man named… named… nam… 

“Papa,” you sobbed as you felt yourself tighten around Antinous’ shaft. You could only see stars in your eyes, but you could feel Antinous everywhere as he continued to rut harshly into you, sure to leave bruises across your skin in the morning. You gripped your nails into his back, likely the first scars to reach his skin and felt another gasp escape your throat at the sensation of his seed filling you with warmth. 

The Meeting:

            The halls of the Keep were dark and cold and angry, if such a thing can truly be attributed to walls; the stench of blood and dragons and rot clinging to the stonework. Ormund didn’t like it, his father having instructed him long ago in the fact that the Targaryens are sinful, that they are rot and ruin and destruction, driving the land to chaos. 

            “Disgusting dragon riders,” he whispers, scuffing one booted foot along the carved stone floor. 

            “That’s not very nice, now is it?” a voice calls out from the shadows, one light and young and pretty, lilting through the air, echoing off the coldness like fire, wrapping him in warmth. He looks around, craning his head to catch a glimpse of the speaker, but he sees nothing. Nothing but stone and torches and tapestries and shadow. 

            “Who is there?” he calls out, his voice still young, still that of a child, the boy of seven which he is, the one tryingso hard to be a man for his father. To show his father that he’s worthy of the Hightower name, the seat, the power. 

            “It is I, the ghost that haunts these hallowed halls,” the voice continues, a bit of laughter contained in the wavering soprano sound. 

            “The ghost of what?” he asks, turning fully now in circle after circle looking, looking, looking and seeing nothing. “I don’t believe in ghosts.”

            “You don’t believe ghosts?” the voice says, the words lilting up in a question yet tinged with a darker edge, a blade over his neck threatening to fall. “You, who live in the time of dragons and dragon riders. You, who live in the time of witches and magic and power, don’t believe in ghosts?” The voice seems to come from everywhere all at once, surrounding him with the darkening, deepening edge. 

            “N-no,” he stutters, straightening his shoulders, attempting to regain his composure, his power. The strength of the Hightower blood, the one not tainted by sin as his father says. 

            “You are a fool,” the voice says, blunt and cruel and tinged with hatred, anger. Disdain. Disdain for him? The Hightower heir? “And I am the ghost of the Dragon Queen.”

            “There is no such Dragon Queen in our history,” he says, now fully believing that it is simply a figure he cannot see, crossing his arms with the arrogance that only a seven year old lord can have. 

            “History is told by the victors, young Hightower,” the voice says. “Not the losers. Not the women who serve only as tools in the narrative you men create.”

            “You speak in blasphemy,” he says and above him he hears rustling. He looks up just as you drop down, dressed in riding clothes, landing on the stone floor in a crouch, eyes narrowed on him, cold and cruel and assessing despite the youth in your cheeks, the innocence that seems to radiate from you. “You are no ghost.”

            “You’re quite the genius, aren’t you?” you counter, crossing your small child arms over your chest, big eyes rolling at him in annoyance. “I am the Princess Targaryen at your service.”

            “You are not Princess Rhaenyra,” he says, having already met the silver-haired, tainted blood offspring of a poisoned, corrupted king. 

            “There are two princesses, you idiot,” you reply, eyes rolling once again and he struggles to see you as a child of five, a shadow haunting your eyes that makes you seem infinitely older. 

            “You are the half-borne,” he says, no malice in his tone yet your face twists, pinches, curls inwards, rage shimmering in your non-Targaryen eyes. 

            “Rhaenyra is my twin,” you hiss, stepping closer to him, your small chubby finger jabbing into his chest with more force than he expected. “Borne seven minutes before me. It does not matter if the rumours are true and we came from the same womb or not. I am her twin and she is mine. I am her other half, her opposite.”

            “If you are her twin,” he says, reaching forwards to touch your hair, feel it in his fingers, but you slap it away with your other hand, such force for a girl of five. “Then why are you not…” he trails off, unsure of how to word what he wants to say, unable to play the diplomatic game like his father. 

            “Not Targaryen?” you finish and he nods, your eyes rolling again and he wants to say that it is insolence to your better, but technically your station is higher than his and even though tainted blood runs through your veins, Ormund feels a strange sort of power. The kind that one would bend the knee for, serve for when there is no one else like it. “I am the darkness and she is the light.”

            “What do you mean dark? Light? There are no such denominations in the Seven,” he says, already knowing his scripture more than his history, Oldtown for piety and true faith. Not like King’s Landing, like the Keep. Like the Targaryens. 

            “You cannot find everything in your gods, young Hightower,” you whisper, stepping back from him. “I am the dark because I will do whatever she will not. I will cross any line.” With that, you smile once, a smile that makes you look like the five year old you are before melting backwards into the shadows. 

            In the space of one breath and the next, Ormund finds that you are gone. Completely. Faded away like you were never there at all. 

            And yet…Ormund is left the idea that perhaps tainted blood does not mean tainted people. 

            Perhaps…perhaps his father is wrong.

The General:

            Ormund is back in King’s Landing, sent by his father to see his uncle, his cousins. A diplomatic exercise, one where one must learn to see their enemies’ weaknesses in order to exploit them later on the battle, but he wishes that were still home. Still in Oldtown, waking in his bed, the familiar scent of prayer rather than the lingering stench of human refuse and dragon. 

            “Come on! Is that the best you can do?!” a voice, familiar and pretty, yet edged like a sharp drawn sword echoes along the stone walls and he steps forwards, away from the carriage which brought him back to the Keep, away from his family, towards the sound. The one he’s held onto since he was seven. 

            The one of power unmatched despite the tainted blood. 

            The one that made him question—makes him question—his father’s rulings. Beliefs. Makes him want to know himself and what he thinks rather than what he was told to believe. 

            “Princess,” replies an aggrieved, tired voice, accompanied by the clang of metal on metal, a sword blade hitting a sword blade. “I will hurt you if I give you all I have.”

            “Ser Rickon,” your voice replies, cocky and light and soothing to the now fourteen year old Ormund. Soothing in ways he doesn’t entirely understand. “I’ve been holding back too.” Ormund steps around the bend of the Keep, taking in the sight of the training yard, of you the Targaryen-not-Targaryen bedecked in fitted armour, holding a sword and clashing, pushing back against the fully grown, aged Kingsguard with a fury in your movements that he could never track. Not completely. 

            He knows, without a doubt, that anyone set against your blade would lose. It seems like you hold the ability toknow your opponent’s next move before they do. Anticipate and change your strike for soon the Kingsguard is on the ground, his sword kicked aside and your blade pressing against the hollow of his throat. 

            “I shall speak to my father,” he hears you say, stepping back and offering one hand to the man, which he takes, letting you haul him to his feet with more strength than one would expect from a girl of twelve. A princess no less. “Training must be improved. If this is what protects our lives…pity.” You turn, eyes scanning the yard, settling upon him, lips curling back in a smile that is strange and delightful as you lift a singular gloved hand up to wave at the same the guard comes up behind you for a stealth attack, one you’ve already anticipated, stepping to the side, his body collapsing on the ground. “Honestly, Ser Rickon! You do not fight in the yard when a lady’s back is turned! Manners, Ser. Manners.”

            “You’re quite good, Princess,” Ormund calls out, aware of the way your gaze has never left him even as you kick the guard in the side lightly as he lets out a broken chuckle, your steps moving up the hill towards him, his family behind him. He can practically hear the gears turning in his uncle’s head, Otto forever trying to figure out ways to make the throne a Hightower affair, his in truth. 

            But all Ormund cares about is you—the ghost of the mythical Dragon Queen, the darkness to Princess Rhaenyra’s light. 

            “I’m not bad,” you reply, now stopping before him, digging the point of your elaborate sword into the ground, stepping towards him, offering him your metal gloved hand for a shake. One he takes, a strange urge inside of him to feel your skin against his. To feel what you would feel like, if your hand would fit to his as if by the Seven’s creation. “But I have a long time to improve.”

            “Why do you practice?” Ormund asks, his uncle’s scoff audible behind him, his cousin Alicent’s small laugh, your eyes narrowing past him at them, lip curling and jaw setting before you turn back to him. 

            “Because one day,” you whisper, stepping closer, your hand still in his as you pull him to you, your bodies close yet not touching, “I will be a general. I will fight for my honor, my sister’s and the throne. Your family does not believe a woman can do so…I say,” you pull back, letting go of his hand, lips curved in a smirk as your eyes turn behind him, no doubt focused on his uncle, “all the more reason to prove the fuckers wrong.”

            You spin, turning away, the back of your armour, emblemed with a singular dragon appearing to claw up and off your back, hand reaching forwards, grabbing the sword from the dirt, sheathing it on the strange contraption on your back and walking away as his uncle sputters about manners, propriety. 

            Everything that being a princess is—but being a general is not. 

            “The General Targaryen,” Ormund muses beneath his breath, watching as you walk away, the only Targaryen seemingly free of the curse of taint and sin and disgust. The only one who seems proper even if you break all the rules. “The General Hightower.”

            He likes the sound of that title better. But not for him. 

            He likes it for you. 

            He just doesn’t yet understand why. 

The Betrothal:

            “Sister!” Rhaenyra calls out, her voice arching through the room, bouncing off the stone walls, surrounding you with the lightness. The lightness that has been darkening as all has come to pass. All that you have foreseen, all that you have known. All that you have plotted for and against. 

            “You are betrothed, I presume,” you call out as she steps into the room, her crown upon her head, the Princess of Dragonstone in entirety. 

            “I don’t like it when you do that,” she says and you twist on the stool before your dressing table, taking note of the way her face is drawn tight, the expression only slightly more open than before. You remember when she yelled at you, screamed and cursed the fact that you let the marriage between Alicent and your shared father commence. 

            It did not matter if you have seen there was no way to circumvent the union, only options before you to ensure your sister’s throne. She was angry and hurt that she did not know. She took it out on you, only now doling out bits of her love and attention, warming back up to you just in time for you to lose her again. 

            “I can’t help it,” you reply, folding your hands over your knee, fingers interlaced, her hands twined in the dark red skirts of her gown. “It is my gift.”

            “You don’t mean that,” she says, her voice soft in a way it hasn’t been in so long, her face crumpling in on itself as she steps in, collapsing upon your bed, her body seeming to fold in on itself. “You think it’s a curse, don’t you?”

            “No,” you tell her, the words thoughtful in only the way that true honesty can ever be. “I view it as useful neither gift nor curse, but a tool. If I didn’t…” you pause, tears stinging at your eyes, tears that you refuse to let fall because it is not strong, it is not what a future general does. Not what the Hand of the Queen does. 

            “If you didn’t what?” she asks and you look at her, your perfect, precious sister, still yet untainted by the blood of war, of the scent of death, things you have lived a thousand times every night, death after death after death as you struggle to find that way to victory. The way to win. You’ve died a thousand times every night, working towards that gleaming thread of victory, of your sister on the Iron Throne. 

            “I didn’t, I would break under the weight of what I see,” you whisper, looking down at your hands, the ones interlaced over your knee, together. Everything is stronger when there are more. 

            “Father always said we dream in cryptic ways,” she says, rising from the bed, her movements graceful and princess-like. Everything you are not from the silver hair to the violet eyes and the courtier way that she moves. “Yet nothing you dream is cryptic. Is it?”

            “No,” you answer, looking up with haunted eyes, only half here and half in those tangling threads, things to unravel, to solve. To solve before the dragons dance and blood runs through the streets, painting cities red. “It’s just not quite clear.”

            “I see the future Lord Hightower has been writing,” she says, her gaze snagging on a letter, one scrawled in Ormund’s careful, pious hand. “And here I thought the Lord Hightowers hated us.”

            “Otto, Alicent and Gwayne do not,” you counter. “They are friendly.”

            “They are not the shepherds of Oldtown,” Rhae counters, lifting the letter, her eyes scanning what’s been written in his hand, the pledges of friendship, of faith. Of belief. “He believes in you. In the Hand of the Queen.”

            “Shut up, Rhae,” you hiss, reaching and pulling the letter from her hand, the paper crinkling in your touch as you lay it aside, the scent of sandalwood still clinging to the paper. He douses his papers with it, said in the first one that he wanted it to be as if he were there, as if he were speaking to you. 

            “You have a plan,” she says and you look at her, lips pursing, one eyebrow arched. 

            “I always have a plan. You just don’t always know what it is—nor do I.” Your serious expression lasts for only a moment before the two of you are laughing, the sound like the times of girlhood, of innocence. 

            Before the real world reared its ugly head and prophecy overcame reality. 

            Before your sister was set to marry a Velaryon. 

            Before you had to sacrifice the freedom you’d been promised long ago. 

            All for the Queen on the Iron Throne.

            “Father?” you call out, stepping into his solar, boots scuffing along the seam between rug and stone. “Father, I need to speak with you.”

            “Come in, my darling,” he calls out and you follow the sound of his voice, crossing through the darkened rooms to where his desk rests, his body folded into the chair behind it. “What’s wrong? What have you foreseen?”

            “Many things. Wars and blood and Iron Thrones,” you reply, crossing the room to collapse into the second seat before his desk, leather clad legs tossed over one of the armrests, back against the other. “I have seen ways to ensure that Rhae is queen for a long, long time.”

            “Is that why you are here? To ensure it?” he asks and you look at him, your hand pulling the Valyrian steel blade from its sheath, the one Daemon gave you while Rhae got the pretty useless necklace. 

            “Yes,” you tell him, pressing the tip of the blade against the soft pad of your index finger, twirling and finding the lack of pain startling and yet so useful. “I need you to marry me off.”

            “You wanted freedom. I promised you that.”

            “I need that promise broken,” you tell him and his lips purse, his expression darkening but he nods, consenting, assenting, relenting. 

            “Daemon has been looking for a new bride—”

            “No,” you cut your father off, shaking your head and tipping your head back to look at the stone ceiling, the one carved by hands over centuries for the people with the blood of dragons in their veins. The conquerors who never understood the power of the individual. “The Hightower boy.”

            “Gwayne? Very well,” your father says and your lip curls as you look back to him, teeth grinding against one another, a squeaking sound in your ears. Loud and abrasive. 

            “No, the one to be the lord,” you tell him and he cocks his head at you, the look he has when assessing you and you do not know what he sees, but you can see something in his eyes. 

            “They don’t like us,” he says and you shrug, kicking your legs up and over, sitting up straight in the chair, ignoring the twinge of pain in your lower back from the press of the armrest. 

            “It doesn’t matter. Power is a potent aphrodisiac, Father. You should know better than anyone.”

            “I shall send a message,” he says. “We shall go from there.” You rise from the seat, nodding once at him, turning to go, to leave, but he stops you with his next words. “I am sorry, you know.”

            “For what?” you ask, the words scraping against the sides of your throat, rough and painful in a way that you rarely let anything be. 

            “For marrying her. I know what it’s done to Rhaenyra, to you. And I am sorry, but it was necessary.” It is no secret that publicly Rhae has always had your father’s favour, but you are the son he never had. You are the soldier, the knight, the general. The one with magic, with skill. The one who sees no lines, only what must be done. 

            “They will not say no,” you tell him and with that you leave, gritting your teeth, setting your jaw as a single lone tear slips down your cheek, trailing over your skin with a searing, burning feeling that feels far more painful than any fire from any dragon. 

            Even if your own dragon, Cannibal, burned you. 

            “The Targaryens want you to marry the that second borne daughter,” Ormund’s father says, tossing the official parchment onto the table in disgust, his lip curling as he tosses his letter opener aside, the metal clanging against the wood of the table. “What a disgrace.”

            “Father,” Ormund whispers, swallowing hard, the memory of your last letter, the sight of the places where you had pressed your quill deeper, the scent of your skin lingering on the paper burning deeper inside of him because why would he settle for letters when you could be his. When he could be yours. 

