#izwrites

Myrielle awoke with a shuddering gasp coiling from her throat and the weight of companionship pressed to the gentle curve of her backside. That evening had she fallen within the pits of slumber accompanied by none, other than the huffs of her own shallow breaths. She became quickly ensnared in a wretched sense of fear as her eyes opened wide, as though she had not been fatigued at all. Nothing—so far as she could discern in the darkness—had been disturbed. No thief cloaked within the night wielding a blade of silver. Beneath the curtain hanging from a wrung above the large, arched window, did its translucent cousin jostle upon the breeze. A gloomed, grey light streamed through it, though it was not the tone of morningrise. With it, a sharp chill entered the bedchamber and caused Myrielle's spine to twitch, with the length of her body following.

When a muffled, strangled noise hung somewhere between despair and hedonism and hit the shell of her ear in a breathy pant, her fear subsided. Warmth radiated from a body beside her own; cracked lips, parted, and mouthing at the exposed skin of her freckled shoulders; the wet slick of the flat of Daeron's tongue pressing against her flesh, sending another jolting shiver through her, and a whimper thereafter. A sharpened exhale left Daeron's nostrils as he shifted, propping himself upon an elbow and pressing his face into the curve of her neck. His name fell from her mouth in the same sugared, surprised tone, head beginning to turn against the feather-down pillow. It felt foggy and as though it were crafted of lead, catching only the leftmost side of his face within the dim light. His wounds had been tended to; the blood washed from the grooves of his skin, rectified and treated. The Maester had judged his wounds to merely be superficial, though for a time was it touch and go regarding his foot. Amidst the fray of losing his unseated rider had the creature all but trampled the Prince. Clearly, however, was he feeling much better, now the self-pity had shifted.

Daeron hummed pleasantly in response. When again did his hips roll, rutting clumsily into her backside, Myrielle realised it was the very same motion that had initially woken her. He breathed against her neck, jagged and unsatisfied. How long had he been there? "Dearest," he greeted finally, the syllables elongated in a slow and measured drawl that caused the pit of Myrielle's stomach to feel bottomless. "Tonight," he continued, dragging the fingertips of his tentatively down her clothed torso, before his hand began to pry apart her thighs from behind, "I dreamt only of you. I knew I must see you." Myrielle found herself withholding her breath as his hand slipped between the part of her legs, looping and hooking around her centre, splayed palm settling against the gentle plush of her abdomen.

"You did?" Myrielle's voice spoke in a tone barely audible, parted lips barely making contact as the sound's formation merged upon her tongue. It tasted sweet, and sugary. Daeron's fingers clenched—knuckles tensing and fisting at the thin, cream material of her nightdress and succeeding only in drawing her backwards, to the place where the hard length of his cock slipped between the valley of her ass.

"Yes," he sounded suddenly pitiful, eyelids screwing to the waterline as his hips rolled in an earnest attempt to secure some semblance of relief. Daeron released a moan sheathed within a panting breath that cracked in its middle, and morphed into an anguished whine. Myrielle surely felt a glob of arousal slip from her entrance and settle between her folds—he had sought her out at the hour of the ghost and slipped obscenely within her chambers, unconscious and intimate as he revelled himself against her form. She did little to stop the manner with which her thighs inexplicably clenched, trapping his forearm between her legs and, resoundingly, against her weeping pussy. Myrielle grasped at his wrist, still taut, with a shaking hand. Her fingers wrapped around the sunken bone, rounded nail tips beginning to dig into his sallow and pale skin. Small crescents remained with sharp shards of grounding pain; proof of her reality in Daeron's haze of delirium. She smelt of daisies, and a fresh summer's sun.

When her pelvis trembled and Myrielle produced a cloying, keening mewl, back arching desperately from him and her head tipping back against his sternum, Daeron's cock twitched with an inspired jolt. The arm that held his weight grew heavy with inactivity, and thus slipped beneath the space between the featherbed and her neck. Daeron grasped at Myrielle's chin and neck, though not unkindly, and drew her into his chest. The pad of his thumb stroked affectionately against her flushed cheek, before slipping between her parted lips. Myrielle gasped.

"Sweetling—ah," Daeron's own speech cut itself short as he murmured his declaration, stifled by an experimental buck of her hips to sate them both. His grip upon her temporary tightened, pushing the digit further into her mouth and hooking the first joint over her lower teeth. He trembled when the wet warmth of Myrielle's tongue began to circle its tip, and her lips close around it in a manner terribly lewd. "How am I to wait until you are my wife to thoroughly bed you?" He asked breathlessly, releasing his grip upon her nightdress and beginning to retract his arm from between her legs. Daeron hummed at the feeling of the evidence of her arousal clinging to his skin. With digits extended, his hand drew through her middle, slipping between her folds but missing her clit entirely. She squirmed against him, unsatisfied. "You are sheathed in sweetness and light, but I know how impure you are, Lady Ashford."

My wife. The term had caused her insides to flutter, gummy plush contracting around nothing but the intimate notion. The very idea. "Then we shall be well practiced, no?" She spoke, slightly muffled and unexpectedly bold. An apprehensive coil rolled within her stomach and Myrielle took Daeron's finger between her teeth and bit gently in order to ground herself. The statement hung tethered within the air and floating, until moments later Daeron flipped Myrielle onto her back and mounted her torso with a hiked leg. She let out a mild squeal of surprise at the motion's abruptness. His thumb came away from her mouth, wet and glistening.

Daeron leaned down, and brushed his nose against hers thrice, slowly. "Hm," he hummed in contemplative agreement, "well practiced indeed, dearest," he said before kissing her with more force than initially intended. It was clumsy and untidy. It tilted her neck back into the pillow, but remained kind-natured and possessing a carnal desperation as though she may disappear—as many of The Dreamer Prince's affections were. Within them was laced a solemn sense of apology; a masked tentativeness that never quite abated, guilt for the space of which he occupied in the world. Of course was it worse swimming within his cups, for the evident self-deprecation was stronger, then. Sleep had, as it happened, sobered him some, though the scent of tangy fruit still lingered on breath and skin. Her own Lord Father had been stringent with 'unladylike' indulgences, thus was the scent, in moderation, pleasing and itself mildly intoxicating. She'd drunk little, though had not been a stranger to the tilting sensation of tipsiness throughout the duration of the tourney, nor the headache that came the next morn.

Instinctively, Myrielle grasped at the loose linen of his nightshirt, her other palm slipping beneath the material and drawing up his chest. Against her skin did his flesh feel searing hot, and she wondered if the blood of the dragon warmed his veins beneath it. She was sure their teeth would clatter when she touched him, for his hands rose to hold the sides of her head and he expelled a sound akin to a tempered snarl into the cavern of her open mouth. The desperation of Daeron's sensitivity was evident, and Myrielle thought that he had perhaps been suffering long before she woke.

"Oh," she mouthed in a light, teasing whimper as their mouths parted and Daeron attached himself to where her neck met her shoulder. A delicate hand came to finger the short sleeve of her chemise, wordlessly slipping it to expose a freckled shoulder. Myrielle's hand upon his breast drew downwards with a drag of her fingernails. His breath faltered, hitching entirely when her hand continued down his torso. The same sense of nervousness from the first time he had touched her failed to cease come the next time, but on an inhale did she grasp the opportunity and abruptly palm at his cock through his nightclothes, firm and twitching. In the same breath did Daeron's hips jerk into her hand, mouth gasping with a satisfied moan. Myrielle leant her head against his own, releasing a mildly taunting gasp into his ear. "My love," she crooned softly, "why do you let yourself suffer so?" Her tone was pitying. Each time Myrielle found herself embroiled within the warmth of their intimacy, she grew increasingly daring, and curious. She squeezed at his cock, before palming up and down the shaft through his clothes.

Daeron found himself unable to contain the sensitive sounds—married between moan and whimper—that left him. Why? He knew it. Only could his own hand do so much and, though he was loathe to admit so in such explicit terms, he was eager for the attentions of the pretty girl from The Reach who responded so ardently, so earnestly and with such haste to his letters, sporadic at best. She had haunted him in both dream and prose for years, yet now was she beneath him squirming and spewing filth. Daeron merely huffed, choosing not to respond and to instead slip his hands between her legs. Her chemise bunched at the hips, and with only the warning of an experimental swipe through her folds, Daeron suddenly slipped two fingers inside of her. Myrielle cried out in surprise, a splinter of pain following the motion as he hilted himself to the knuckle. His spare hand, that had been groping at her right breast, snapped to cover her mouth with its palm.

"Shh," Daeron hushed gently, placing a kiss upon the fat of her hot cheek. He was sure his lips has come away tingling, though whether it was from her searing hear, or the Arbour Gold, he did not know. It did not take long for her to adjust and welcome the intrusion, though, sucking him back in and pulsating when he withdrew the digits just so. "Your staff are so terribly nosey, as lovely as you sound, love," he went on to sigh through a subtle, satisfied smile. "They may talk," Daeron added, removing his palm from her mouth and replacing it with his own.

"Let them," Myrielle mumbled impulsively against his lips, eyes screwed shut and feeling somewhat delirious from the motion of his fingers filling her and bending, clenching hopelessly around them. Her hand fisted at his shirt, tugging at it with a jerk of her elbows before letting go and indecisively raising them to root into his hair.

Daeron released a breathy laugh. The fragility of her desperation and the manner with which her personhood had seemingly fled through the open window, replaced by a despairing being concerned only with him and tugging him impossibly closer in a way that knocked their cheekbones together and wrought a dull, but not unwelcome, pain. It made his stomach feel warm, and his dick throb. "That would mortify you, my dear," he spoke, curling his fingers once more before retracting them. With the thumb of his free hand, Daeron placed its pad against the hilt of Myrielle's chin, and pushed gently. Swollen lips parted and, after kissing her, Daeron slipped in his fingers, muffling the sound that travelled up her gullet and met them there. His brows raised, eyelids heavy as she made sheepish eye contact through lust-blown irises, golden and amber, as her head angled to take his digits to the knuckle. His hips tilted forward as she gave them a tentative suck, meeting her centre and smearing the linen with the slick that coated her pussy and thighs. Tentatively did he probe at the back of her tongue, twitching beneath his fingertips and slipping towards her throat. The muscles in her neck began to clench, resisting and expelling a soft gagging noise, and he pulled back, his own mouth parted in awe.

Evidently did her impatience when she pushed out the digits with her tongue, and slipped her hand beneath his clothes and ghosted over his weeping, wet tip. Daeron hissed at the contact—the anticipatory moment that had first clouded his mind and awoken him with a lonely, aching sensation. His face pressed against her cheek as he inhaled through his teeth, attempting to otherwise busy his mouth by kissing at her lips and trying to slip his tongue into her mouth in a manner most unseemly. Once again she whined his name, and he convulsed against her palm. Had Myrielle not been afire with a foggy veil of ardour, she may well have giggled at the receptiveness—teased him that Princes were not meant to act in such a terribly vulgar, improper manner, despite the way his ministrations and blatant obsession with her mouth had soaked her thighs and sent jolts between her legs.

"Please," she requested timidly as her thin fingers wrapped around him. Daeron involuntarily jerked his pelvis. Her eyes were wide and pleading when he met them, seemingly glazed and wobbling. His lips parted, breathing heavy. He knew exactly what is was that she asked for; never had he harboured qualms about sheathing himself inside a woman's warmth, but this appeared different in his mind's eye. The morality of the encounter was different, regardless of how many times he had fantasised of it. Thus far had a fair amount of caution been exercised, but considering the manner with which she placed slow, open-mouthed kisses upon his face, neck and any possible exposed skin, curious eyes searching for some sort of answer and the slip of her left breast from her chemise, Daeron was not sure he could resist.

He grasped at her thighs and shifted her position, before stroking at the growing tangle of her hair and kissing her forehead. "You are sure?" He murmured against the skin, expecting to surely feeling guilty come the break of morn. "That—that I am what you want?" That seed of doubt, once more.

"Yes," Myrielle responded with a little too much haste, her breathless enthusiasm bringing a tinge of colour to Daeron's sallow-hued face. His head bowed, forehead pushing against hers for just a moment before his eyes feel almost anxiously to where her nightdress sat bunched at her waist in a mess of cotton and linen, legs parted and knees squeezing at his torso.

