and all I loved, I loved alone

Hobie spots you outside in the backyard after he’s been looking for you for the past twenty minutes. At first he had his eyes on you the whole night, waiting for Yuri and the rest of the band to leave you two alone so he could hold your hand behind their backs. But the moment he took his eyes off you to talk to a friend, he glanced back only to find you nowhere to be seen.

Hobie doesn’t like hiding his relationship with you from his mates, he’d rather scream to the whole world that you’re his and he’s yours but alas, Yuri will beat his ass for dating her best mate since kindergarten. When she specifically told everyone that you’re off limits, in her words, “she deserves a decent lad that will make her happy and not a bunch of punk rockers that will break her heart.” To that he agreed to, you deserve to be happy, but not the latter, he would never break your heart. He has fallen too hard for you to even think of doing that to you.

It’s not like you obeyed Yuri’s words either, you liked Hobie back wholeheartedly, embraced the prospect of dating him. From the first lingering touch alone through every hangout, to the stolen glances across the room, you took all the signs and went with it by asking him out yourself. Your reason? If Yuri ever found out, or the day finally comes when you have to tell her all about the two of you, she can’t blame him, not fully anyway when you’re the one who made the first move.

It was a ballsy move, and honestly? It made him fancy you even more. And now, six months into dating, countless date nights where you two had to go across town just to have dinner or walk around the park, and a lot of kisses— Hobie is fully committed to you, and you’re committed to him.

He doesn’t have the guts just yet to tell Yuri that the lacy underwear she found in his houseboat was yours, or that the extra toothbrush in your flat right beside your own wasn’t an old toothbrush that you use to clean the toilet but it’s his. Yuri has become hyper vigilant ever since she saw a sock underneath your couch that was clearly not yours. She thinks you’re hiding a new man from her, and she really wants to meet him to be the judge of his character. But she doesn’t know that she already met the guy and is in the same band as hers.

Yuri’s been pestering you about it, whilst Ned and James want to hear about the mystery girl Hobie’s been having around the houseboat. One time they went to his place to write some songs together whilst you two were snogging on his bed and you had to hide inside his bedroom for three hours. Your bladder was about to burst when they finally left. You couldn’t just leave through the windows either when you’ll fall into the canal and then they’d definitely know what’s up when they see you swimming around in the dirty river in your underwear.

Hobie’s about to come outside to see you when Yuri calls his name from the makeshift bar on the kitchen island.

“Oi, flat arse!” She yells above the noise of the party as she holds up a plate of biscuits and half a sandwich cut into a triangle. “Have you seen our girl?”

“No,” he shakes his head, shuffling over to the glass door to hide you. “Why?”

“Can you find her for me? She said she’s starving and this is the only edible food in this place.”

“Sure.” Taking the plate, Hobie has an intense urge to go out and sprint towards the nearest shop to get you something more filling.

“Oi, fuckwad! Order us a pizza or something! Use your parents’ card!” Yuri screams for James.

James, who’s rudely interrupted by Yuri as he was about to kiss a blonde, glares right at her. “You fucking order it!” The card flew over the crowd when he tossed it.

Hobie catches a glimpse of Yuri fighting with a bloke when he caught it before her.

“It’s not yours, you cu—!”

The glass door is shut right behind him, muffling the ruckus inside.

You’re a sight to behold beside the pool. The rainbow lights illuminate your features, as your half lidded eyes catch the light. Your dress is hitched up, pooled around you beautifully, framing you as you smile wistfully at the water as your feet kick gently in it.

You feel him before you hear the thumping of his boots. “You better not push me in, Hobie.” Tilting your head over to him, your cheek presses against your shoulder as you smile sweetly up at him.

“Wouldn’t dream of it, lovie. I could get you wet without needin’ to push you into a pool.”

“Oh, you’re so charming.” Chuckling, the sound of your laugh is a balm to his soul. “What do you have there?”

“Half a sandwich and biscuits Yuri got for you.”

“Oh, thank fuck.” Your hands reach up over to him as the plate is handed over to you. “Please don’t be peanut butter and jelly—” you take a peek inside the sandwich. “Yes.”

“What is it?” Hobie sits beside you, folding his leg as he folds the hem of his trousers before taking off his boots.

“It’s mayo and pepperoni.” Taking a big bite, you offer it to him. “You want some?”

He makes a face, taking a sugar coated biscuit instead. “‘m good, love.”

Shrugging, you inhale the rest of the sandwich. “It wasn’t the best but Yuri did her best.”

“If I’d have known you were hungry I would’ve run to the shop and gotten you somethin’.”

“And what would you have gotten me?” Your eyes sparkle as you flutter your lashes and take a biscuit from the plate sitting in between you.

“Anythin’ you want. Anythin’ under fifteen quid that is.”

Hobie always loved the way your grin spreads across your face, lightening up his whole world.

“A whole fifteen, oh you spoil me, baby.” It takes you two big bites of the biscuit before gently pushing the plate away to scooch over to him closer. Hobie’s arm immediately wraps around you, tugging you to his side as he rests his chin atop your head. “I want to get out of here and make out with you in the houseboat.”

“Why wait?” His fingers squeeze at your side, tickling you slightly as he breathes you in, a combination of your sweet perfume and the pool chlorine wafting from the water. Hobie was only half joking, until you gaze at him with those familiar soft eyes that spell out ‘bedroom’ for him.

“You are insufferable.” With a giggle, you splash him with water with your foot.

Hobie laughs with you, trousers damp but it was worth it to see the playful smile on your lips that he keeps gazing at.

“But you’re right.” You shrug, that look he knows as your, ‘fuck it,’ expression as he watches you lift your leg out of the water and over his lap. One second you were beside him, the next you’re straddling his lap, shuffling to find a more comfortable position as your heels tap at the small of his back. “There, much better.”

Fuck, you’re going to kill him someday.

“Bloody hell, lovie.” Hobie’s breathless from that alone. His hands move to hold at your waist as you wiggle teasingly that has his breathing going shallow and his skin aflame. His lips are immediately on yours, kissing fervently, feeling how you smile through the kiss before completely melting under his touch. “You’re,” his tongue flicks in between your parted lips as you let out a breath. “Goin’,” your hips buckle, and his grip tightens around you, fingers digging into your skin as your dress pools around the two of you. “To kill me.”

“Only if I can come with you.” Giggling, your palm finds his hair, tugging him away, making him tilt his head back as you kiss the hinge of his jaw, feeling how he shivers under your touch.

Hobie’s rough palms glide along your back, panting, eyes half lidded and staring up at the starry sky that melts in his vision from your warm kisses. “Yeah, like…” his words flicker out of his mind when you nibble at his throat. “Romeo and Juliet— fuck me.”

“Trying to, Hobie.” Chuckling over his skin, feeling how he trembles underneath you just from a few kisses, well more than a few kisses. Still, he’s completely undone, chasing your lips, chasing the warm sensation as his fingers grip at your nape.

It’s his turn as he pulls your head back gently, granting him access to your neck as he wets his lips before digging in.

“Hobie, d’you have cash for—” Yuri stops in her tracks, coins dropping from her hand as she stares dumbfoundly at the scene before her.

“Yuri, what’s taking so long— holy fucking shit.” James guffaws, a hand slapping at his mouth immediately as Yuri grabs him. “Yuri, come on…” his voice is muffled and warbled by her hands gripping onto his pouted lips.

“Have you two seen— oh…” Ned almost stumbles into the two, eyes wide at how Hobie’s nibbling at your neck and how you’re smiling happily through the kiss. “Oh! We should, uh, go, lads…”

Ned tries to grab Yuri by her arm, knowing that she’s silently seething in place. But it seems that her anger is something else as she stomps over to the smooching pair, who are too entranced by each other to notice the stares.

“I’m going to push them in!”

“Yuri, don’t!”

Juniper, barely a year old, is Storm’s End little princess, Lords and Ladies from across the realm have granted her favours in an attempt to forge a friendship or even an alliance with you and your Lord Husband. From silver rattles, to intricate weaved blankets from the North, Juniper is swimming in gifts. And just like her father, she loves the attention, giggling and kicking in your arms whenever Lyonel would bring another present to her from a merchant you two met back in Essos.

But despite all the lavish gifts and attention she has garnered, it doesn’t compare to her father’s presence. She’s a delight whenever she’s with him, dark eyes shining the moment she sets her eyes on Lyonel. And he’s the same, mirrored expressions gazing at each other as he takes the two of you in his arms whilst Juniper shrieks happily.

“She was born with laughter in her throat.” He told you one day, voice soft and tender, eyes glimmering with love for his girls while the rare sunshine danced across his handsome face. You were nursing Juniper, whilst he accompanied you and even brought his work on the bed just to be in your presence.

Lyonel has been awfully clingy, always seeking out your warmth, a hand always on your skin. You’re not one to complain when you are the same, always asking for him, always calling his name whenever you please, and it’s quite frequent. If Juniper smiles at something, laughs or even points at something so mundane as a flower or at a horse, then you’re asking the nearest servant to call for your husband so he could witness the miracle that is your daughter.

One day though, you’re the one who is away on business, doing your duties as Lady Baratheon and hosting guests from the Riverlands. Lyonel was by your side, but the moment the conversation turned dull, talking about harvests and Riverland history that may or may not have been a segue into asking for an alliance through marriage with your daughter and the Tully’s youngest— Lyonel has vanished from your side.

You would be irked by his sudden disappearance, how he left you to fend for yourself in front of the Riverlords, but the moment you heard his voice through Juniper’s nursery, all your anger faded away.

Lyonel’s sitting on your rocking chair with Juniper in one arm, slowly falling asleep, long lashes fluttering against the apples of her chubby cheeks. There’s a tome in his other hand, whilst he softly reads the passages to her. He’s reading Florian the fool, a story that he has told you was childish drivel, that he has more interesting stories to tell you as he traced your face with his lips.

“‘You are a fool.’” He reads, tone lowered, thumb kneading at the pudge of Juniper’s leg as he takes a quick peek at her. “Why aren’t you asleep? Your mother told me that you always fall asleep whenever she reads to you.”

Juniper just flashes him her batting lashes, eyes sleep heavy as she sucks on her thumb.

Sighing, Lyonel chuckles, pecking the top of her head, curls tickling his nose. “You are as stubborn as your mother.” The second he finishes his sentence, his eyes flick over to you at the doorway. “I’m afraid we’ve got a spy in our midst, flower. What do we do with spies?”

Juniper makes a sound from the back of her throat, a half giggle, half babble in reply.

“Yes, we show them Stormlander hospitality.” He kisses her curls once again before craning his head to face you with that mischievous smirk on his lips that never fails to make your stomach tumble. “Halt, who goes there?” He jests, and you chortle, crossing the distance over to your family.

“Just the Lady Baratheon, my lord Lyonel.” Smiling, you cup his cheek lovingly, watching as he immediately rests against you with a soft look whilst gazing at you with reverence. “You disappeared on me, my love.”

“‘My lord Lyonel,’” He repeats with a low rumble in his throat, amused. “I haven’t heard that in a while…” his palm cups your behind, squeezing faintly as he rests his hand atop it casually. “It’s always, ‘Lyonel, please take the hounds out,’ or ‘Lyonel, I need you in bed now.’” Mocking your voice, complete with a pout, you can’t help but laugh, a sound that warms his insides. “I heard her cry, so I had to leave, my apologies.”

“No, you did not. She has her nursemaid and she was on the other side of the castle. You…” poking his chest, he tosses the hefty tome on the ground with a solid thump as he pulls you onto his lap. “Did not hear our daughter cry all the way from the great hall.”

“Never underestimate a stag’s hearing.” Pushing you against him by your hip, the chair rocks gently under the weight, and you find your hand is occupied with patting Juniper’s side for her to fall into slumber. “I could not bear hearing another one of Lord Tully’s veiled attempts at brokering an alliance through our Juniper and his fish son.”

“His fish son.” You giggle against his corded neck. “Oh, my love.” Kissing him right on his pulse, right where you know he prefers to be kissed, he lets out a shuddered breath. “You’ll be glad to know that he did not succeed. Juniper has her whole life ahead of her.” Your index tucks away a strand of her hair away from her sleeping face. “And she may choose her husband if she pleases. But not yet.” You melt in his hold, and he embraces you tighter. “Not today.”

“Or any day.” Lyonel kisses the length of your temple until he reaches your cheek. “If it were up to me she wouldn’t be married until we are both sixty.”

“You at sixty or me at sixty? Because those are vastly different years, my love. Yours sooner rather than later.”

“You wench.” Laughing against your cheek, he muffles his guffaw lest Juniper wakes up. The thought of growing old with you warms him from the inside and out, it’s heavenly bliss.

