God.....writing a veilguard fic but alternating between Dawes and Harding is so . much . She's out here contacting companions and then going, hm, maybe they can help Dawes grieve. Lemme just nudge them to take him out to chat and bond and maybe he'll be able to process that huge thing he's been in denial about.
And she's out here bonding with companions too and seeing Rook through their eyes and becoming fast friends and building her own little family and trying trying TRYING to get Dawes to do the same and open up and my god he's resistant. He's Rook cos he takes everything in straight lines and brute forces his way through problems and tries to solve everything with violence for a better part of the story. She and all the companions attribute it to Cope but he's just like that!!!
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Okay, here is something a little silly (cause I can never write anything serious when it come to the losers...they have already been through SO much) based off of THIS POST. So, credit to @/stanurisbf for such an adorable idea. Anyway, I hope yâall like it because it was fun to write!Â
By the way, I still have those exact Silly Bandz somewhere in my closet. My knowledge of them is sorta limited because they were a quick phase when I was in high school, but whatever.
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Stan stopped mid sentence in the conversation he was having with Bill about their current English assignment as Eddie and Richie approached their lunch table, affectionally dubbed as The Loserâs Table. The two other boys bickering about something or other. It could be about if the sky was blue for all he knew.
But it wasnât their loudness that had stopped Stan.
Oh no. It was those, quite frankly, ridiculous Silly Bandz (with a zâŚsuch an atrocity) adorn on their wrists. Well, Eddieâs wrist. The other boyâs forearms were covered in them. Which, really wasnât a new development.
Richie had taken to them immediately after the came out; buying packs and packs of them. It didnât even matter what they were shaped like, if a new pack came out he simply had to have it.
Stan also blames Beverly for enabling their curly-haired friend by buying them for him, as well. But he digresses.
So, no. Seeing Richie with them on wasnât what gave the Jewish boy pause. It was the ones on Eddie. Who had never worn them before. At least, not to Stanâs knowledge. But the set of colors lookedâŚfamiliar somehow. Like he had seen those combination before. Which was silly considering they were just colors.
It wasnât until Eddie took a couple of the Silly Bandz off to show Bev the shape of them that he figured out why he knew those colors.
âRichie Tozier, how dare you,â are the first words falling from Stanâs lips. That had the whole table whipping their heads around to look at him. Five pairs of wide eyes.
Richie was the first to break out of his shock with a small, nervous chuckle while a hand came up to adjust his glasses, âWait. Normally I feel like I deserve thatâŚbut what did I do this time, Staniel?â
Stan pointed at those stupid, stupid colored rubber bands in front of Eddie on the table. One shaped like Snoopy and the other of Woodstock. His brows were pinched in anger while crossing his arms over his chest. âThose are your fucking âPeanutsâ one. You wouldnât even let me touch them, let alone wear them. I am your best friend-â
He was cut off by his sputtering (ex) best friend, âYou donât even like them! Why would you be mad about that?â
Stan was not having it, âDoesnât matter if I donât like them! Itâs the principle of the matter, Richard. I should have rights to wear your rare rubber bands, even if I donât want to wear them.â
The rest of the Losers proceeded to roll their eyes with fond exasperation at their two friends. Though, they had to admit Stan had a point. Their trahsmouth never let anyone wear his rare collectable silly Bandz. To the slight annoyance of both Bill and Bev, though they would never say it aloud.
Then again, Eddie was always the exception to everything for Richie.
Itâs always there somewhere, every night without fail. She knows itâs a dream, when she sees it, that in reality she destroyed it for good, but it doesnât help. The sight of it fills her with dread so deep that she jolts awakes shivering in an icy sweat.
Sometimes it is simply there in the background, a low thrum of anxiety. Sometimes itâs close, larger than life blocking out everything else. Sometimes somebody is sitting in it sometimes Cersei, sometimes Viserys wearing his crown of gold, once it was the decapitated head of the silver mare that had been her bride gift, sat there on the throne covered in gore with its tongue lolling out.
Tonight she opens her eyes into her dream to find herself astride the damned chair, in the desolate plains of the Red Wastes. She looks down at herself, at her thighs astride the throne. As she looks, blood gushes forth from between her legs, soaking her skirts and the twisted metal beneath them. It runs over her bare feet and into the sand, which soaks it up like something parched. From between her splattered toes sprout leafy shoots with brilliant purple flowers that wind their way up her blood-streaked legs, snaking around the blades of the iron throne, pinning her to it. They keep growing until her whole body is covered in them, the vines pushing at her lips forcing themselves past her teeth and down her throat. The last thing she sees before the flowers obscure her vision is a lone stag, out of place in the rolling dunes, itâs antlered head turned to watch as sheâs consumed.
She wakes up.
A chambermaid is stoking the fire, but the room is still freezing. Itâs hard to say if it was the girl who woke her or the dream. Dany has been the one to ask them to keep the flames burning throughout the night, but sheâs been sleeping so lightly that the slightest sound disturbs her. âWhat time is it?â She calls to the the maid.
âNearly sunrise your Grace.â Not worth trying to fall back to sleep then. Dany still hasnât gotten accustomed to the chill of this island, and it takes her ages to drift off. And then thereâs just the dreams waiting for her. Some nights the thought of facing them makes any amount of sleep unbearable.