Myrielle was not so naïve—very much was she aware what sort of establishments empty cups drew young boys to. The supple skin and a strange woman's warmth. The notion erred on absurd within her mind, though she had no doubt that The Dreamer Prince had been before sequestered there, as many men had. Once, Myrielle had overheard some of the household staff tittering amongst themselves, recounting an anecdote of one of the household guard finding her Lord Father accosting a woman in the pit of a brothel after her Mother's death. Desire left no man untouched, it seemed. The thought, however, had coiled in the pit of her stomach so viscerally, the tug of jealousy so obscene that Myrielle had bent the truth—that she was no maiden, despite remaining thoroughly untouched. They had not spoken of it in depth and she knew not if he had seen through her fib, but she was sure the nervousness settled within her throat may well have begun to give her away.

Would he know? Myrielle knew not, but the swell of her worry was not given the chance to reach its peak before it was utterly destroyed by the weight of the rounded head of his cock pressing against her. With a guiding hand did it wade through her centre, coating itself in the thick, sticky slick that felt like film over her flesh. He shifted on top of her, leaning upon an elbow bent by the side of her head as he glanced between them, lips parted and tongue curling within his mouth, against his teeth in focused concentration. His gaze did not falter as he eased inside, parting her flesh through the middle and finally sheathing himself. It was warm, wet, and a galactic improvement on that of which he had been fantasising of. Such was evident, of course, by the sound that left Daeron—a wildly pathetic noise that, in any other circumstance, would have been terribly embarrassing. He cursed beneath his breath, before blinking and casting his gaze eagerly to the contortion of Myrielle's expression.

Her jaw had slackened, brows knit in the centre of her forehead with an endearing scrunch of skin and her hands manically grasping at his shirt. Her forehead met his, and she breathed heavily, even though he were only half-way nestled. She mewled, shifting her hips and angling them further upwards, and adjacent to his own. Each movement was involuntary—devoid of forethought and the pleasure of experience, driven by something possessive and overwhelming. The pressure building within the lowest reaches of Myrielle's abdomen was dizzying; the sensation of raw fullness was bewitching as he eased in slowly, whether for her benefit or his own self-torture. A clumsy hand came up to brush the stray strands of hair from her forehead, pushing and tugging at her flesh and tilting her head. Expelling a heavy, bated breath, Daeron's face once again fell into the valley of her flesh, this time breast against the fat of her breasts. With only a small jerk of his hips was he nestled to the hilt, the push of his hips meeting her own drawing a whimper from Myrielle and a muffled moan from Daeron, warming her skin.

"Was—was this what you dreamed of?" Myrielle almost hiccuped.

In truth, Daeron did not trust his voice to respond in verbiage. He kissed at her exposed, peaked bud wetly, before taking a breath. "Yes," he admitted, withdrawing his hips to once again push back inside with a wet, squelching sound. As he did, she clasped a palm over her own mouth and squealed behind it. It had been no dragon dream, though before had she featured within them. Once, he had dreamed of her with a crown atop her head, woven from grass and flowers. This, however, had been fantasy of pure selfishness. "Thank you, dearest," he breathed. His brows furrowed, rutting again with a slightly increased momentum and sense of urgency, before he whined again; "thank you."

Myrielle felt his gratitude in the manner he grasped at her breast a little too hard; in the manner that the fluid exchanged between them became clouded, and sticky with sweat; in the manner his elbows all but gave way, and he collapsed flatly on top of her. She was sure she had seen the hounds mount the bitches in a similarly undignified manner to rut into them—a sight that had once sent her aghast and turn away her gaze. They had not been people, but she felt almost like a hound, herself. The care was not her own, however, for the warm roil within her stomach; coiling, lassoing and striking at her throat aching to expel stifled noises was terribly overwhelming. Almost did she feel as though she were going to faint with the clouded warmth befalling the haze of her vision, cheeks flushing with the filthy notions and whipping herself breathless. For all she cared, she was happy to lay like a bitch in heat. Daeron clung to her with a desperate possessiveness, attaching his mouth to any and all skin that revealed itself to him, pricking it red with attention as he murmured incomprehensible utterances of affections in the handful of High Valyrian that he knew. She did not know the words, but did not feel as though she needed to in order to decipher their meaning of something beautiful. He spoke of stars and gratitude, souls of beauty and golden jewels lain before him.

His mumbles faded into the ringing of Myrielle's eardrums as her stomach began to suddenly feel tight with a sensation not entirely uncomfortable. Perhaps from the prod of his cock into the gummy canal of her centre, or, perhaps, it wrought from the terribly searing heat of pleasure that had overcome her at the very idea of being the shining, gleaming source of his own rapture. The thought of being inextricably bound to him by law and affection.

Behaved, obedient—pliant. Willing. Her soul, it seemed, lived to serve others. The essence of creation and the stringing of words upon a page with ink-stained knuckles and blotches of ink seeping into the fabric of her dresses. Scrubbing at them on behalf of the maids. Aiding in the concealment of her father's ailing health—no task too large, nor too small. Already had she demonstrated her unerring dedication to the Targaryen Prince; taking the length of his cock within the sopping cavern of her salivating mouth though her delicate hands still trembled. He'd remained to finish all too quickly in her eager mouth, despite her tongue and teeth improperly trained and clumsy. She'd learn, he'd thought. And now, another act of committed grace—taking him in his entirety, and without judgement.

"Daeron," Myrielle contentedly sighed with a gratified expression pinching at her forehead. He hummed, jagged in response and stroked at her hair with a sweaty palm. For a moment did she swallow her thoughts down her gullet and hushed herself. Heavily lidded eyes tilted to peer at her flushed face curiously. The soft tip of his subtly beaked nose nudged at her, as if to urge her voice once more. Myrielle grit her teeth. "Can you," she gasped, suddenly unsure of herself. Her tone diminished in her throat, his movements slowing as he nestled the entire length of his shaft inside her. "Could you… Gods—call me—that—" she gasped as a rogue hand slithered down and between their bodies, "—again?"

Daeron leaned forward and smiled wryly against her skin, pressing a kiss beside her quivering lips. He hummed in mild taunt, suddenly enamoured with her feebleness in the swell of his chest. "What?" He hummed again, a soft and gentle sound that shook her. Myrielle's thighs shuddered as his fingers drove between the curled tufts of soft, mousy brown between her legs. "My wife?"

"Yes," Myrielle moaned a little too loudly when the pad of his finger pressed against the throbbing bud nestled between the crease of her folds, stretched and warped by the intrusion of his cock.

"And my wife you shall be," he whined, and Myrielle was sure she felt his cock twitch inside her, "soon. I promise."

—

Myrielle had slept explicably well that night. Daeron had remained with her, entangled within the sheets for an unbeknownst portion of the night, before reluctantly returning to his own lodgings despite her fatigued and sugared pleas for him to stay. He had left with a trail of kisses littered down the length of her arm and a solemn look settled within deep, royal violet. When she woke, she felt cold beneath a sheen of sweat and struck with an ache between her legs. Beneath her had a pool of darkened cerise formed, bled into the linens and visible only when she drew her legs beneath her and inhaled a ragged breath of surprise. For a moment did she stare at the it; reaching across the expanse of the feather-down mattress as though it were a pauper reaching for gold. Her brows furrowed, tongue prodding at the soft, fleshy interior of her cheek. Her blood, as far as she had been aware, was not yet looming—already flushed this moon and painting her thighs in slumber weeks prior. Sometimes, however, she'd found it came without rhyme nor reason. With curious fingertips, she poked at the stain. Dry.

She hummed, before hurriedly grasping at the length of her thin nightskirts and drawing them to settle at her hips. She shifted, the gentle curve of her lower spine pressing against the pillows as tentatively she parted her knees. In the space that remained did she slip her hand, drawing a fingertip through herself. She remained wet and mildly uncomfortable, and upon the pad of her finger were only pale streaks of red settled within the clear, syrupy fluid. Myrielle released a huff of mild relief, before an abrupt, unceremonious knock came at the door of her bedchamber.

Myrielle flinched and jerked the fabric back over her legs with a gangling haste and wiped her hand upon the linen. Not even had she heard the shuffling of footsteps down the hallway. Her cheeks heated.

"Are you awake, my Lady?" Asked the voice pressed up against the thick slab of wood.

"Ye—yes, Sansara. Thank you." Myrielle cursed herself for her juvenile sputtering. The Gods, it seemed, had a sly manner of allowing one to settle within the warmth of complacency, before shattering it for their own hungry amusement.

"Are you feeling quite alright, Myrielle?" Sansara asked after a moment of contemplation. Myrielle slipped from the bed, pressing unsteady feet to the floor. She glanced at the sheet. It had to go. "You shall be breaking fast with the Targaryen host soon—"

Gods. Within the haste of her desire had Myrielle all but forgotten they would be returning to King's Landing come midday. Perhaps feigning sickness would be easier—sequestering herself at the scene of the crime, unmarred by The Dreamer Prince's knowing eyes as she sat before him, clad in gowns and jewels when just hours prior had she bared all to him. Of course, he'd be there—peering at her and looking terribly gorgeous. Undoubtedly would she flush like a feeble, fragile maiden. The maiden that she no longer was.

"—your Lord Father awaits." Sansara added in a jovial tone that Myrielle was quite unable to read. Teasing, perhaps? Shit. Quite upset would her father become if she did not at least show her face. His eldest, blood of his blood, before the Royal Host. The Ashford Keep was humble in comparison to what they were used to, Myrielle was sure, but they were no House of poor means. Well-established. Comfortable.

Myrielle sighed, relenting. "Yes. I am sorry, I—I must have woken late. I shall dress."

Sansara hummed. Definitely teasing. The Lady's Maid was a woman of an ageing disposition, sitting on years similar to that of her Lord Father, but kind-natured nonetheless. "Do you require help, my Lady?" She queried tentatively, hand hovering over the door handle.

"No!" Myrielle cried a little too quickly. She cleared her throat of nothing desperately. "No, thank you."

For a moment, silence. Behind the door did Sansara battle the stifle of a kindly giggle. "As you will." She merely concluded. Myrielle waited until her footsteps became muffled down the corridor before releasing a breath she had not realised she'd been holding. She brushed a hand through her hair and unknowingly tugged upon a formed knot. She hissed and pulled at it, before circling the bed and pulling the sheets settled upon its top from its expanse.

The blood-soaked undersheet came soon after, hastily screwed into a messy ball and discarded upon the floor with abandon. After poorly replacing the top sheets, Myrielle scuttled to locate a gown—of any sort—to dress herself in. She settled finally upon a peach-toned garment, detailed with pale yellow and daisies embroidered in thread of white, orange and green. Myrielle brushed at her hair with a boar bristle brush, surely pulling out more strands than remained in her rapidity. Before scooping the sheet into bundled arms, she slipped on shoes and edged towards the door.

With a gentle shove did it open just ajar. Pressing her forehead against the cold wood, Myrielle peered both ways down the corridor. No souls apart from her own, vaguely mortified, and breathing through an open mouth. On an inhale did Myrielle slip from her bedchamber, stepping lightly, and guiding shut the door with a gentle, muffled thud. Travelling westward down the hall, Myrielle found herself instead drawn to her sister's bedchamber. Gwin had before had her first blood—a joyous day it had been for her, for finally did she feel like a woman grown. Always had she possessed a personality far beyond the reaches of her child's body. Even had she grasped at Myrielle's arm, waking her from a mundanely dream-filled slumber, to peer enthusiastically at the sheet with her, shuffling in creased nightdresses. The laundresses had not yet been, due to make their rounds during the break of fast. Casting another glance over her shoulder, Myrielle entered her sister's chamber.

Adorned with flowers both dried and fresh, fabric-crafted dolls in ornate garments sat upon tables and dressers, Gwin's bedchamber was of a far neater calibre than her own. Myrielle had tripped over numerous books and tomes that morning alone in an attempt to cover her misdeeds, discarded open and closed upon the floor. A small pile of sheets, blankets, and the gown of which Gwin had worn the day prior sat upon the velvet seat of a chair in the corner of the chamber. Myrielle strode toward it, before a voice called out to her.

"Lady Myrielle."Sansara's tone dripped incredulous, gasping dismay. Exaggerated, though the words still caused Myrielle to freeze as she bent to plant the sheet. She spoke nought, merely blinking and breathing shallowly through parted lips as the Maid walked the floor. "What are you doing? Surely you cannot be lost."

Myrielle huffed, and straightened. "I am not lost."

"Correct me if I am wrong, my Lady, but these are not your chambers. Unless you still play with dolls?" Sansara questioned with a quirked brow. Her words were not unkind—nor did they prickle at Myrielle's skin with the fear of confrontation. Her stomach did, however, twist in a knot of growing embarrassment. Sansara smiled, as though she were deeply amused. Myrielle felt the skin upon her cheeks and neck flush with warmth.