—

Juniper’s giggles echo around the stables as you waddle inside. Your belly is bigger than when you were carrying your daughter. The new maester from the citadel said that it is a good sign that you are carrying a son this time around. Lyonel would be glad of the news, should be glad about having a son and heir, but he’s too busy playing with little Juniper to be ecstatic about the news when he said that the little Baratheon could still turn out to be a girl. To then you have said that he just wanted another little girl that is an exact copy of him. Someone to spoil and hoist upon his shoulders as he walks around the keep to show her off. It’s a bit unfair that you were the one doing all the labours if all your children would end up looking exactly like their father. But you do adore Juniper’s little curls, and her nose that is an exact copy of her father’s.

But he has said that whenever Juniper would smile or pout or even cry, she always reminded him of you. “She might favour my looks more, my sweet, but she is you through and through.” He once uttered against your temple whilst the two of you watched Juniper play with her cousins.

Juniper has the Lord of Storm’s End wrapped around her little finger. She just turned two years old, walking on her own now to yours and her father’s delight. Her second nameday was a sight to behold in the whole realm. In true Baratheon fashion, her father organized a tourney in her honour, and for his unborn child that is currently kicking right at your bladder. It was an even bigger affair than the Ashford tourney, Lords from houses all over the realm visited and came to pay their respects to house Baratheon. Juniper loved the attention and the favours she received, while Lyonel loved unhorsing the Lords and upstart knights at his own tourney. You thank the gods that nothing horrible like a trial of seven happened during the seven day tourney. Just a few drunken fights and a lot of out of tune singing.

You cannot believe that you were once worried that Lyonel might not take to being a father as well as being a good husband. But he has once again proven you wrong. He’s a great father to Juniper, and you are sure that he will continue to do so for the babe that is squirming in your belly.

You enter the stables, smiling from the memory of the recent festivities, especially from the memory of your reunion with your older brothers and a certain hedge knight and his squire. The smell of horse and grass hits you the moment you see Juniper giggling atop a horse whilst her father holds onto the scruff of her dress from the ground, as she grins from ear to ear as she reins in the horse in her tiny fists.

Lyonel felt your presence before you could announce yourself. He turns his head at you as the rare sunlight beams right at your back, basking you in heavenly light.

“Careful, my love, she might fall.”

“She is in the best hands.” He gestures for you to come closer, fingers opening and closing in a come hither motion until you sidle beside him. “Aren’t you, flower?”

Juniper answers with a happy shriek, kicking her tiny legs about. Then she sees you, big dark eyes widening happily as she tries to reach for you. You never expected to be with child so soon after Juniper, but you can’t exactly blame Lyonel when you’re as insatiable as your husband.

“Did you miss me, my gentle heart?” Opening your arms, Juniper jumps off the horse without a care, whilst Lyonel bears all the kicking and flailing to get her to your arms safely. He’s letting you carry her with his hand protectively holding her by the armpits so as to not put stress onto your back and already heavy stomach.

Juniper nods enthusiastically, pressing a wet kiss to your cheek as she embraces your neck. She babbles incoherently against your skin, perhaps retelling her time with her Lord father.

“I thought I’d find you here, Lyonel.” Pecking her temple, you then turn to kiss his cheek, never leaving him out of your affection. “Already trying to teach our girl how to ride when she could barely talk?”

“Never underestimate our daughter, my love.” Lyonel’s free hand lifts your belly from underneath, easing the heaviness as you let out a sigh. “She’s learning quickly.”

Eyes closed, you smile with satisfaction as you feel lighter. “Keep your hand there, please. This one is much heavier than when I carried Juniper.”

“The maester has told me of the possibility of you carrying twins.”

“Twins?” Your eyes fling wide open. “Gods, no, we could barely contain Juniper. And with another on the way….” You imagine feeding two babes at once, shuddering at the thought. “Perhaps I’m just carrying a giant? Your father was incredibly tall.”

“Could be.” He shrugs, clearly amused.

“You want twins.” You exclaim matter-of-factly and he makes a face, nose scrunching at your narrowed eyes teasingly. “Lyonel, you are not the one birthing them.”

“Wanting twins doesn’t make it come true, my love.” Chuckling, a deep rumble in his throat, Lyonel gives you a reassuring kiss whilst Juniper plays with the pearl necklace around your neck. “Having two in one go means that we could stop having children, no more labours for you. I am incredibly happy with the children you have already given me.”

As much as he loves his children, he could not help but worry for you whenever you’re screaming and pushing on the birthing bed. He utterly worries for you, the love of his life as your belly swells with life he helped create. It’s the only time he feels powerless, he can’t wield a sword to defend you from this nor hold a shield or use his charms to help, and he hates it, feeling absolutely helpless to ease your suffering when he is also the one to blame.

“Stop the making of said children too?” You playfully jab his chest with your finger, earning a feigned roll of his eyes.

There’s a sudden jolt of pain in your belly, but it’s normal in this state, so you ignore it. You’d tell him of the prophecy once told to you during the Ashford tourney, but it seems ridiculous for you to say it out loud even though a part of you believes it.

“Gods, no, I’d rather die.” Lyonel looks devastated at the thought. “I’m sure that the maester has a potion to remedy the… side effect.”

“Well—” Your clever retort gets caught on your tongue as your belly twists. Something wet splashes on your feet, a familiar feeling that has the two of you looking down and back up to face the other.

Lyonel laughs loudly, albeit nervously. And Juniper, having no clue, laughs along with him. “We’ll know for sure if we’re having twins today it seems.”

—

It was an easier birth this time around, it only took you six hours of labour for your son to be born. Despite his sheer size, the mother smiled down upon you for a safe and easy birth. When your first child was born during a storm, the new lordling of Storm’s End was born during a rare warm and sunny day. The maester called him a summer prince for it, to which Lyonel grinned at as he wiped the blood off the wailing babe’s face gently.

He was more hands on for the birth of his son when no midwives or ancient maesters were there to bar the door for him. From the start of your labours to the first cry of your son, he was there through it all. He was never fainthearted about blood anyway.

Ormund, you and Lyonel have decided to call him, cries in your arms so loudly that it wakes you up from your exhausted state.

“You are in the presence of the Lord and Lady of Storm’s End, comport yourself.” Lyonel jests, gazing down at the two of you as his cheek presses against your clammy temple. His finger is wrapped around his son’s tiny fist as he continues to wail inside your chambers. “Our son has no manners, my love.”

“Are all of our children so loud?” You ask, still panting but free from all the gunk that came after the birth. And yet utterly blissed out as your hand lovingly caresses Ormund’s chubby leg.

“Perhaps it is proof that they are truly my children.”

You’re too tired to roll your eyes at your husband’s teasing. “As if there is any doubt that they aren’t yours when they look exactly like you. It is unfair to say the least.”

“They got your ferocity and tenacity, my love.” Smiling, Lyonel presses a kiss on your skin, leaning closer to the crying babe to nuzzle his cheek gently. Little Ormund quietens down when he recognizes his father, lips smacking together as he chases his warmth. “I knew that would work.”

“He recognized you.” Chuckling, you find yourself instinctively brushing your fingers into Lyonel’s curls.

“All that speaking into your stomach is not for naught.” Side by side, you can really tell the similarities in their features. Ormund has Lyonel’s wild curls, the same nose, the same eyes and lips. He’s a little Lyonel, his late lord father was not jesting when he said that the Baratheon seed is strong. You both wish that he met his grandchildren.

“Shall we call for Juniper? I want to introduce them to each other.”

Lyonel smiles, giving you a much earned kiss. He rests his forehead against your own, breathing you in as he says your name lovingly. “I’ll come and get her. But first,” taking out a velvet box from his pocket, he opens it for you, revealing a golden brooch of two fawns meeting. “I had it made just for the occasion.”

Your fingers trace along the intricate carving, tears brimming in your eyes as you look up at him. “I don’t know what to say…”

“‘Thank you, I love you, you’re the kindest lord husband in the whole realm and the most handsome.’” He makes a face and tries to copy your voice awfully, that has you chortling through the dull ache. “I have more examples if you need it.”

Moving close, you nuzzle his jaw with your nose, letting his beard tickle you. Lyonel lets out a satisfied hum, clasping the jewelry gingerly on your chemise lovingly. “Thank you, I love and adore you, my stag.” It’s enough to make a lord tear up.

—

You wake up on your own, no babes crying, no storm bashing against the walls of the keep, or even the soft pawing from your husband beside you. For a moment it’s utter bliss, you haven’t slept this peacefully in quite some time, the last one was perhaps before you got married.

Sleep is a rare gift when you’re a mother of two loud children that took after their father. You need all that rest when you have a newborn and a babe, who refuses to sleep by your will. Juniper and Ormund are the light of your life together with your husband, but you love sleep, and your silk sheets beckons you back into slumber. That is until you realize what hour it is and that you haven’t heard a single cry, nor felt Lyonel’s warmth beside you when you reached out to his side of the bed.

Sitting up abruptly, heart racing as your eyes rake around the bed, only to find no one else beside you. You then turn to Ormund’s cradle, finding it empty, save for his blue Arryn blankets embroidered by your mother and sisters by law.

“Fuck.” Panic sets in your stomach despite the sunshine draped across your form, a rare sight to behold in the Stormlands when it’s been raining nonstop for more than a week.

You flip the blankets open, feeling the cold floor on the soles of your feet, movements erratic and panicked.

You hear humming, a strange softened humming, a tune you’re not so familiar with as you follow the source. You enter the solar, the blinds billowing around the wind in wisps of silken fabric.

Heart thrumming in your throat, you see a sight that makes you want to call upon an artist to paint it to preserve the scene forever.

Standing in the balcony is Lyonel, torso bare to the sun, basking in the light, scars and freckles dotted along his back as he holds two sleeping bundles in his arms. The light shines at his curls, salt and pepper dripping in golden light.

Ormund’s cheek is squished atop his father’s freckled shoulder, milk drool in the corner of his lips, and curls dancing in the wind. He’s left in only his swaddling cloth, skin to skin with his father as Lyonel pats his back rhythmically.

Where Ormund is sleeping soundly, Juniper fusses in her sleep, foot twitching, one missing a sock, as her arm falls limp in between Lyonel’s armpit, fully laying on him with her long curls falling over her face. Perhaps dreaming of running around in the gardens.

You don’t call for him as you approach. With a gentle hand in between his shoulder blades, you slowly go around him to gaze into his eyes with the same lovestruck expression you had during the tourney where you met him.

“My love.” You say softly, quietly, saying his name in the most saccharine way possible as the pads of your fingers glide along the length of his arm over to his bicep then to his jaw. “What a sight to wake up to.”

Lyonel unabashedly looks at you up and down, left only in your thin chemise that flutters in the wind, and the sunshine illuminating through the fabric. Leaving nothing to the imagination, as if he has to imagine when he has seen you bare countless of times. And yet it never fails to make him as giddy as today, as needy for your touch like all the days.

“I could say the same thing, my doe.” He leans down for a kiss.

The backdrop of Ship Breaker’s bay below and the horizon just behind you makes waking up more worthwhile.

“You’re awake quite early.” You mumble against his pouted lips.

“Ormund was stirring after Juniper waddled inside our chambers. And I heard from the midwives that the early morning sun is good for the babe.”

Your brows furrow in worry. “She has never done that.” He would knead at the space between your brows if has another hand to spare. “But thank you for bringing them out here.”

“I’m afraid that she feels jealous of her brother.” Lyonel’s curl falls over his eye, and out of instinct, you gently tuck it away and he lets you, watching you fondly. “She wiggled her way into our bed. I’m quite glad I wore my breeches before falling asleep in your arms.”

You stifle a giggle, biting your lip as you gaze at the babes cradled gently in his arms. “She told you that?”

“That she is quite glad that I wore my breeches?”

“No, the part before that.” Rolling your eyes, you flick his earring lovingly and teasingly. “That she’s jealous of Ormund.”

“She did.” Sighing, he looks at his eldest. “His arrival took all the attention away from her.”

“Gods, I didn’t realize.” Your expression falls, a hand lovingly rubbing along the length of Juniper’s arm.

“We’ll do better.” He simply says with a smile. “We’re still learning, my doe.”

“I know.” Taking a deep breath of the sea air, you lay your head against his clavicle. “We’ll do better.”

Lyonel hums again, that same unfamiliar tune. You’ll ask him about it later, for now, you’ll melt against your husband while listening to your children’s little breaths.

—

It’s your nameday and in true Baratheon fashion, Lyonel has organized a grand feast to celebrate. He made sure that everything was set up well beforehand, ravens were sent to different Lords and Ladies that you both wish to see, and Lyonel did not skimp out on his coins, using it wisely, or so he said when he asked for a dozen cakes to be made in your honour.