            He understands now that he loves you. That he has since he was seven and you, the impossible five year old dropped from the sky. That he has since he saw you defeat the Kingsguard, since he wanted you to be General Hightower, not Targaryen. 

            That he has even long before he learned that you were the one chosen by the fiercest and largest dragon of them all. An abominable creature of course but…was it really so bad? So sinful?

            Ormund doesn’t know. Only that he wants to be yours. 

            “What is it, boy?” his father says, looking at him, Hightower green eyes narrowed, nostrils flared. 

            “Power is important. It would put us closer to saving the realm…a proper ruler, one day,” he says, swallowing hard again, but not from want this time, but rather fear. Fear that his father will hear the love he has for you, will try to beat it out him, reinforce the idea that you are sinful. A disgrace. A rot to be carved away. 

            “You want to marry her?” he asks, tone already deepening, darkening but Ormund holds true, nodding, setting his jaw to appear strong, fierce and not scared. 

            “Purify the line,” he says and he holds his breath as his father looks away, eyes narrowing before finally nodding, assenting. 

            “Very well, my boy. You shall have her.”

The Courtship:

            The only thing that makes King’s Landing tolerable is knowing that you are here, that soon instead of the stench that clings to everything here, he will smell you, that strange perfume of your skin that is at once both sweet and strong. The strange perfume that he wants to have surrounding him at all times, you with him in truth. 

            But he would settle for your scent if you had to be away. 

            “The princesses are out riding, my lord,” one of the servants says, bowing low, eyes not meeting his, rather focused on his boots. Ones that shone in Oldtown, but here in the Keep have already picked up a fine layer of dust. Disregard as the rest of this place. He will be glad to have you out of it. 

            “Riding what?” he asks, but he needn’t have for he can hear the loud, overloud, sound of wings beating air, fast and furious and all too large. He turns, glancing out at the training yard, noticing Cannibal and Syrax both, growing larger as they near. 

            Cannibal had never been seen before he bonded you when you were four, saved you from danger and no one had any idea why he did so, only that he refused to let anyone near you and stayed under your window for the entire time you were a child. 

            You spoke to him before any courtier, it is said. 

            But Vhaegor was believed to be the largest of the dragons, until Cannibal. He can see how huge he is now as he dips to the side, his body canting and you leap from him, your figure small and dark as you land on the ground, your body rolling into a ball, rolling before you land on your feet, Cannibal already turned around, flying away. 

            Meanwhile, Syrax lands, dipping a wing and letting Princess Rhaenyra off gently, ensuring she is safe before departing after yours. 

            “You must have a death wish, dear sister,” he hears Rhaenyra exclaim, your laughter sounding in the yard as you loop your arm around her neck, pulling her in close before marching onwards, closer to him. 

            “I only do what you will not,” you reply, your voice light, still ringing with your laughter and he finds himself suddenly nervous, hands shifting to adjust his doublet, ensuring that it’s straight and he puffs out his chest, his heart speeding up when you look at him, your eyes narrowing, lips pursing before you break away from your sister, walking towards him. “Hello.”

            “H-hello,” he stutters, swallowing hard at the end of his words, your scent overwhelming, intoxicating. He feels slightly ashamed of his reaction to you, the way you change him from the strong heir to Oldtown to a stuttering young boy crushing for the first time, but when you smile at him, he finds he does not care. 

            “I have to change,” you tell him, reaching forwards, your hand finding his, fingers interlacing with his and all the blood seems to leave his body, rushing to all different places in his body at the feeling of your bare skin against his. 

            He wondered what it feel like, if it would mold to his and you do. It’s like you were made for him, like the Seven had intended this to be. Like the two of you were forged for one another. He follows after you, blood pulsing in his head as you drag him through hallway after hallway, up stairway after stairway before stopping outside an ornate door. 

            “Wait here,” you tell him, disappearing inside the room, the door closing behind you and he does, waiting patiently, leaning against the wall, interlacing his hands together in front of him, pretending that his hand is yours. That you are still touching him as casually as you did. 

            Touching him like you loved him as he loves you. 

            It’s no time at all before the door is pushed open and you step out, in a deep black gown, interspersed with bits of red. He swallows hard, his mouth feeling dry, like the wetness typical of a mouth has fled all of a sudden to his palms. He wipes them on his breeches as discreetly as he can but by the way your eyes track the movement, he knows you noticed. 

            “You look…” he trails off, his eyes tracing every line of your figure, caught up in your beauty, unsure of quite how to express the fact that he thinks you are a goddess. The most beautiful woman to ever live. 

            “Like a princess?” you ask and he startles, looking back up and meeting your eyes, nodding once, the movement jagged. 

            “Yes.”

            “You and I should probably become used to it,” you remark, stepping forwards and taking his hand again, looping it around your arm, “as this is how I must dress to be your Lady Hightower.”

            Your voice is resigned and he wants to tell you that he would never cage you as his lady, that he wants you, the General, but he cannot find the words for it.

            So, he says nothing at all.

            The gardens are well-tended, perfectly maintained, but even the scents of the prettiest flowers cannot cover up the permeating scent of rot that lingers in the courtyard, in the Keep. In all of King’s Landing. 

            But your scent, your touch is enough. It’s intoxicating to him, truly, the way your hand fits into and against his, the way your fingers fit the grooves between his as if you were always meant to hold his hand, as if this was fated, created. Deemed truthful by the Seven. 

            “How d—” he breaks off, pausing, bending his bend before the statue of the Mother, her effigy in the grounds. He feels you still, imagines you bent like him, paying respect to the idol of the god, one the many seven faces. 

            “You truly believe?” you ask and he jerks his head, a twinge of pain in the far back, like something snapping, his eyes wide with the surprise and shock coursing through his veins. 

            “You do not?” he asks and you shake your head, eyebrows arching as your free hand strays to your hip, stance asymmetrical as you look at him. 

            “I do not believe in your gods, no,” you tell him, your eyes flitting up and away towards the sky, eyes shuttering for just a moment, a thousand reflections of emotions glimmering in those perfect, precious eyes of bravery and truthfulness. 

            “Why not?” he asks and you look back at him, lips curving with a smile as if you cannot look at him without feeling joy. 

            “Because I do not believe in gods that do not exist. I believe in the gods in the world I can see. The Old Gods, the gods of nature. The ones who listen when you must pray. The ones who created us, but gave us the freedom to live. I believe that everything that happens is because of what we do. Not some mythical seven faced thing,” you tell him, your voice lilting and rising, shifting through the air like he always imagined a goddess would sound. 

            “But your father—”

            “My father does not know what he believes,” you counter, gesturing at the effigy of the Mother which stands before the two of you, the one gleaming in the sun, heat broiling off of the marble in strange visual waves. “He acts like a follower of the Seven, but it is not true. He does not go to sept or prayer. He rules and plays the sides that he must play.”

            “But the Seven are the only gods that truly matter,” Ormund counters, the lifetime of learning and prayer rearing within him. Lessons beat into him by his father’s hand, his belt, his knife, the fireplace pokers with red-hot ends. 

            “No,” you whisper, your expression softening on the edges, gaze going dreamy as if you remember something. “I do not believe in gods that cannot hear the prayers of the believers. No god can hear you through a sept, through a prayer mandated by man. No god can see through the candle smoke. You do not humble yourselves before them, you do not make an offering. You do nothing, but listen to some so-called holy man tell you what you must do. I do not subscribe to lies. I believe in the truth. In the gods in the wind and the sky and the ground and the water. That’s what I believe. I believe in that which I can see and hear and feel.”

            “Well,” he pauses, swallowing hard, fighting back against his father’s teachings that threaten to rear their head, have him lecturing you, making you believe. “I shall have enough faith for both of us in the Seven and you…can have enough for the two of us in your old gods.” And the toll that sentence, concession, takes on him is worth it to the smile on your face, to feel your arms as they wrap around him in a hug, his face pressed against your neck, your scent the only thing he can smell. 

            All he ever wants to smell. 

            Propriety be damned.  

The Wedding:

            The hall is full, you don’t even have to be inside it to know, you can hear the rustling of people inside of it, the sounds of whispers and murmurs and prayers as you stand, the gown on your frame heavy, far too heavy. This was what you never wanted. You wanted freedom and armour and swords and war. You wanted to fly on Cannibal’s back over the world, serving your sister, the Queen. 

            Instead, to ensure her throne, you must be wed. Become the Lady Hightower, rather than the Princess Targaryen you have been your entire life. 

            “My child,” your father calls out and you turn to him, your eyes heavy-lidded and tired, lined with tears, tears you will never let fall for it’s not strength to cry where people can witness weakness. “It is time.”

            “Of course,” you whisper, your hands twining in the layers of your white and silver skirt, the one that matches the one your sister’s, save for the gold that was on hers. The General has the silver; the Queen has the gold. You lift the heavy folds into your hands, stepping towards him, unsure of how to step and move in a gown like this when most of your life has been comprised of armor. 

            You know that gowns are a different sort of armour, ones made for ladies, ones made to present them as proper while hiding a multitude of secrets, but they have never been your favoured kind. Nonetheless, you cross the room, taking your father’s arm, the black and red cloak around your shoulders, soon to be replaced with ones of green and gold—Hightower colours. 

            The doors to the hall open, revealing the crowd of people curious and watching, whispering about your legitimacy, whether you are Targaryen at all, but it is nothing new. What is new, is the boy of no more than twenty who stands at the top of the stairs, looking at you with awe in green eyes, a nervous hand running through dark brown curls that are overlong and falling into his eyes. 

            A sight that makes you smile. 

            In truth, you love Ormund and it is no burden to marry him. You could have married Gwayne or the Tyrel lad or the Martel prince. There were other options, other ways to ensure that your sister would be the first woman on the Iron Throne, one who would not bleed, but you grew fond of the boy who wrote you letters. 

            The boy who said he believed in you. Something no one else had ever said. 

            “You will be fine, my dear,” your father whispers as the two of you begin the walk along the red roll of carpet, the one with golden tasselled edges, opulence and Targaryen power in a simple display. 

            “I know, Father,” you reply, your attention focused on the boy ahead, the one who’s Adam’s apple bobs hard, his chest rising and falling in erratic ways. “I have seen the outcomes. I will be wonderful.” The feeling is strange when Viserys pulls the cloak from your shoulders, your arms bare for a moment, skin prickling with goosebumps, coldness seeping in through the loss of the house which has been yours since before you were born. 

            But the coldness recedes when Ormund steps forwards with the green and gold cloak of the Hightowers, placing it over your shoulders, his palms pressing down against them for a moment, his touch grounding and precious and everything you need to survive through the rite of the Faith that you do not believe in. You would rather kneel before a Weirwood tree, the skirt of your gown digging into the damp, cold earth, the white stained black with soil. 

            But you find that this is okay too, your hands finding Ormund’s as the Septon speaks, his voice arching loud and clear through the hall, Ormund’s green eyes locked upon you the entire time. 

            And when you are pronounced of one flesh, you find that the kiss he gives you is sweet and grounding and promising. As if the press of his lips against yours is a promise like his Faith says: a promise to love you forever. 

            To believe in you.

            Ormund cannot take his eyes from you, his wife, clothed in white and silver wearing the cloak of green and gold, a Targaryen no longer. No, you are his wife. He wants to shout it from the rooftops, declare it to the entire world, but he refrains, contenting himself with dancing with you, his hand never leaving yours. 

            It is now, watching you spin in a swirl of skirts and cloaks that he remembers from that first day in the courtship, the walk around the gardens when you said that you believed in what you could see. In gods that could hear you. 

            “My love?” he says as he pulls you back in, his hand finding your waist, fitting to the curve as if it was always supposed to. “Is this marriage…real for you?”

            “It is before the Seven,” you whisper, eyes looking just past him, at someone over his shoulder, as if you cannot lie to him if you look at him. 

            “How can I make it true to you?” Your eyes find his again, shocked and surprised, wide open, pupils flaring and contracting and flaring again as they trace every line of his face, his skin flushing beneath your gaze. 

            “Take me to a Weirwood tree,” you whisper, your cheek pressing against his, lips at his ear, breath coursing over the shell of it, causing goosebumps to pebble along his skin, blood to rush to places it really shouldn’t in a public place. “On our trip, take me to Weirwood tree and there we shall make it real.”

            “So it is said,” he replies, his voice equally low and quiet at your ear, “so mote it be.” And he knows that he does not imagine, the tremor in your body, the shiver of your skin in his hands. You desire him as he desires you. 

            “You waved the bedding ceremony,” you remark, your hands coming to the clasp of the cloak, the golden leaf hooking around gold twines. “How will they know it’s true?”

            “Blood,” Ormund says, his back to you, muscles stiffening, rippling beneath the fabric of his doublet, his breath hitching as his arms move, the overlayer of the doublet shrugged off and onto the floor. 

            “Ah, I see,” you whisper, crossing the room, your cloak left behind in a pool on the stone floor. You cross to him, your hand resting in the place between his shoulder blades, rubbing a small circle as you step around to look at him, at the vein pulsing in his jaw, the way the line is sharp, taut, his neck tight and rigid. “Do you not want to consummate? Are you not ready? For if you’re not, I shall cut my hand and it will be done.”

            “NO!” he blurts out, the word too fast and too loud for the stillness of the chambers, his cheeks reddening as he looks down, down at his boot covered feet. “I just want it to be proper and I…” He swallows hard and you understand. 

            “You don’t know what to do,” you conclude and he nods, cheeks still red, ruddy as he looks at you, green eyes apologetic. Fearful. “Well luckily,” you whisper, stepping closer, watching as his Adam’s apple bobs with another hard, fearful, nervous swallow, “I do.”

            “How?” he asks, the blush fading, his brows drawing together and eyes flaring with anger, with jealousy and possessiveness. Perhaps the most potent aphrodisiac. More potent than power for here is power in love, a man who truly wants you as his. 

            “My uncle is a…an interesting man,” you whisper, lips curving in a sardonic kind of smile, your free hand, the one not resting between his shoulder blades, finds his, interlacing your fingers with his. “And he…he took my sister to a brothel one night and I followed. Not to see or know, but rather…because my blades are quite sharp.”

            “And?” Ormund whispers, his body pressing against yours, his body moving steps to you, to feel you against him even through the layers of fabric. 

            “And I saw what the act is,” you whisper, your gaze dropping from his eyes to his lips, his soft lips, the ones that you have felt against yours merely hours ago. The ones that made you feel what you supposed those people at the brothels did, except yours was made of love. “I know what to do.”

            “Teach me,” he whispers, his forehead dipping, pressing against yours, his eyes closing as he breathes in your scent, the one he says is everything he’s dreamed about. “Teach me so that I may know—for you.”

            “Very well,” you whisper, surging up, pressing your lips against his in a kiss that is hungry, that is full of love and desire. He gasps, eyes flying open, surprise glimmering in them before he melts against you, his hands finding your waist, your shifting to twine around his neck, lacing through the curly strands of his hair, his body pressing you back, back, back against the wall. 

            His mouth has opened, slanting, his tongue sliding into your mouth, sliding along yours in a way that leaves you breathless, his hands sliding from your waist, to your back up to the ties of your gown, the laces of the bodice. Your skin is fevered, flushing with want, a coil in your stomach from the press of his body against yours, the feeling of his lips and tongue and the way in desperation your teeth have clashed. 

            “Is this right?” he whispers, pulling back, pulling away as his fingers work the bodice ties loose, a line of saliva stretching between you and him. “Am I doing this right?”

            “I mean,” you pause, swallowing hard yourself, skin flushing anew, burning, burning, burning at the way his eyes track the movement of your swallow, green eyes black with desire. “I feel something so I assume so.” The scent of his skin like that of sandalwood and papyrus is all you can smell and it is intoxicating, but not so intoxicating as the way his eyes widen when your dress loosens, when you shrug out of it, the gown pooling underneath you on the floor, a halo around your feet. 