"Perhaps I do." Myrielle could not help but counter comically with a tilt of her chin upwards. Sansara released a laugh, though bit it behind the raised palm of her hand.

"Then that is business of your own."

Myrielle hummed and nodded her head in confirmation. She did not, but so what if she had? Sansara wiped her hands upon the material of her gown before gesturing to the bundle Myrielle continued to coddle.

"What is that?"

"It is nothing!" Myrielle rushed, quickly turning and placing it upon the pile. Its location was not supportive enough, and the sheet fell at her feet and unravelled some, revealing the patch of blood upon the white. Myrielle stared at it for a moment, before steeling herself and raising her head, but not looking at Sansara. "I must go to breakfast, I—" as she attempted to walk past, the Maid seized her shoulder.

Myrielle's gown gaped at the back, allowing the sleeves to grow slack and exposing a portion of freckled skin. Sansara bid her halt, and grasped at the material before fastening the buttons. "And let you join them like that? I think not, young lady." She smoothed down the material with a knowing smile. "You have had your blood this moon, no?" She leaned down to ask in Myrielle's ear, as though prying ears may listen to the sounds seeping through the stone walls.

"Perhaps." Myrielle whispered.

Sansara laughed. "Oh! Sweet girl..." She gasped in thought. "Was it the Prince with whom you write?"

Myrielle squeaked. "Sansara! That is absurd! Why would you—" the sputtering came naturally, though the older woman merely looked down at her with squinting, focused eyes and her hands settled upon her hips. Myrielle immediately relented, and recoiled shyly. "How did you know?"

"Please, my Lady. Once, many moons ago, I was young, too. You are not as sly as you believe." The casual cadence with which Sansara spoke caused Myrielle to giggle as she leaned to stroke at her hair. Samsara released an abrupt gasp, gazing into a distant corner of the bedchamber. "I shall prepare you moon tea for after the breakfast. Yes." The Maid spoke more to herself than Myrielle, though her eyes blew wide regardless. Moon tea. A notion she'd not yet considered. Myrielle knew of the release of man—years prior had Samsara found herself so thoroughly irate with the poor teachings of the Maester that she had educated Myrielle and Edwyd—together, due to the closeness of their ages—herself. Its proportions were astronomically awkward, with her brother's childish giggles and her own cheeks flushed a tulip-petal red. Truly considering it, however, Myrielle could not recall just where the Prince had finished, if even he had done so. Myrielle's gaze fell to the floor, as an ever-growing pit of dread nestled its way into her guts.

"I shall not tell your Lord Father, of course, lest that truly finish him. Come, I shall fix your hair while we walk. But… please, Myrielle, may I speak out of turn?"

Myrielle blinked at Sansara, before tilting her head and cautiously nodding. She was a beautiful woman with auburn hair and kind, smiling eyes of green and gold. She had once told her Father that he ought to court her—a truth of suggestion disguised in jest. Her Father had waved his hand and politely declined with a warm laugh. "Of course."

"Young ladies must be careful with Princes. He may proffer you with fluffed, fanciful words and affections, but you must be sure and resolute."

Perhaps, Myrielle abruptly realised, she was naïve. Perhaps she was terribly so, and perhaps she was the largest fool within the entirety of The Reach. He had promised to wed her and it had not been the first time. She'd the writings to prove it, but nothing, however, stopped him from retracting those notions. He had showered her in affections and declarations; he had replied to each of her rambling letters. Myrielle suddenly felt very strange.

The tilt of her expression had to have been obvious in its nature, for Sansara continued with a small, proffered smile. "It is but the warning of an old woman. I have seen the way the Prince looks at you with such reverence, as though he would plant each wildflower in the Meadow for you. I'd be aggrieved to see your heart broken, my Lady. I promised your late Mother."

A glint of hope. Myrielle felt warmed by the concern and though the seed of worry was not yet abated, the words fell upon her ear pleasantly. Perhaps she would require some time with her thoughts in the coming days. If what Sansara spoke of were true, there would be much planting to be done, for the Meadow had been reduced to a squelching pool of mud and torn grass beneath the stampede of sword, shield and hoofbeats.

"Thank you, Sansara. I… I will think on what we have discussed, but my heart feels sure in my chest like the kick of a shoed filly. There is little else to do but hope—I cannot help my affections, it seems." How it was that Myrielle spoke with such a matured grace, despite her age, was a mystery to Sansara. Devoid of her Mother's influence before even her tenth nameday, the woman of which Myrielle was growing into brought a swell to her breast. Sansara couldn't help but smile at the young lady.

"You are wise beyond your years, my Lady. Now, let us fix this monstrosity," Sansara gestured to Myrielle's hair. In her rushed state had Myrielle merely pulled a section of waves behind her head, and tied them there. On their way from Gwin's bedchamber to her Lord Father's solar, Sansara twisted Myrielle's hair into neat coils and clipped them at the back of her head with an ornate yellow hairpin, well-worn and crafted of brass. She folded the section's ends into a bun at the centre and smoothed the remainder of her hair down the length of her spine. Ends of mousy brown, curled into gentle, natural ringlets, fell at her waist and grazed the crease of her bodice where it met her skirts with golden thread.

Through the thin paned glass of a nearby window, the doorway of the solar was illuminated with a bright, morntide sunlight. The very kind of early springtime sun that drove a chill down the length of one's spine. Instead, did Myrielle feel her chest tighten at the low drone of indistinct chatter slipping from beneath the door. They had dined with the Targaryens little—Maekar was a soul that seemed not to yearn for their direct company, and her Father's health had been fragile at best. He had made it to the jousts, to the Bloody Trial, but he had retired soon after and she had seen little of him since. As such, she had spent more time with them than most. She wondered of what they spoke—if, at all, they entertained one another. What mundane stories did her Father struggle to recount from his ailing memory? Did Maekar nod courteously as he picked at his meal?

"My Lords," Sansara tentatively spoke as she knocked upon the door with a bent knuckle, pushing at it with soft, wrinkling fingertips. "Please, excuse the interruption. The Lady Myrielle for you, as requested."

"My apologies, Father," Myrielle immediately spilled as she duck beneath Sansara's extended arm. His wrinkled, grey expression was creased with a modicum of pain, and she wondered if he'd been delivered his milk of the poppy that morn. He waved a hand noncommittally and smiled. The expression was pinched, and slight, but genuine nonetheless.

"Sit," he urged gently, motioning to an empty chair near the head of the table. Down each side were the children sat within the order of their birth, with Maekar settled at the opposite end. Myrielle flit across the floor, giving a breathless nod toward the Targaryen Princes and hushed a greeting. The table appeared solemn with the remainder of the days prior—sour-faced expressions and grimaces of aching pains, slashed wounds and darkening bruises and, most significantly, an empty seat. Aerion, undoubtedly, looked the worst of them all, and Myrielle could not help but feel a swell of satisfaction at the notion. His eyes bulged, skin afire with irritation of red and smears of blood not yet faded, nor washed fully away. He was bandaged as though he were a vase, fragile and like to smash. She hoped that he would.

"Are you feeling quite alright, dear?" Her Father went on to query as she set beside him, reaching a shaking hand for her.

Myrielle forced an embarrassed smile. "Yes, Father. I woke with an aching head, I—" Her voice trailed breathlessly, gesturing with her hands and casting a nervous glance down the table but purposefully avoiding that which sat before her. Her sister's large, blue eyes narrowed at her in a suspiciously questionable manner—positing an unasked question she was sure to voice come the afternoon. Both of her brothers appeared too enraptured with The Anvil to care for their sister's embarrassment.

Upon the table was settled a spread far finer than their usual. Meats cured and salted, chopped fruits dripping with juice and drizzled with honey sat in bowls of tangerine and vermilion. Breads, sliced and steaming and eggs so richly orange they looked akin to the sun itself. Products from the expanse of The Reach; a show of both goodwill, and the extent of their cultivation. Here is what we provide you—eat, and heed it. Myrielle's eye was caught by mint-dusted strawberries, glazed in a thin, sweet syrup. Her favourite. Upon them, small pansies for decoration. Truly minuscule little things, like a babe torn too soon from its mother's breast, but beautiful nonetheless.

"I trust you are feeling better, my Lady?" Daeron's question cut through the settled silence and Myrielle fought the urge to flush warm and pink. He spoke from behind a goblet, concealing an unreadable expression. Not yet had she bared to look at him, though now all eyes settled upon her. When finally eyes of gold and amber met his face, Myrielle found herself astonished by how alert he appeared. Surely did his mouth curve, succumbing to a teasing smile of gentle mockery as he peered at her with focused eyes unmarred by the howling of fatigue. She released a huff through her nostrils and—feebly—attempted to steel herself. As predicted did he appear more put together than usual; clad within the royal colours of his house with his hair swept back and tied. Myrielle could hardly find it within herself to look him in the eye and felt terribly glad that his mouth was obscured. She could not bare the reminders of where it had been and what it had said beneath the sun-kiss of her Father's solar.

Myrielle was thus forced to divert her gaze to the table, her lap—anywhere else, and acting as though her skull continued to ail her. "Yes, thank you."

My Prince was like to follow, however Myrielle feared if the words slipped from between her tongue and teeth, the pit within the swell of her gut may just utterly devour her from within. The thin, pretty face of Lady Hightower, the second wife of Maekar Targaryen, sharpened as she bit upon a cracker settled against her tongue. Eyes of turquoise and teal regarded her and—though her addressing of the Prince had been unorthodox and she had run the risk of appearing unseemly—she smiled. She was not his mother, after all. Rumour had it that Lady Seline dabbled within the art of alchemy and had a darkly curious mind. Proffered stories from the smallfolk, Myrielle had surely justified, though her company bled something altogether different. Admittedly, her striking looks and confidence held within the line of her shoulders drove Myrielle sheepish—she commanded a presence both strong and personable. Much more prone to chatter was she than her brooding husband, sat within his seat notched at the brow and eyes unfocused. Out of the corner of her eye, Myrielle caught the Lady Seline begin to titter, and she felt her shoulders hunch.

Was it that obvious?

—

For the rest of the morn, Myrielle had avoided Gwin like a Spring Fever and Daeron had not felt even the smallest lick of guilt. He had expected the twist of his heart to rattle against his ribcage—bruised and turning blue, undoubtedly from the fall from his horse during the Trial—expected the sensation to cloy at his throat and leave him hungerless. He had instead been confined to the notion of reverence when at last she had floated into the room, scarcely unable to pry his eyes from her frame. No, Daeron did not feel guilt, merely fondness. It took a great deal of strength not to seek out the Lady of the Meadow after mid-morning, when the sun had risen by behind a fluffy sheath of mournful, clouded grey.

It had begun to rain thereafter. Large droplets fell from the sky like tears of mourning from the Mother herself, and the mood within Ashford Meadow had awoken terribly dour. Puddles began to form where large, canopied tents had once been—filling the wells of companionship that were now gone. The scars left by the Tourney would remain long after the Meadow dried; long after the churned mud turned to grass and the flowers once again bloomed. Within the height of summer, Myrielle was seldom pulled from the sea of grasses and petals, whether she was staining her hands in ink or upon the back of her grey-dapple mare. In her youth had she played there with the children of the smallfolk as they crept across the shallow channel of the Cockleswent with dirtied feet and playful grins. The broods of the smallfolk still played there in usual times, though Ashford Keep would be long isolated while the field recuperated itself as a vassal of geniality. House Ashford did not distance themselves from those they ruled as other larger Houses had a tendency to do. The Meadow was home to festivity and cheer—markets, and simple convening. Now, however, had it been home to death, with blood seeping into its dirt.

Many of the guests had begun to take their leave before even The Hammer's body had been lain within the pyre that burnt him. Myrielle had watched the rest through the smear-stained window as tents were dismantled, wagons loaded, until all that was left behind were misplaced belongings of little value and things that had been dropped, or fallen in haste. Sigils were folded and removed, leaving only the skeletons of the event—its wooden stands that would surely remain until the rain ceased and the mud dried. Myrielle would have preferred not to look at them, of course, and thus diverted her gaze. Though the distance was great and no surer could she be of identity than a nondescript, flowering weed, Myrielle was sure she spot the stooping frame of Ser Duncan propped upon a thick stick that seemed to bare his weight with ease. He stood opposite a pair embraced within each others' arms and shifted uneasily upon his feet. Unable was she to make out faces, though the taller one had hair of fire-hued copper. Beneath her, funnelling out of the Keep's front gate, Myrielle spotted staff that had arrived with the Targaryen host with their arms laden. A chord struck within her chest. She'd been unable to speak to Daeron for much of the morning, and was now fraught with the unease from her prior conversation with Sansara.