The two of you made a great pair in organizing it. He wanted you to sit back and let him handle things, but you have said that this feast is to celebrate your marriage to him too, five years together, five years of married bliss. You made the great hall your war room, telling each staff where to put which table, or which flower arrangement is correct and up to your husband’s taste, even though he could not care less about sunflowers or daffodils, but Lyonel loves to see that look on your face. The determined commanding ferocity he loves so much. He has seen it during his cursed cousin’s rebellion, where you commanded Vale troops instead of chefs about which pie to make. He has to confess that your stern tone and sheer dominant presence does something to him, making it hard to walk around with you looking like you’re ready for war.

The feast was delayed for a few hours because he kept tugging you away from your duties. Which you barely protested, you loved those long lengthy moments with the Laughing Storm grunting in your ears, while you two hid in a niche, or behind a tapestry.

The night has gone on and on, the guests are properly drunk off of wine, but the flow of the drinks seems to never stop. Food is overflowing on the tables, meat pies, sweetened pastries and all sorts of food from the north to across the narrow seas. He did not spare expenses for the feast. You were alright with just celebrating with your kin and your children by your side with maybe a cake or two, but it couldn’t be helped when your husband is the epitome of Garth Greenhand.

Lyonel lives for revelry, and nothing makes him feel more like himself with a full goblet of wine in hand and with you sitting right on his lap.

You’re laughing at something Ser Duncan said beside him, the kind of giggle that reverberates through you and onto Lyonel’s chest that warms him throughout his whole body. It could be the wine, but it could also be because you’re wiggling far too much on his lap.

His hand is on your hip, squeezing at every clap from the dancing crowd. He watches Juniper dance around with Egg, both barefoot and laughing along to the jaunty tune. Juniper reminds him of you with every passing year as she grows. She may look every bit like a Baratheon, but she has your soul, she has your smile, and she even dances like you. Whilst little Ormund tries to keep up with their steps, waddling and tugging at the prince’s robes. He tried to get them abed, but they’re your children, as stubborn as you, and as defiant as him.

It’s the kind of night that has fond memories flooding his head, you in your threadbare cloak, hiding behind a giant of a man and looking like a falcon missing its wings. You ignored him at first, and that had him intrigued at your audacity to ignore the Laughing Storm in his own pavilion whilst you sip on his wine and sit there looking beautiful under the warm candle light. The thought has him squeezing you even more, nose nudging your jaw until you tilted your head to grant him space to give your throat a kiss.

Lyonel didn’t want to get married at first, he wanted to be free, free to galavant around the realm, to drink and be merry without worrying about anything or anyone. But duty was thrust upon him when his older brother died during the Blackfyre rebellion, and he was left as the sole heir apparent. Suddenly, he needed to marry, he needed heirs, but just like you, he wanted someone that he would love, or at least care for, and have a partnership with. But as the years went on with him unmarried and his father’s health dwindling, he needed to act fast when vultures were circling around Storm’s End.

His father recommended you, all he knew of you were from him, letters written by your own father that were addressed to his late father. They were flowery words, words that he could not tell if it was true or a lie. But the late Lord Baratheon approved of you, said that if you were anything like your father, Lyonel would find kinship with you. If not love, companionship is the next best thing. Little did he know that he would find both with you. He fell for you hard. One that he never thought was possible. And like everything else in his life, he did not back down and continued to pursue you even when you hid behind your cloak with a beaming smile that could part the grey clouds.

Gods, he loves you, he loves the little lives you have given him, and he would organize a thousand more feasts just for you if it meant eternal life for the both of you. Forever laughing together, forever dancing and holding the other. When he never gave marriage a second thought before, now he would step in front of a blade for you. He made a vow, and he intends to keep it. You are his, and he is yours.

‘This is the life,’ he thinks. Utter bliss, belly full of good food and wine, his great love laughing on his lap, and his children as happy as him, while surrounded by loyal allies.

Lyonel always thought that Storm’s End was dull and dreary, its stone walls are too high, consuming all the light that breaks through the grey clouds. But as he sits at the head of the table, stag crown on his brow, he’s proud of what he made of his dull keep that has more laughter than silence. That has more light breaking through from the inside, it’s warm and comfortable, and most of all, safe, he made it safe for his family. And hopefully for generations to come. Only time will tell.

“My love…” you whisper upon his ear, nibbling and tugging at the earring dangling in his lobe. You wear a crown of antlers just like him, but with feathers around the circlet that are laden with sapphires and yellow diamonds, a gift he made just for you. “Shall I put the children to bed so we could commence the real feast?”

Lyonel loves his children, and loves to hear their laughter and how their eyes crinkle in happiness. But he says yes in the blink of an eye.

—

The sun rarely shines in Storm’s End, but when it does grant the Stormlands some reprieve from the window shattering rains, its people come out to bask in the sun’s presence.

Your husband has grown bored of the council chambers as you see him clamber up the steps towards the gardens, right where you have placed a blanket on the mossy stones to rest upon it with your children. His eyes convey that one of his vassal lords have irked him up to the point that he has forgone the need to drink something strong in favour of seeking out his family’s warmth. Especially yours.

Ormund babbles incoherently on your lap, in his tight fist is a crushed lemon cake, while the other has a small wooden toy carved into a battleaxe, a special gift from his lord father. He seems to never grow tired of it even when you feed him small bites of fresh fruit. While he’s busy bashing the head of a wooden toy dragon, his older sister is humming a tune right behind you as she mindlessly braids your hair whilst drawing a flower in between bites of lemon cake.

Lyonel takes note of the peaceful scenery, birds chirp alongside the garden beds filled with sweet scented flowers. And his great love sits in the middle of his little fawns, crowded around her with love in their eyes as the sun blankets you all in warmth.

“Father!” Juniper is the first to notice him, she vaults from her place to run to Lyonel. Her bare feet thumps against the cobbled stone, not minding the roughness as she jumps for an embrace.

“Oh, my flower.” He groans, back aching as he catches her mid jump. “Stop growing too quickly for me would you?” She giggles in reply, hugging his neck and kicks her feet.

“She can’t help it, she got your stature.” You utter with amusement as you watch baby Ormund waddle towards the pair determinedly.

Your husband opens his free arm to receive the babe. Despite the crick in his neck from staring at reports all day long and the dull ache in the small of his back, he takes both children in his arms gladly, before sauntering over to you.

The sun is overshadowed by the looming Laughing Storm as he beams down upon you with equal warmth.

“Let us hope that she gets your ferocity.” He plops himself down on the blanket, wincing at the heaviness of his own body, head immediately falling down your lap as he settles comfortably with both his children on each arm.

“She already has it, my love. She called the septa a horrid word today.”

“Ah, just like your mother, hm?” Juniper just hides her head in the crook of his neck bashfully.

You have no idea if his intention was to lie down on you, but no matter, you wanted him on your lap anyway. Raking your fingers through his wild curls on instinct, you watch as the sunshine drapes upon his face, immediately easing his stiff expression into a softened one. His eyes crinkled in the corners as he lets out a sigh of content, lips curling into a tender smile.

“We missed you in the council chamber this morning, still having headaches?” His brows knit in worry.

“Yes, unfortunately. Please give the Lords and Ladies my sincerest apologies.”

“You didn’t miss anything profound,” he scoffs, akin to a laugh. “It would’ve been less of a bore if you were there with me though.”

Your cheeks warm from his words, many moons later and after two children, he still finds the right words to fluster you. “I am sure that it would’ve been less of a dull affair.”

“No more talk of duty. What did the three of you do today?” Lyonel’s eyes shimmer with light, gazing up at you with such reverence that it would be considered heresy to the seven.

“Nothing much, sat, played, ate cake.” Smiling down upon him, you feed him a pinch of lemon cake that he immediately chews on, lips chasing your fingers. “It was such a hard and busy day, husband. What about you?” You tease, earning a soft chuckle from him.

From this angle and from the light, you notice more white hairs growing from his curls. He’s aging gracefully, and you smile at the thought. Like your husband’s wish for Juniper, you wish for time to slow down.

“Lord Swann has reported that the harvest won’t be enough for this season, so we mayhaps have to ask another loan from the Tyrells for a hundred or so bushels to not starve.” He answers, hands caressing Juniper’s back as she draws a rose, whilst the other traces Ormund’s chubby arms when he has taken his attention towards his toys. “I hate asking them for anything.”

“I know.” You coo lovingly, bending down to press a chaste kiss on his forehead that he chases your lips as you rise up with a chuckle. “Thank you for asking the Tyrells for help, my love, I know how hard that was for you.”

“Those rose scented lordlings might ask for the hand of our flower next time when Lord Tyrell has managed to give his Lady wife a son after five daughters.” He scoffs at the thought, if you asked him, he would’ve been happy enough with just one child. “That poor woman.”

“Mayhaps the Lady wanted it too.”

His eyes flick at you from Juniper’s drawing. “Mayhaps.” He utters, mind somewhere else, still utterly worried after hearing too many women succumbing to the stranger’s arms on their birthing bed. “I am quite content with having two perfect babes.”

“Three.”

“What?” Lyonel laughs as if you just told him an awful jest.

“I went to the maester this morning, the fatigue and the headaches aren’t from Lord Swann’s ramblings.” There’s a growing smile on his face, albeit wobbly. Just as you say it, your stomach makes a gurgling sound that is awfully familiar to him whenever he presses his ear against your swollen stomach. “I am with child again, which does not come as a surprise after all the nights we spent during my nameday tourney.”

“Gods, another Baratheon.” Sitting up, Lyonel places his hand gently upon your stomach. “I remember those nights.” He leans close, taking your face in his hand as he presses a saccharine kiss upon your waiting lips. “And so does Ser Duncan—”

“Hush!” Your eyes widen, grinning nervously as you look around only to find the gardens the same as before, no wandering ears to be found. While your children are too busy devouring the rest of the lemon cakes. “Lyonel!”

“What? We’ll soon find out if you birth a giant hay haired babe.”

“That is not funny!” And yet you laugh nonetheless.

“I’ll love him anyway.” He jests once again, he knows that the growing child inside of you is his when he remembers that exact night like it was yesterday.

“You are evil.” You laugh against his lips, whilst he pecks warmth into your skin.

—

You meet another son during the hour of the wolf. Your screaming kept the whole castle awake, and Lyonel thanks you for it since it has also kept him awake to witness Orys’ birth. The labours were normal according to the maester, but your heart plummeted in your stomach when your son wouldn’t cry the moment he was born. It took a good smack on his behind from the maester for him to cry, and to yours and Lyonel’s relief, you’ve given birth to another healthy babe.

Orys was a large baby, larger than his older brother. Whenever you would carry him in your arms to feed him, you look smaller in comparison. Lyonel was proud about that fact since it seems that his son got his Lord father’s size. Despite the dark hair and eyes, and the unmistakable Bartatheon look, there were cruel whispers going around the keep, no, the whole realm, that your son who looks strikingly like his Baratheon grandsire is actually the rising kingsguard, Ser Duncan’s bastard. Lyonel tried to put a stop to the rumours by showing Orys around the Storm’s End, and even around his vassal’s lands, but there were still some whispers about your son’s true father when the fact in the matter is glaring right at their faces.

No one saw it amusing when it had gotten to the point that it reached the small folk. Lyonel jests when it first started, even laughed at the prospect of it, but as the time went on, everyone from the north to Dorne knew about the rumour of Lord Baratheon’s unusually tall and quiet son, that they have dubbed him the, ‘Tall Storm’ to those that think the rumours are true, and the, ‘Quiet Storm,’ to those who know the truth.

Whenever Lyonel hears of the said whispers in his own walls, it garners his stormy wrath, so no one in their right mind, not even the jesters, would say it out loud. The last one who bravely did at his court had his tongue removed and sent to his mother in a box. You would disapprove, but you were starting to fear the consequences it would get once Orys and his siblings are older. The last thing you want is to sow strife between them, especially when the rumour is the farthest from the truth.

It doesn’t help when Orys is the opposite of his brother Ormund, whereas the elder is a mirror of his father when it comes to his attitude and disposition, Orys is quieter, bookish, and would rather stay inside than learn how to wield a sword and shield. He is still quite young, and his father hopes that he’ll grow out of it.

Out of all your children, Orys is the one who clings to you more. Whenever he’s not playing by himself or begging his septa or older siblings to read to him, he would always be found beside you. Clinging and hiding behind your skirts or being held in your arms. Lyonel sighs whenever he sees little Orys cling to you endlessly even during supper, but you always tell him that he is the same.