            “My god,” he rasps and then he’s kissing you again, his hand fisting in your hair as he pulls you against him, enough that you can feel his bulge, the one not growing so much as already grown. It’s hard and stiff and his hips move against you of their own accord and you wonder how he knows to do this when he has never done so before. 

            “I thought,” you gasp out as he finds a spot underneath your ear, his teeth working at the skin, tongue soothing the bite, “you’d never done this before.”

            “I haven’t,” he murmurs against your neck, “but with you, it seems I know.” He breathes in the crook of your neck, breathing in your scent, his nose pressing against your skin before he lifts his head, the bed now behind you, your knees pressing into it, threatening to buckle as he pushes against you. “What is next?”

            “They, um, they,” you pause, breaking off, images flashing before your eyes, things that at the time you wished you hadn’t seen, but are useful now. Fingers at the place you never thought of as anything, hands and lips over chests, hips slamming against hips. “The men prepare the woman.”

            “How?” he asks, pulling back, pulling away from you, mouth pinching as though even this small bit of separation pains him. 

            “Their fingers,” you whisper, sighing when he looks confused, brows knitting in a way that is adorable, yet far too clueless. You remove your smallclothes, letting them fall to the floor, a heady rush of lust and love in your veins when you see the way he’s looking at you, when you hear the deep sound that escapes him. 

            You fall back onto the bed, shifting, spreading your legs, your hand going to your cunt, finding your clit, placing pressure against it, a bolt of something running through you, a small sound escaping your lips involuntarily. 

            “Let me,” Ormund whispers, his clothes now shed, his cock erect, hard, a clear bead resting on the tip as he climbs over your body, replacing your hand with his, his thumb pressing down on your clit, a curious finger dipping between your folds, pressing inside of you, the stretch burning and strange but at the same time, perfection and you let out a small sound, one that has Ormund looking at you with absolute lust. “You like this?” he asks, clarifying as he moves his finger in and out, tracking every reaction you have, every twist of your face, the way you move against him. 

            “Yes,” you breathe out and his lips curve in a cocky kind of smile, another finger sliding inside of you, knuckles dragging along your walls, his thumb never ceasing. 

            “Not enough,” he whispers and before you can ask him what he means, he’s shifting, lifting your hips, his tongue pressing against you. He’s tasting you and his fingers are moving, his tongue building a rhythm with them around your clit, his chest moving, rising and falling as if he’s breathing in the way you smell. Delighting in it. 

            It’s not long before the coil in your stomach is snapping, that feeling of heat and pleasure surging through your veins as he rises, his body over yours, his chin and lips still glistening with your release. 

            “Divine,” he whispers, his eyes hungry in a way you’ve never really seen before. “What’s next?” You can’t help but laugh a little, kind of laugh made of surprise, his lips curving up at the sound, his lips peppering kisses all over your skin, making you laugh all the more. 

            “You know what’s next,” you say and he pulls back, a solemn look in his eyes as he nods. 

            “Yes,” he says, “and you must know before I do that I love you. I feel you should know it before we do something that can never be taken back. I know…” he pauses, even as his cock presses against you, kissing your entrance. “I know that I may not have been your choice.”

            “You were my choice,” you tell him and he blinks, the look in his eyes like he is rewriting every thought he’s ever had. “I saw many options and my father did not suggest you. I did. I wanted you and I have you. I love you.” He presses his lips against yours, pressing inside of you, inching in and your gasp of pain is swallowed by his lips, a single tear sliding down his cheek as he pushes in, the burn echoing throughout your body. 

            “I’m sorry,” he whispers and you lift one hand from his back, wiping away the tear with the side of your finger, drawing him back to you in a kiss as he begins to move inside of you, building a rhythm, one punctuated by murmurs of love you. Love you. Love you. 

            And when his thrusts grow sloppy, you can feel his release nearing, yours drawing close again from the way he kisses you, his hands trailing over every inch of your body and the way his cock drags along your walls. 

            “Love—you,” he cries, just as your release comes through, that same feeling of pleasure, of heaviness in your limbs as he spills inside of you in thick hot ropes, his body collapsing beside yours, drawing you close to him, his eyes closing as he breathes you in. “I love you.”

            “And I you,” you whisper, your hand tracing the side of his face as his eyes open, lips pulling back in a smirk as he looks at you. 

            “I shall never tire of hearing you say that,” he whispers. “Can you say it again?”

            “I love you, I love you, I love you,” you whisper and he sighs in contentment, pulling you down beside him, your gaze snagging on a bruise on his shoulder, one dark and deep and in the shape of a belt. “What is that? Who hurt you?”

            “It’s nothing,” he whispers, a shadow falling over his face. “Just a reminder of the weight of blood. Something that…” he pauses, pulling the covers up and over the two of you, the ones which had been folded at the end of the bed, “I forget when I’m with you.”

            And you say nothing more, simply pressing a kiss against the purpling bruise and holding him while sleep claims you both.

            The Weirwood tree is tall and large and strong, wizened in a way that Ormund has never seen another tree be. It is a marker of the Old Gods, the Old Faith, something his father hates, something he should hate, his father’s message having been beaten into him a thousand times before, but standing here, his hand in yours, he finds he disagrees. 

            As he always does with you. 

            “What do we do, my love?” he asks you and you turn to him, a smile alight on your face as you pull him towards it, a small giggle escaping your lips, body clothed in a green and gold gown, beautiful and perfect and yet a part of him wishes you were wearing armour, clothes you loved above all else. 

            “We speak the truth,” you reply, kneeling down in the damp earth, not only the hem of your dress gathering dirt, but rather all of it. “We tell the tree how we love each other and then we say we take the other as our partner. It is that simple.” He kneels down with you, the scent of you and damp earth overwhelming him and he knows that for the rest of his life, when he thinks of his wedding it will be this: you in a dirt-stained gown and loose hair and the scent of dirt, your warm hands in his. 

            “Well then, I love you. I have since you dropped from the ceiling when you were five and I was seven and I will continue to do so forever.”

            “I love you as well,” you tell him, your smile softening, becoming loving in a way it’s never been before. “I have loved you since you sent your first letter and said that you believed in me and addressed me as General Targaryen because no one had ever believed in me before. And I could not imagine losing you, my letter boy, to anyone.”

            “What now?” he whispers, his heart seeming too large for his chest and he wants nothing more than to take you here and now—now that he understands everything to do. 

            “Now you say you take me for your wife,” you tell him and he squeezes your hand. 

            “I take you, Y/n Targaryen, as my wife.”

            “And I take you, Ormund Hightower, as my husband,” you whisper and then he’s letting go of your hands, his fingers framing your face as he cups you, pulling you to him and pressing a searing kiss to your lips. One that leaves you both breathless because you know.

            This is the moment that you became real. 

The First Child:

            Ormund waits, his hands twining together as Cannibal comes into view, his true name something only you know, a secret that you keep and that he does care that you do. He can practically hear his father’s mutterings, curses about you and your polluted blood and sinful nature, but he does care because he loves you. 

            He loves the things you’ve told him of your line, of your sister, of your mother. He has grown to love the things you love, his father’s messages be damned. 

            He watches as you leap from Cannibal’s back, landing in a roll, springing to your feet as Cannibal takes off for some distance place, someplace you can call him back from in some way that he does ask about. Your dragon is the only secret you keep and he does not care. 

            What he cares about is the wide smile on your face, the way your skin is glowing as you run to him, the scent of fire and ash clinging to your dark leather riding gear. He opens his arms and you run straight into them, your week away with your sister having taken a toll on him. 

            He spent the entire time pouring your oils on your pillow and holding it to him, wishing that it was you, even though he knew it wasn’t, the smell being off. Wrong. 

            “My love!” he cries as he picks you up, spinning around the courtyard of Oldtown. “How are you?”

            “I’m pregnant,” you blurt out as he sets you down, everything inside of him freezing in place. 

            “You’re what?” he breathes and watches as your smile widens, deepens, tears lining your perfect eyes. Eyes that are glimmering with a strange sort of happiness. 

            “I’m pregnant,” you whisper and he’s dropping to his knees before you, the dirt of the courtyard digging into his clothed knees, one hand on your hip, the other on your stomach as he looks at it. He expects to see the child moving inside of you already but it’s early, he knows. He just can’t believe it. 

            An heir, already. 

            “My miracle,” he whispers, looking up at you, tears gathering in his green eyes. “My forever miracle.” And he rises, pressing a deep kiss against your lips as he pulls you against him, every line of your body against every line of his and there is the thing he missed, the things your oils lack. The mystery ingredient: you. Just you. 

            You and another.

            “What do you think of the name Aemon?” Ormund says, stepping into the room, his attention on you, but his eyes still scanning the book of names he found in the library. 

            “No,” you whisper and he looks up at you, you who stands tall, belly round and protruding, five moons in now, the child kicking hard against you, wanting out, wanting to breathe air. “I want to name him Baelon—or, if it’s a girl, Baela.”

            “Why?” he whispers, taking note of the tears that line your eyes, tears that fall more easily now since the baby. 

            “My brother,” you whisper, voice thick as a single, glittering tear rolls down your cheek. “My brother was named Baelon.”

            “Very well,” Ormund says, dropping the book onto the bed, crossing to you, stepping behind you, interlacing his fingers beneath your bump and lifting, reliving you of the pressure for a moment. “Baelon it is.”

            Ormund hears your scream echoing off the stone walls of Oldtown, ricochetting to him in his solar, the new solar for the new Lord of Oldtown, his father now nothing but ash. It is a deep scream, a primal scream and he runs, leaving everything behind, every instinct in his body simply to get to you, pushing past servants and guards and anyone who gets in his way, bursting into the room just as you scream again, your hand on your stomach and a pool underneath you on the stone. 

            “MIDWIFE!” Ormund roars, his voice a matching primal sound for yours. “NOW!” The midwife runs in, followed by the Maester and they try to remove Ormund from the room, but he fights against them, fighting to stay with you, your hand reaching for him and his reaching for you and they soon give up on trying to separate you. 

            For there is something no one knows, save you and he: you are of one heart, one body, one mind. 

            By whatever God’s decree. 

            Twenty hours of labour, of your screams and cries, of your hand squeezing his and cursing him in the same breath that you confess how much you love him. Twenty hours for a silent child.

            “My lord,” the midwife says, the child in her arms silent and still. “He is not breathing.”

            “GIVE HIM TO ME!” you cry and she startles, body seizing for a moment but Ormund nods and she hands the green and gold bundle to you, one which you push back from the stillborn face. “Listen to me Baelon,” you whisper, “you will live. Even if I have to fight every god in the world, you will live. You will breathe and cry and scream because I am your mother and I am telling you to live.”

            He reaches for you, wanting to look you in the eyes and tell you that the child is gone, but it’s that moment that a sharp and keening cry breaks through the air, the baby screaming in your arms, face ruddy in only the way that a baby can be. And it opens its eyes to show startling green. 

            “Welcome Baelon,” he whispers. “You are a miracle, just like your mother.”

            It was after the labour, as you were penning your letter to your sister that a raven landed on the sill with a message. One that you opened, passing yours onto the bird, instructing it to take the message to Princess Rhaenyra. The message was written in your sister’s scrawling hand, a mere few words. Just: Jacerys Velaryon and his date of birth.

            Exactly two days before Baelon. 

            It must be a twin thing.

The Children:

            Five children, a miracle for the Hightower line, every single one carrying some piece of Valyria and Oldtown. Five children, four sons and one daughter. Baelon as the oldest, the heir to the Oldtown legacy, Aerys, the youngest, the most reckless. Rhaegar, the third born and the most studious, fascinated by the Andal faith. Matarys, the fourth born, the warrior. The most like you. 

            And Daenerys, the youngest, the only daughter. The one with red hair and green eyes, every inch the Hightower girl, but a mind of a Targaryen, steel and fire and swords. Spoiled beyond belief, but tough beyond all measure. 

            And now, a ward, a son of Alicent, your brother. Little more than a babe, one that you will raise. Young Daeron. 

            It seemed that your life was full, yet a dreamer always knows that the worst battle is around the corner and you knew that nothing would be solved before the green banners flew black. 

The Dance of the Dragons:

            “What?” you whisper, your throat thickening at the words still ringing through the hall, your father is dead, Aegon is king. “That is not his right!”

            “Rhaenyra is not fit,” Ormund says, the letter sealed with the Red Keep seal in his hand, the folded parchment flapping in the movements of his hand. “Daemon is a threat.”

            “Daemon is an idiot in love! And it is not his right! You cannot support this!” you cry, but Ormund’s face draws closed, shuttering as he sets his jaw. 

            “I am a Hightower and I support Aegon as king. His bloodline is partly pure. And you are a Hightower by marriage. You follow what I say.”

            “Don’t forget yourself, Ormund,” you hiss, stepping closer to him, your finger jabbing into his chest. “I am not a simple-minded fool and if this comes to war as I know it will, you do not want to be on my bad side.”

            “We have been married for seventeen years and yet you doubt me?” he whispers, his voice low, the door of his solar creaking open, a presence behind the two of you and you can feel your heartbeat in your throat, can hear your blood pulsing in your head. 

            “If you are not with me,” you hiss, “you are against me.” You turn and walk away, your chest feeling like it’s caving in, the warning from your father all those years ago ringing through you, the fact that Hightowers hate Targaryens. 

            You wonder, if perhaps, your love for the letter boy clouded the truth of the war you saw. If you made a wrong choice that will cost your sister her throne. 

            “Mother,” Baelon hisses from the shadows of the halls, stepping out, Aerys not far behind him. “We must leave. Our loyalty is to Aunt Rhae, not Alicent. Not Aegon. We cannot stay. We have to leave. Fight.”

            “I can’t,” you whisper and the tears that you have been feeling since your father died, since you heard the throne was stolen, boil over, spilling down your cheeks as your body shakes, your eldest son, a man grown, enfolding you in his arms. The arms which did not move until you ordered them too. Your miracle child.

            “Why not?” he whispers and you cry harder, the sobs wracking your body. 

            “Because I love him.”

            “We fly the banner of Aegon,” you hear Ormund say, his voice loud and dominating in the small space. “We support a righteous king.” You gasp, your chest aching, your hand pressing against your sternum, green gown never heavier than now. 

            “Mother,” Matarys whispers behind you and you turn, seeing your youngest son, his violet eyes gleaming with their own tears, his mind haunted by dreams. A dragon dreamer or possibly a battle seer, you are not yet sure. But his mind is haunted with fire and smoke and a shadow with jaws of steel. 

            “Yes, my darling?” you say, your voice cracking with the weight of tears. 

            “We need to leave,” he says and the pain rams through you again with all the force of a battering ram and you shake your head, pressing your lips together as you hold your arms out for your small son to run to. 

            “Not yet,” you whisper. 

            “Why not?”

            “Because I love him.”

            “The dragons are ready whenever you are, Mother,” Rhaegar says, his body leaning against the stone wall of your solar, your sons all gathered before you. You’re sharpening your sword, the one given to you by Daemon when you took Baelon to retrieve his egg as a child. 

            “I cannot leave,” you tell them. “I love him too much and when you all fall in love, you will understand.”

            “But you swore to Aunt Rhae,” Baelon cries and you shrug, tears slipping down your cheeks, an admission of weakness because Ormund has always, will always, be yours. 

            “What will it take for you to leave, Mother?” Rhaegar asks, logical to a fault, scholarly like Ormund. 

            “If he threatens us, you and me. Then I will leave. If I do not kill him first.”

            You can hear murmurs behind the closed doors of Ormund’s solar and you push the doors open, to see Ormund seated beside Daeron, whispering about power and righteousness and the taint of Targaryen blood. Of their sin.