Young ladies must be careful with Princes. So the stories went, and Myrielle had no doubt that she may have been the most wretched of fools for maintaining such a thoughtful sense of hope, but she felt as though she knew him. Their letters had been numerous since the day that they had met at a tourney much like this, in her own honour. A handful of her first had gone unanswered, but regardless had she persisted. Eventually, a letter in return had been delivered to her chambers—its envelope ripped through the middle by the talon of the raven that had brought it. Sansara had not seen the words he had written her, nor the words she had written in return. Perhaps such musings did not aid her case and her wishes were still hopeful at best—Myrielle did not know. She could not, however, allow him to leave without another word; not in true faith, when uncertainty nibbled at the flesh strangling her heart, and the tang of moontea settled upon her tongue.

Solitude had thus brought her to her Father's vacant study—lined with furniture of oak stained dark, half the room doused within the shade of transparent orange curtains donning the Ashford sunburst in glistening golden thread. The hems bunched upon the floor were beginning to fray. From the pentagonal window could the entire length of the Meadow be seen; a central locus of presiding sight. An ever-growing sheath of dust had settled upon her Father's desk. When she ran the bent tip of her finger across it, a cleaned path remained, and fluffy dust left beneath her rounded fingernail. Within the stream of light that seemed to split the room in two, a shadow appeared.

"Your Father is a most… favourable host." Daeron's voice sounded somewhat less present as it had this morning. There was a certain distance nestled within it, as though he spoke to no one. Myrielle did not know if he had drank anything yet—she did not care to. She looked at him only briefly, bashful, before her gaze returned to the desk. Upon it, candles sat with clouded rings surrounding them. Papers sat in neat piles, discoloured and curling. She knew not of what he spoke—perhaps the bottles of wine provided within his lodgings. "He talks of you fondly." Daeron spoke softly as he approached her in measured steps across the floor. He always spoke to her that way, as though she were something worth protecting. "And frequently." He added, with a lean of his body. She did not notice the way his hands clasped behind his back, nor the way in which his fingers interlocked, in order to conceal the shakes that had befallen him from a morning lacking in indulgence. Between his pressed palms, a sweat began to wet his skin.

"Oh, Gods," Myrielle wailed dramatically, merely a stone's throw from the noises she had bleated the night prior. She cringed at the notion of her Father's clumsy tongue, dripping bemusements and wringing smiles. "He is, ah—" Myrielle's eyes fluttered shut, brow creasing within her forehead as a spare hand raised and grasped at the bridge of her nose between two fingertips, "—fond of storytelling."

Daeron smiled, feeling as though soon his cheeks might begin to hurt should he find himself caught within her presence much longer. The pain would not be unpleasurable, he thought. "That much is obvious. I, myself, was very pleased to hear it. What a tall tale that was." Somehow, he had ended adjacent to the desk with its corner jabbing into his thigh, leaning in her direction and desperately hoping that if she shifted, her arm may just touch his.

Myrielle's smile faded. Daeron went on to recount the fable of the day in which one of the smallfolk's children had become lost within the Meadow. The spring had been uncharacteristically warm and the sweetgrass taller than the burliest of knights, thus the child had simply disappeared. His mother's distressed weeping had echoed terribly over the Cockleswhent. The boy had later been found on horseback by one of the ladies of the House, scooped up within her arms as she wiped the young boy's tears. Even had she bestowed upon him a golden earring, its match earlier lost and nestled somewhere within the grass. A stream of sunlight began to bleed from behind a fluffed cloud, nestling its light into Myrielle's back. It managed to illuminate her in a way profoundly fascinating, and Daeron felt his chest tighten and a knot in his stomach begin to form.

"He speaks of my Mother, not I." She revealed, then. Refreshing was it to know that still did he think of her. Never had he remarried, nor expressed the desire to. He had shirked Myrielle's suggestions that he do so, lest he face his demise on his own. The last ever time she had brought up the prospect, he had merely smiled, and gestured at herself. "We look alike, so he has begun to confuse us, I think." Her explanation did not come sadly, but was accompanied with a gentle shrug that shook the strands of hair from her shoulder and caused them to fall down at her back. It fell smoothly and softly, further revealing the golden sunburst hanging at her sternum, sitting pretty and flat against the skin before the embroidered hem of her dress began to coil and cover. Matching earrings of plated gold hung from her lobes and swayed with each gentle movement. Her expression was so sweet and so warm that Daeron could've sworn he felt his cock twitch beneath his breeches.

"Then she must have been as beautiful as you," he breathed, suddenly stricken by a sense of introversion that rendered his voice frail, and quiet. Daeron could not recall the last time he had heard his own Father speak of his Mother—his wife, a Dornish woman of extraordinary beauty that had left a void within his chest nothing but dour scowls soon filled. He missed her. The words felt foreign as they slipping from his tongue. Daeron did not oft find himself saying things of such an ilk—he was not gifted with a tongue lavished in honey, he possessed no natural flair for flirtation. Myrielle made him nervous in a way he was not yet used to. For hours could he sit with her letters, devising his response and smithing at his words as though they were metal. He did not now have that luxury, and such had the words tumbled. If he had been a better man would he have mustered the courage to formally request her hand, and lavish her in all that she deserved. Bashful compliments and the lingering memory of himself pressed into her would have to suffice, for now.

Still, they landed with a deft, sincere sense of sweetness that gave the Lady of the Meadow great pause and struck her silent. Her eyes met his own, wide and round, for just a mere moment before they flit anxiously to the open door. It sat heavy and ajar, surely obscuring the Prince's visual presence, but doing little for the sound of their voices. The hand of which she leant upon flexed, before her weight shifted. Myrielle released her light grasp upon the desk and subtly reached for Daeron's asymmetric tunic of red and black. The pad of her thumb caressed at one of the metal buttons upon it, silver and embossed with the rearing head of a dragon. The Prince's shoulders stooped, neck bowing as he leaned toward her.

"I do not wish to leave you," he spoke as, almost, did their foreheads touch. Myrielle leant back upon her heels and smiled at him again. And, again, a twitch within his chest and further south. Dragonstone was an abode most gloomy. Summerhall basked within the sun of the Stormlands, which made it a far more digestible place. Still, however, was it a locum of loneliness.

"You must, my love." Myrielle said, placing her palms upon his chest before dragging them downwards and south down his torso. The material was expensive beneath her hands. House Ashford was no poor house, though she was sure she had cycled through all of her most formal dresses, already. "But… I do hope that you are not merely saying so because you think I wish to hear it," she went on to breath, retaining vacant eyes upon where her left hand settled, fidgeting with the hem of his tunic between dainty fingers. She did wish to hear it—Gods, had she wished to hear it more than anything that morn. It aided in quelling some of the disquiet that Sansara had roused within her. The thought of watching him leave was terribly depressing, and one she knew would cloy at her chest until she felt the tears well at her lids. It would be unladylike as she stood, presumably, on her own.

"Dearest, I—" Daeron's forehead creased pitifully, "—I say it because I wish to. Be—because it is the truth." His own hands enclosed hers, drawing them together and clasping at them tightly. He guided them towards his mouth and rest them there, against the groove of his chin, peering through blood-stained sclera. Within the dark of the night prior, she'd seen little of his injuries beneath the haze of excitement. A line, gouged and subsequently stitched, ran horizontally upon his cheek. Myrielle unfurled her thumb from his grasp and hovered over the injury. Gwin has jested throughout the Trial in an attempt to embarrass her sister, but she did not understand that his promise had been a kindness. "Why do you doubt me now?" Daeron continued, though the tone of his voice quietened to mere whisper. As his mouth formed the sounds, his lips grazed against her hands. "I have seen it," he finally swallowed.

In dragon dream, or mere fantasy? Myrielle could not help but wonder. The line between the two was thin, and smudged at times beyond recognition, but he spoke with a tone of such genuine sincerity that Myrielle began to feel lightheaded. Her doubts choked her and, for a moment, did she almost wish to curse Sansara for uprooting them. A certain heat seemed to radiate from him and Myrielle, once again, foolishly began to wonder whether dragon's breath heated his blood. The Targaryens had always been proffered as something more—Gods amongst men, in few of their own tortured minds. Myrielle, however, had deduced that they were merely that; men. Egg disliked wearing hats, and the sound of birdcalls. Maekar had a penchant for salted food items. Baelor looked all those that spoke to him within their eye in a manner most gentle, and kind. Aerion slouched in every seat he settled within, save the saddle of his own horse. Valarr was quiet, and contemplative. Daeron preferred dim candlelight, on account of his commonly afflicted headaches, and disliked the sensation of armour weighing upon him rather than soft silks and linen.

Perhaps the dream of a Prince was enough.

Myrielle nodded. "I have seen it, too," she spoke, barely managing more than a murmur. "Often." Daeron kissed her knuckles, as though he had been holding his breath bated and thread with his own anxieties.

He moved then, to nudge at her forehead with his own and shift the angle of her neck. As she moved, Daeron caught scent of the perfume wetting the skin. Herbs, he identified, though he did not know which. Something fruity, and fragile. He made sure to store the scent within his mind—safekeeping, for the time of which they'd be apart. He inhaled, before glancing to her mouth. As her chest rose on a slowed inhale, pushing her flesh against the neckline of her gown, her lips parted, and Daeron easily let his own slip between them. He released his grip upon her hands and, instead, cradled her waist where her skirts began to bunch.

Myrielle could not help but sigh against him, allowing her hands to hover over various parts of his torso with a great sense of hesitancy, as not to prod at pooling bruises. Instead did she rise upon the balls of her feet, and lay her arms over the hard line of his shoulders. He kissed her once, then twice, before nudging his nose against her cheek, as he had done so the night prior. It caused a warm sensation to fizzle throughout the cavern of Myrielle's chest, and reminded her muchly of a cat.

"I will talk to my Father," Daeron spoke lowly, reassuring. With his proximity and the manner with which he leaned over her, the length of his eyelashes brushed against Myrielle's cheek. Her face twitched. Daeron was no knight by trade—no warrior, sturdy and brave, but this he could do. When he kissed her for a third time, it was not a motion of his own doing—Myrielle hummed both eagerly and dismissively, her hands moving to settle upon the sides of his face before pulling him towards her. He smiled against her lips pressing against his own, wetting them and soothing the cracks that had begun to form.

Just as Daeron's tongue slipped into Myrielle's mouth, a voice called out for him, a rich tone of Reachland honey.

"Prince Daeron, your Father—" A head of bouncy, red curls poked through the gap left by the study door, and promptly cut itself short with a surprised echo of 'oh!' Sansara giggled and stepped into the room with a turn of her body. For the second time that morn, she placed her hands upon her hips and raised a brow at Myrielle as though she were a naughty toddler. Myrielle huffed and shoved at Daeron's chest in a panic, wringing a tense grunt from him as she pushed against his tender ribs. The Maid smiled widely, but showed no teeth. Her eyes fell upon the Prince. "Your Father has requested your presence. The Host is to leave soon."

"A more sensitive soul may believe that you are stalking me, Sansara." Myrielle accused petulantly, crossing nervous arms over her chest.

Sansara's nose wrinkled as she swallowed another laugh. "Stalking, my Lady?" She gasped. "It is nothing but mere coincidence! This is not the Red Keep, you know." She jested, glancing at Daeron who appeared mildly amused and not at all embarrassed. For the umpteenth time that day, did Myrielle feel the skin of her cheeks flushing, again. She did all but curse her apparent susceptibility to heat. Sansara gestured to the Prince. "You know, my Lady, I am growing rather adept at keeping your secrets."

"It is not a secret."

"Oh?" Sansara's bushy brows raised, creasing her forehead. "Then I shall tell your Father what I have seen?"

"N—wha—Sansara!" Myrielle squawked. "Off with you!"

The Maid giggled, casting a glance to the Lady of the Meadow that noted that they would in fact be speaking of this come nightfall. "As you will. You best come with me, your grace." Myrielle was glad to see Sansara's back then, as she turned to vacate the room, though not before she reached out to fluff an embroidered cushion upon a nearby chair. Myrielle had a vague memory of her Mother sitting within it, resting an open book upon her rounded tummy. She had rested her chin upon it as her Mother read to her. The cushion's fabric was a crushed, soft material of the ermine and blue of her House—Florent. Sansara had been her Mother's best friend since girlhood, or so she had been told. Myrielle knew not of which House the Maid hailed, if any.