âDraw me a bath.â She instructs the girl. Dany thinks her name might be Rylie, but sheâs not entirely sure. âMake it hotter than last time; as hot as you can. Donât worry about burning me, just make it hotter.â None of her own staff are left now, so sheâs had to make due with some local girls who live down in the tiny harbour. Itâs barely even worth calling a village, the shabby collection of cottages host a mere hundred civilians now, most having fled at the beginning of the war. Itâs mostly the families of fishermen, or elders whoâd lived their whole lives here and refused to leave. Dany has three maids, sisters, Rylie is the youngest if she recalls. Theyâve clearly never attended a noble lady before, and are all terrified of her.
Dany misses Missandei so much that she aches. She misses her steady company, her sweet warmth, her lovely voice and the endless conversations theyâd have. The way she always seemed to know what Dany needed to say and wasnât afraid to say it. Her outlook on life had been so fresh, spirit so strong and marvellously uncrushed by the trials sheâd suffered. Sheâd been so much more than an attendant, so much more than an advisor. Dany misses her best friend.
She steps into the bath, sinking into the water with a sigh. Itâs not hot enough. She doesnât say anything; perhaps itâs simply impossible in this frigid place to keep the water hot. Rylie washes her with the odd kelp-based soap they use here. It doesnât have an overly strong scent but it leaves a strange film behind that at once makes her hair oily and dries out her skin. Dany misses the olive soap that had been favoured in the Free Cities.
After bathing Rylie brushes and braids her hair. The girls only know the simple local styles, and Daenerys never learned to do it herself. It was one of the things that Missandei did for her up until the end, no matter where in the world they were, no matter how busy they got, or how many times Daenerys told her that she didnât have to. She wasnât a servant after all, no mere handmaid, she was a valued advisor and had better things to do. But Missandei still came every morning before breakfast to do it for her. And Dany was glad that she did, towards the end, some days it was the only time they had together to talk freely just the two of them. Towards the end it was the one of the only time she could speak her mother tongue. The only time that she could let her guard down, be touched by someone she trusted.
She reaches up to wipe away the tear that has tricked down her cheek. If Rylie notices she doesnât say anything.
Sometimes Dany dreams of Missandei. In her dreams she has ice blue eyes, and screams at Dany to burn her.
Rylie is finishes her hair, a single plait that she quaintly calls a âwhale tailâ but thatâs nevertheless elegant enough in its own way. She helps Dany into her dress, so many layers and laces and buttons. âIt looks lovely Rylie, thank you,â Dany tells her warmly like she does every day, but the girl still wonât look her in the eye for more than a terrified moment.
Breakfast is already underway by the time she gets to the great hall, most of the lords and ladies already seated and tucking in. This is by design; Dany doesnât much feel up to making the sort of small talk that these people expect of her. Nobody has been anything but respectful, but all of them look at her the same way. They say pretty things, but their eyes hold different depths. âI knew your father well your grace.â Old lords say in her ear, âA great man, a fierce leader.â Or it might be, âI always did say it was a shame about Rhaegar. Would have been the best king, I always said that didnât I?â Their ladies too, are no better â Such a shame what they did.â They simper, âYour poor sweet mother. And you just a babe. Such a tragedy!â As if they hadnât been the ones standing by and letting it happen. As if they hadnât reaped the rewards ever since.
She never would have thought that sheâd miss being spat at and called a whore, but at least the crude masters of Essos had been honest with their intentions. These fake graces are more dangerous.
She sits down in her place at the head of the grand table. Itâs a giant, seamless slab of stone, like most pieces of the castle are. Ser Davos is nearby but engaged in conversation with a lord whoâs name escapes her. They all look so similar, with their bushy beards and rotund bellies. Gendry smiles tentatively at her, three seats to the right. She tries to return it, honestly grateful for whatever familiarity she can find, but her lips canât quite get there. She feels queasy, picturing the stag from her dream and itâs bulging black eyes.
Jon Snow is looking at her too, from farther down the room. Heâd be happy to talk to her, if she let him. Ironically the one person who most wants to be in her company she has been doing everything she can to avoid. Heâs been trying to get her alone since Kingâs Landing, but she canât give in. If she allows him to say what he wants to say she fears that sheâll listen, that sheâll be swayed to give him things. She canât let herself.
Because even now, he makes her weak. The way heâd held her in his arms that way, in the crumbling ruin of the Red Keep, with her dragon curled around them. He still makes her feels so safe, like she can just stop thinking and let herself be held. Itâs all a lie, a false promise that she canât allow herself to believe. He doesnât want her, he wonât be with her. Sheâs not safe with him.
Sheâs dreamed of him, and of the iron throne. Itâs always so realistic, theyâre standing together in the throne room in the wake of the battle, just like they had in true. He would come to her, arms outstretched, and she would fall into them. But instead of sweet embrace she would find found a blade hiding in wait to embed deep in her gut. And when she looks up at him to ask why? Why would he do this? She finds that heâs covered in scales, black like drogonâs, and in place of his eyes are two burning rubies.
No, she cannot allow herself to want Jon Snow any longer, of this she is resolved. She just doesnât quite trust herself yet, to resist him face to face. So she avoids him.
Picking up her fork she focuses on her breakfast, which is a typical Westerosi platter of runny eggs, dark bread and meat. Today is rich sausage which, while heavy, is better than yesterdayâs barely edible dried fish. A shipment mustâve come in from the mainland. Fresh fruit is increasingly few and far between, and Dany would pay any amount for some slices oranges or peaches or even just a handful of berries.
At least everything will be easier after tonight when everything is securely set in motion. The future is bright she just has to get there.
a/n: trying to show that madness â evil. If Dany has something similar to her fatherâs schizophrenia, I wanted to explore some of the irrationalities and paranoia in other ways than trying to murder innocents. Also wanted to show that sheâs trying her hardest despite her life being really pretty darn hard right now.
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