            “Sins?” you call out and he looks up, startled, shame flooding his green eyes. Eyes that used to look at you with love, but have since become as dark and convoluted as his father’s. “You are despicable, Ormund!”

            “Why? Because I speak the truth?!”

            “BECAUSE YOU ARE BECOMING YOUR FATHER!” you scream, the sound bouncing off the stone walls, Daeron’s face drawing tight, fear and curiosity warring in them. “Daeron,” you say, tone softer, his face relaxing when he looks at you, the only mother he has ever known, “go.”

            He does, running from the room and closing the doors behind him with a echoing bang. 

            “I am not my father,” Ormund says, stepping around the table, towards you but you shake your head, lip curling as you step away from his touch. 

            “You are crazed, half-mad. Claiming my blood, the blood in your children is sinful. You are becoming exactly as he taught you to be and I swear if you lift a hand to my children, I will make you regret it. Do not do it.” And then you sweep from the room, the tears burned away now by anger and rage and an understanding that soon you will leave. 

            That soon he’ll finally do something that means you must flee. 

            It comes at dinner that night. 

            “All Targaryens,” Ormund mutters, his knife stabbing against his plate with particular force, “ save for young Daeron, should burn by their own dragon fire.” It’s like someone has stabbed you, pain spreading from your chest through your body and you can feel your lips open, a horrid sound echoing through the room as you push your chair back from the table, limbs weak and heavy, Ormund’s head lifting with urgency, gaze clearing as he looks at you, body already moving towards you. 

            And that’s what’s cruel, because for a second it looked like he was your Ormund. The boy you fell in love with and the man who set you free. 

            But soon the shutter falls and the monster is in its place. 

            “Mother, are you alright?” Baelon calls out and you close your eyes for a moment, drawing strength from the blackness of your closed eyes, the darkness, nodding once, teeth grinding against themselves. 

            “I will be,” you whisper, “later, most likely by tonight.” You don’t even need to see your children to know that they understand. 

            Tonight is the night that you’ve finally snapped. 

            Tonight is the night you leave. 

            “You know,” Ormund says, his hands undoing the laces of your gown, a ritual of undressing one another that you began in the early days of marriage, “this war will have costs.”

            “And let me guess,” you reply, tone arch and blood boiling at his touch, at his proximity, the kind of hate and anger that can only be borne of love, “you will pay them all.”

            “No,” he says, his answer surprising you, your breath hitching. “I will not pay the price if it is you. You are the only thing I cannot lose. You keep me sane for only am I complete with you. You are the price I will not pay.”

            Your chest feels hollow, scraped clean, his words running through you as you turn, your gown falling from your body as you pull him to you, pressing a kiss against him, one deep and searing, the two of you merely a tangle of tongues and teeth and limbs as you stumble to the bed. As you say goodbye even if he doesn’t know it yet. 

            And when he’s asleep, you rise from the bed, grabbing your sword, dressing in riding clothes as quietly as possible before slipping from the room, running to your children, banging on their doors, their bodies emerging, ready as you are. 

            “Mother,” Daenarys says when she emerges, “should we leave a note?”

            “No,” you tell her. “Your father lost that courtesy when he said we should all burn. Now, let’s go.” And the six of you slip from the castle soundlessly, crossing the courtyard to the edge where you call out into the night, in a language that is not human, that merely sounds like chuffs and chirps. 

            The language of the dragons, the language Leviathan (Cannibal’s real name) taught you when you were a child. 

            The language he promised you that he would hear no matter how far away he was. And he does not let you down, his large form rising above the five other creatures behind him. 

            The language that is the reason you are able to flee with your children, flying to Dragonstone, to battle, to Iron Thrones and Iron Crowns and your sister. 

            To the battle you saw all those years ago. 

—

            Ormund wakes to an empty bed, your side cold as if it was never slept in at all, only the faintest edge of your scent clinging to the cloth. He rises, dressing, calling for you, yelling your name through the halls, running to every place you go, the hill, the yard, the library, armoury. Everywhere.    

            And you are nowhere. 

            “WHERE IS SHE?! WHERE IS MY WIFE?!” he cries once he’s gathered all the servants in the grand hall, a single soldier stepping forwards, eyes cast to the floor. 

            “She and your children were reported to have left last night,” he says. “On dragonback. Cannibal led the charge with her on him.”

            Ormund can feel the last bit of his sanity disappear, everything shuddering into place as his father’s son. 

            “She is a traitor then,” he says but it is not him, not really, for the real Ormund is locked away, war making monsters out of men. 

            But the real Ormund whispers that he will get you back, no matter the cost because you were the only thing he never wanted to pay. 

            “If you see her,” he says, “kill her.”

—

            “You did not leave quickly,” Rhaenyra says, your hand twined with hers as the two of you stand on the balcony of her rooms in Dragonstone, her crown heavy on her brow and your new title as her Hand and General of the armies, Protector of the Land, heavy on yours. 

            “No,” you whisper, looking out at the dusky, smoke-filled sky. 

            “I had rather hoped you’d never leave at all,” she says and you turn to her, taking in the aged look on her face, the face that you know so well, have known and will always know better than anyone else in all the Seven Kingdoms. 

            “That hurts,” you say, your tone teasing and she laughs, just a bit, a small laugh, short and sharp and nostalgic all the same. 

            “I had hoped that love would be too strong,” she says, her lips pressing into a saddened, heavy smile. “I had hoped Ormund would be different.”             “You are not the only one.”

—

            “Lucerys should not go,” you whisper. “I see a shadow that takes him. It’s too dangerous.”

            “We need this diplomatic mission,” Rhae says and you reach for her hand, lifting it and pressing it against your heart, your head shaking. 

            “We might lose him.”

            “So, send me,” Matarys calls and you startle, looking back at him, your brows knitting and breaths changing, deeper and yet shorter, fear choking you. 

            “What? You said you see a shadow before you die,” you say and he stands, rising from his seat at the Black Council table, his body spindly and thin like a strong wind would blow him over. 

            “Let us change fate.” Rhae looks at you for a moment before shaking her head and nodding, assenting to the mission.

            “Very well.”

—

            You should never have let the mission go on. You should have gone with them, instead here you stand, looking at the two boys dead. 

            “The boys who clung to us, who hid their faces in our skirts,” Rhae whispers, her body pressing against you, hip to your hip, arm around you, the two of you holding each other up, “dead, all so I may sit upon a throne of swords?”

            “War has costs,” you whisper, your tears having long since dried away, evaporated by rage. “And I shall pay them just to have Aemond’s head on my wall. Oh my boy!”

—

            “Sir,” the messenger cries, stepping into the room. “News of the Targaryens.”

            “Say it and then leave,” he orders, jaw already gritting, a pit of fear that he refuses to acknowledge growing as he fears that he will hear that you are dead. That you are gone. 

            “Matarys and Lucerys have been killed by Aemond on a mission.” Ormund can feel that chokehold of anger, that familiar pain as he lifts his glass of spirits and hurls it at the wall, the glass shattering in a million shards. 

            “Get out.” And when he is alone, Ormund lets the tears of sanity slip down his cheeks as he thinks of the small boy who used to swing from his arms lying dead on a funeral pyre, set alight by dragon fire. 

            He cannot bear it. 

            He would rather death claim him now.

—

            “Before the battle, before I leave,” you hiss to Rhaenyra, drawing her aside, “I need you to listen in case when you take the throne, I am not there. Alright?”

            “Alright,” she says, her tone cautious, hesitant. 

            “Wear full body armour before you sit upon the throne and put cloth in case the moon curse comes. Make sure no blood will be seen upon your body. Promise me or else all will have been in vain and our sons will have died for nothing.”

            “I promise,” she vows and you nod, turning from her and leaving the hall, closing your eyes for a moment as the wind whips into your face, cold and cruel and cutting. 

            You will not come back from this battle. 

            Of that you are sure. 

The Battle of the Gullet:

            “Foolish girl,” you hiss at the sight of Rhaena atop Sheepstealer, the dragon out of control, not bonded in a true way to her. “To Jace,” you chuff at Leviathan and he huffs, the sound not a word, but a snort of indignation as he roars, the sound splitting the sky, Sheepstealer turning, veering, leaving Vermax in its path. 

            But then Sheepstealer’s tail swings, hitting Vermax and it’s the sight you saw in your dreams, the arrow soon to come. You squeeze your legs around the seat of Leviathan’s body and he dives, flying forwards, enough that as you hear the arrow launch, you are able to jump, leaping from Leviathan’s body, the arrow cutting through your armour, three others following in quick succession, ripping through your body. 

            “Y/N! NO!” Jace cries as your body falls, plummets, blood trailing from the wounds, your body landing atop the seat of Leviathan, but you cannot feel it. You cannot even feel what once was searing pain from the arrows cut. 

            Rather you feel nothing. 

            You feel empty, your blood trickling from you, falling onto Leviathan’s body, his words angry and worried and harsh.

            “You want to talk about foolish girl, little human? That’s you! You are my human and you are not allowed to die!” His roar is the last thing you hear before everything goes black, an image of green eyes surging up to meet you as you feel the gods reach down for you. 

            You fought off death all those years ago for Baelon and now it has come to collect. 

            You knew you would not come back. 

Daenarys’s letter:

Dear Father,

I know you may not even read this, may see my name and think betrayer but you should know that it is you who betrayed us long before we left. 

You betrayed us every time you spoke against Targaryens for that is what we are. Hightower blood may run through my veins, through my brothers’ veins, but not our mother’s. Not your wife’s. You said all should burn and you forgot that that was her. 

You said that your own wife should burn. 

And you should know that we had pressured her to leave from the moment the war broke, but her response was always “I cannot because I love him.” Her limit was you threatening her and us. And you hit it. So, we left. 

But do not let your hurt let her die without you saying goodbye. She took four arrows for Jace at the Battle of the Gullet. She’s dying, Father. They do not think she’ll make it. Please come. 

Please say goodbye because I know you love her as she loves you. It is the only thing I’m sure of, Father.

Please.

Your loving daughter,

Daenarys Hightower

—

            “My army,” Ormund calls, his heartbeat frantic, mind erratic. He wishes he had a dragon so that he could fly to you in no time at all and never have to worry about being too late, “we are to march to King’s Landing.”

            “To kill the Queen?” one asks and he shakes his head. 

            “No,” he answers. “To serve her. Fly our banners black. Now let us go.”

The Reunion:

            “Let me up!” you cry, the bandages tight around your body as you shift from side-to-side, trying to rise but finding that it hurts, giant ripping pain. “Come on, Daemon. Help me up.”

            “And let you die?” he asks, violet eyes narrowed on you, lips curved up in a soft smirk. “I think not, young General.” His arm is around Rhaenyra’s fingers and you lift your arms into a prayer clasp, shaking them at her. 

            “Please, sweet sister,” you cry and she laughs, a choked kind of laugh, tears falling from her eyes as she shakes her head. 

            “I cannot lose you. The Maesters are hopeful your bleeding is done, but they’re not confident.” You sigh and let your hands flop back to the bed, the motion jarring and you grunt, teeth gritting, eyes falling on Jace and Baelon, standing side-by-side, future King and Hand together. 

            “Jace, you owe me your life,” you sing-song, but he shakes his head. 

            “No can do,” he says, and Baelon glares at you, green eyes lined with tears, anger in those eyes that are a mimic of Ormund’s. 

            “I wish Matarys were here,” calls a soft voice, that of Rhaegar, but the mention of your youngest son, the one with violet eyes and dark curls causing a pain to rip through you, choked sobs leaving your lips, the kind that have your body heaving, aching, tearing. 

            Rhae crosses the floor, sinking down upon the bed beside you and drawing you to her as you did when you were little, your tears falling fast as you mourn the child that you had. That Aemond killed. For no reason but a throne. 

            One your sister sat on without bleeding, despite the period blood she found after. She listened and now she shall be Queen for years. 

            “I want my son,” you cry and Rhae’s arms tighten around you. 

            “I miss him too,” calls a voice that has your heart racing, your head turning, tears falling faster, sobs racking your body. Ormund. 

            “Here to kill us all?” Daemon sneers, drawing forth his sword, placing the blade against the hollow of Ormund’s throat, a bead of blood on the edge of the sword. 

            “No,” he answers, his hand waving at his simple, black garb, not a single weapon in sight. “I am here for my love.” He looks at you with green eyes clear, sane, not a hint of the broken man forged by his father’s hand. 

            “You’re here, truly,” you whisper and he nods, stepping around Daemon’s blade to go to you, falling onto his knees before the bed in a repentant pose, taking your hand and pressing it against his lips. 

            “I told you before,” he whispers, “that war may have many costs, but you are the only cost I would not pay.”

            “Where are your men?” Rhae asks and he lifts his head from the bed, from your hand, his green eyes meeting her violet ones. 

            “Here, flying the black banner,” he says. “My armies are hers. I am whatever side she claims in war. Because I will not pay the price of losing her.”

            “You mean it?” you ask and he looks at you, reaching his hand forwards to cup your cheek as he nods. 

            “You are and have always been, their general.”

The End:

            The war concluded with Queen Rhaenyra succeeding, her brother Aemond killed by her sister, Y/N. Aegon, Alicent and Helena also perished, war having shown that Side Black was the winner. 

            Vhaegor, the unbonded dragon, made a new choice—Ormund Hightower, the husband who rode with his wife when she went to slay her brother on the back of Leviathan, the mythical Cannibal. 

            Ormund gave up his seat at Oldtown to his second son Aerys and had two more children by his wife Y/N: Lucerys, the son and Matarya, the daughter. 

            Rhaenyra was succeeded by her son, Jacerys whose Hand was his cousin Baelon. And history has learned. 

            And history continues. 

"Straighten your posture, child. Do not disappoint me again with lapses in your etiquette."

The White Queen returned her fan to her lips while her free hand drew the carriage curtain closed, hiding the crowds from your view.

You knew better than to argue.

Instead, you adjusted your posture, folded your hands neatly in your lap, and carefully schooled every trace of curiosity from your expression.

The remainder of the journey passed in silence.

Only upon approaching Auradon Prep did that silence finally shatter.

The school band erupted into a triumphant fanfare, the percussion booming through the courtyard. It bore little resemblance to the refined melodies of Wonderland's royal ensemble.

It sounded less like music the music you were used to and more like organized chaos.

"Oh, my word."

Your mother visibly winced. She brought her hands up to cover her ears.

Unable to tolerate the noise, she ordered the servants to keep the carriage doors closed until the performance had ended.

Through the narrow gap in the curtains, you caught glimpses of the assembled royals exchanging puzzled looks.

At last, the final note faded.

Only then did your mother allow the carriage doors to be opened.

The two of you stepped onto the grounds together.

Judging by the surprised expressions surrounding you, it seemed your enrollment had not been widely announced.

How... wonderful.

Your mother moved a step ahead before casting a warning over her shoulder.

"Do not ruin this for me."

You silently clasped your hands before you and followed after her.

The welcoming party, however, was not who you had expected.

According to your acceptance letter, King Ben and Queen Mal were meant to preside over the convocation.

Instead, standing before the academy were Cinderella, King Charming, Fairy Godmother and...

...the Queen of Hearts...

...and their children.

Not quite the family reunion you were expecting so suddenly.

"And why," your mother asked without the slightest concern for those listening, "aren’t Auradon's real King and Queen present to receive us?"

The gathering stiffened.

Only Bridget, the Queen of Hearts, remained unfazed. She stepped forward with a warm smile.

"Sister. It is wonderful to see you again."

She spread her hands politely.

"King Ben and Queen Mal were unexpectedly called away on royal business. We have the honor of hosting today's convocation in their stead."

"I suppose we shall discover," your mother replied, snapping open her fan with practiced elegance, "whether the heart is capable of standing in for the crown."