"That hurt, you know." Daeron turned to her and exaggerated in a pitiful simper.

Myrielle moved to pinch him with furrowed brows and groping hands, but he managed to manoeuvre himself just out of her reach.

"What was it you said last night?" He went on to muse, momentarily pursing his lips, and humming in thought. "That—"

"No!" Myrielle wailed, flailing her arms and grasping at his torso. "Stop! I—" she interrupted herself with a giggle, "I do not wish to be reminded. You must go!" She palmed at his shoulders in an attempt to forcibly turn his body, but he resisted and instead leaned to place a final, chaste kiss upon her lips. It was gentle, and almost did Myrielle's head follow his own as he parted from her.

Daeron smiled, evidently delighted. He hummed as he turned to leave the study, eclipsing the stream of sunlight that continued to filter through the dirty window. It shimmered upon the floor, shifting to illuminate him as he placed himself within it. Violet eyes squinted marginally and once again found her. "My lady," he began upon an exhale. His tunic heaved. "Will you think of me tomorrow, when I am gone?"

Myrielle's expression pointed as she bit back a grin. "Not if I can can possibly help it, your grace."

"I wish you cannot. I shall surely be dreaming of you." He returned, clenching a trembling hand and bringing it to his chest in an effort to appear aggrieved by her immeasurable cruelty.

"Lech." She huffed in repose. She did not lie—surely would he think of her round breasts and what lay between her legs until next they met. He hoped, however, that she would think of him similarly.

The Prince's head shook, amused with a boyish chuckle, before his smile faded to something solemn. As though he recalled, suddenly, what fate awaited him at Summerhall. Inexplicable loneliness, wrought from his own doing—his own lies. Had merely he done as he was bid, if only he had simply taken Egg to the tourney as he was supposed to; only the Gods knew what events may have unfolded. As soon as he was well enough, Aerion would be carted to Lys. Not that Daeron would mourn his departure in any sense; his brute of a brother was better where none could lay eye upon him, lest they drown within the swell of their own guilt. Egg would undoubtedly attempt to sic himself to Ser Duncan in any way that he was able. To rid himself of his remaining brothers—him—perhaps? Daeron hoped that his Father would busy himself with the girls—young Daella and Rhae of whom he knew embarrassingly little—thus redirecting his blatant, hostile disappointment. He would be left with the mere memory of Myrielle's perfume and the scars of his own wretched incompetency. When last had it just been himself and his Father?

Daeron left the study wordlessly, after that. Myrielle followed minutes later, biding her time with a glance to a large Dornish hourglass settled upon a large, oaken cabinet. A purchase from the market, no doubt, though Myrielle did not know life without it. She seldom entered her Father's study, though so did most, as of late. A thin sheet of dust covered most objects sequestered within the room and any papers of importance had been moved to his bedchambers, allowing him to pour over them in relative comfort. Vacating the study, she peered down the hallway. A servant had slipped into his chamber, gently closing the door behind her, as if she had been afraid of making too much noise. Moments later, a pained groan slipped from beneath the door, and Myrielle cringed. Quickly did her feet take her in the opposite direction.

—

The Targaryen host, as it had done so on their first arrival, impressed Myrielle terribly. Bannermen settled upon sturdy, black destriers with perfectly rounded, thick necks. Above them the Targaryen sigil blazoned, leaning and fluttering within the breeze. The rain had ceased, though the ground beneath them was soft and churning with muddied puddles and silt. Myrielle wondered if the Targaryens bred their horses by their own hand—almost all within the host possessed mounts of a similar ilk. They were not so dissimilar from those reared within the Reach, she thought. Her own horse was a beautiful dapple grey mare; thickly built, with a gently sloping topline and muscled, curled neck. The creature had been a gift for her fifteenth nameday and she had named her 'Foxglove,' after the lilac flowers that grew in the Meadow with great abundance.

As Myrielle approached him, Prince Maekar descended into his usual sneer. Bodies flit from one place to another on squelching toes, carrying veiled packages and uttering commands. Myrielle noticed a particularly squirrely young boy with long brown hair and a supremely sweaty forehead anxiously nodding at a bannerman. "Lord Ashford will not be joining us?" He spoke with a hint of what appeared to be irritation.

Myrielle came to a halt beside his mount. A glorious black creature of wonderful temperament, and a white streak running through its forelock and mane. Immediately did she recognise the beast to be the horse of which Prince Baelor had arrived on, no more than a week prior. She lifted a hand, and set it gently upon the horse's nose. "No, your grace, I am afraid not. You are stuck with the Lady," she attempted to jest to no reaction, "it is no smite on your presence, I assure you. My Father is abed and wrought with pain. He relies on milk of the poppy, though I believe we have most like used our reserves for your son, the Prince." Myrielle shrugged. "He was rather… demanding. But, we have other tinctures that may aid my Father's woes, it is no matter."

It did matter. The next moonturns would be distressing, for herself and her Father alike—but the Prince need not know that. Strangled wails, utterances of confusion and beckoning his eldest daughter by a name not her own. Myrielle had still not managed to steel herself against it.

"My son." Maekar repeated through a breath of exasperation. His neck turned, clenched and taut, casting a glance behind him. Prince Aerion sat slumped within the seat of a carriage meant for material belongings, wrapped within a black and red cloak like a swaddled babe. Though the swelling had since reduced, he appeared with slashes across his skin as though he were some sort of pin cushion. "My fucking son." Maekar repeated again, this time quieter and more terse. "Yes. My sons have caused your family enough grief. My—" Maekar paused, voice softening as he looked back down to her, as though the courtesy sat uncomfortably within him. "My apologies for the… difficulty."

Nestled within the corner of her periphery, Myrielle noticed a bay trotting towards the host. She needn't peer explicitly to have known that upon it sat Daeron. Maekar glanced at him through furrowed brows. Daeron bowed his head, and said nothing.

"It is no fault of your own, your grace, I thank you for your concern. Only the Gods know why events occur in such a way. I am sure my sister will recall this nameday for many years to come." Merely a good-natured jest, though Myrielle suddenly worried that it lacked the taste and tact of the Lady she was pretending to be. She knew, in general, how these things worked—the correct things to say, the decent motions to go through. Sansara had taught her as much, but still did the wriggling worm of disquiet bite holes through her belly.

Prince Maekar hummed, however, expression steeled. "Won't we all."

The horse flicked a velvet lip in an attempt to capture the tips of Myrielle's fingers, causing her to smile. "I hope that your journey back to Summerhall is uneventful, your grace. My Father and I have been honoured to host the Royals." The horse's head flicked as the creature started to become antsy. Myrielle withdrew her arm.

"You are a pleasant girl, Lady Ashford," Maekar mused, regarding her. He almost seemed to huff, though she struggled get an accurate read on the Crown Prince. His mannerisms, she found, were terribly confusing. "Though," he abruptly continued with a twitch of the neck. Wrought from stress, most like, Myrielle concluded. "From what I hear, we may meet again sooner, rather than late."

His voice was gravel, and a million miles from that of his eldest son. Maekar spoke with a lazy sense of confidence—a tone fraught with irritation, but no sense of malice. He spoke that of which he felt, regardless of the reception. Prince Baelor had, on multiple occasions, apologised for his brother's lack of tact. Myrielle had felt no personal slight by it, for it had made the Anvil seem real; not merely a face upon a canvas, or a name hung on storied breath. Daeron, however, spoke with an awkward insecurity laced through each word, as though the very notion of his opinion was a stain upon the world. Often did his voice tremble beneath the weight of uncertainty and wine. Not this morning, though—he had spoken wilfully, and softly.

"Thank you, your grace," Myrielle found herself replying before truly considering the implication of his words. To what did he refer? Had he truly been that shrewd, or had Sansara told him? Though Myrielle considered that to be quite implausible, her thoughts were abruptly interrupted by the intrusion of a member of the host trotting up to the Prince.

"We are ready to depart, your grace," he spoke in a low, regal tone very obviously hailing from the Capital. Maekar nodded and Myrielle stepped back, falling into line with the remainder of her siblings. She had not known when they had materialised there, but in the absence of their Father, it was the best they were able to offer. Already could Myrielle feel the wide, blue eyes of her sister peering at her with a anticipatory expression that was sure to sharpen after the departure of the Royals, though she did her best not to indulge the young Lady.

The young man once again assimilated back into the host, and Maekar turned upon the anxious toes of his horse to make what appeared to be a final headcount. As he did so, Myrielle's eyes—at last—met Daeron. Valarr sat sombre upon his mount beside him, eyes glazed with a pertinent sense of distance and grief. A chilled gust of wind blew suddenly across the Meadow, impatient and moody beneath the grey swirled sky. The air took ahold of the hair streaming down Myrielle's back and she had to fight to maintain her vision with raised palms. Oftentimes, it was easy to forget that Daeron was a Prince, and sat amidst royalty. The ways in which he had clung to her skirts in the evenings, mewled at her and almost wept when they had been in their cups was less than princely and a score more undignified. With her had he found the comfort to unravel, even just so, but now did he command his own sort of regality that Myrielle did not quite recognise. It was beautiful, without a doubt—always was there something deftly appealing about the stringent organisation of a travelling host—but Myrielle had decided she much preferred Daeron as the former, and more himself than any silk and velvet would make him.

As the host began slow, tentative movements forward, Myrielle could not help but call out in a slightly raised voice; "You ought to wear the feather again, your grace." A smattering of concealed titters and, when his mount lazily strode passed, Daeron leaned down.

"How very funny you are, my Lady." He retorted with a lazy roll of violet eyes. Myrielle bit back a smile when, suddenly, Maekar's raised voice boomed against the Castle's battlements.

"Where is Aegon?" He sneered, breathless as his horse danced upon its toes. "Where the fuck is he?"

Glancing back to one another, Myrielle and Daeron met one another in an unknowing shrug. She could not recall seeing the young boy's bald head that morn. When again did their eyes meet, Myrielle's chest flooded with a wave of bountiful melancholy. She thought of him alone and lost within his cups, and almost reached to grasp at his arm and drag him from his mount. Merely did she settle for clasping her hands affront her torso, the raised stitching upon her dress scratching at the skin. She knew she would miss him terribly, and that tears would no doubt await her after the wane of the sun. Daeron smiled sombrely in silent goodbye, before glancing to his Father and squeezing at the sides of his horse. The host began movement in haste to search for the youngest Prince, but before they crossed the portcullis did the Dreamer throw a final glance at the Lady of the Meadow, and winked. The parting motion did not come naturally to him; his presentation far more instilled with a resounding sense of awkwardness, still, though, when his head turned and cheeks flushed at the absurdity of his own actions did he hear a rush of incoherent squawking.

"Myrielle! Gods—" Gwin rushed loudly, grasping her sister fiercely by the arm and tugging. "Myrielle!" She laughed again, before the glint of shock within her eye turned to mischief. "I'm going to tell Father." She vowed, resolute, genuine and tilting her chin upwards. Myrielle knew she meant it.

"Gwin! You wretched little girl!" Myrielle cried, jerking her sister's hands from her.

             Bruce Wayne had faced a lot of odd situations during his long tenure as Batman. He had fought monsters from other worlds, he had dueled the evil version of himself, he had even switched bodies with some of the Leaguers more than once. After the first or second incident of these shenanigans, he had written it as a hazard of the job, and proceeded to face the mayhem of his everyday life with an impressive poker face. He kept an extra set of clothes for random body switches in the back of his closet, he kept charts of other timelines; nothing wasn’t prepared for.

Well, perhaps, except for this.

Bruce looked down into the playpen Alfred had dug out of the basement an hour ago. Damian, still in his Robin uniform, was crouched next to the plastic bars, his expression teetering on the edge of panic. Inside were four toddlers, all dressed in some clothes Alfred kept from Bruce’s younger days. Three boys, one girl. One of the boys, dressed in a blue t-shirt was attempting to do a headstand on one side of the playpen, while one of the other boys, this one tinier than the rest, reached out for his brother in case he fell. The other boy, clad in a red shirt that was much too big for him, was playing with a set of toy cars Alfred had dug out of the basement, making noises as he crashed them into one another. The long girl, in a small black t-shirt, was drawing with a box of crayons in the corner.

Bruce coughed. The toddler versions of Dick, Jason, Tim and Cass looked back at him. 

This was going to be a long week.

***

When Bruce had gotten the emergency alert from Damian, he had been expecting the worse. The villain he had sent his children after, a new man on the street, was almost a magic user, and while he almost seemed harmless, there was always the chance for something to go horribly wrong.