“Like father like son.” You have said, and all the words die on his tongue.

—

Lyonel hates waking up in the dead of night, he needs his rest, and he loves to huddle beside you, hogging your warmth, as if he wants to crawl inside your ribcage and lay asleep inside. But when he had babes of his own, he quickly got used to being woken up by a shrill cry in the night. Whether by Juniper or Ormund, he would immediately flip open the covers and sluggishly go over to their cots that you insisted they rest inside the shared chambers out of your own fear of losing them in the night or from a sudden chill.

With Juniper having her own chambers now, and with Ormund moved out of the nursery in favour of little Orys, who is as quiet as a mouse and would sleep throughout the night, Lyonel hasn’t woken up in the middle of the night in months. Until that is when he hears the softness of your voice stirring him awake, the same voice you would always use for your children, motherly and tender, even when you scold them.

“You shall be as brave and as bold as your father, Orys.”

Lyonel cracks an eye open, heavy with sleep as the rain pours down outside, turning the keep colder and damp. He then finds himself near the edge of his own bed, the privacy curtains grazing along his back from how far he is from your side.

Ormund sleeps beside him, or at least his feet is, when he is sleeping upside down with his head near the other end of the bed. He’s twitching in his sleep, drooling on the sheets that were just cleaned. Lyonel’s brow raises at the sight of his son, eyes going over him in search of you, only to see Juniper sleeping soundly beside her brother, cuddling her doll as she curls around herself.

Lyonel lifts himself by his elbow, looking over Juniper to see baby Orys wiggling around on the bed, fully awake, dark eyes fully open as he huffs whilst you run your index on the length of his nose gently. A loving act that you love doing with your children when they were still babes that seems to always calm them down.

“My sweet.” His voice crackles with sleep, deep and gruffed more than usual. “Why is half of the castle in our bed?”

You chuckle softly, tired yet happy eyes gazing at him. “The storm woke them up. Ormund couldn’t bear sleeping in his own chamber, while Juniper couldn’t fall back to sleep on her own.”

“I understand Orys’ reasoning.” His hand goes over his oldest and over to Orys who looks at him with those curious eyes of his. As Lyonel gently takes his small fist. “But I never expected it from these two.”

“I couldn’t find it within myself to say no.” You give him an apologetic look, but once he reaches for your cheek, the pads of his fingers dancing along your cheekbones, you then smile, knowing that your husband would not be able to say no either. “They won’t make it into a habit.”

Orys gurgles happily, milk bubbles dripping down his pudgy chin. You smile down at your son and wipe his face with such care that Lyonel wants to have another with you.

Lyonel chuckles, rests his head upon his fist as he gazes at his children and over to you fondly. “They better not, or else I’ll put a lock on our chamber door.”

Stifling a laugh, you reach over to him to caress his cheek. “I am sure they’ll grow out of it. Just like you had when you were little.”

“How’d you know that?” His brows furrow, and he has an intense urge to go over to your side of the bed and hold you even if that means that he would fall off the bed if he so moves a muscle.

“The old midwife told me.”

Lyonel hums, nodding as his dark eyes glimmer under the low light of the moon. “Teasing me this early in the day will have you staying abed until the afternoon.”

“Hollow threats, my love, when our children are in between us.”

“When they leave then.” Groaning, he sits up fully, eyeing baby Orys, who looks back at him with a gummy smile. “For now, I shall take away your happiness.”

You gasp, watching as he takes Orys from your side, holding onto him gently and supporting his neck before laying back down and placing him atop his chest. “Lyonel.” You whisper yell. “Give me back my son.”

“No,” he draws the word to add to the teasing. Orys wiggles atop his chest, warm and smelling like milk. From this angle, all swaddled in his Arryn blue blanket, Orys looks like a little worm. “My son and I need to bond. And you need to sleep, can you tell your mother that I am right, Orys?” Carefully grasping his chubby cheek, he makes the babe speak. “‘You are right, father.’” He mimes, talking in a high pitched tone.

You couldn’t help but laugh at his antics as your head plops onto the pillow, muffling your laughter.

—

You have the twins on a fine yet bloody day in the realm. It was during the rebellion, whilst their father and brother were out fighting, you were keeping the stranger away from your birthing bed. They come within two minutes from each other, and you were beyond exhausted, almost giving Lyonel a fright, more terrified than when he faced the Blackfyre army when you fainted from the bloodloss. Thankfully the maester brought you back from the brink, and now you’re chasing your sons down the hallway, dripping wet as they have escaped their baths.

The twins have proven to be a handful. When you thought that Ormund was the more problem child out of the bunch, always out looking for a fight, easily taunted and quick to anger, the twins are rebellious. They never listen to anyone, always running away hand in hand, like a pair of hopping fawns bolting away from the sound of footsteps. In this case, the footsteps are from their maester calling them for their lessons, or their poor septa telling them to stop climbing the walls or setting fire to the gardens.

They’d always go out of their way to play tricks on people, whether the target is their siblings, the servants or even you and Lyonel. The moment you hear their giggles echoing around the halls, you just knew they were up to some mischief.

The only person they would listen to is their father. One stern call of their names has them freezing mid run. You thought that when you named them after your older brother, Robert, and your uncle, Robin, it would be perfect for them. That they would embody their chivalry and kindness, but alas, the seven gave you two rambunctious children that refuse to bathe and attend their lessons.

They would still listen to you of course, only when they see that you are close to calling their father on them, or gods forbid, their aunt Juniper, whom you have called for help to discipline them. You truly needed the extra help when it came to them.

There are times that they would settle down though, and it’s with their older brother, Orys. He’d call for them in the library, and to yours and Lyonel’s surprise, they answered gladly. Orys would calmly read to them as the pair listened intently by his side. They always preferred the wild stories from Essos, and the histories of house Targaryen, to their father’s dismay.

Robert grew to love fishing, Lyonel would take you all on fishing trips when the waters at Ship Breaker’s bay are calmer, and when the summer sun shines upon the glittering tides. Robin grew to love hunting, him and his pet hound that he aptly named Aerion, after his platinum coat, would run around the forests of the Stormlands with either his father or the master at arms. You suspect that he got the name for the hound after Lyonel told him about the story of the Ashford tourney where he met you and participated in the once in a lifetime trial. Whenever Robin calls for Aerion, you bite your tongue lest you let out a guffaw unbefitting your station.

The twins look so alike that even you have trouble distinguishing them from the other. It takes you a few seconds to know which is which twin. Robin has dimples whenever he smiles, and a small mole in the corner of his eye. Whilst Robert’s curls curl the opposite way from his twin’s, and he has a birth mark in the shape of the narrow sea on the back of his hand. But that doesn’t stop them from switching places if they deem it so. To the ire of their maester and septa, they keep finding ways to disguise themselves as the other. Only when Lyonel is called or their aunt Juniper, is when they come running over to you to hide behind your skirt, flashing their big eyes they got from their father as they try to charm their way out of their punishment.

Once the twins are old enough to hold a sword without accidentally stabbing each other in the eye, they took to the sword and shield like you and Lyonel. The lessons were such a delight to them that they would either beg you and Lyonel to be taught, if neither of you weren’t able to, they would grab the master at arms and take him hostage in the training yard until they are satisfied with what they have learned. Ser Andros has many complaints about the pair. Mostly that they would work him to the bone. Not even Ormund was that determined to learn how to fight, and he is considered as the best fighter next to his father.

During the rare days where they would rather be under the covers and in their mother’s arms, you would always take the opportunity to have them settle beside you as they snore the day away. Under the light, the twins look a lot like you, only with Lyonel’s hair, eyes, and lips.

Rob and Rob, you’ve lovingly called them whenever they become petulant, have grown to be remarkable warriors in the making. Even their older brothers weren’t this quick with a sword, a fact that their father is proud of. Day and night, rain or shine, the boys would train together, honing their skills, trying to surpass your brothers, their brothers, and of course their father.

“One day,” you’ve heard Lyonel say to them as he spoke to them in the training yard whilst you pretended not to hear them as you helped Juniper and Orys with their bows. “You will surpass me in skill, for now, do not let your pride drive you, let it be your motivation. Strive to be of great renown through your own. You are a Baratheon and an Arryn, both the noblest of houses in the realm that has borne great warriors. Be good, be better than any of them.”

Their first tourney during Egg’s coronation had the two becoming champions. And they were only two and ten, both taller than children their age, which you did not allow at first just like their brothers had been, but they entered as the mystery knights, wearing both blue and golden colours upon their armour. With a sigil of two antlered falcons soaring above the sea. You knew it was them the moment they stepped foot on the muddy field. And yet you and your husband did not say anything to stop them when they are forging their own paths.

Robert and Robin Baratheon, the king’s champions. Your twin falcons who soared high to great renown before they were three and ten.

—

Lyonel walks through the hunting camp with heavy steps and a frown on his face. He holds onto three hares by their ears, smelling like death and iron as he walks past the many tents that were pitched on the edge of the forest. The hunting trip was a celebration, organized by the Tyrells to bid the betrothal between the houses a good fortune. Unfortunately though, it’s his own child’s betrothal, his Juniper, his flower that is to be wed to a Tyrell boy that she has seemingly, utterly, and unabashedly adores.

He’s happy for his child to have found a love match, but he doesn’t want his little girl, his princess to marry, not yet, it’s too soon for him. Lyonel has said his piece, he has told Juniper that she has to wait a few more years to marry since she is still far too young. To which you have agreed to, and to which both children have reluctantly agreed to, but the one thing you did not agree upon is his clear protest on the union.

You’ve seen how Juniper looks at the Tyrell lordling, the same look you have whenever you turn to Lyonel. And the boy, gods be good, he’s as lovestrucked as her. So much so that you and your future kin had them separate occasionally, lest they ride out of the hunting camp and elope in the middle of nowhere. But you can see the love between them, the innocent kind of love, the purest kind that when Juniper begged for the union, you did not think twice to grant her happiness.

Perhaps that is why Lyonel hasn’t spoken to you in a day and a half. He’s irked, annoyed by the turn of events. And when he was seeking your counsel, you went on and agreed for his little girl to be shipped off in the Reach, so far away, too far away from him.

When he enters the Baratheon pavilion, hares in hand with a scowl so deep that it turned the inside of the tent cold, his children paused from what they were doing.

Ormund stops cleaning his sword, Juniper clamps her mouth shut and stops her conversation with her betrothed on the settee, whilst the Tyrell boy shrinks under his gaze. The twins hastily takes off yours and his helm, hiding it behind their back. All the while Orys stops his reading, and Orys rarely stops his reading for anyone.

“Where’s your mother?” He asks them, and the servants drop what they are doing to curtsy and escape from the tension filling the tent.

Ormund would jest and say, “do you miss her that much, father?” But he doesn’t have a death wish.

“She went on a hunt, father.” Juniper is the only brave soul to answer him.

The hares almost falls from his grip. “Alone?”

“I think so.”

“She’s been away for hours, father.” Orys, the usually quiet one, the one that doesn’t fan the flames, actually fans the flames under his father. “Said that she won’t come back until she hunts a boar for the feast.”

“On her own?” Stepping forward, his heart grows heavy in his chest. “Why didn’t any of you join her?” His dark eyes turn to his oldest son, then over to Juniper. “Hm?” They haven’t seen him this furious ever since prince Aerion came back from his banishment.

Lyonel rarely gets mad, especially at his children. When it comes to his family, he is awfully patient with them, he doesn’t raise his voice, nor use his hand to strike. He promised to be a good father, and he tries to be one. But when it comes to your safety and theirs, they get a glimpse of the storm underneath his fatherly nature.

“She told us to stay.” Juniper replies calmly, ever the voice of reason for her siblings.

“I insisted, father. I tried to accompany her.” Ormund adds, swallowing thickly as Lyonel’s eyes turn to him once again. “I did try.”

Lyonel sighs, and places the hares on the table. He lets out another breath, and another, and another, until he feels himself calm down.

“Which direction did she go?” He utters softer this time around, and he could feel the tension ebb away.

“North.” Orys simply says, before going back to read his hefty book.

“I’m off,” his hands leave the corner of the table. “If she comes back here without me, send a man for me. I have words with your mother.”

“Yes, father.”

He opens the tent, and the sunshine outside nearly blinds him. Lyonel is about to go on his horse when he hears the commotion coming from the northern edge of the forest.

There, basking under the sun, neck and arms coated in fresh blood, hair matted with crimson, is you. Riding on your horse, as a dead stag drags from behind.

People come out of their tents to watch the Lady Baratheon, who has just announced that she is with another child once again, ride into the hunting grounds with her husband’s sigil dead and dragged behind her.