Her smile remained hidden behind the fan.

Bridget's eyebrow twitched almost imperceptibly.

Sensing the growing tension, Cinderella gracefully stepped between them.

"And this," she said warmly, turning her attention toward you, "must be our newest student."

You stepped forward as your mother moved aside.

Offering a deep, perfectly rehearsed bow, you held the pose just long enough before straightening once more.

Every movement had been practiced countless times, every gesture measured with each expression carefully restrained.

Your mother seemed pleased.

"A pleasure to meet you," Cinderella said, returning your bow with one of her own.

"I hope you'll enjoy your time here at Auradon Prep."

You inclined your head politely.

"Thank you, Your Majesty."

She gestured toward two waiting guards.

"If you'll accompany them, they'll show you to your private accommodations."

Your brows drew together ever so slightly.

Private?

You glanced toward your mother.

She answered before you could ask.

"No child of mine," the White Queen declared, carefully surveying the assembled royals before choosing her words, "shall be expected to share quarters with... less distinguished company."

You lowered your gaze.

There was little point in protesting — not when it was already done.

Instead, you quietly followed the guards as instructed.

Behind you, your mother remained with the royal delegation to discuss matters concerning Wonderland's affairs.

As you departed, one of your Wonderland cousins, Red, throws a farewell your way.

"See you later, cousin," She called with a lazy wave, Pink more enthusiastic in her manners.

You acknowledged them with the smallest nod before continuing toward your new room, the sounds of the welcoming ceremony fading behind you.

-

The guards unlocked your door before placing the key carefully into your hand.

With a courteous bow, they wished you a pleasant afternoon before disappearing down the corridor.

Only once their footsteps had faded did you finally step inside.

The room was...

Exactly like home.

In the worst way imaginable.

The walls, furniture, drapery — every inch of the room had been fashioned in immaculate white. Not a single trace remained of the vibrant colors you had admired outside. A courtesy arranged by your mother.

Grand.

A quiet sigh escaped you as you wandered farther into the room.

Your luggage had already arrived, every belonging carefully unpacked and arranged with meticulous precision.

It was almost as though you had never left the palace at all.

Only one thing was different.

The window.

It stood open.

You wandered toward it almost absentmindedly, resting your hands against the sill.

From here you could see the academy grounds stretching below.

Students laughed together. Some hurried between buildings. Others simply sat beneath the trees, talking as though they had known each other forever.

You watched them in silence.

Like some forgotten painting locked away in a gallery...

...you couldn't have imagined your first day would feel quite so lonely.

The world seemed so close.

Yet impossibly distant.

A knock sounded at your door.

You exhaled slowly.

Wishful thinking would accomplish nothing. If anything were to change you would have to be the one to change it.

You crossed the room and opened the door.

No one stood outside.

Your gaze drifted down both ends of the hallway.

Empty.

Well — almost empty…

Resting neatly against the threshold sat a familiar porcelain teacup.

The corners of your mouth lifted ever so slightly.

You bent to retrieve it.

It was no longer the pristine white cup you remembered. Tiny sketches now covered its surface. Miniature mushrooms, playing cards, a pocket watch and Wonderland's winding paths.

Even a terribly drawn hedgehog wearing what appeared to be a crown.

You found yourself tracing one of the doodles with your thumb.

Curious.

This...

This was the first splash of color your room had seen and strangely you didn't mind.

Closing the door behind you, you turned back toward your room.

Only to freeze.

Standing comfortably in the middle of it, completely uninvited, was Max Hatter.

He was so engrossed in the book resting between his hands that he hadn't even acknowledged your presence.

"Auradon's Ancient History," Max read aloud before snapping the book shut with an enthusiastic clap.

He looked at you with theatrical disbelief.

"Don't tell me this is the book you were reading when we first met."

Your surprise faded almost immediately into quiet amusement.

"Is it such a crime," you asked evenly, "to wish to understand the kingdom in which I am expected to reside?"

"No." Max wandered toward you without the slightest concern for personal space.

"I just think that's the boring way to do it."

"What?" you replied. "Reading? I wasn't exactly doing it for your entertainment."

You reached for the book with your free hand. Max casually lifted it out of reach.

"No." He grinned. "I'm talking about learning."

You looked at him, expectantly.

"Why settle for someone else's stories..."

He says, tucking the book beneath his coat.

"...when you could go make your own?"

You frowned slightly.

There were no pockets inside that coat. Let alone space for something so large but…

The book had simply vanished.

"What exactly do you want, Hatter?"

Max placed a hand dramatically over his heart.

"Your Highness, you wound me. Must I want something simply to enjoy your company?" His faux innocence is amusing to behold.

Your move past him, discarding the tea cup on your desk top.

"Hatters are traders."

A pause.

"Nothing comes without an exchange."

"You don't even know me." Max offers you a raised brow.

"Perhaps not." You inclined your head. "But when I saved your life..."

Your eyes drifted meaningfully toward the teacup.

"...you thanked me by stealing my porcelain."

Max followed your gaze.

"I brought it back."

"You returned it after trespassing into my room," you stepped closer. "And now you've stolen one of my books."

One elegant finger pressed lightly against the center of his chest.

"I should say you're making a rather poor impression, Hatter."

Max laughed.

A genuine laugh.

"Fair enough."

He had clearly cornered himself — not that Hatters ever remained cornered for long.

Instead of arguing, he gently reached for your hand.

Slowly.

Giving you every opportunity to pull away.

You didn't.

His brown eyes met yours, heavily.

He bowed once more before placing another feather-light kiss upon your gloved knuckles.

"Then allow me to begin again." He smiled.

"Properly."

Releasing your hand, he backed toward the open window.

"May I have the honor of showing Your Highness the real magic of Auradon?"

Your answer caught somewhere in your throat.

Truthfully...

You wanted to go.

To see more than carefully polished hallways.

More than palace walls.

More than another perfectly arranged white room.

But—

"My mother would see us." You warned.

"Then," Max said with a mischievous grin, "I suppose we'll simply have to go somewhere she can't."

Before you could object...

He climbed onto the windowsill.

Your heart lurched.

"Max."

Your room sat at the very top of the dormitory tower.

One misstep and —

He leaned backward.

"...Max."

And fell.

You rushed toward the window, panic overtaking every ounce of royal composure.

Only to stop short.

Max wasn't falling.

He was standing sideways against the castle wall as though gravity had politely agreed to take the afternoon off.

He looked entirely pleased with himself.

"How..."

You barely managed the word.

Max answered by producing a small glass vial from his pocket.

Inside shimmered golden pixie dust.

"Borrowed a little pixie dust from Tinker Bell. Don’t worry – I promise to give… most of it back."

He scattered a pinch into the air.

Golden sparkles drifted around him.

Moments later, he floated effortlessly upward until he hovered just beyond your window.

He extended a hand toward you.

"So..."

His smile softened.

"What do you say? Will you let me show you Auradon?"

The proposal was completely irrational.

Utterly irresponsible.

Almost certainly forbidden.

Then again...

You were a daughter to happily married parents.

Your childhood had been a kaleidoscope of candy-coated memories, each one shimmering like gold whenever you thought of them, forever encapsulated in the delicate snowglobe of your mind.

Birthdays smelled of warm cake and sweet frosting; Mother’s Days were spent with your father and you in the kitchen, flipping pancakes and carefully crafting bouquets out of crepe paper, rolling each strip into a rose before presenting them with proud, beaming smiles.

Summers were a blur of sun and sand, of you holding tightly to your mother’s hand as the waves pulled you deeper and deeper, her laughter mingling with yours.

Christmases were a sacred ritual: stringing lights together, hanging ornaments, and finally, the pièce de résistance—placing the star on the tree. Your father would lift you up, both of you giggling as you struggled to steady it, the soft glow of the lights reflecting in all your eyes.

You were a daughter to happily married parents.

And then, everything changed.

It was during the summer break after your third year at Hogwarts that your world fractured. Returning home, you immediately sensed the shift in the air. Your once welcoming house now felt hollow, as if someone had pulled the warmth right out of it. Your father—who had always been there to greet you at the platform—was nowhere to be found. Your mother’s response to your frantic questions was clipped, distant.

“He’s… not here.” She said, avoiding your gaze.

The house looked as if a storm had passed through—boxes scattered across the floor, furniture moved, the faint scent of dust and stale air clinging to everything. Confused and anxious, you asked if you were moving, if the life you’d known was ending. Your mother’s reply was bitter, strange, and chilling: “We’re not going anywhere.”

Later that evening, at your favorite restaurant, the truth finally landed like a punch to the gut. Between bites of food you no longer had the appetite for, they spoke of divorce. Of separation. Of things you weren’t supposed to understand, yet had to, whether you liked it or not. Words blurred as your mind raced—custody agreements, legal proceedings, the stark reality that the perfect family you had always believed in was nothing more than a fragile illusion.

You remember the look on their faces—the disgust in their eyes when they looked at each other, the sharpness in their voices that had never been there before. You remember the suffocating swirl of confusion, anger, and grief as you demanded to know why, how, what had gone wrong.

You were never able to return to that restaurant again.

The summer that followed was relentless. You were dragged through endless legal meetings, forced to witness your parents change before your eyes—their smiles gone, replaced by cold calculation and quiet resentment. Even the smallest interactions, once warm and ordinary, now carried tension and unspoken accusations. You had to navigate the shifting landscape of their lives while still clinging desperately to the remnants of your childhood—a child trying to hold together a world that no longer made sense.

They yelled so much their voices carried through the heavy wooden doors of the lawyer’s office.

Your father wanted shared custody; your mother refused to grant it. She didn’t want you staying at his place at all—just occasional visitation. He was indignant. “She’s away at boarding school for most of the year. I want to see my daughter!” “Are you crazy? If you force her to leave, she’ll hate you forever.” “Oh, and that’s what you want, isn’t it? For her to hate me?” “I’m only trying to do what’s best for her!” “And I’m not?!” “If you cared an ounce about her, you wouldn’t have put her in this position at all!”

You remember being comforted by the divorce lawyer’s receptionist as you cried outside the door, your sobs echoing in the sterile hallway.

And then, one afternoon, you stumbled upon the reason for it all. You weren’t supposed to hear it, weren’t supposed to know—but your father had been sloppy.

It was the first time all summer you were allowed to spend an afternoon with him, outside the chaos. You sat in the car, nervous but excited, grateful for a glimpse of normalcy—until you reached into the glove compartment for tissues and froze.

Makeup wipes. A small container of hair ties. A nail kit. The car smelled faintly of perfume. Had someone else been inside before you?

You turned to your father. There was a red blotch on his cheek—something that might’ve looked like sunburn on any other day, except it was smudged, as though it had been hastily wiped away. A tissue stained with faint red sat in the holder on his door.

You felt your stomach drop.

You went quiet for the rest of the day, detached, pretending to be fine. Later, you faked a stomach ache—one that neither of you believed—and asked him to take you home.

That night, you asked your mother if it was true. If he had been with another woman.

Her face thundered. “He told you?!” She spat.

It felt like the floor had fallen out from under you, like someone had hollowed your chest and left a gaping void. All those golden memories—pancake mornings, seaside summers, Christmas laughter—twisted into shards of betrayal. Every photograph became a reminder that the love you thought was untouchable had been broken from the inside.

You felt hollow. You felt angry. You felt abandoned. And most of all, you felt a seed of doubt take root in your heart—a doubt that perhaps love wasn’t forever, perhaps people changed, and perhaps you could never trust anyone the way you had once trusted your parents.

You thought they loved each other.

How could your father have done this?

Even if he didn’t love your mother anymore, how could he betray her like that—as if fifteen years of marriage meant nothing? As if he hadn’t torn the ground from beneath both your feet? How could he do this?

You couldn't believe that you'd never have another summer with your parents again.

When Harry had asked you to the Yule Ball, you had been ecstatic. You’d been asked by the Chosen One—Hogwarts’ very own champion—to be his date, and you’d happily accepted. The night had been a blur of laughter and music, the two of you spinning across the dance floor under glittering chandeliers, your cheeks sore from smiling. And when, later that night, he’d asked if it was alright to consider this a first date, you had said yes without hesitation.

From that moment on, it was official. Harry Potter was your boyfriend.

That was, until Rita Skeeter—that nosy, vile cow—decided to publish a photo of Harry and Hermione hugging on the front page of The Daily Prophet, in a column boldly titled The Daily Gossip. The image was harmless enough: Hermione’s arms thrown around him, Harry smiling, relief written all over his face. But to you, it felt like a knife twisting in your stomach.

You tried to be rational, to tell yourself they were just friends. Harry had known Hermione for years—it was only natural for her to be worried when he was about to face a dragon. If he’d liked her, surely he would’ve asked her to the ball. But he hadn’t. He’d asked you. That had to mean something… right?

Still, the thought festered. Because you’d seen this story before—different names, same heartbreak. Your father had loved your mother once, too. He’d married her. Built a life with her. And still, he’d chosen someone else.

You ended your two-month-long relationship with Harry, that very night.

After that, there was a brief but scandalous stint with Blaise Zabini. He’d casually asked if you wanted to join him on a Hogsmeade trip, and you’d agreed—because why not? He was charming, clever, and made you feel wanted again. It lasted all of three weeks before you ended it the moment you noticed how often his eyes flickered toward Pansy Parkinson. He insisted they were just friends, but you’d heard that one before.

Then came Justin Finch-Fletchley. That one barely lasted two dates. You’d realized by the end of the second that he had an uncanny habit of calling every girl love. It didn’t make you feel special—it made you feel replaceable.

After Justin came Parvati Patil, and that had been different. Softer. She was kind, patient, the kind of person who held your hand just to make sure you knew she was there. It lasted longer than any of the others—by your standards, at least. But even that fell apart once she called you out on your jealous tendencies, gently but firmly telling you that you couldn’t keep punishing people for things they hadn’t done.

You’d broken it off that same evening.

Just like that, you continued to cycle through relationships—brief, intense, and destined to burn out. Before long, you’d earned yourself a reputation as Hogwarts’ resident heartbreaker. You worried it might make people think you were easy, but considering you’d never actually slept with any of them, the whispers were only about your tendency to be a cold-hearted bitch when it came to breakups. You’d perfected the art of ending things without so much as blinking, your expression unreadable as you walked away. That, of course, earned you another title—the Ice Queen.

You kept telling yourself it wasn’t your fault. You were just trying to find love. A love so strong and so pure it would leave no room for doubt. You told yourself you deserved that—that you deserved someone who would never betray you, never make you question their feelings, someone who would understand the chaos in your head and stay anyway. Someone who would reassure every single paranoia until they vanished into nothing. Someone who would never even dream of looking at anyone else.

You kept telling yourself that.

But somewhere along the way—after enough endings, enough half-hearted apologies, enough people you never really let in—you stopped looking for love at all. Or at least, for anything that lasted. You convinced yourself that real love didn’t exist. It was just a fleeting rush, a temporary high meant to make you feel alive for a little while before it left you empty again.

So you started keeping your relationships short. The longest one barely stretched past three months. You’d take every sweet word, every fleeting spark of affection, every rush of endorphins and bottle them up like a potion—just enough to keep you satisfied until the glass cracked and the illusion shattered.

Neville had once been told by his grandmother that he wasn’t a very good liar.

He’d taken her words to heart at the time — after all, he’d known it himself. His heart always beat too fast, his palms got clammy, his cheeks burned, and his voice cracked at the worst possible moments. Eye contact became impossible. His brain turned to mush.

So Neville had made a quiet promise to himself: never lie to anyone. He wasn’t built for it.

What he didn’t realize was that he was just as bad at hiding things.

“Oh, come on, Longbottom,” Seamus’s teasing voice rang out across the Gryffindor table, far louder than necessary, “You’ve been mooning over her for weeks. Just ask her out already!”