He was rather surprised when he showed up to find Damian surrounded by four toddlers.

Zatanna had come as soon as she could and gave the diagnosis; it wasn’t permanent, but it would linger for around three days. Until then, Bruce was just going to have to suck it up.

Criminals Bruce could deal with. Small children; well that was another story.

***

“Superboy, when I asked you to watch Tim, I thought it was implied that you would do so safely.”

Superboy paused a few inches off the ground, Tim tucked in his arms. The little boy had his arms outstretched, a happy grin on his face. Tim was in a tiny Superboy t-shirt, and while he had drooled on it a little, Conner had clearly taken it as a ringing endorsement.

“I promise, he’s perfectly safe.” Conner said, beginning to set the boy on the ground. Tim began to reach up back towards Conner, wiggling in the older boys grasp, and Conner sighed, lifting him up again. “I haven’t been flying much higher than this, and I’d never drop him. Isn’t that right, Tim?”

‘Up, Conner up!” Tim cried. Conner complied, throwing the boy up a foot before catching him again. Tim giggled, clutching Superboy’s t-shirt and Bruce sighed.

“Just keep your feet on the ground.” Conner did as he was told, frowning. He looked down to the ground.

“At least I’m not as high up as Clark,” he muttered. Bruce’s eye grew wide and he looked up to find Superman flying near the top of the cave, introducing Dick to some of the bats.

The resounding yell of “Kent” echoed throughout the entire cave.

***

“Meanie!” Bruce walked into the room to find Stephanie holding Cassandra on her lap in front of the television. Stephanie was braiding Cassandra’s hair as the little child glared at the television before her. Noticing Bruce’s entrance, Stephanie looked up to smile at the man.

“Hey boss,” she said, her voice light. “I figured I’d show Cass some Disney movies.”

Bruce turned so he could get a look at the screen. He didn’t recognize the movie, but from the looks of it, it involved a girl with very long hair. Stephanie kept braiding, looked up to see Bruce’s expression and smiled.

“It’s Tangled. A new one; likely a lost cause for your dark brittle heart.” She pointed to the screen. “Cass wanted braids in her hair too, so I decided to help her out. We’re crowning her princess tonight, aren’t we Cass?”

Cassandra put her hands on her hips and grinned. “Princess Batgirl.”

Stephanie smiled, and poked Cassandra’s nose. “That’s right, kiddo.” She looked back to Bruce. “Don’t worry, I am an experienced babysitter. Nothing to fear here.”

“Princess Cassandra.” Bruce turned with wide eyes to find Alfred walking into the room with a paper made crown and a basket of flowers. “I’ve brought the flowers you requested.” Alfred, to Bruce’s increasing amazement, gave a long bow, and left the flowers and crown right next to the small girl. Cassandra stood up and curtsied, turning bright red.

“Don’t give me that look, Master Bruce,” Alfred said walking out of the room. “You should have seen me when you were convinced that you were the Grey Ghost.”

Stephanie’s resulting laughter drowned out all the noise from the television.

***

“Todd, I demand you quiet down at once!”

Bruce walked into the cave after patrol, peeling off the cowl as he did so. Sitting in the middle of the cave was Damian, surrounded by all the toddlers. In his lap was a book, “The Ugly Duckling” but it clearly hadn’t been opened. Jason, who was sitting right next to Tim, crossed his arms.

“I wanna know how it ends.”

“I’m getting there Todd,” Damian said, lifting his chin. “You see Batman discovered the Riddler’s ploy, and decided to lure him out into the open while Robin dismantled the system.”

There was a chorus of ohhs and ahhs from the boy’s attentive audience.

“He had the Riddler trapped on the roof of the toy factory. The police would be there any moment.  Batman lunged at the criminal, ready to capture him, but the Riddler had another plan in store. A trap door on the roof of the building.”

“A trap door could stop Batman?” Tim asked. Damian rolled his eyes.

“Of course not, Drake, but the fiend didn’t know that. The Riddler sprang his trap but Batman avoided it, leaping over the and tackling the Riddler to the ground. Gotham was safe.”

“What happened after that?” Tim asked again, raising his hand. Damian sighed.

“That’s the end of the story Drake. The police came, the Riddler went to jail and Robin and Batman kept fighting crime.”

“After stopping home to visit his children of course,” Bruce said, stepping out of the shadows. The toddlers all looked up in surprise and ran over to hug Bruce’s legs. Damian turned bright red, tucking the book next to the Batcomputer.

“I didn’t know you were such an accomplished story teller, Damian,” Bruce said. Damian scowled.

“They wouldn’t be quiet, so I had to use some distraction skills. It was training.”

Training Bruce would certainty save from the Batcave cameras, that was for sure.

“Love you, Bruce,” Dick said, tugging at the end of Bruce’s cape. The man smiled.

            Dick was already waiting outside of Jason’s dorm when he woke up.

            Jason stretched up in his bunk, and peered outside the window. Standing below on the street was Dick, his motorcycle parked right next to him. He waved up to Jason, a small smile on his face.

“Dick?” Jason rubbed his eyes, blinking a few times. He reached down for his phone and froze when the date appeared on the screen.  March 10th. “Aw fuck.”

He leapt out of bed, grabbing his clothes that he had laid out the night before. Being a vigilante for a few years had taught him a few tricks about getting dressed in a flash.  In less than five minutes he was ready, and after quickly locking his door, he ran out into the hallway, ignoring the questions from some of his fellow classmates who were wandering the halls.

As soon as he stepped outside, all his momentum vanished. His shoulder’s slumped and he walked over to Dick with a grave look on his face.

“You forget?” Dick and Jason were the same height now almost, but Jason always felt like the man loomed over him. Probably something to do with an older brother complex. Jason glared.

“Course not. I just…well I woke up and it took awhile to hit me, that’s all.” He grabbed the extra motorcycle helmet Dick kept on the cycle and strapped it onto his head. “Let’s get a move on Goldie.”

The ride took only fifteen minutes, not bad considering the traffic that usually surrounded Gotham U. The cemetery’s plant life was just starting to bloom in the early days of spring. Dick parked the cycle off the street and within a few moments, they had reached their destination.

Tim’s grave was perfectly polished, despite years of wear and tear from Gotham’s elements. A fresh set of flowers, lilies, were set in front of the marble, likely from the boy’s father and step-mother. Bruce had clearly been there as well, since there was a single rose and a chess piece placed on top of Tim’s grave. Jason and Dick didn’t carry any flowers, they had long decided that placing them on Tim’s grave was redundant, but they brought their own gifts.

“Hey, kid.” Jason reached into his pocket and pulled out an empty packet of cigarettes, which he placed next to the flowers. “I’m still off the smokes. Figured it’d be a nice present.” Dick had brought something of his own, a brochure from the circus.

“Hope you like it, little brother,” he said. He looked to Jason, whose eyes were fixed on Tim’s death date. “How’s Bruce?”

“Why don’t you ask him?” Dick looked away and Jason sighed. “What was the fight about this time?”

“Don’t worry about it.” Jason kicked the dirt with the toe of his sneakers.

“I’ll watch him on patrol tonight if that’s what you’re asking. Make sure he doesn’t do anything dumb.”

Dick snickered. “Not even Tim was capable of that.”

The two boys looked down at the grave of the brother who was never theirs to begin with. Neither said anything if one began to cry.

***

The Joker had almost killed Jason once.

It was when he was searching for his Mom, reckless and wild. The Joker had tricked him, locking him in a warehouse before almost beating him to death. Bruce had barely gotten there in time before the place blew, and even then, it was at the cost of Jason’s birth mother.

Jason’s lesson from the incident had been a few scars on his skull, a the occasional headache, and a lifetime wariness of clowns. He had left the mantle of Robin two years later, taking on Red Robin instead, when he found a boy on the streets taking photos who seemed to need the position more.

Tim had lasted a year. Then came the Joker, a bigger bomb and a bigger boom.

Jason wasn’t sure what traumatized him more; the loss of a kid he saw as a brother, or the fact that when he looked down at Tim’s grave, sometimes he saw his own name.

***

Being a vigilante was hard. Being a vigilante in college was harder.

“Look Batman,” Jason said, following Bruce as they weaved through industrial area of Gotham. “You may have managed to ditch Robin for this patrol, but you’re not ditching me. You’re gonna have to cave and give me the scoop.”

“Go back home, Red Robin.” The growl sounded more fierce than usual, but Jason had been long immune. He rolled his eyes, running towards Batman before flipping so he landed facing the man.

“Look,” he poked the man in the chest, raising his chin to try to seem more intimidating. “Your emotionally compromised, and you need help when you’re a wreck. Robin told me what you were up to today; watching the feed by the graves before sending her packing to the Titans. Either call Robin on her cell phone, or deal with me. Or I’ll call in the big guns.”

Batman’s gaze narrowed, but after a stare down that would have impressed Dick he nodded. “Drug dealers. Found beheaded in each of their hideouts with a message.” He began to walk forward and Jason followed, close at his heels.

“What was the message?”

“I’m in charge now. Work for me, or see your entrails hanged up as Christmas lights. The Red Hood.”

Jason bristled at the Joker’s old name, but tried to hide it. “You think it’s the clown?”

Batman shook his head. “Joker is locked up. No way it’s him.” He reached out his grappling how and aimed it towards the nearest building before flying off. “This is someone new.”

***

The Red Hood was fucking good.

Bruce and Jason had cornered him outside of the south district, but the guy had gotten away. But not before blowing him to hell. Jason was sure his bruises had bruises.

He woke up the next morning and stretched, trying not to wince at the pain from lingering bruises. He pulled out his computer, the one he kept for Bat work only, and opened up the files of the Red Hood.

Oracle had gotten one good photo of the guy, which she had made sure to send to every member of the family. The Red Hood was dressed in a black leather jacket, with two guns, a knife and some smoke bombs attached to his belt. His combat boots were military grade, or at least good rip offs. On his back, he had a bo staff with retractable blades. Jason rubbed one of the cuts he had gained last night as he stared at the staff. He knew those moves, the style the man used. But from where he couldn’t place it.

That didn’t stop him from shuddering anyway.

***

He had just gotten out of Math lecture when he got the call from Dick.

“Jason, something is up.” Jason tugged his backpack so it was hanging from both of his shoulders, and tilted the phone closer.

“Is Bruce okay?”

“No, no.” The slight edge of panic in Jason’s gut vanished. “It’s just that the photo of the Hood; it’s gone. Someone wiped it from the servers. And it wasn’t any of us.”

Jason almost dropped the phone. “Someone got in!” There was silence from the other end. “That isn’t possible. Our codes are fucking unbreakable, Dick!”

“Calm down,” Dick said and Jason made an effort to soften his voice. “He left a message to. Something about his next hit. Bruce is going tonight, but he’s restricted us from coming.”

There was a pause for a few seconds before Jason said anything. “So we’re totally going, right?”

“You know it.”

***

The scene they stumbled on was horrific.

They got there after Bruce, the Bat and the Hood running out into the night. Nightwing, Red Robin and Robin all stared down through the window of the warehouse the Hood had led them into. Inside, the biggest child murders of the last ten years, all who had gone missing a week ago, lied on the floor, their skin peeled off of their bodies. In the middle was a chalk outline of a body, likely one of a teenage boy. In the middle of the chalk outline was just a simple sentence.

“How many more are you going to let go?”

Robin turned a bright shade of green, and it took some reassurance from Nightwing before she could breath again. Stephanie was a tough kid, but there was only so much she could take.             They jumped rooftop to rooftop until they reached the one where Bruce and the Hood were standing on. Both were facing one another, their postures guarded.

“Remember, if he get’s into trouble we jump,” Dick said. He opened his mouth to say something else before he cut off entirely.

The Red Hood had taken off his mask. Stephanie, Dick and Jason stared at the man, no the boy, standing on the roof with various expressions of surprise. Bruce seemed just as frozen, his posture almost stilted.

His new body felt lighter.

He had never realized how old his had gotten, not really. After years of walking the earth with the same set of bones, he had forgotten what it was like to be truly young. Not young by the means of the pit; young without that acid flowing through his veins. It had to have been decades.

Ra’s got out of bed, stretching his new limbs. It had been months since he had taken this body, months, but he still felt slightly off balance. It would wear off, he knew that, but until then, he made sure to “break it in” so to speak. After doing his exercises, he walked over to the mirror in his room and smiled.

Timothy Drake smiled back at him.

***

The Bat hadn’t stopped pestering him since he gained his new body.