“Gods…” A Tyrell squire, the same age as his Ormund mutters behind him. “I want a wife like that.”

You stop your horse right in front of your husband, looking down at him over your nose. “Husband.”

The crowd and the Lords around the two of you expected a fiery dispute between the two of you. Words hurled, all equally angry, instead of what happens next.

Lyonel lets out a booming guffaw that shakes his whole body. He laughs, the Laughing Storm lives for his name as he almost keels over from laughter. Whilst you, covered in the blood of his house’s sigil, laughs along with him.

“Seven hells, my love.” The laugh lingers in his throat, smiling up at you with reverence as he holds his arms up to you. “Message received.”

You let him get you off your horse, holding onto his steady shoulders as you grin at him. Leaning close, you whisper to him. “Truth be told, this wasn’t my intention. I thought I shot a boar.”

He guffaws again, reaching to grasp at your bloodied cheeks. “We need your eyes looked at by the maester.”

“Perhaps.” You snort out a chuckle. “I am deeply sorry, for the argument we had, and the stag I shot.”

Peeking to your side, looking at the deer, he shrugs. “He’s not my kin, it’s not as if you killed an uncle of mine. Besides, I found it fucking hilarious. You put out a good show for them.”

“I learned from the best,” he pecks your forehead for all to see. “even though it is not my intention.”

“How is the babe?” With a hand upon your armoured stomach, he lets his warmth seep through the leather. “Were you hurt?”

“No, I’m fine, the blood sprayed on me when I took out the arrow.” You can see his worry fade away, hands still holding onto you as he rests his forehead on yours.

“I’m deeply sorry too.” He mumbles, not caring for the eyes on him. He’s holding his wife, they should be the one looking away. “I should’ve heard Juniper’s reasoning.”

“You’re her father,” you take him by his cheek, gazing at him with love. “It is only expected that you wish for her to never leave home. Most fathers are the same. I would wish for her to stay with us forever but it can’t be, not when she has found her love, just like we have.”

“The others fucking geld me.” He inhales deeply, “Why do you always have to be right, hm?” Taking your cheek once again, he peppers your skin with kisses whilst you laugh, also not caring for the stares. Mayhaps a bard would write a song about this encounter. “Come inside, we shall have a bloody feast.”

Lyonel takes you by the hand, not minding the blood on yours when his hand is also bloody. When he turns around, he sees his children look at the two of you with the same expression— disgust.

The older Juniper, your handmaiden is beside them, clearly stifling a laugh. “Now you all know why there are five of you, with the sixth on the way.”

“Did you two have to kiss in front of the whole hunting party?!” Juniper groans, hiding her face in her hands out of embarrassment.

—

Ella was born with a striking resemblance to you. The only child who looks more like you than Lyonel, except for her dark curls and dark eyes, she is you, only a younger, more sweeter version of you. Even your older brothers could see it, especially your father and mother, who cried when she first held Ella during her first nameday.

“Our last babe,” Lyonel has said after Ella’s birth as he carries her in his arms, looking so small, so delicate. “No more, my love.” His words were tender, worried, terrified. He knows about the prophecy you were once told nearly two decades ago, and he has reassured you that no harm will come to them. But who could possibly know what the future holds as you lay sore and still bleeding with the afterbirth? Lyonel loves every single one of his children, but you’re his great love, the one he wants to spend the rest of his life with. He’d rather put the whole realm to the torch than lose you on the birthing bed or any cruel fate that befalls you.

His children are your greatest gift to him, and he’d rather see you watch them grow old with him than fulfill some prophecy. He doesn’t want to be the reason why his children never got to know their mother who loves them dearly.

Ella is the sweetest out of the siblings, but she has the same hidden ferocity as you. When push comes to shove, she will shove back.

She’s tenacious, a fighter who could use her wit as good as a dagger in her hand. She’d either have a scowl on her pretty face or a grin that parts the grey clouds of Storm’s End. To no one’s surprise, she has her father wrapped around her finger. She was as spoiled rotten as her older siblings, you and Lyonel may have grown old but the two of you did not lack in parenting Ella. She was rarely somber, a cry from her happens once in a blue moon, but when it does appear, a sob threatening to spill from her eyes because a toy broke, or her brothers were teasing her too much, or a simple frustration, the whole keep comes to her side. Whether that’s you, her father or her handmaidens, she was truly never alone.

When King Egg announced the betrothal that the three of you have conversed intensely about for nearly a year, Ella was sorrowful at first. Until she met the heir apparent. Prince Duncan was the prince she always had in mind, handsome and chivalrous. The kind of man who would treat your daughter right.

So she begged you to teach her how to be a Lady, how to be a perfect queen once she ascended the iron throne even when the thought alone terrifies you and Lyonel.

She’s your little girl, and Lyonel’s princess. If it were up to you she would not have to marry a prince, that she would marry someone she loves. But it’s for the alliance, an age-old alliance between the Baratheons and the Targaryens that spans beyond you and Lyonel, even King Aegon himself.

So Ella toiled away, read all the books, practiced her etiquette, in preparation to be the queen of the seven kingdoms. You could only hope that you and your husband will be there to protect her, knowing all the dangers the red keep has slithering in the dark corners of their castle.

But you both know that you can’t protect your children forever, but you can teach them how to fight, how to defend themselves. And Ella learned it too, just like her older sister did, just like all her brothers did. So when the time comes that she needs to wield a sword, she would know how.

But alas, no matter how much love, how much care you put all into your youngest, the realm will never know how great of a queen she would’ve been.

—

Lyonel eases his horse in front of a known tavern in his land, whilst you halt yours beside him. You’re both accompanied by guards, all wielding weapons, all sworn to protect your house.

The noise coming from the inside of the tavern echoes outside, and as Lyonel helps you off the horse, and the mud cakes around your boots, you quickly stomp over to the door.

What greets you has you grabbing onto the nearest thing to you— a vase. You hurl it towards all the fighting, shattering it into a million pieces as the patrons and the fighters stop in shock. All staring perplexed at their liege Lord and Lady. Even Lyonel was taken aback.

“Ormund Baratheon.” Your words carry around the tavern, felt by all the unruly sons inside. “Home. Now.”

Lyonel stifles his grin at the sight of Ormund looking far better than his opponent. His nose is bleeding, and there is a blooming bruise on his cheek. But it does not compare to the man in his fist, who is fighting to stay awake.

“Mother, I—” Your son frowns, a mirrored image of your husband whenever you tell him that he has had enough wine. “I did not mean to—”

“Now, Ormund.” You will hear him later, for now, you let your anger out to let him know that you are not in the mood to be charmed. You did not raise a son so he could go out and brawl in a tavern.

His eyes then turns to his father, asking for help.

Lyonel shakes his head, giving him a look that says, “you’re on your own, son, not even I could calm her.”

Sighing, Ormund gathers his belongings, plops a few silver on the table and leaves with his head down.

“As for everyone in this tavern,” they see a stormy side of you, a side that Lyonel adores as much as your softer side whilst you glare at every patron inside. “if I ever see any of your faces in my keep I will shoot an arrow right into your hearts myself.”

Lyonel feels the familiar warmth bloom in the pit of his stomach. “Gods, my doe, that was…”

“Not today, Lyonel.” You say with a pointed gaze. Before sighing, eyes softening as you turn to him once again. “Maybe later if you agree with me when we talk to your son.”

“Now he’s just my son, and not yours—” his mouth clamps shut, he’s not ruining his chances. “yes, of course, my love.”

—

You take a trip in the narrow sea, just a few ways away from Ship Breaker’s bay, accompanied by two more ships filled with guards in case pirates decide that it’s their day to perish from Lord Baratheon’s sword. The waters are calm and warm, as the sun shines all around you. It’s a perfect day for a swim, which Lyonel has decided on a whim that it is time for a quick excursion out at sea.

“It’s the perfect day,” he said, hair greying at the edges, eyes crinkling in the corners and yet looking as handsome as the day you met him. With a kiss from him, you agreed.

The children loved the idea, and so you found yourself on a ship floating in the middle of the narrow sea whilst your children swim and jump into the water.

Juniper shrieks as she gets pushed by Ella into the water, before she hops out of the boat and yelps once the water hits her. Ormund takes laps around the ship, using the time to exercise and increase his endurance, all the while the twins are plotting against their older brother. You could hear the muffled, “pull him under,” and “pull his breeches off,” from them. You decide to let them be, unless someone is drowning then you have no cause for concern as you bathe under the sunshine in a simple cotton dress.

The sun suddenly gets blocked by a Lyonel shaped shadow.

Taking a peek at the intrusion, you smile immediately once you see how red his bare chest has become. His curls are damp from the salty sea, and he has an easy twinkle in his eye, the same one that always appears when he spends time with his family away from duties.

“Didn’t I tell you that the concoction the maester made would prevent exactly that.” You gesture around his chest, ogling it, almost getting lost by staring at the ridges and muscles. “I could help put it on you, my stag.”

“Tempting, but that is not why I am here.” Sitting down beside you on the floor, you just now noticed the two wooden sparring swords in his hands.

“Why do you have that with you?”

“The twins brought it, I had them spar to see how much they’ve improved.” His corded neck tilts back, groaning as he lets the sun shine on him. Gods, you want to sit on his lap and trace his neck with your lips. “They did well.”

“And? What’s the problem with that?”

“I tried to coax Orys out of his corner, using the excuse of sparring with me. Not even Ormund could get him to stand up and fight. The boy annoys him to no end, he would’ve managed to get him to fight him.” He runs a hand through his salt drenched hair. “He’s just so…quiet.”

The mention of your second son has the two of you turning your heads towards him. Orys is tucked in a corner, hiding from the sun in what little shadow he has as best as he could. His long legs are folded, with a tome sitting atop his knees, reading like always.

“I’m afraid that he wants to become a maester. That means he will have to forsake our name one day.” Lyonel says solemnly, words weaved with worry.

“If that’s the path he has chosen then so be it.” Facing your husband with a tight-lipped smile, you hold his hand, weaving your fingers around his own before leaving a peck to each of his knuckles. “What’s so bad at becoming a maester if that’s what would make him happy?”

“He will have to shed the Baratheon name, my love, our name, his legacy, in favour of dusty old books.” Shaking his head, he watches his children play in the water instead. “I worry for him. And I hate that I do not understand our son.”

“Then talk to him.” You say with utmost love for both. “Try to understand him.”

“I don’t understand him, my doe. Sometimes I do think that he’s Duncan’s—” he stops himself, wincing at the words he let out. “I did not mean that.”

“I know.” You touch his face, and leans into your gentle caress. “But he is yours, you and I both know that. He is the splitting image of your Lord father, there is no denying that. He is your son, our son. And I understand him, just like how I understand you and our children. Give him time, spend that time with him. Mayhaps you will learn something about him that you didn’t know.”

Lyonel kisses your palm, eyes closed as his kiss lingers atop your skin before reluctantly pulling away. “I will try.”

“You promised that we will do better, trying is already half of it, my love.” With a kiss to his lips that has him melting in your hands like candle wax, Lyonel chases your lips when you lean away. He would whisk you below deck to the chambers if not for his fatherly duties.

“Wish me luck?”

“If he doesn’t throw the tome on your head then you’re already doing well.” You give him another peck for luck. “Good luck, my stag.”

Groaning, knees creaking as he stands up, he walks over to Orys like how one approaches an animal, slowly, carefully, lest Orys runs and dives away from him.

“What are you reading?” That’s a good start, and you give him a reassuring nod that encourages him even more. The moment Orys gazes up at him, you see your boy subtly smile at his father. The kind that is easily missed by anyone. Perhaps Lyonel could see it now that he is sitting beside him, conversing with Orys in a hushed tone.

“Mother!” Ormund yells from the water, spluttering out gasps of air as his arms flail in the air.

You vault from your seat, screaming at the edge of the ship. “Robert! Robin! Stop trying to drown your brother!”

Ormund takes a deep gasp as the twins surface from under the water and appears beside him. “Sorry, mother…”

“Gods be good.” And yet, you wouldn’t trade this for the world. You thank your lucky stars that you snuck out of the Arryn tent that night, you would never have thought that the single act would give you six children, and a husband who loves and cherishes you and your rumbactious fawns.

A/N: thank you for reading please reblog if you liked it!! ❤️

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“But, aunt—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“To drown me perhaps?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And yet that mere stag still holds your heart.

—

You hate it when Aerion is right.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The cane smacks again, and Lyonel finally moves.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Aerion—”

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

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

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

“It won’t happen.”

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What—?”

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

He’s hurting, why is he hurt?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I haven’t heard that in a while.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You shouldn’t be here.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You don’t belong here.”