Neville froze. His spoon slipped from his hand, clattering against his bowl. Heat rushed to his face in an instant, crawling up his neck and setting his ears aflame. He hadn’t even realized he’d been looking at you that long — maybe just a second too long every morning, maybe smiling a little wider when you laughed across the table. But apparently, Seamus had noticed.

Without meaning to, his eyes darted toward you.

And, to his horror, you were already looking back — eyes wide, frozen mid-bite, clearly having heard every word.

Neville’s breath hitched. His mouth opened and closed uselessly, “I—I haven’t— I mean, that’s not—”

Dean grinned, elbowing Seamus, “Go on then, mate. What’ve you got to lose?”

Neville wanted to sink straight through the floor. Every instinct screamed at him to deny it, to laugh it off, to say it was just Seamus being Seamus. He wanted to get up and leave, pretend this never happened—but if he did, everyone would talk. They’d tease him, sure, but they might tease you too. And he didn’t want that.

Then he saw you—the way you blinked, caught somewhere between curiosity and discomfort, like you didn’t quite know what to do either. And before he could think twice, before he could chicken out—

“Would you—uh—would you go to Hogsmeade with me?”

The table went silent. The students between you turned their heads, watching like it was the most riveting Quidditch match they’d ever seen. Neville’s heart stuttered. The silence pressed in tight around him, broken only by the heavy thud of his pulse in his ears. His face was burning.

You looked at him for a long moment, sympathy settling low in your chest. You’d never really seen Neville like this before—in fact, it ashamed you to admit you hadn’t noticed him much at all. He was the kind of person who blended quietly into the background, steady and unassuming. But he’d always been there, hadn’t he? The boy who had won Gryffindor the House Cup in your first year because of his bravery. The one who’d gotten Harry the gillyweed two years ago for the Triwizard Tournament.

He really was sweet. Honest. The kind of boy who wore his heart on his sleeve for everyone to see. And you could tell, just by looking at him, that he liked you far more than you liked him.

If you said no, you’d break his heart. Embarrass him in front of everyone. Maybe even chip away at that small, fragile confidence he’d spent years building. He didn’t deserve that. He was too kind. Too good.

You took a slow breath, feeling that familiar twist of guilt tighten in your stomach.

And then you smiled—small and hesitant.

“Sure, Neville.”

For a second, Neville didn’t move. His expression froze, disbelieving, like he hadn’t heard you right. Then the realization hit, lighting up his entire face. A grin broke through, bright and boyish, and his friends immediately erupted into cheers.

The laughter and chatter of the Great Hall still echoed behind you as Neville practically stumbled out the doors, face red to the roots of his hair. You hesitated only a second before getting up, muttering a quick excuse to your friends, and jogging after him.

“Neville—hold on!”

He stopped mid-stride in the corridor, shoulders jerking like he’d been caught doing something wrong. When he turned around, his expression already looked apologetic.

“You—you changed your mind, right?” He said quickly, words tumbling out in a rush, “It’s alright, really. No hard feelings, I promise.”

You blinked, thrown off by how fast he’d jumped to that conclusion. His eyes darted to the floor, his hands wringing together nervously. There was something so painfully earnest about it—he was already letting you off the hook before you’d even said anything.

For a second, you just stared at him.

And this—this was the moment you should stop. The moment to spare him before things went too far. Before you led him on. Before you broke another heart.

But then you really looked at him. The awkward shuffle of his feet, the faint pink still dusting his cheeks, the way he couldn’t quite meet your eyes because he was so sure you were about to reject him. He looked like he was bracing for impact—and you suddenly hated the idea of being the one to make him flinch again.

Maybe… maybe you didn’t want to.

So instead of saying what you were supposed to, you took a small step forward, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear.

“Actually,” You said, keeping your tone light, almost teasing, “I just wanted to ask when we were having our date. We never agreed on a time.”

Neville’s head snapped up so fast you almost laughed. His mouth opened, closed, then opened again, completely flustered.

“Oh—oh! Right! I—well, um—how about next weekend? If that’s okay? We could go to Honeydukes or—or wherever you want, really—”

His voice cracked on the last word, and you couldn’t help smiling for real this time. It felt strange on your face, unpracticed but warm.

“Next weekend sounds perfect.”

And just like that, Neville Longbottom smiled again—this time wider than before, the kind of grin that could light up an entire common room.

As he walked off, practically floating, you stood there for a moment in the quiet corridor, your heart oddly light and heavy at once.

You told yourself it was just a date. Nothing more. Nothing less.

You’d been on enough of them to know how this went — polite smiles, surface-level chatter, a bit of handholding if things went well, a polite goodbye if they didn’t. Neville Longbottom wasn’t supposed to be any different.

So when he met you outside the Great Hall, fidgeting with his sleeves and mumbling a nervous greeting, you kept your smile light, detached. The kind of smile that said don’t get your hopes up.

He didn’t seem to notice. Or maybe he did, and was too kind to let it show.

“I, um… I thought maybe we could stay on the grounds,” He said, holding up a picnic basket like it was something fragile, “I figured it might be quieter than Hogsmeade.”

You almost told him you didn’t mind Hogsmeade — that you actually preferred the noise, if only to prove the two of you didn’t have much in common — but there was something so earnest in his expression that you stopped.

“Alright,” You said instead, voice even, “The Black Lake?”

He nodded quickly, relief flooding his face, “Yeah. I thought that’d be nice.”

So you went.

The walk down was quiet. He tried to start small conversations — about Herbology, about the weather, even about some magical plant he was growing for extra credit — and you answered politely, without offering much in return. You didn’t mean to be cold; you just didn’t want him to think this was something it wasn’t.

When you reached the lake, he spread a blanket beneath one of the old willow trees. The water shimmered, reflecting sunlight like scattered glass. Neville unpacked the basket carefully, lining everything up with a kind of quiet precision — sandwiches, pumpkin pasties, two flasks of tea.

“I, uh, didn’t know what kind you liked,” He admitted, rubbing the back of his neck, “So I brought both.”

You blinked, feeling an unfamiliar flutter in your chest. He was so… thoughtful.

“Thanks.” You said, a little softer than you meant to.

You ate, talked a bit. He told you about his favourite plants, about how the Mandrakes were growing slower this year, about how Professor Sprout was letting him help breed some rare hybrids. He rambled, words tumbling over each other — but there was something genuine in the way his eyes lit up when he spoke.

It wasn’t exciting. It wasn’t flirtatious. It wasn’t a whirlwind of endorphins and magic and dizziness.

But it was peaceful.

You could almost feel your defenses lowering, just a little, with every quiet laugh.

Then, about halfway through the picnic, Neville reached into the basket again and pulled something out — a small, worn box. He hesitated, glancing at you like he was second-guessing himself.

“Um,” he began, rubbing the back of his neck, “So, I—I brought this, but it’s probably stupid, so we don’t have to—”

He opened the box to reveal a puzzle box— a picture of a meadow full of wildflowers.

“My gran gifted it to me,” He said quickly, “I just thought… maybe we could work on it together? Only if you want to, though.”

You stared at it for a moment, caught completely off guard. You’d been on plenty of dates — too many — and not one person had ever brought a puzzle.

Oh, he was just so—

“A puzzle.” You murmured, and he instantly started to backpedal.

“I know, I know, it’s ridiculous. I just thought—never mind, it was daft—”

“No,” You interrupted quickly, reaching out before he could put it away, “I like it.”

He froze, “You… do?”

You nodded, a real smile tugging at your lips for the first time that day, “Yeah. It looks like fun.”

Neville blinked, clearly taken aback, then relaxed as a shy grin spread across his face.

The two of you sat side by side, the sounds of the lake lapping gently against the shore as you pieced the puzzle together. It shouldn’t have been fun — but it was. You found yourself laughing quietly whenever he misplaced a piece, teasing him, brushing his hand accidentally (and sometimes not so accidentally).

And you realized, to your quiet horror, that you didn’t want it to end.

By the time the sun began to dip behind the castle, the puzzle was finished — a small meadow of wildflowers blooming between you on the blanket. You sat there in a comfortable silence for a while, the soft rustle of leaves and distant laughter from the castle carrying through the air.

Eventually, Neville packed everything back into the basket, careful as always, and the two of you walked back toward the castle.

It was quiet again, and while earlier the bad thoughts of worry and paranoia had sprouted in your mind despite your efforts to push them away, now you found yourself forcibly bringing them to the forefront. You were not supposed to lead Neville on. The others knew it wasn’t anything serious, but Neville seemed to have hoped something would come out of this.

When you reached the entrance to the common room, you turned to him with a small smile, “Thanks, Neville. For today. It was… nice.”

He looked at you for a moment — eyes wide, hopeful, like he couldn’t quite believe you meant it. Then, before you could say another word, he leaned forward and kissed you.

It wasn’t bad, exactly — at least you hadn’t been assaulted with tongue — but his lips were chapped, pursed awkwardly, like he had only learned kissing from cartoons. It was stagnant and uncertain. His lips brushed yours and then froze there, as if he weren’t sure what came next. You were too surprised to react, caught completely off guard by the suddenness of it all.

When he pulled back, his cheeks were bright red. “S-sorry,” He stammered, “I—I shouldn’t have—”

You blinked, still processing, and forced a smile, “Goodnight, Neville.”

Then you slipped inside before he could say anything else.

You didn’t make it three steps into the common room before the guilt hit you like a bludger.

Oh, god.

He’d probably spend the whole night replaying it in his head, kicking himself, wondering why he ever thought you’d want him to kiss you. You could already imagine it — Neville sitting on his bed, face buried in his hands, convincing himself he’d ruined everything.

And for some reason, that thought made your chest ache.

You stood frozen for a few seconds, then groaned under your breath, “Oh, for Merlin’s sake.”

Before you could talk yourself out of it, you turned on your heel and bolted out of the common room. The corridors were dim, nearly empty, and your shoes echoed against the stone as you ran.

You found him halfway down the hall, still walking slowly toward the staircase, his shoulders slumped, staring at his feet. The happiness he had carried after the date had all fizzled out as he trudged forward. Perhaps on another day, when your head hadn’t been reeling, when you hadn’t been whiplashed with so many emotions, your eyes wouldn’t have pricked painfully at the sight of him like this.

“Neville!”

He turned, startled, “Y-you forgot something?”

You didn’t answer. You just ran the last few steps and grabbed his sleeve, tugging him toward you — and before he could say a word, you kissed him.

Properly, this time.

You placed your hand on the nape of his neck, angling him toward you, slotting your lips together, swallowing the gasp of surprise. Your other hand guided his to your waist, pulling him closer as you stood on your toes, deepening the kiss and tilting your head the other way. Neville, to his credit, was good at learning on the job, arms curling around your waist and stepping forward, following your lead to a T. There was no hesitation, no uncertainty. Just soft, sure pressure, the faint taste of tea and pumpkin pasties still lingering between you.

When you pulled back, his eyes were wide again, but for a very different reason.

You both were short of breath.

You felt your heart beating a little too fast, your voice quieter than you intended. “You didn’t do anything wrong,” You said softly, “It was just… bad timing.”

Neville blinked, still dazed, a slow, incredulous smile tugging at his lips, “Oh.”

“Goodnight, Neville.” You murmured again — but this time, it sounded a lot less final.

And as you turned away, you caught yourself smiling too.

The second date started differently from the first.

This time, it was a proper Hogsmeade outing. Snow dusted the cobblestones, and the streets smelled faintly of roasted chestnuts and peppermint from the sweet shops. You walked side by side with Neville, your scarf brushing against his, sharing quiet conversation about schoolwork and the upcoming exams. He was, as always, earnest, slightly awkward, and impossibly sweet — listening to you complain about how stressed you were and even offering to lend you his Herbology notes. The darling.

Eventually, after enough roaming to numb your toes, you decided to stop for something warm. The Three Broomsticks glowed golden in the afternoon light, laughter spilling through its frosted windows. Neville opened the door for you with a bashful little smile, and you couldn’t help but smile back as you stepped inside.

You found a booth near the corner, the table still a little sticky from the last patrons. Neville slid into the seat across from you instead of beside you, and you chuckled softly into your scarf. Of course he did.

He got your drinks, returning with two steaming mugs of butterbeer. You sighed in contentment at the first sip — the warmth slipping down your throat, the sweetness coating your tongue, your frozen fingertips thawing against the glass. When you looked up over the rim of your mug, though, Neville wasn’t looking back at you.

Your smile faltered.

His gaze was fixed somewhere past you — toward the bar, where the cute bartender stood laughing with another customer. She was all glossy hair and easy charm, and the sight of Neville’s focused eyes made your stomach twist.

Of course. There it is. The moment it starts to fall apart.

Did he think she was pretty? Did he think she was prettier than you? Did she introduce herself when she handed him your drinks? Had he smiled at her the way he smiled at you — that soft, genuine way that made your chest ache? Your heart began to pound, the familiar flood of questions and doubts screaming through your head.

You could already hear yourself later that night — lying in bed, telling yourself that it was fine, that you’d end things before he could hurt you. It was always easier to leave first.

He still wasn’t looking at you.

“Ehem.” You cleared your throat pointedly, “Something wrong?”

Neville blinked, startled, finally turning back to you. “What? Oh… sorry.” He hesitated, then gestured vaguely toward the bar, “It’s just that flutterby bush over there — it looks a tad overwatered. The leaves aren’t even fluttering anymore.”

You blinked, thrown entirely off your mental script, “The… plant?”

Confused, you slowly followed his gaze to the admittedly miserable-looking potted plant next to the bartender. Relief washed over you, making your chest feel like it could finally breathe again.

He nodded earnestly, eyes soft with concern, “Do you think I should say something? I’d feel bad if it died and I didn’t do anything to help.”

There was a pause — and then, helplessly, you laughed. A short, breathy sound that came out half disbelieving, half relieved.

Of course. Of course Neville Longbottom wasn’t staring at a pretty girl. He was worried about a bloody plant.

“You were worried… about the plant?” You repeated, just to be sure.

Neville shrugged, his expression so guileless it almost hurt to look at, “I mean… yeah. It’s alive. Shouldn’t I care?”

“Would you like me to tell her?” You asked carefully, lifting your brows slightly. You weren’t smiling this time. Your tone was measured, almost probing, testing him. Would he be okay with me talking to her? Would he want to say something himself? Make a move? Charm her in that clumsy, sweet way he did? Or would he brush it off, like it didn’t matter at all?

Neville blinked at you for a moment, then smiled, shy and pleased, like you’d just handed him a medal, “Could you? I… I wouldn’t really know how to bring it up. I’m not very good with people, you know.”

You bit back a grin. “You’re wonderful with me.” You said softly, surprising even yourself with the sincerity of it.

Before he could answer, you stood and made your way to the bar. One short conversation later and you were making your way back to the booth, sliding into the seat beside him this time. You ignored the wide-eyed look he gave you, pressing the side of your thigh to his and resting your head lightly on his tense shoulder, feeling a rare moment of peace wash over you.

Perhaps a third date might not be a bad idea.

Today’s Herbology class had gone longer than usual, and Professor Sprout had asked a handful of students to stay back and water the seedlings in Greenhouse Three. Neville, of course, had volunteered. You’d stayed behind too, waiting just outside the glass doors.

You could see him inside through the streaky glass — sleeves rolled up, soil on his forearms, humming softly to himself as he misted a row of asphodel bushes. It was honestly… unfair how attractive he looked.

Unfortunately, it seemed like you weren't the only one who noticed.

Clara Whitby. Ravenclaw. Pretty, clever, and stepping so close to Neville you felt heat burn down your neck. You watched as she leaned just a little too close to Neville, laughing at something he said (which, knowing Neville, was probably just “hello”).