He hadn’t seen Wayne since the day he acquired his new flesh, though the man had tried to get his hands on Ra’s. Messages were frequently sent, and every few weeks or so, the League had to clear out to a new location to avoid a raid from the Justice League. But the Bat had not gotten his hands on Ra’s yet, and Ra’s knew how to keep it that way.

***

His assassins had gotten sloppy since he had changed.

Ra’s ducked forward as an assassin, likely from another clan, dived towards him, blade outstretched. He punched the man in his stomach before he could change directions and he went down at once. Ra’s nimbly grabbed the blade from the man’s hands, and looked down at the figure below him.

The assassin wasn’t young, perhaps thirty at the most with short brown hair and a lined face. His scars spoke of his pervious experience. “That attempt was pathetic. Did you think you could so easily destroy the demon’s head?”             The assassin glared and Ra’s sighed, placing his bare foot over the man’s neck to cut off his air supply. He didn’t used to get this level of defiance from his opponents. It was likely from young Timothy’s baby face. He pinched his own cheeks and scowled. Hopefully his body would sort itself out before this became an annoyance.

The man below him struggled and Ra’s looked down, remembering the captive at his mercy. He took in a deep breath before lifting the blade. In one crisp movement, he was standing in a pool of blood.

***

He had dreams about young Timothy’s life sometimes.

It was tiresome, living the boy’s struggles and triumphs.  He would be dreaming normally of riding down the beach with a sword at his side, but soon the dream would shift to that of a high school with brick walls and alarm bells.

There were some common figures in these dreams. Some of Timothy’s friends, a boy named Ives, and a girl named Ari. Some of the members of the Teen Titans. A few of the Bat’s clan too; a young bright blond by the name of Stephanie, and the acrobat that the Bat admired. Sometimes Timothy’s father would appear as well, looming over Ra’s, a boomerang sticking out of his chest.

When he woke up, he made sure to write every name down. It never hurt to have some leverage on file, even if it was leverage on a boy who no longer existed.

***

His daughter didn’t approve. She had been one of the people the Bat had called to arms in his futile quest to gain back his son’s body. She had found him once, soon after the deed was done. He had barely managed to escape.

She should have been thankful. He had spared her son after all.

***

He had only had to use the pit once since acquiring Timothy’s body.

He had been badly hurt, with a bullet to the side. His men were forced to take him to the pit and dunk him under for the first time in months.

He had thought it would be comforting, almost familiar to soak in the green juices once more. But his new body was not used to the sting of the pit’s waters that his old body had grown accustomed to.

As soon as it touched his wound, his body was on fire.

And while he had gotten used to his new voice, the screaming that echoed through the cave sounded much more like the screams of Timothy Drake than those of Ra’s Al Ghul.

***

The assassins had become more frequent. Someone, someone with deep knowledge of his organization was out to kill him, and bribing his own men to do it.

So he investigated. The last assassin he caught was tortured personally until he gave up the name of his employer and the letter he had been given. Ra’s had read it over several times, each time his frown deepening.

“Make sure the body can’t come back. If you kill Ra’s, you get a bonus. But make sure the body he inhabits is fucking useless to him so it can rest in peace.”- The Red Hood.

He settled on burning the letter, but not before sending a copy to the Bat himself, with a personal note. He could bother with Todd. Ra’s had a life ahead of him.

***

He stopped having Timothy’s dreams a week later. That night the Bat caught up to him outside of France. As Ra’s stepped on the Bat’s chest, the Bat lifted off his mask, gasping through bloody lips.

“Tim.”

            “Roy!” Jason threw his cards on the table, glaring at the grinning archer who was sitting across from him.  In Roy’s hand was a full flush, laid on the wooden surface. Kori’s eyes grew wide and she pushed her hair back.

            “Your luck is something to marvel,” she said to Roy who grinned like it was his fucking birthday. Jason seethed in his wheelchair.

            If Dick had told him two years ago that he would end up being best friends with Speedy and Dick’s hot girlfriend, he would probably have laughed himself silly. Somehow it had become reality. They were all huddled in Roy’s shitty safehouse that he kept in Gotham, all around a small wooden table that looked like it was about to break. The paint on the walls was peeling, the floorboards popping up. Jason could spot one of Roy’s arrows peeking out under the carpet. Kori was dressed in a pair of sweats and a t-shirt that she had probably borrowed from Roy’s closet, and Roy was still in full uniform, grinning like a loon.

            Jason loved his friends, but they were such massive cheats.

            “His luck is the product of a trick hand and a pile of bullshit, Kori,” Jason said, leaning over the table. He reached for the batterang in his pocket and held it out threateningly in Roy’s direction. “How are you doing it, Harper?”

            Roy shrugged. “I’m an innocent man, Jay. Just good luck.”

            Jason opened his mouth but his phone buzzed in his pocket. He pulled it out as well, resting the batterang on the table and lifted it up to his ear.

            “Todd here. What shit have you gotten yourself into this time, Replacement? “

            “You’re grumpy. PT? Is Roy scamming you at cards again?” Jason glared in Roy’s direction.

            “Roy could never get the jump on me, birdbrain.” Roy smirked and Jason flicked him off. Maybe he would enforce a “no costumes with poker” rule and see if that did the trick.  “What do you need?”

            “A favor. Not a work one, but a personal one,” Tim sounded a bit nervous now and Jason chuckled, leaning back in his wheelchair.

            “How’d you piss of Ari this time?”

            “Not that! It’s just…uh…well.” The next phrase Tim said was so fast that Jason could barely make it out. He pressed the phone closer to his ear.

            “What?”             Tim sighed. “I could really use another player for my D and D team. Just tonight; Ives is sick, and without him, I’m going to get crushed.”

            There was a long pause. Kori and Roy looked at Jason with varying levels as concern.

            “You want me to play Dungeon’s and Dragons? You’re shitting me, kid.”

            The concern vanished from Roy’s face and he bent over laughing, his face as red as his suit. Kori tiled her head, her red locks almost touching the floor.

            “What is this Dungeon and Dragon’s Jason speaks of?”

            “It’s a game, Kori,” Roy said, wheezing. “A really nerdy game.”

            “I can hear Roy laughing,” Tim said over the line. “This is stupid-“

            “It is,” Jason cut in before Tim could hang up. “Why didn’t you call big bird? He’s more social.”

            “He’s on duty tonight. You’re not. Plus, you’d be better at it. You work a super computer for a career; you’re fast on the uptake.”

            “I’m going to frame that compliment on my wall.” Jason looked down to the wooden table and took in his remaining cash. At the rate he was losing, he was going to be broke within the hour. He shoved the batterang back in his pocket. “Can I be a mage and shoot shit, or am I’m going to have to be a lame dwarf or something?”

            After a few minutes of character planning later, Jason hung up. “I gotta bounce guys.“

            “Tell Robin that I would also wish to learn this game,” Kori said. Roy tried to hide his laugh.

            “Yeah, Jason. Have fun bonding with your brother. Watch out for the goblins.”

            Jason put his phone away and reached for the wheels of his wheelchair, moving himself out of the safehouse, Roy’s words echoing in his head.

            Brother. It wasn’t true, factually; Tim still had his stepmother and Father. Bruce hadn’t adopted him. But otherwise it fit the bill.

            “Suck it Dick,” he said, wheeling towards the nearest bus stop. “Jason Todd is winning big brother of the year.”

***

            Things were better, much better since he had dragged Tim on ship. Bruce was less reckless. Dick was around more often. Cassandra had shown up. Jason’s family, all broken in their own ways, was actually becoming a cohesive unit. He was getting good grades, and was on his way to graduating high school with the highest honors. He had friends. Despite the fights with Bruce, the stupid injuries, and the occasional sparring the broke out over monopoly, things were better. Actually, things were almost good.

                        Then the clench hit and everything went to shit.

  ***

            Dick was the one who brought Tim in.

            A dude had spat in the kid’s face, apparently, and Tim went down a bit later. He was hot, feverish, and twitchy. Dick was pessimistic; according to the odds, Tim was dead. But Jason had survived being beaten within an inch of his life and blown to pieces.

            Robin could survive almost anything. Even if he wasn’t able to be Robin anymore.

            “Hey kid,” Jason said, wheeling over to him after Dick had left. “Alfred’s going to make sure you hang on here. I’m going to be hanging by the computer and making sure that B doesn’t get himself blown up. Don’t do anything to crazy, okay?”

            Tim grinned at him, and Jason ignored the blood that was starting to pool in the kids eyes. He pulled a blanket over the kid higher, and moved out of the way so Alfred could take over. Moving to the computer was a common trip and soon enough he was plugged into the grid.

            “You’re risking getting sick, Oracle, by staying down there,” Batman growled over the com. Jason blew him off.

            “You’re risking getting shanked; I’m sure I can handle a few germs. Plus, someone’s got to keep everyone in order.” He turned on the communicators for the rest of the family and cracked his knuckles.

            “Let’s get going guys; we got a boy wonder to save.”

***

            The work went slowly.

            Managing the task force in what people were calling the end of the world wasn’t easy, and Jason could feel himself succumbing to the strain. Batman had managed to gain a hold of the cure, though he was working to get it back to Gotham. The Birds of Prey, Nightwing and Batgirl were keeping the city in check. He took occasional breaks to help Alfred with Tim, joking with the kid and keeping him alert. Jason had gone through at least three bottles of soda in his effort so stay awake and alert.

            Jason took off his soundproof headset and turned to look over by Tim and Alfred. Tim was still holding on, but he had succumbed to fever dreams a long time ago.

            “Hey Alfred.” He wheeled over next to the butler keeping his voice hushed. Alfred’s eyes were red, and Jason could see tears dripping down the old man’s face. He reached forward, tugging the Alfred’s arm. “How’s he doing?”             Alfred didn’t look at him, keeping his eyes on Tim’s chest. “Not well. Master Bruce will be home with the antidote soon. I’m not sure if he’ll be able to make it that far.”

            Jason looked over to Tim, who was huddled over in bed. “He’ll make it, Alfie. We always do.” He wheeled over to Tim and brushed the boy’s hair back. “Don’t let the old man down, Replacement. I’m putting all my money on you.” He looked back up to Alfred. “I’ll stay here for a bit. Keep him company while you medical it up.”

            The caffeine started to ware off, and Jason leaned forward, resting his head on the bed. It was better than falling asleep at his desk. He began to reach forward, then glanced at Alfred.

            “You can never tell anyone I did this or my reputation will be ruined,” he told the butler before reaching out to take Tim’s hand. He felt like a girl, but the kid couldn’t see; he needed some sort of outside contact. Jason’s dignity could take a blow for that kind of noble effort.  Soon enough he closed his eyes, and he fell asleep with his head on the mattress, listening to the beeps of Tim’s heart monitor.

***

                                    His dreams that night, intermixed with the noise around him, remained in his memory for years to come. He remembered the sound of an alarm, not loud enough to disturb him awake. He remembered the sensation of being gently pushed back into his wheelchair and the sound of beeps, of quiet sobs. The sound of Tim’s name being whispered like his had been whispered those two years ago as Bruce carried him away from the wreckage of the warehouse. The sensation of someone lifting him out of his chair (it had to be Bruce, only Bruce knew how to do that without hurting him) and placing him on another cot.

            It was only when he woke up and turned to the side to see Tim’s cot gone and Nightwing crying softly in a chair beside him, that it all clicked together.

            “No,” Jason whispered, staring at the space where his younger brother had once been. Dick looked up just in time to see Jason vomit on the cave floor.

***

            Bruce told Jack Drake before the funeral.

            Jason wasn’t there to see it; all the strain had caused him and Alfred to be saddled down with the worst cold known to man. But he could hear it, echoing up the staircase, the shouts of two men, two childless fathers, trying to tear each other’s throats out.

            “You had no right to put him in that position! I should have known! Tim should have never been out there!”

            “Jack-“

            Jason knew the sound of a punch when he heard it, and judging by the echo, Bruce was going to have a sporting black eye.

            “He died because of you!”

            Jason closed his eyes.

            No. Tim had been his idea. Tim had died because of him.

***

            The Wayne family was barred from the funeral. Jack didn’t tell the papers, he wasn’t that spiteful, but they weren’t allowed within a mile of the arrangements.

            Jason still watched though, from a camera he had Dick set up. He only made it five minutes of Jack talking about his son’s achievements before turning it off and throwing his coffee cup against the wall.

            Tim deserved better.  A Robin deserved better.

            Sitting in his chair, looking down at the broken pieces of ceramics, Jason decided to make sure of it.

***

            “I want to host a funeral for Robin.”