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

“What have they done to you?”

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

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

“I’m surviving.”

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

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

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

“Lyonel…”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Did you really love me, Aerion?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hobie spots you outside in the backyard after he’s been looking for you for the past twenty minutes. At first he had his eyes on you the whole night, waiting for Yuri and the rest of the band to leave you two alone so he could hold your hand behind their backs. But the moment he took his eyes off you to talk to a friend, he glanced back only to find you nowhere to be seen.

Hobie doesn’t like hiding his relationship with you from his mates, he’d rather scream to the whole world that you’re his and he’s yours but alas, Yuri will beat his ass for dating her best mate since kindergarten. When she specifically told everyone that you’re off limits, in her words, “she deserves a decent lad that will make her happy and not a bunch of punk rockers that will break her heart.” To that he agreed to, you deserve to be happy, but not the latter, he would never break your heart. He has fallen too hard for you to even think of doing that to you.

It’s not like you obeyed Yuri’s words either, you liked Hobie back wholeheartedly, embraced the prospect of dating him. From the first lingering touch alone through every hangout, to the stolen glances across the room, you took all the signs and went with it by asking him out yourself. Your reason? If Yuri ever found out, or the day finally comes when you have to tell her all about the two of you, she can’t blame him, not fully anyway when you’re the one who made the first move.

It was a ballsy move, and honestly? It made him fancy you even more. And now, six months into dating, countless date nights where you two had to go across town just to have dinner or walk around the park, and a lot of kisses— Hobie is fully committed to you, and you’re committed to him.

He doesn’t have the guts just yet to tell Yuri that the lacy underwear she found in his houseboat was yours, or that the extra toothbrush in your flat right beside your own wasn’t an old toothbrush that you use to clean the toilet but it’s his. Yuri has become hyper vigilant ever since she saw a sock underneath your couch that was clearly not yours. She thinks you’re hiding a new man from her, and she really wants to meet him to be the judge of his character. But she doesn’t know that she already met the guy and is in the same band as hers.

Yuri’s been pestering you about it, whilst Ned and James want to hear about the mystery girl Hobie’s been having around the houseboat. One time they went to his place to write some songs together whilst you two were snogging on his bed and you had to hide inside his bedroom for three hours. Your bladder was about to burst when they finally left. You couldn’t just leave through the windows either when you’ll fall into the canal and then they’d definitely know what’s up when they see you swimming around in the dirty river in your underwear.

Hobie’s about to come outside to see you when Yuri calls his name from the makeshift bar on the kitchen island.

“Oi, flat arse!” She yells above the noise of the party as she holds up a plate of biscuits and half a sandwich cut into a triangle. “Have you seen our girl?”

“No,” he shakes his head, shuffling over to the glass door to hide you. “Why?”

“Can you find her for me? She said she’s starving and this is the only edible food in this place.”

“Sure.” Taking the plate, Hobie has an intense urge to go out and sprint towards the nearest shop to get you something more filling.

“Oi, fuckwad! Order us a pizza or something! Use your parents’ card!” Yuri screams for James.

James, who’s rudely interrupted by Yuri as he was about to kiss a blonde, glares right at her. “You fucking order it!” The card flew over the crowd when he tossed it.

Hobie catches a glimpse of Yuri fighting with a bloke when he caught it before her.

“It’s not yours, you cu—!”

The glass door is shut right behind him, muffling the ruckus inside.

You’re a sight to behold beside the pool. The rainbow lights illuminate your features, as your half lidded eyes catch the light. Your dress is hitched up, pooled around you beautifully, framing you as you smile wistfully at the water as your feet kick gently in it.

You feel him before you hear the thumping of his boots. “You better not push me in, Hobie.” Tilting your head over to him, your cheek presses against your shoulder as you smile sweetly up at him.

“Wouldn’t dream of it, lovie. I could get you wet without needin’ to push you into a pool.”

“Oh, you’re so charming.” Chuckling, the sound of your laugh is a balm to his soul. “What do you have there?”

“Half a sandwich and biscuits Yuri got for you.”

“Oh, thank fuck.” Your hands reach up over to him as the plate is handed over to you. “Please don’t be peanut butter and jelly—” you take a peek inside the sandwich. “Yes.”

“What is it?” Hobie sits beside you, folding his leg as he folds the hem of his trousers before taking off his boots.

“It’s mayo and pepperoni.” Taking a big bite, you offer it to him. “You want some?”

He makes a face, taking a sugar coated biscuit instead. “‘m good, love.”

Shrugging, you inhale the rest of the sandwich. “It wasn’t the best but Yuri did her best.”

“If I’d have known you were hungry I would’ve run to the shop and gotten you somethin’.”

“And what would you have gotten me?” Your eyes sparkle as you flutter your lashes and take a biscuit from the plate sitting in between you.

“Anythin’ you want. Anythin’ under fifteen quid that is.”

Hobie always loved the way your grin spreads across your face, lightening up his whole world.

“A whole fifteen, oh you spoil me, baby.” It takes you two big bites of the biscuit before gently pushing the plate away to scooch over to him closer. Hobie’s arm immediately wraps around you, tugging you to his side as he rests his chin atop your head. “I want to get out of here and make out with you in the houseboat.”

“Why wait?” His fingers squeeze at your side, tickling you slightly as he breathes you in, a combination of your sweet perfume and the pool chlorine wafting from the water. Hobie was only half joking, until you gaze at him with those familiar soft eyes that spell out ‘bedroom’ for him.

“You are insufferable.” With a giggle, you splash him with water with your foot.

Hobie laughs with you, trousers damp but it was worth it to see the playful smile on your lips that he keeps gazing at.

“But you’re right.” You shrug, that look he knows as your, ‘fuck it,’ expression as he watches you lift your leg out of the water and over his lap. One second you were beside him, the next you’re straddling his lap, shuffling to find a more comfortable position as your heels tap at the small of his back. “There, much better.”

Fuck, you’re going to kill him someday.

“Bloody hell, lovie.” Hobie’s breathless from that alone. His hands move to hold at your waist as you wiggle teasingly that has his breathing going shallow and his skin aflame. His lips are immediately on yours, kissing fervently, feeling how you smile through the kiss before completely melting under his touch. “You’re,” his tongue flicks in between your parted lips as you let out a breath. “Goin’,” your hips buckle, and his grip tightens around you, fingers digging into your skin as your dress pools around the two of you. “To kill me.”

“Only if I can come with you.” Giggling, your palm finds his hair, tugging him away, making him tilt his head back as you kiss the hinge of his jaw, feeling how he shivers under your touch.

Hobie’s rough palms glide along your back, panting, eyes half lidded and staring up at the starry sky that melts in his vision from your warm kisses. “Yeah, like…” his words flicker out of his mind when you nibble at his throat. “Romeo and Juliet— fuck me.”

“Trying to, Hobie.” Chuckling over his skin, feeling how he trembles underneath you just from a few kisses, well more than a few kisses. Still, he’s completely undone, chasing your lips, chasing the warm sensation as his fingers grip at your nape.

It’s his turn as he pulls your head back gently, granting him access to your neck as he wets his lips before digging in.

“Hobie, d’you have cash for—” Yuri stops in her tracks, coins dropping from her hand as she stares dumbfoundly at the scene before her.

“Yuri, what’s taking so long— holy fucking shit.” James guffaws, a hand slapping at his mouth immediately as Yuri grabs him. “Yuri, come on…” his voice is muffled and warbled by her hands gripping onto his pouted lips.

“Have you two seen— oh…” Ned almost stumbles into the two, eyes wide at how Hobie’s nibbling at your neck and how you’re smiling happily through the kiss. “Oh! We should, uh, go, lads…”

Ned tries to grab Yuri by her arm, knowing that she’s silently seething in place. But it seems that her anger is something else as she stomps over to the smooching pair, who are too entranced by each other to notice the stares.

“I’m going to push them in!”

“Yuri, don’t!”

Hobie spots you outside in the backyard after he’s been looking for you for the past twenty minutes. At first he had his eyes on you the whole night, waiting for Yuri and the rest of the band to leave you two alone so he could hold your hand behind their backs. But the moment he took his eyes off you to talk to a friend, he glanced back only to find you nowhere to be seen.

Hobie doesn’t like hiding his relationship with you from his mates, he’d rather scream to the whole world that you’re his and he’s yours but alas, Yuri will beat his ass for dating her best mate since kindergarten. When she specifically told everyone that you’re off limits, in her words, “she deserves a decent lad that will make her happy and not a bunch of punk rockers that will break her heart.” To that he agreed to, you deserve to be happy, but not the latter, he would never break your heart. He has fallen too hard for you to even think of doing that to you.

It’s not like you obeyed Yuri’s words either, you liked Hobie back wholeheartedly, embraced the prospect of dating him. From the first lingering touch alone through every hangout, to the stolen glances across the room, you took all the signs and went with it by asking him out yourself. Your reason? If Yuri ever found out, or the day finally comes when you have to tell her all about the two of you, she can’t blame him, not fully anyway when you’re the one who made the first move.

It was a ballsy move, and honestly? It made him fancy you even more. And now, six months into dating, countless date nights where you two had to go across town just to have dinner or walk around the park, and a lot of kisses— Hobie is fully committed to you, and you’re committed to him.

He doesn’t have the guts just yet to tell Yuri that the lacy underwear she found in his houseboat was yours, or that the extra toothbrush in your flat right beside your own wasn’t an old toothbrush that you use to clean the toilet but it’s his. Yuri has become hyper vigilant ever since she saw a sock underneath your couch that was clearly not yours. She thinks you’re hiding a new man from her, and she really wants to meet him to be the judge of his character. But she doesn’t know that she already met the guy and is in the same band as hers.

Yuri’s been pestering you about it, whilst Ned and James want to hear about the mystery girl Hobie’s been having around the houseboat. One time they went to his place to write some songs together whilst you two were snogging on his bed and you had to hide inside his bedroom for three hours. Your bladder was about to burst when they finally left. You couldn’t just leave through the windows either when you’ll fall into the canal and then they’d definitely know what’s up when they see you swimming around in the dirty river in your underwear.

Hobie’s about to come outside to see you when Yuri calls his name from the makeshift bar on the kitchen island.

“Oi, flat arse!” She yells above the noise of the party as she holds up a plate of biscuits and half a sandwich cut into a triangle. “Have you seen our girl?”

“No,” he shakes his head, shuffling over to the glass door to hide you. “Why?”

“Can you find her for me? She said she’s starving and this is the only edible food in this place.”

“Sure.” Taking the plate, Hobie has an intense urge to go out and sprint towards the nearest shop to get you something more filling.

“Oi, fuckwad! Order us a pizza or something! Use your parents’ card!” Yuri screams for James.

James, who’s rudely interrupted by Yuri as he was about to kiss a blonde, glares right at her. “You fucking order it!” The card flew over the crowd when he tossed it.

Hobie catches a glimpse of Yuri fighting with a bloke when he caught it before her.

“It’s not yours, you cu—!”

The glass door is shut right behind him, muffling the ruckus inside.

You’re a sight to behold beside the pool. The rainbow lights illuminate your features, as your half lidded eyes catch the light. Your dress is hitched up, pooled around you beautifully, framing you as you smile wistfully at the water as your feet kick gently in it.

You feel him before you hear the thumping of his boots. “You better not push me in, Hobie.” Tilting your head over to him, your cheek presses against your shoulder as you smile sweetly up at him.

“Wouldn’t dream of it, lovie. I could get you wet without needin’ to push you into a pool.”

“Oh, you’re so charming.” Chuckling, the sound of your laugh is a balm to his soul. “What do you have there?”

“Half a sandwich and biscuits Yuri got for you.”

“Oh, thank fuck.” Your hands reach up over to him as the plate is handed over to you. “Please don’t be peanut butter and jelly—” you take a peek inside the sandwich. “Yes.”

“What is it?” Hobie sits beside you, folding his leg as he folds the hem of his trousers before taking off his boots.

“It’s mayo and pepperoni.” Taking a big bite, you offer it to him. “You want some?”

He makes a face, taking a sugar coated biscuit instead. “‘m good, love.”

Shrugging, you inhale the rest of the sandwich. “It wasn’t the best but Yuri did her best.”

“If I’d have known you were hungry I would’ve run to the shop and gotten you somethin’.”

“And what would you have gotten me?” Your eyes sparkle as you flutter your lashes and take a biscuit from the plate sitting in between you.

“Anythin’ you want. Anythin’ under fifteen quid that is.”

Hobie always loved the way your grin spreads across your face, lightening up his whole world.