You couldn’t hear what she said, but you saw her tilt her head, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear in that deliberate way girls do when they want to be noticed. Neville blinked, utterly oblivious, smiling kindly and offering her the watering can.

You felt it — that sharp, irrational sting low in your stomach. The kind that whispered mine before you could think.

When you pushed the greenhouse door open, the hinges creaked louder than usual. Both of them turned.

“Hey,” You said, tone calm but your smile a little too tight to be natural. The air smelled of damp soil and honeysuckle, but all you could focus on was Clara’s hand resting casually on Neville’s arm.

You crossed the space between them in a few brisk steps, brushing your fingers over the shoulder she’d just touched, flicking away imaginary dirt like it personally offended you, “Do you need any help?” You asked sweetly, your eyes locked on Neville.

“Oh, no need,” Clara interrupted, smiling with just the right amount of sugar to make your teeth ache, “It’s no trouble at all.”

You turned to her, returning the smile with one of your own — yours sharper, deliberate, “That’s kind of you. But I’d feel bad watching my boyfriend do all the work and not offering.”

The word landed with satisfying precision. You didn’t miss the way Clara’s expression faltered — the way her lashes fluttered once, twice, like she’d been caught off guard.

“Oh— I— I didn’t know—”

“Mm,” You hummed, tilting your head, “Well, since it’s no trouble at all, you wouldn’t mind finishing up here, right?”

You didn’t wait for her to answer. Your hand had already found Neville’s sleeve, looping around his arm and tugging him gently but firmly toward the door. He stumbled after you, mouth opening in confused protest.

“Wait—what—?”

The second you stepped outside, you released him, crossing your arms and fixing him with a glare that could have scorched a mandrake back into its pot. The crisp air outside felt cooler than it should’ve; maybe because your pulse was running a little too hot.

Neville blinked at you, brow furrowed, “Did I… do something wrong?”

You exhaled, trying to sound casual, but your voice came out tighter than you wanted, “No. You just— Merlin, Neville, she was flirting with you.”

He blinked again, looking genuinely baffled, “She was? No, she was just asking if I needed help repotting—”

You shot him a look, the kind that said don’t test me right now.

He stopped mid-sentence. His mouth opened, then shut, “Oh.”

“Yeah,” You said dryly, rubbing your temples, “Oh.”

Neville’s ears turned pink, his voice small, “I didn’t even notice.”

You groaned, “Obviously. You never do.”

He hesitated, “You… were jealous?”

The question caught you off guard. You froze, heat crawling up your neck, “No— I wasn’t— you just can’t flirt with girls when you have a girlfriend. It’s the principle.”

Neville’s lips twitched, and you could see the bashful smile he was trying very hard to suppress, “I didn’t know you were my girlfriend.”

Your mouth dropped open, affronted, “We’ve been dating for a month!”

“Well,” He said, rubbing the back of his neck, “last time I kissed you, you told me I had poor timing. I didn’t want to push and make you uncomfortable.”

You blinked, thrown off guard by how genuine he sounded. “I didn’t mean—” You huffed, folding your arms tighter, “You really have no sense when it comes to these things.”

Neville laughed quietly, that soft, shy little sound that always made it hard to stay annoyed with him, “Maybe not. But I’m learning.”

You rolled your eyes, though your voice softened despite yourself, “You’d better learn fast, Longbottom. Or next time I might actually hex someone.”

His smile widened, warm and utterly unbothered, “So… does that mean I can call you my girlfriend now?”

The word caught you off guard again — girlfriend — heavier than it had any right to be. It had been a long while since you had been anybody's girlfriend, choosing not to put labels on things, wanting to remain untied.

You opened your mouth, ready with some sarcastic deflection, but all that came out was a quiet, “Yeah.”

Neville’s grin turned brighter, boyish and disbelieving, “Yeah?”

“Don’t make me change my mind.” You warned, fighting the way your lips curved upward at his reaction. He really seemed to like you.

With an essay in Herbology due next week, you’d invited Neville over to help you outline your thoughts — and maybe, if you were lucky, to make sense of the incomprehensible notes you’d taken in class.

Luckily, you’d had the sense to cast a quick Scourgify over your dorm beforehand. The challenge, of course, was finding the right balance: clean enough not to look like you lived in chaos, but not too clean — you didn’t want him to think you’d scrubbed the place spotless just for him. The line was hard to walk on.

By the time you’d finished fluffing the pillows and straightening your desk, there was a knock at the door.

He was standing there with his bag slung over one shoulder, hair still damp from a shower, a stack of Herbology notes clutched in his hands like an offering. His eyes flicked past you into the room — once, twice — uncertain.

“Come in.” You said, stepping aside.

He hovered at the threshold like the doorway was protected by ancient wards.

“Are you sure you don’t want to study in the common room instead?” He asked, voice hesitant.

“It’s far too noisy there, don’t you think?”

“I suppose,” He mumbled, “But we could go to the library.”

You raised a brow, a teasing lilt creeping into your voice, “You’re acting like you’re about to walk into the Forbidden Forest, Neville.”

He flushed immediately, “I’ve just… never been in a girl’s bedroom before.”

That made you bite your lip to hide a grin, “Oh, Merlin. You make it sound scandalous.”

Neville’s blush deepened, “It is scandalous. If Gran ever found out—”

“She’d what?” You interrupted, fighting laughter.

“She’d have a cow.” He muttered, so sincerely that it nearly made you snort.

“Come on,” You said, taking pity on him and tugging him gently inside, “I promise not to tell your Gran.”

He stepped in cautiously, like the floor might give way beneath him, and stood awkwardly in the middle of the room, clutching his notes as though they might save him. His eyes darted toward the bed, then quickly away.

“You can sit, you know.” You said, nodding to it.

“The bed?” He looked genuinely horrified, “I can just take the chair—”

“The chair’s broken,” You lied easily, crossing your arms, “And if you keep hovering like that, I’m going to start thinking you’re scared of me.”

He blushed even harder at that, mumbling, “I’m not scared of you.”

“Then sit.” You patted the spot beside you, “Unless you want to study standing up?”

Reluctantly, Neville sat down at the very edge of the mattress, back straight, knees together, looking as stiff as if he were being interrogated by Snape. You sat beside him — comfortably close, but not too close — and opened your notebook, pretending not to notice how he froze.

“Relax, Neville,” You murmured, flipping to your essay draft, “I don’t bite.”

He smiled nervously, eyes fixed on his parchment, “You’re teasing me.”

“Only because you make it so easy.”

He laughed under his breath, and for a moment, the tension melted.

As the two of you leaned over your notes, heads nearly touching, your shoulder brushed his. You didn’t do more — didn’t hold his hand, didn’t rest your head on his shoulder, didn’t even dare to think about kissing him, because Merlin knew that either Neville or his grandmother, somewhere in England, would burst into flames.

So you stayed like that. Close, but not touching. Almost, but not quite.

You tried to focus on the essay — on sentence structure, on magical root systems, on the words in front of you — but your mind kept drifting. To how warm he felt beside you. To how gentle his breathing sounded in the quiet room. To how easy it was to just… be near him.

And as ridiculous as it was, sitting there with your quill poised over parchment and your heart thudding like you were thirteen again, you realized something that made your stomach flip.

For all your dates, for all the people you’d kissed, for all the walls you’d built — sitting beside Neville Longbottom on your bed somehow felt like the first time all over again.

You were halfway through dessert in the Great Hall, absently tracing patterns in your pudding with your spoon, when Hannah plopped down across from you with a grin that looked far too knowing.

“So,” She began, drawing out the word like she was about to deliver very important news, “How’s Neville?”

You blinked up at her, “He’s… good?”

Hannah’s grin widened. “Just good?” She tapped her spoon against the edge of her plate, “You’ve been seeing him for… three months now, hasn’t it?”

“Three months? That can’t be right.” You thought back to your first date, trying to count the weeks in your head. As you stood to be corrected, it became painfully clear—Hannah was right. Crazy how she was keeping more tabs on your relationship than you were.

“Three months and a bit, actually,” She said smugly, clearly enjoying herself, “Don’t give me that look. I remember because you said that thing after your second date about how nothing past three months ever works out for you.”

You squinted at her, “I said that about other people, not me.”

She raised a brow, unconvinced. “No, you said—and I quote—‘Three months is when the rot sets in.’” She grinned, tucking a lock of blonde hair behind her ear, “And yet… here we are. You’ve passed the expiration date.”

You frowned down at your pudding, suddenly unsure what to do with your spoon, “It doesn’t feel that long.”

“Well,” Hannah shrugged, “time flies when you actually like someone.”

You looked across the Hall then — instinctively, without meaning to — and found Neville at the Gryffindor table, laughing at something Seamus said. His head tilted back when he laughed, cheeks going pink, the corners of his eyes crinkling in that soft, familiar way. The sight of him — so happy, so relaxed, so himself — made your stomach twist in a combination of relief and panic.

A sudden flutter of pins and needles ran up your legs, tightening around your throat. The walls of the Hall felt like they were closing in. You pushed your plate away, stomach lurching, suddenly feeling sick. A bucket of cold water seemed to have been dumped over you when you realized, with a shockingly simple clarity that despite your trepidation, that all you wanted in that moment was a hug from Neville.

Hannah, apparently sensing your sudden silence, smirked knowingly, “Guess your little rule’s been broken.”

You forced a laugh, brittle and unconvincing, letting it tremble out into the air. “Yeah… miracles happen.” You murmured, your voice quieter than you intended, as your eyes lingered on Neville, feeling them begin to water.

The dorm room was quiet, the soft breathing of your friends usually enough to lull you to sleep, but tonight, sleep was impossible. You lay on your bed, staring at the ceiling, every muscle taut, your stomach knotted with a restless energy you couldn’t shake.

Scenes rushed through your mind, a relentless reel of memories from the very first awkward conversation with Neville to last week, when you had finally coaxed him into relaxing in your dorm long enough for a kiss—albeit a brief, breathless one. He had pulled back almost immediately, cheeks flushed, eyes wide, needing a moment to catch his breath. A small, tender smile tugged at your lips at the memory. Even after three months, he was still so shy, so wonderfully nervous.

You shook your head, trying to focus.

You cataloged everything meticulously—pros and cons, tiny details, moments you had laughed, moments you had panicked. Every glance, every word, every small, earnest gesture.

You thought back to the way he had fumbled over his words when he first asked you out. A con? You glanced at the memory critically, comparing him to all the social media horror stories of supermodel influencers whose boyfriends had cheated once they got “confident enough” to try someone else. Would Neville be like that? Would he, once he no longer shied away from kissing, find someone else to put those skills to use?

But then you remembered the things he had told you about intimacy—how it was sacred, how he only shared it with people he truly cared about. He hadn’t even been comfortable stepping into your dorm at first. He wasn’t the type to just move on. He was loyal.

You shook your head again, scolding yourself. The pros list wasn’t supposed to outweigh the cons.

But then… Clara. That day in the greenhouse when someone had been flirting with him, and he had remained blissfully oblivious. That was a definite con. If he couldn’t notice someone trying to make a move, how could he protect himself from them? Someone as innocent and naive as him was likely to be seduced.

You tried to make sense of it, but your thoughts always drifted back to him: that smile, the way he laughed, the subtle nervous tugs at his hair, the way he looked at you when he thought you weren’t paying attention.

Would he ever look at anyone else? In these three months, you had never seen him treat a female friend differently than a male one. He didn’t even have many female friends to begin with.

You remembered Hermione in Herbology, discussing plants with him, both of them so engaged in conversation that you had almost panicked. Perhaps they’d have a connection… But then you remembered the way he had held your hand under the table, thumb brushing over your knuckles.

Your chest tightened, heart thumping wildly as the memories surged. You bit your lip, telling yourself to calm down, to stop letting him occupy so much of your head. But the harder you tried to push him away, the more present he became in your mind.

Every “pro” you listed had him at its center; every “con” circled back to him. You could almost hear his gentle, hesitant voice asking questions, sharing stories, fumbling over words with that quiet, earnest charm.

You groaned, burying your face in your pillow. Why does he have to be so… him?

The ceiling blurred as tears threatened to spill. You felt ridiculous, terrified, yet completely powerless.

And through it all, the pull toward him was undeniable. The quiet, unignorable certainty that, no matter how much you cataloged, panicked, or overthought, part of you just wanted him there—wanted to lean into him, hear his voice, feel his warmth beside you.

But you couldn’t move. Not yet. Not until you figured it all out.

You were sitting in Charms, quietly taking notes as Professor Flitwick droned on about the subtleties of non-verbal wand movements and spell trajectories, but your attention kept drifting. Neville, sitting beside you, was scribbling something on a piece of parchment. At first, you didn’t think much of it—Neville was always diligent—but then curiosity got the better of you.

You leaned just enough to catch a glimpse. His hand jerked, and he quickly turned the parchment toward his chest, eyes wide and guilty.

Your heart immediately began hammering.

Is he cheating on me? He’s writing about someone else. He doesn’t want me to see it. Oh no, oh no, oh no.

Your mind spiraled. Maybe he was scribbling something sweet for someone else, doodling hearts or sketches, the kind of thing that would make your chest ache and stomach drop. He’s falling for someone else.

Or maybe—no, stop—maybe he’s jotting down all the ways you frustrate him, all the little flaws you work so hard to hide. Maybe he’s complaining to someone else about how disappointing you are. Telling her that you'd never hold a candle in comparison to her.

Your fingers drummed nervously against your desk as the lesson blurred past, the words floating over you like fog.

Finally, the bell rang. Neville began packing, oblivious to the storm raging in your head. The second his back was turned, you leaned over, snatched the piece of parchment tucked between his textbooks, and shoved it into your pocket.

You forced a polite smile when he asked if you were ready to leave and muttered something about needing the washroom, ducking into an empty stall the second you slipped away from him.

Hands shaking, you unfolded the crumpled sheet.

Your eyes widened.

“Longbottom + (Y/N)” “Neville + (Y/N)” “(Y/N) Longbottom” “Neville (L/N)”

Your stomach dropped, then flooded with warmth so intense it made your knees weak. Relief crashed over you, and you let out a shaky laugh, pressing your hand over your mouth as heat crept up your neck. You wiped away the beginnings of tears, not wanting to lose a single second staring at his neat, whimsical calligraphy.

He had taken your last name. How silly.

For a long moment, you just stood there, staring at the page. Little sketches and hearts decorated the names, surrounded by playful flourishes and swirls. Every shred of doubt, every paranoid thought, every fear of him leaving or being distracted by someone else melted away.

He was so perfect.

Neville’s dorm smelled faintly of cedarwood and parchment, the soft hum of rain against the window making everything feel too gentle, too intimate. You were sitting cross-legged on his bed, watching as he rifled through his desk for a quill.

It was a lazy afternoon — the kind that felt suspended in time — and you hadn’t planned on staying long. But then he’d offered to help you study, and then you’d started talking, and now here you were, wrapped in a blanket that smelled suspiciously like him, pretending your heart wasn’t hammering in your chest.

“Are you cold?” He asked, glancing up, concern flickering across his face.

You hesitated, “A little.”

He smiled — that soft, crooked smile that always made something flutter deep in your chest — and pointed to the trunk at the base of his bed with his chin, “You can borrow one of my cardigans, if you want.”

You opened your mouth to politely decline, but he was already holding it out to you — that heavy knit thing you’d seen him wear almost every day last week. So you took it, immediately feeling wrapped up in his warmth, so much so that you couldn’t help the soft sigh that escaped your lips.

“I’ll give it back to you.” You murmured automatically.

He chuckled, “It’s alright, love. You can have it.”

You froze.

Have it?

Have it?!

Your mind went white for a second — and then the panic set in.