            He started with Dick because Dick was the one ally he needed if this was going to happen. Ever since Tim’s death a week ago, Dick had holed himself up in Bludhaven. He didn’t answer messages, didn’t take calls, hell, from the feed Jason had on his apartment, he didn’t even leave the place. So Jason was forced to do a little leg work.

            “How did you get here, Jason?” Dick looked like shit, half dressed and dead tired. Jason pointed out the window to where a small car was waiting.

            “Had Stephanie drive. But you heard me. A funeral. For Robin. We need to have one.”

            “Jason-“

            “Don’t try that shit with me, Dick, don’t you fucking dare,” Jason stuck his finger in Dick’s chest. “Replacement deserves better than a funeral that cites his GPA as his mark on the world.  He deserves a hero’s funeral.  Where his friends can attend. His family.”

            Dick sighed. “Jack isn’t going to like it.”

            “Jack can go fuck himself.”

            And that was that.

***

            The funeral was huge.

            Every cape that had ever worked with Robin showed up, all in their civilian attire. The Teen Titans came in droves, each one looking miserable. Dozens upon dozens of  costumed heroes that Tim had helped save while in costume showed. 

            They didn’t have a body. But they had Tim’s costume. And while it wasn’t enough, it was never going to be enough, they buried that instead.

            It wasn’t until Bruce showed up, cowless and pale that Jason finally allowed himself to cry.

                He was burning on the rack, claws digging into his shoulders, blood dripping down into the inferno below. Pieces of his skin had been flayed off and Damian could smell the ashes as the man screams echoed in his ears.

            The man on the rack twitched, a final death move, before falling limp. Damian struggled to make it to him from his cage, fighting the forces holding him back. He yelled, kicked, clawed for freedom, but nothing gave. The man, now little more than a piece of meat, smiled, his teeth stained with blood and opened his eyes. They were dark black, no irises in sight.

            “Hello, Little D. Miss me?”

            Damian woke up screaming. He was in a motel room, one will old west wallpaper. He had thrown off his sheets during his nightmare, blankets in a heap on the floor. There was a faint trace of light in the room coming from the television and he could make out the faint smell of popcorn.

            “Sorry, I have to stop chewing you out; Damian’s having a nightmare again. Be careful and call me.” That was Stephanie’s voice. He turned slightly to see Stephanie, clad in purple pajamas, placing her cell phone back in her bag. Her hair was up in a ponytail, blond bangs hanging over her eyes. She stood up, popcorn bowl in hand, walking over to Damian’s bed and sitting down on the corner.

            “Hey,” she said. Her voice was softer than usual, not so soft that it came off as worrying, but just enough to be soothing. “Vision or nightmare?”

            Damian didn’t answer, sinking down the pile of pillows he had propped himself against. Stephanie threw a piece of popcorn into her mouth. “Okay, nightmare. Wanna talk about it?”

            Damian’s glare was enough of a response. Stephanie shrugged, grabbing the popcorn bowl and walking back over to her bed, sitting down.

            “Well, if you want to, I’m going to be awake for a while longer. Caught some of “Tangled” on the television, and I’m a sucker for Disney.” She gestured to the television, where Rapunzel was singing her heart out a bar of thugs. She placed the popcorn on the bedside table between them. “You can join in, if you want. It’s a classic. Oh, and yes, you can steal my popcorn.”

            Damian didn’t answer, still glaring off in Stephanie’s direction. Stephanie didn’t look his way, leaning back on her bed, typing reports on her laptop as the movie played on. She paused every second or so to glance at Damian out of the corner of her eye. The teen had started to grab the popcorn, and Stephanie struggled to keep a smile off her face. A few minutes later, he finally spoke up.

            “That frying pan is a surprisingly effective weapon.”

            Stephanie didn’t bother to hide her grin this time. “Tell me about it. Thought about adding one to the truck, but I couldn’t find one that was pure silver.”

            “Too bad.”

            The two sat there for the rest of the movie, Stephanie sending out emails to fellow hunters, Damian commenting on the movie every few minutes or so. By the time the credits rolled, Damian was fast sleep, curled up next to the popcorn bowl in his bed. Stephanie sighed, getting up to throw one of the sheets over the kid.

            “I should have gone into babysitting.”

***

            To say that the last month had been difficult for Stephanie would be the understatement of perhaps the year.

            First Dick had died in a perfect plan to save his soul, that had gone perfectly wrong. Tim, her best friend, had gone sprinting off to god knows where. Demons had gotten more active than usual, so much that Stephanie had to pick up some of the slack that was falling through Alfred and Barbara’s fingers as the phones rang off the hook.

`           And then there was Damian. A fourteen year old brat of a kid who had just lost the person he had cared most about. A kid who was down a chaperone, an advisor, and a father figure.

            Stephanie wasn’t sure how she managed to take responsibility for the kid. She never outright stated it, and Dick had never asked her. But somehow, three days after Dick’s death, she found herself packing the car calling for Damian to “get his ass in gear.”

            The first thing she did when Damian had fallen asleep that first night was burn all of his I.D’s. There wasn’t going to be anymore soul selling on her watch.

***

            Stephanie had three basic rules when dealing with traumatized, grieving, teenaged demon hunters.

1.      Keep all supplies that could potentially summon demon out of reach or somewhere they would never dare to touch. Her bag full of period supplies had been working nicely.  

2.      All nightmares are to be combated by passive aggressive Disney movie watching.

3.      Always take the weird cases.

Okay, so the last one had been a rule for Stephanie in general but it was working nicely anyway

“You have to be intoxicated to see this spirit?” Damian asked as Stephanie got a bottle of vodka out of her bag. She grabbed the nearest glass, a mug with a unicorn on it, and poured herself a decent amount.

“Yep.” She brought the mug to her lips and took a sip. She paused, swallowed, and shuddered, coughing once. “Oh yeah, that should do the trick.”

Damian sat down in the seat across from her and reached for the bottle. Stephanie grabbed it before he even got close.

“Don’t even think about it, boy wonder. I’m going to be our eyes for the mission, so I need someone to watch my back. You are now my official back watcher.”

Damian sulked. “Both of us should be able to see the spirit.” Stephanie poured herself another glass.

“One of us should be able to walk straight so we can slay the thing. Plus, you are way too young to get wasted. You should be thanking me- you get to kill an alcohol spirit with a sword. I would have killed for that at your age.”

Damian leaned in, raising an eyebrow. He looked less put out. “A sword?”

“You betcha.”

Six hours and one dead shojo later, they were back in the hotel room. Stephanie was curled over the toilet bowl, looking a frightening shade of green, while Damian was sitting outside the bathroom door, appraising the sword in his hands.  

“Can I keep this? It’s a fine blade.”

Stephanie looked up, her eyes red rimmed. “As long as you don’t try to kill Tim with it.”

Damian clutched the blade closer. “I make no such promises.”

Stephanie’s response was to groan in the toilet bowl.

***

After a month on the road, things started to improve. The surge of monsters hadn’t gotten any smaller, but Barbara and Alfred had made a system to answer every call in record time. Damian’s nightmares, while still present, grew somewhat less frequent. And Tim popped his head out of the woodwork. Well, more like Tim got his ass hauled out of the woodwork by one Jason Peter Todd.

“They found Drake,” Damian said, from the passenger’s seat in the car. They were driving up an old dirt road, the midmorning sun shining down through the dust and grime. “He’s fine, if not a little out of sorts. Todd is going to be traveling with him.”

“Thank god,” Stephanie said, making a turn on the road. “Jason text you?”

“I texted him actually. Wanted to inquire about his progress in finding Drake.” Stephanie had to hold back the urge to throw holy water at the kid. Damian seemed to notice her unease. “I’m not possessed, Brown. You’ve been worrying about Drake to a ridiculous extent. It’s distracting. I can’t afford to have you distracted.”

Stephanie glanced at him. “Aw, you do care.”

The bickering that resulted almost ran them off the road.

***

Stephanie hated Djinns. Hated them with a fiery burning passion. They were the first beasts to almost kill her, one chaining her up for days and making her suffer terrible visions of torture and pain. She escaped, beat the bad guy, but the incident had almost killed her and left her wary of the creatures ever since.

And now they had Damian. Three of them to be exact. Damian was tied up in a chair, his head limp. One of the beasts stood in front of him grinning, while two flanked his sides in the back corners. It was more than she had ever faced, and it had only taken one to bring her down last time.

Then again, this wasn’t last time. There might have been more djinns but Stephanie had learned a lot of new tricks. She jumped down from the shadows, stabbing one of the flaking Djinns in the heart, before throwing a knife at the other flanking one. It hit right on target, both of the beasts falling to their knees at once.  The one in the middle turned, jumping at her with clawed hands, but she dodged, tripping the man to the floor before getting him in the heart as well.

She ran to Damian, cutting the ropes free and slapping the kid’s face. She felt for his pulse, and upon finding it, reached into her bag for some dreamroot she kept lying around. After mixing the concoction in a record time of three minutes, she chugged the thing and lied down.

When she opened her eyes she was standing on a cliff, looking down at the most horrific thing that she had ever seen. It was a pit of fire, that was the best way to describe it, and down below were chains holding screaming humans in place. Claws dug into their flesh, ripping, and she could smell the blood looking down.

This was hell. Or at least, what Damian thought it was like. Stephanie didn’t think he was all that far off.

“Get back!” She turned towards the sound of Damian voice. He was on the other edge of the cliff, backing away from a figure in jeans and a blue hoodie. Damian was near the very tip of the cliff, one step away from falling into the hole himself. The figure was leaving an impressive trail of blood behind him, one of his arms outstretched towards the kid. Stephanie broke out in a dead sprint, her feet clattering against the rock.

“Damian!” The boy turned towards her, his eyes growing wider. She had never seen him that pale. She slid in between the boy and the figure, placing her hands on Damian’s shoulders. “Look this isn’t real, you’re asleep, it-“

“Hello Stephanie.” She froze. The voice was distorted, broken and raw but she regonized it all the same. She looked over her shoulder, keeping her expression blank. Dick Grayson, dressed in the same blue hoodie he had died in was looking down at her, a large smile on his face. He front of his hoodie was torn, and she could see his guts and blood through the long jagged claw marks. Some of it dripped down onto the ground, hissing as it sunk into the dirt. His blue eyes were gone, replaced by black circles, lifeless and cruel.

“You aren’t real,” She said, standing up, keeping Damian hidden behind her.

“I might as well be.” He smiled and she flinched from the memory of Dick’s old mannerisms. He pointed towards Damian. “He killed me, you know.  Doomed me since he walked in. The demonic boy who dragged me into his parade of demons and monsters because he couldn’t keep his ass alive.”

“You were in that world long before Damian came along,” Stephanie said her voice steady. She kept her hands on her hips.

“I was living before he came along. I gave that kid everything, and for what? He was supposed to save me, you see?” Dick took a step closer and Stephanie resumed a fighting post, ready to strike. “He’s the one who should be here, rotting away.”

“That’s a load of bullshit,” Stephanie said. “Dick made his own choice. I know that. Dick knew that. Damian knows that. This isn’t his fault. It never was, right Damian?” Damian didn’t reply. “Damian?”

She looked over her shoulder to find Damian shaking his head, biting his lower lip. He looked like a little kid really. Ignoring Dick, Stephanie knelt to the ground, placing her hand on Damian’s shoulder. “Damian, this isn’t your fault. You did the best you could.”

Damian shook his head. “I failed.”

She poked him in the chest and he looked up. “Listen,” Stephanie said. “Dick loved you, Damian. He was proud of you. You gave him everything you had, and he never regretted a moment of it. This isn’t your fault; it never was and it never will be. Tell him, won’t you.”

“But-“ Stephanie shook her head.

“No buts. You’re sounding like Tim. This is what your nightmares are about, aren’t they?” Damian nodded. “They won’t go away unless you stand up for yourself, kid. Now say it- this isn’t your fault.”

“Oh really?” Dick said from behind them. Stephanie chucked a rock at his head and the demon flinched back, groaning. Damian took a step forward, pushing Stephanie behind him, and took a deep breath.

“I’m sorry Grayson…but…this isn’t my fault.”

The hellfire gave a final roar as dream world faded away.

Stephanie woke up on the floor of the warehouse. Damian was in the chair still, now somewhat awake, his eyes puffy. She propped herself up, wrapping her arms around the boy. He stiffened ever so slightly.

“This hug is non-refundable. You’re going to have to suck it up.”

It took a couple of seconds, but soon enough, Damian hugged her back. He wasn’t sobbing, but she could feel his tears getting all over her shirt. She ran her fingers through his hair, making soothing noises.