“A whole fifteen, oh you spoil me, baby.” It takes you two big bites of the biscuit before gently pushing the plate away to scooch over to him closer. Hobie’s arm immediately wraps around you, tugging you to his side as he rests his chin atop your head. “I want to get out of here and make out with you in the houseboat.”

“Why wait?” His fingers squeeze at your side, tickling you slightly as he breathes you in, a combination of your sweet perfume and the pool chlorine wafting from the water. Hobie was only half joking, until you gaze at him with those familiar soft eyes that spell out ‘bedroom’ for him.

“You are insufferable.” With a giggle, you splash him with water with your foot.

Hobie laughs with you, trousers damp but it was worth it to see the playful smile on your lips that he keeps gazing at.

“But you’re right.” You shrug, that look he knows as your, ‘fuck it,’ expression as he watches you lift your leg out of the water and over his lap. One second you were beside him, the next you’re straddling his lap, shuffling to find a more comfortable position as your heels tap at the small of his back. “There, much better.”

Fuck, you’re going to kill him someday.

“Bloody hell, lovie.” Hobie’s breathless from that alone. His hands move to hold at your waist as you wiggle teasingly that has his breathing going shallow and his skin aflame. His lips are immediately on yours, kissing fervently, feeling how you smile through the kiss before completely melting under his touch. “You’re,” his tongue flicks in between your parted lips as you let out a breath. “Goin’,” your hips buckle, and his grip tightens around you, fingers digging into your skin as your dress pools around the two of you. “To kill me.”

“Only if I can come with you.” Giggling, your palm finds his hair, tugging him away, making him tilt his head back as you kiss the hinge of his jaw, feeling how he shivers under your touch.

Hobie’s rough palms glide along your back, panting, eyes half lidded and staring up at the starry sky that melts in his vision from your warm kisses. “Yeah, like…” his words flicker out of his mind when you nibble at his throat. “Romeo and Juliet— fuck me.”

“Trying to, Hobie.” Chuckling over his skin, feeling how he trembles underneath you just from a few kisses, well more than a few kisses. Still, he’s completely undone, chasing your lips, chasing the warm sensation as his fingers grip at your nape.

It’s his turn as he pulls your head back gently, granting him access to your neck as he wets his lips before digging in.

“Hobie, d’you have cash for—” Yuri stops in her tracks, coins dropping from her hand as she stares dumbfoundly at the scene before her.

“Yuri, what’s taking so long— holy fucking shit.” James guffaws, a hand slapping at his mouth immediately as Yuri grabs him. “Yuri, come on…” his voice is muffled and warbled by her hands gripping onto his pouted lips.

“Have you two seen— oh…” Ned almost stumbles into the two, eyes wide at how Hobie’s nibbling at your neck and how you’re smiling happily through the kiss. “Oh! We should, uh, go, lads…”

Ned tries to grab Yuri by her arm, knowing that she’s silently seething in place. But it seems that her anger is something else as she stomps over to the smooching pair, who are too entranced by each other to notice the stares.

“I’m going to push them in!”

“Yuri, don’t!”

The room is slowly growing darker with every minute you spend inside, the cozy decorations around the small space with its carved woodland creatures, lace doilies and fluttering curtains are nothing but a mockery to you and what’s gnawing in your head. Their shadows loom over the walls, shapes cageing you in.

It’s quiet inside the familiar bathroom, what was once held a fond memory for you is now marred by the recent memory of James begging for you to shoot him. You can still hear his cries, pleading, begging for you to end him to keep you and your baby safe. The way his hands shook, cradling the bleeding bite and how his voice gurgled in his own blood, and yet he still smiled at you towards the end. Even then he was trying to comfort you.

Your protruding stomach bops up and down in the water, belly button peeking through the mix of blood and soap. You haven’t let out a single tear since Hobie helped you inside the tub, hoping that a warm bath will help. When all it did was numb you.

Gazing at the ceiling, mold dotted along the wood, your eyes sting as you tilt your head down, face half submerged in the water. Waves lapping at the sides of your face. You miss James, he was your companion, a friend that helped you survive the first days of the apocalypse. He was your anchor through it all, the voice of reason when all you wanted was to run outside and look for your lost love. It’s ironic, compared to before the world ended, you and the rest of the band were the ones holding him by the scruff of his neck.

As you run your palm over your stomach, the pinky ring shines atop it, you promise to yourself that you’ll live on so that his sacrifice wouldn’t be in vain. He would’ve wanted you to do just that, but that doesn’t make it alright. You have no idea how to tell Yuri and Ned that their best mate is dead, and that you killed him.

What if his parents are still alive? How would you tell them that their only child is dead? That he died protecting you while holding out hope that he would find them?

The door creaks open, and Hobie peeks through the crack. His cheeks are coated in dirt, and there’s soil underneath his fingernails as he knocks softly. He looks the same as you remember before you had to leave him in the car with hopes of coming back for him. You did come back for him, but he was nowhere to be seen. For three months you wonder where he was, if he’s eating, or if he’s even alive. Now that he’s here, standing in the same room as you, breathing the same air as you, your heart feels like it’s beating once again. Albeit cracked, but alive, thumping quietly as it keeps you and your baby breathing.

“Love,” his voice seeps with fatigue. “You’ll turn into a prune.”

“You like prunes.” You answer softly, tone as tired as his. “Come sit with me please?”

“I’m all dirty,” His boots thump against the floor mats, tracking mud and dirt. His hand clamps over his eyes playfully. “and you’re all naked.”

You manage a small smile. “How do you think I got this?” Gesturing around your stomach, he peeks through his fingers.

“A stork?”

“Nope, birds and the bees, Hobs.” Opening your palms, you gesture for him to join you.

“Yeah, I think I remember that in biology.” Kneeling down, knees creaking in protest, he places his arm over the rim of the bathtub, chin resting on his elbow. “How do you feel?”

“Like sun dried shit.” Your attempt at a half assed joke.

He manages a smile. “The baby?” His eyes gaze gently down, worry etched on his brows.

“I think the baby’s fine. I’m not at the stage where the baby could start kicking like a horse yet. But everything feels fine, considering.” Sniffing, you lean against his arm, a cold cheek pressed on his warm skin. “I really wanted to tell you… I really did.”

Hobie’s free hand reaches to cup your chin, turning you gently to face him. “I know, lovie.” He sighs, thumb brushing along your damp skin. “When did you know?”

“At the party, with Yuri.” The mere mention of her has your heart squeezing in your chest. The same feeling is clear on his face too. “We got a bunch of tests after I got sick all over the bathroom floor.”

“Is that what you wanted to tell me? Before…everythin’?”

“Yeah, I still have the test, kept it just in case.”

His eyes flick over to your growing stomach, belly button protruding above the surface like a buoy. “Well, I believe you, proof or no proof.”

You manage a small chuckle. “I’m way past doubting it. The morning sickness was the worst, and my feet are swollen.” Lifting a foot above the water to show him, Hobie’s brows knit in worry, it looks painful. You look like you’re in pain. He then sees the scar on your leg, a long scar tissue that is still red around the edges of skin. He doesn’t ask how it came to be when he doesn’t want to upset you even more.

He feels sorry that he wasn’t there, that he wasn’t there from the start, holding you, making you feel better. He should’ve been there, he should’ve been here before you. Maybe, just maybe, James would still be alive, that he would hear the muffled shuffling of the undead behind the closet door, and end it before it started. And he would welcome you both inside with a relieved smile.

“My boots would fit you now.” Hobie stifles his hurt, eyes glancing away from swollen feet before staring at the same pain in your eyes.

“Maybe, I’m going to need maternity clothes soon.” Inhaling, you purse your lips together. “I’m going to wear all those old lady dresses with the plain daisies and bland colours. You won’t think I’m fit anymore.” Your knuckles brush alongside his arm.

“Nah, you’re still peng in my eyes, lovie. Even if you dress up as Yuri’s grandma.” Taking your hand, he twists it gently to hold onto you better. Water mixing with soil.

“Remember when she used to make us all those sugar cookies during band practice?”

“Yeah, I’ve gained weight durin’ that.”

“We all did, Hobie.” You gently smile, squeezing him once. After a beat, your smile fades. “Is it horrible of me to think that it’s a good thing that she’s already gone before all this shit happened?”

“No, love.” His thumb runs along your palm. “I wouldn’t wish this on anyone.”

The back of your eyes stings, heat behind them as you swallow thickly. “I should’ve— I should’ve come looking for you. When I came back to the car, you weren’t there anymore.” You fight the tears from spilling. “And then we ran to the docks, and the houseboat wasn’t there either. I’m sorry, I should’ve tried harder. I could’ve tried harder.”

“Just the thought of you comin’ to look for me is enough.” With a gentle hand, he moves a damp strand of hair away from your face. “I’m jus’ glad you weren’t alone.”

Your eyes fall on his fingers, the dirt digs into his nailbeds, darkened by mud and soil. “Yeah, I wouldn’t have survived this long without him.” Your nail scrapes at the dirt, trying to get it clean. And he lets you. “You should’ve seen him, Hobie, he was…he’s great.” Vision glistening, you stifle a sob.

“I think he was a scout when he was a kid.” A smile curls in the corner of his lips at the image of James wearing those uniforms when he was just a boy. Green and khaki complete with a beret and sash filled with patches. Hobie beats himself up for not remembering if James really was a scout. “I know he was great, lovie, jus’ seein’ you here is proof enough.”

“He went full on survivor. We were stuck at his parent’s condo for a bit until we ran out of supplies and the electricity in the city was shut off.” Your palm is pruning, but you’re afraid of leaving the comfort of the tub. “I got a baby book though.”

“Yeah? Like the one with baby names?”

He wants to tell you what happened to him in those three months, how he struggled, how he longed to see you alive, how he was seeing you in his visions. And what he saw, what he had to do to get back to you. You know that the houseboat is gone from his expression alone, if it wasn’t you two would’ve sailed out of the town before the blood dried on the floor.

You gently shake your head, water sloshing softly. “No, the kind that has instructions on home births.” Voice wavering, you hold onto him tightly, realizing what he has to do when the time comes. “I’m scared, Hobie.” Your throat betrays you, closing up as you let out a sob. “What if something happens to the baby? There’s no hospitals or doctors anymore—”

Hobie brings your face to his chest, shushing you tenderly as he rubs at your back. Despite the water drenching his sleeve, he still holds onto you as waves of tears flow out of you. He’s scared too, afraid to lose the baby, afraid to lose you. For ten years, he has loved you, and for those ten years, he never once thought of a day without you in it. He can’t lose you when he needs to love you for the rest of his life.

“It’s alright, we can do it, yeah?” He feels you nod against him as you shiver in his arms. “We’ve watched enough hospital dramas to know all about givin’ birth.” Joking, Hobie kisses the crown of your damp head as you manage a chortle.

“That’s reassuring.”

“I’ve got you and the baby. I promise that you two will be safe and sound.” Leaning away to cradle your face, he meets with your shining eyes, tears still clinging to your lashes. “I promise you.” Even if it kills him.

“Okay.” Inhaling deeply, you grasp at his wrist, a firm yet affectionate hold. “And I’ll watch your back, like always.”

Hobie smiles, the kind that reminds you of the days where he would play on stage, giving you that same reassuring smile as the lights flicker on his handsome face. “To start off, let’s get you dry and warm before you catch a cold.”

—

When you pictured saying goodbye to one of your friends, you never envisioned burying them at an age where they shouldn’t be six feet under. That it’ll just be you and Hobie, staring at the freshly packed ground right in front of you with a crudely made headstone. James doesn’t deserve one that is made out of a broken window panel, he deserved a headstone that is carved out of marble, where his name would remain etched on it forever. Not like how you wrote his name on the wood with a sharpie.

His father’s hunting vest feels rough in your hands. Dried blood staining the very same fabric that James once wore. You’ve been told that his father wasn’t the best, but the vest brought him comfort throughout his survival, a reminder, his fuel to continue living. Now it remains in your trembling hands, fingers digging into the dark blood.

“D’you want to say a few words?” Hobie utters softly amidst the strong wind as trees rustle nearby. If he thinks hard enough, he can imagine that his best mate doesn’t lie six feet under him. That he didn’t bury him there with his bare hands.

You shake your head, chest aching, eyes heavy and hot with unshed tears. No words could ever stifle your grief, there are no words in the world that makes this right, no worthy words to describe how great a man James was.

He understands your grief and your guilt, he knows you well to know what’s rushing inside your head. His eyes wander towards your shaking hands, and the façade he built to keep you steady and anchored almost crumbles.

“J–James Jameson,” his tone cracks, fists shaking, nails leaving crescent shapes on his palms. “You’re the best damn drummer I know, save us a spot up there, yeah?”