If you kept his clothes, that meant you were entering the comfortably-in-a-relationship phase. The stage where your things blend with his, where people start saying “our stuff,” where you wake up one day and you’re wearing his jumper and suddenly you’re emotionally married. And when it ended — because it always ended — you’d have to dig through drawers and closets, separating his things from yours, each piece a reminder of something you’d lost.

You forced a smile that felt dangerously close to manic, “Oh, um, no— I’ll just borrow it, it’s fine, I’ll give it back later.”

Neville blinked, surprised by your sudden rush of words, “I didn’t mean— I mean, I’ve got others, you don’t have to—”

“No really,” You said quickly, tugging the cardigan tighter around yourself and sitting very straight, like posture alone could prove how casual you were being about this, “You look great in this cardigan. I couldn’t possibly be the reason you don’t get to wear it anymore.”

He chuckled softly, shaking his head as he sat back down beside you, “You’re very strange sometimes, you know that?”

“Mhmm.” You mumbled, burying your face in the collar. It smelled like him — like soap and something green and earthy — and you hated how much you loved it.

He looked at you for a long moment, eyes crinkling with quiet affection before turning back to his notes.

You hadn’t meant to join Neville and his friends that afternoon — you’d only stopped by the Gryffindor table to say hello before heading back to study — but somehow you’d been pulled into a conversation with Dean and Seamus that had spiraled far beyond your control.

“So,” Seamus said with a grin that was all teeth, “how long’s it been now? You two’ve been joined at the hip since Christmas, yeah?”

Neville blinked, mid-bite of shepherd’s pie, “Er—nine months?”

You froze.

Nine. Months.

That was almost a year. More than double your longest relationship.

Dean let out a low whistle, “Blimey, Longbottom, didn’t think you had it in you.”

Seamus snorted, “Yeah, we all had money on the third-date crash and burn. Guess I owe Weasley five Galleons.”

They laughed, and you forced a smile, even though your heart was racing. Nine months? That meant you’d been a we for nine months — people probably said “you and Neville” like it was one word now.

Neville just looked bashful, ducking his head, cheeks pink. “She’s easy to love.” He mumbled under his breath, and Seamus groaned dramatically while Dean nearly choked on his pumpkin juice.

Your brain short-circuited. Easy to love. Me? Since when?

And suddenly, everything around you — the laughter, the chatter, the clinking of cutlery — faded into a dull hum. All you could hear was your heartbeat, thudding too fast. All you could feel was that warm, terrifying weight in your chest.

Because he said it so simply. Like it wasn’t a risk. Like it was just true. He was okay with loving you.

You didn’t know how to respond to that. How were you supposed to respond to Neville’s quiet, unguarded affection when you were doubting it every single step of the way?

He was such a sweet soul. The more time you spent with him, the more you realized he might be the most selfless, considerate, good boy you’d ever met in your life. He was perfect. He truly was.

You swallowed the lump in your throat, forcing a crooked grin, “And in those nine months, a girl hasn’t so much as looked at you two blokes.”

You laughed — too high-pitched, too quick — but when you glanced at Neville, who met your gaze with that open, steady smile, your chest ached in that familiar, dizzying way.

Nine months. You hadn’t even noticed them pass.

And that scared you more than anything. Because for once, you weren’t counting the days until it ended.

Nine months. He’d said it so easily. Like time didn’t scare him the way it scared you.

You could still hear his voice, low and certain — she’s easy to love. The words kept looping in your head, echoing against every defense you’d ever built.

By the time you reached the stairs, you could feel your pulse in your throat. You stopped, pretending to adjust the strap of your bag just to buy yourself a second to breathe.

Neville turned, smiling softly, “You okay, love?”

You nodded too fast, “Yeah. Just—heavy bag.”

He didn’t question it, didn’t push. He just reached out, took the strap from your shoulder, and slung it over his own, “There. Easier now.”

And that—god, that was the thing about him. He never made a big deal of it. Never demanded gratitude. He just noticed.

As you walked beside him, shoulder brushing shoulder, something in your chest began to loosen — like a knot slowly, reluctantly coming undone.

Neville never made you feel like loving you was work. He just did it — quietly, like breathing.

You glanced at him, at the way his fringe fell into his eyes, the little crease between his brows when he concentrated on balancing your books in one arm.

Something warm and painful bloomed in your chest.

You realized, with a sudden and terrifying clarity, that you couldn’t remember what life had felt like before him. And worse — you didn’t want to.

The thought made your stomach twist. Love had always been a thing you tiptoed around, a house made of glass you refused to step inside. But now you were standing in the doorway, hand on the knob, realizing you’d already been living here without noticing.

He looked at you again, smiling that same gentle smile that never failed to undo you, “You sure you’re alright?”

You hesitated. Then nodded. “Yeah,” You said quietly, “Just thinking.”

“About what?”

You almost told him. You almost said about you.

But instead, you just smiled faintly and said, “About how time goes faster when I’m with you.”

He chuckled, his fingers brushing yours as you walked, “Guess that’s a good thing, yeah?”

You looked down at your intertwined shadows on the stone floor, your throat tightening.

“Yeah,” You whispered, “It is.”

But inside, your heart was trembling — because for the first time, the thought of falling didn’t feel like a warning. It felt like safety.

Rain tapped softly against the window by your bed, the room washed in the pale blue light of the moon.

You couldn’t sleep.

Your mind kept circling the same set of thoughts it had been for months now. Neville Longbottom. The source of your peace — and the source of the greatest anxiety you’d ever known.

His sweet disposition. His kind eyes. His smile — soft, genuine, a little crooked. His full cheeks that hadn’t lost all their boyish roundness. The way he always put you first.

You sat up slowly, pulling your knees to your chest.

Your father had seemed perfect at first, too. Hadn’t he? After all, your mother wouldn’t have married him, wouldn’t have had you, if he hadn’t put up the perfect front.

But would Neville ever commit the same atrocities? You couldn’t bring yourself to believe it. Or had he just tricked you that well? Would you look back ten years from now — when you had children of your own — and realize you’d made the same mistake your mother had?

Maybe it had been her fault, you reasoned. Maybe she hadn’t screened your father well enough. But you had been careful. You had been auditing Neville with the critical eye of someone who refused to be fooled again.

And still — he’d passed every test.

Neville hadn’t so much as looked at another girl since the day you’d started dating. Whenever doubt or paranoia clawed up your throat, he’d been there to soothe it — patient, steady, real. He remembered every date, every preference, every offhand comment you made in passing. He brought you flowers just because. He’d buy you little trinkets in Hogsmeade because he thought you might like them.

He gave you his last sip of tea, his last piece of chocolate, without complaint.

Even though he was shy, he stood up for you in front of his friends — voice trembling, ears red — but never letting them tease you too far.

Clearly, Neville was perfect.

He was perfect for you.

He’d never hurt you.

This relationship would be good for you.

You shut your eyes, trying to let the conclusion settle into your chest, willing it to quiet the ache in your ribs. You wanted to believe it. You wanted to rest in it. To trust someone for the first time in your entire life.

But then your brow twitched.

Wait.

Neville wasn’t the problem. He never had been.

He was patient, kind — the sort of person who noticed when you were about to spiral and quietly handed you an anchor before you drowned. He listened when you spoke — really listened — without trying to fix you or make it easier. He loved you without asking you to change.

And if he wasn’t the problem…

Then the problem was you.

You pressed the heel of your hand against your chest, like you could hold yourself together by force.

No relationship was without flaws. No love story ended perfectly. But Neville had broken your pattern — he’d stayed.

And now, with nowhere left to direct the blame, you were left with the only truth that fit:

You would ruin him.

Because how could something this fragile, this good, possibly survive you?

You imagined it — the end.

If it happened a year from now, Neville would be crushed. He’d have loved you too deeply by then — the kind of love that doesn’t unravel easily. You’d be finishing school, talking about the future, and then you’d ruin it with a few sentences you could never take back. He’d smile through it, tell you it was okay, but the second you turned away, his heart would break.

Five years from now, it would be worse. You saw it so clearly — his face when he realized you’d stopped loving him, the disbelief in his eyes. He’d cry until his voice gave out, then find the small ring box tucked in the back of his dresser, the one he’d meant to give you someday. He’d hold it in his hands until the metal grew warm, until it hurt too much to look at.

And if it was ten years from now — if you made it that far — it would destroy him completely. You’d see it in the way his shoulders would shake when you slipped the wedding ring from your finger. He’d beg, voice cracking, for you to stay — for the children, for the life you’d built — and you, cold and hollow, would walk away anyway. Leave him standing there in the doorway, the kids asleep upstairs, and he’d raise them alone, never saying a bad word about you. Because that’s who he was.

You could see it all with sickening clarity — the look on his face, the pain in his voice, the ruin of something pure.

You’d tried so hard to protect yourself from being hurt that you’d never stopped to think about who you might hurt in the process.

Your throat ached. Tears slipped down your cheeks before you could stop them. He didn’t deserve that.

He was good. Too good.

He’d be the one bleeding when this ended.

And the worst part was — you knew he’d forgive you anyway.

You stared at the thought until your vision blurred, your heart heavy with the unbearable weight of being loved so gently by someone you were convinced deserved better.

Outside, the rain softened to a hush.

You lay back, pulling the cardigan— his cardigan— tighter around your body. His scent clung to the fabric. It should have comforted you. It didn’t.

Your breaths came shallow and uneven as the truth settled like lead in your chest.

You needed to end this before you did something stupid.

You’d rehearsed it all day — in the mirror, in your head, even under your breath between classes. Every version ended the same way: with you breaking something that had only ever been gentle.

Neville opened the door to his dorm with that familiar soft smile, “Hey, love. You alright? You look—”

“Can we talk?”

Oh no. It was already going awry. In your head, you’d planned to let him finish his sentence, at least — but with the way he was looking at you, with the compliment you were sure he was about to give, you thought it might be too painful if this started on the right foot.

He froze at your tone. You were standing too straight, voice too steady. That always scared him more than tears.

“Of course.” He said quietly, stepping aside.

The room smelled faintly of soil and tea, the window cracked open to let in the cool night air. You stayed standing while he sat on the edge of his bed, looking up at you with those impossibly kind eyes that made your throat tighten.

You handed him a small paper bag — the folded cardigan inside, washed carefully to make sure none of your perfume lingered. Nothing that would remind him of you.

“I have your cardigan.” You said.

His brows furrowed, as though confused why you were handing it back at all, especially after he’d insisted you keep it, “I told you before, you could keep—”

“I think we should break up.”

Neville blinked, like he hadn’t heard you right, “What?”

You forced yourself not to flinch, “I’m— I’m breaking up with you, Neville.”

For a moment, he just stared at you, eyes wide and wounded, until finally he managed to whisper, “Why?”

“We’re not good for each other, Neville. Actually—” Your voice cracked, “I’m not good for you. And I’m sorry.”

You turned to leave, but he reached out and caught your wrist, “Hold on now! You can’t just— not without telling me why— (Y/N), please, I lov—”

“Don’t say it.”

His eyes misted, and your heart broke in your chest, “Merlin, this is what I was trying to prevent, Neville. I don’t want to hurt you.”

“Then don’t hurt me.” He said, voice tight.

“I don’t want to, Neville. But some things are just… inevitable.” You swallowed hard, “You’re an amazing person, and if we keep going like this, then— I’m going to marry you.”

His brow furrowed, an incredulous laugh slipping out, “Is that supposed to be a threat?”

You shut your eyes, sighing, “You don’t get it, Neville. It’s easier for us to break it off now than ten years from now.”

“Why do we have to break up ten years from now?”

Helga, why did he have so many questions? Did he not understand what was going on here?

“Because I’m a terrible person! Because I’m going to hurt you! Don’t you understand, Neville? I’m trying to protect you!”

He stood then, closing the distance between you, “You’re not a terrible person.”

“Yes, I am!” The words came out louder than you meant. You took a step back, hands shaking, “I’m mistrusting and cold-hearted and pessimistic and jealous and vile. I’m always looking for flaws, and I’ve been in this relationship with one foot out the door since day one! And if we keep doing this, then one day I’m going to break your heart, Neville — and that will tear me apart.”

For a moment, the only sound was the rain outside, soft and steady against the window.

Neville just stood there, staring at you like he was trying to piece you back together with his eyes alone. His lips parted — once, twice — but no sound came out. Then, finally, quietly:

“Do you even hear yourself right now?”

You blinked, “What?”

He took a step closer, voice trembling but steadying with every word, “You’re standing there, telling me how awful you are like it’s a fact. Like it’s written somewhere. But none of that’s true. Not a single bloody thing.”

You shook your head, swallowing hard, “You don’t know me like I do, Neville.”

“Yes, I do,” He said simply, “I know you better than you think. I know you’re scared. I know you overthink until it hurts. I know you find it easier to leave first than to be left behind.”

Your breath hitched, chest tightening painfully, “Stop—”

When he spoke again, his voice was quiet but certain, “You think that if you end it now, it’ll hurt less. But you’re wrong. Because I already love you.”

You blinked hard, trying to hold back the tears threatening to spill, “Don’t say that.”

“It’s true.” He smiled faintly, heartbreakingly gentle, “You can walk away if you need to. But don’t pretend it’s for my sake.”

That did it. The tears came hot and fast, your shoulders shaking as you pressed your hands to your face. Neville stepped forward again, hesitating only a moment before wrapping you in his arms.

“You deserve someone better, Neville,” You sobbed, your words muffled against his chest, “I’m sorry for making you fall in love with me.”

And yet, you didn’t push him away. Not yet.

You stood there, crying quietly against him—wishing love was something you could return as easily as a cardigan in a paper bag.

"I'm not sorry for loving you, (Y/N). Even if you break my heart, even if you ruin it. I still love you. I can't erase that. Only you can determine our future, (Y/N)."

Neville held you tighter, his warmth seeping into every trembling muscle. His thumb brushed gently along your back, grounding you in a way you hadn’t realized you needed. You wanted to pull away, to stick to the narrative you’d been rehearsing all day, but his presence felt like a lifeline.

“You’ve had one foot out the door this whole time?” He murmured, voice low, full of disbelief yet tender, “Then… take a step inside. Shut the door, (Y/N).”

The words hit harder than anything else could. Take a step inside. Shut the door. Let go of your fear, your panic, your carefully maintained defenses. Let him in.

Your chest heaved, your hands still pressed against his chest as if the world might snatch him away if you loosened your grip. Slowly, almost hesitantly, you realized you were ready. Ready to stop running, to stop overthinking, to stop protecting yourself at the cost of hurting him.

“I…” Your voice wavered, trembling like leaves in a storm. You swallowed hard, letting your tears fall freely, “…I love you, Neville.”

The effect was immediate. His arms tightened around you, resting your head against his shoulder. “I know,” He whispered, almost like it was a promise, “I love you, too. Always have. Always will.”

Somewhere deep in your chest, the coil of anxiety that had lived there for months began to unravel. For the first time in your life, you let yourself trust completely. The fear, the paranoia, the endless “what ifs”—they didn’t vanish overnight, but they became background noise beneath the steady, unshakable truth of his love.

You pulled back just enough to look at him, wiping your cheeks. His eyes—wide, earnest, filled with that infinite patience and kindness, your infallible mountain against your tumultuous river—met yours, and you felt your heart unclench in a way you hadn’t known was possible.

“Let me love you.” He whispered, voice gentle.

With a shaky laugh that felt like relief incarnate, you nodded. You stepped fully into his embrace, shutting the door to all the fears and doubts you had carried for so long.

For the first time, you didn’t worry about what might happen. For the first time, you believed in the now—and it was enough.

“I love you, Neville.” You whispered again, making sure the words held the weight they deserved.

He kissed your forehead, soft and grounding. The rain tapped against the window outside, a comforting rhythm, as if the world itself had let out a sigh of relief. You stayed there, wrapped in each other, knowing that whatever came next, you’d face it together.

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