You heave, tears streaming down your face as you take a careful step forward. With your heart in your stomach, you kneel before the headstone, laying the vest around it, imagining that you’re putting it on him for the last time. “You’ve done well, James.” Your words are carried by the wind, palm placed atop the fresh soil, where his head could lie underneath.

Hobie’s arm curls around you, chin resting atop your head as he faces the grey sky.

—

The days have gone by with silence. The surrounding woods let out a whisper of leaves and a howl at night. But inside the cabin, grief lingers in the air, staining the wooden walls, slithering on the floorboards.

James’ presence weighs heavy between the two of you. Even though Hobie never said that he blames you for it, you still beat yourself up for what happened. If only you were quicker, that you didn’t hesitate before pulling the trigger. Every day Hobie lets you know that he doesn’t, for one moment, blame you for James’ demise. Through his actions, taking care of you, making sure that you’ve eaten, slept, taken your prenatal vitamins, and his touch, he lets you know that he loves you, that the world hasn’t ended for him because you’re still by his side.

The two of you have just been surviving on sparse supplies, and the water taken from a well behind the house that he has to boil before letting you take a drink. But the quiet, and the stifling air inside the space makes it more unbearable. You’ve tried to turn on the telly when the solar panels on the roof have recharged, but you’re only met with static. Not even the radio plays crappy music anymore, just an incessant buzzing. It’s as if you’re the only people left in the world.

The books and board games on the shelf meant for guests are gathering dust. You’d rather spend your days studying the baby book, every word memorized and carved in your head. Hobie made himself the handyman of the house, he fixed the holes on the front door where your bullets hit it, and he has reinforced all the windows with planks of wood he found in the tool shed. In case a shambler comes too close to the perimeter he set up that he agrees is abysmal when he only has strings and cans to work with. It’s a crude version of an alarm, and he wishes he could make something better for a precaution.

Hobie barely sleeps, keeping watch at night and day, taking naps in between when his body shuts down. When you see him dozing off on the couch, you sit beside him and he’s immediately magnetized to your side. You always tug his head down on your lap, letting him sleep there as your old cardigan that he managed to save from the houseboat is draped on his shoulders. Sometimes you see him reading the same baby book, folding the edges of the important pages when it’s your turn to keep watch. You miss him, even though you two sleep on the same bed with his arms wrapped protectively around you. But the easy conversations, the laughter, you miss those. This isn’t a way of living anymore.

You can’t help it when your eyes wander towards the spot where you held James one last time. No matter how much you scrub at the walls and floor, the stain stays. A macabre reminder of that day amidst the comfortable cottage decorations placed by the same dead man resting beside James’ grave.

The bowl of canned chicken noodle soup in front of you warms your cheeks as Hobie’s palm leaves your shoulder with a squeeze. Your eyes dart towards his side of the table, noticing that he doesn’t have supper, only a glass of room temperature water.

“Hobie?” Clearing your throat, your hand rubs at your stomach. Your shirt has gotten smaller, making you pull it down occasionally over your swollen belly.

He sighs in relief just from hearing your voice, pausing by the counter tops, hands reaching above the cabinets. “Yeah, love? Feelin’ alright?”

“Where’s your soup?” Craning your neck, you see the opened cabinets, seeing it nearly empty, save for a can of chocolate pudding, and a pack of dried beef jerky that’s still unopened. Just by the look in his eyes, he doesn’t need to say it out loud. “We need to go into town.”

“I need to go into town.” He leans on the counter, arms on his side as the dark circles under his eyes are illuminated by the electric lamp that was recharged by the solar. “Before you say anythin’, I’ll be quick.”

“And alone. You need someone to watch your back. We’ve got two guns for a reason.”

“Sure, I’ll jus’ ask one of the woodland creatures to come with me.”

“I don’t want to fight, Hobie.” Standing up, hand braced under your stomach, you close the small distance towards the kitchen. The cabin used to carry good memories, now it only bears agony. “Please, let’s not argue.” Hands rubbing his arms, you gaze at him softly. “I’m still not that far along, I can still run if we need to.” You don’t want to tell him that your scarred leg aches when you run.

You feel all the heaviness that James left in your heart, but you can’t let it hinder you forever when you’ve got Hobie and the baby to think about. They’re now your reason to survive, just like how James held on because of the baby and in hopes of finding his best mates and his parents.

Hobie avoids your eyes, sighing as he takes your hands in his. He feels the small indents from the scars that you told him about after another night of crying. He doesn’t want to look at it when it only makes his heart break at the thought of you getting hurt. So he keeps his eyes on the promised ring around your pinky instead, the same one he saved for months just to get it for you.

“What if we see those things? Or worse, run into people?”

“We hide or run, and if need be, we fight.” You look at him with determination and with untapped bravery he hasn’t seen yet. “I don’t want you to starve yourself. Or for you to die when I’m stuck here waiting for you to come home when I don’t know if you’ll ever be back.” Reaching over him as his hand falls on your hips, you take the beef jerky and the lone can of chocolate pudding. “So which one will it be for tonight?” With a small smile, you weigh both in your hands. “I need you full of energy tomorrow.”

Chuckling, Hobie takes the beef jerky and then takes your chin daintily in his hand. “The last time you told me that was before a concert.”

“I remember.” Sunlight passes by your eyes. “You killed it that night.”

His eyes wander behind you where his guitar case is tucked in-between an armchair and the telly. He still hasn’t opened it. “You follow me, yeah? When I tell you to run, you run, when I tell you to leave me behind, you do just that.”

You take a second before nodding.

“Let’s share the puddin’” Throwing his arm over your shoulder, and a peck to your temple, he leads you back to the table.

Kissing his cheek, you giggle, the very first genuine laugh you’ve let out in a couple of weeks. “That’s what I like to hear.”

—

Hobie hesitated before taking the car into town. The engine could draw unwanted attention, or it could break down in the middle of a drive. But he can’t exactly make you walk for miles on end when you’re almost four months pregnant. If only he had a bicycle on hand, and go on a ride with you like when you were teenagers sneaking out to go wherever you please.

“I hope we find a shoe place.” Your mumbling gets his attention, hand reaching towards your thigh as he keeps his eyes on the road. You place your hand atop his, squeezing once as you smile fondly at him. It reminds you of a similar memory when the two of you were driving in his old car to a gig or a date at the park. Not driving towards what could be a dead town filled with rotting corpses. “Some new trainers would be good for my sasquatch feet.”

His piercings catch the light, glinting from the sun shining on them. Hobie looks incredibly handsome, you’ve always said that the sunlight suits him more, and he would always say that the moonlight fits you best. His locks are tied into a ponytail that you helped him with. He desperately needs a haircut when his curls are starting to cover his eyes that you always have to move them away, covering a new scar he got from the car crash right on his forehead. It’s not because you think it makes him look awful, but you hate the fact that he got hurt, that he had to tend to his wounds himself. Your guilt refuses to let you look at the scar.

Hobie snorts, noticing your lighter demeanour now that you’re out of the cabin. “I’ll keep a look out.” Thumb drawing circles over your jeans, he squeezes again. “And your feet aren’t that big, love. I’ve seen bigger.”

Pinching the back of his hand, he lets out a chuckle. “Yeah, yours.” Your eyes warn him before he could even smirk. “And don’t say it.”

“Wasn’t gonna.” From his smirk alone, you could tell that he was in fact ‘gonna.’

Smiling, for a moment you forgot that the world ended, that James isn’t laying six feet underground just beside the living room window.

Hobie senses the negative shift in your demeanor. From all his reading on the baby book you brought, he has read that when the mother is in good spirits, and not stressed, the baby will turn out healthy and happy. He has made it his mission that you and the baby remain in okay spirits, impossible to make it better on account of the things around you, but he still wants to try. After James and everything else, something as small as new trainers could help brighten you up. He’s even contemplating that the cabin might not be the best environment for you, but where would he bring you that is safer than a cabin in the middle of the woods?

“I’ve been thinkin’” Clearing his throat, he shifts in his seat with the town now in sight.

“A lot, I imagine.”

He glances at you with a small smile. “Yeah, too much.” Sighing, he slows down the car once the town’s faded banner greets him. The place doesn’t look any better like before, but it doesn’t look worse either. “What if we look for other places we could stay? Somewhere safer, quieter and away from cities for when the baby is born.”

“The cabin is already all of that.”

“Yeah, I mean…somewhere that doesn’t remind you of what happened.”

Your eyes cast down at your lap, index mindlessly picking at a hang nail as you gaze at your ring instead. “I don’t know, Hobie, James is there, he’d be alone.”

“He’ll understand, love.” Sighing, he parks the car on the side of the silent fishing town. “We don’t have to make a decision now, jus’ think ‘bout it, yeah?” With a hand on your thigh, he squeezes you reassuringly, and you smile right back at him with the same kind of comfort. “I see a cobbler over there, maybe someone didn’t pick up their shoes.”

Like always, he helps with your seatbelt gently, even avoiding grazing your stomach with his hand. Maybe it’s him being careful with you, but it’s as if he’s afraid to really hold onto your stomach, afraid to face the baby that could possibly end your life.

He smells faintly of the watered down minty shampoo and a coconut body wash that the last renter left at the cabin. While you probably smell of the milk formula for mothers that you’ve been rationing since you left the condo with James. Even then, Hobie pecks your temple sweetly.

“There, you ready?”

Taking his hand, you place his palm with apprehension on top of your stomach, letting his warmth ebb through your skin. “I’ve read that babies tend to already know their parents in the womb, but you haven’t been there the first months so I want them to get to know you more. Is that alright?”

His lips tug into a smile, chuckling softly as he feels around freely. “Yeah, ‘m the dad, love, of course it’s alright.”

You match his grin. “Just checking.”

Kissing your cheek, his lips linger for a moment before pulling away. He looks around with bated breath, making sure that there aren’t any surprises lurking around the corner shops. The town is quiet, eerily quiet, like in one of those apocalyptic shows Yuri pestered them into watching with her.

Cars are left on the road, some doors still open as the wind and rain ravage the leather seats. From the pink and yellow banners around, and the wilted flowers all tied with a pretty ribbon around the lampposts and shop windows, he’d think there was some celebration happening before the world ended. A flyer fluttering by gets stuck in the windshield wiper, it answers his question.

“‘Happy Mother’s day.’” You read solemnly. “Fuck me that’s ironic.”

Hobie scoffs a laugh, patting your stomach gingerly as he inhales deeply.

He doesn’t see any movement from the streets, no rustling, just some trash getting carried by the wind. But he spots something in the corner of his eye, a flash of movement inside the cobbler’s store, a quick shadow darting in between shelves of shoes.

“What is it?” You ask, brows furrowed as you feel his trepidation. “You okay?”

“We should move on.” Hobie starts the car again, as something gnaws at the back of his mind, telling him to move, telling him, ‘not here, there’s death lingering here.’

“I thought…” you don’t argue, trusting his instincts. “Okay. Maybe a house would be better.”

The car jolts to life as Hobie keeps his steely gaze on the road. “Yeah, the neighborhood is probably better to look through.”

The two of you drive around in silence, the fear sits between the two of you, heavy and permeating as the car rolls into a suburban area with white picket fences and blue windowsills. The place looks normal, still pristine and untouched by the dead and survivors.

Hobie looks around, car slowing down as he spots a two story home that he has probably seen dozens of times in his life. It looks fine, no blood on the walls, no corpses laying around, just an overgrown lawn and dusty windows.

“This is the one?” Your eyes narrow as the sunshine reflects onto the car windows and onto your eyes. It was a gloomy day when you went out, but the sun wanted to be seen for a moment. It’s a good reprieve from all the grey and darkness in your mind.

“Got your gear?” Hobie clicks his seatbelt off and then over to yours in a swift calculated movement.

“Yep,” you inhale deeply, taking his helping hand as you get out of the car. There’s a small ache on the pit of your stomach, and you chalk it up as nerves. You fix the hold on the backpack, a hand feeling for the kitchen knife on your belt and the gun hidden underneath your coat and tucked into your jeans. “Yours?”

“Ready,” Hobie shows you his backpack and the shotgun strapped on his shoulder, he then pats the hammer dangling on his belt before nudging your hand, resisting the urge to hold it instead. He needs his hands free to protect you. “Food and water first.” He instructs. “I’ll keep a lookout for shoes.”

“If we find the stuff we need for the home birth should we grab it? Or should we save space for food and toiletries?” You’re careful where you place your feet as you both walk onto what was probably a pristine lawn before the dead walked around.

“If we still have space in our packs, I don’t see why not.” Hobie keeps a careful eye around, making sure his hand never leaves the handle of the machete. And that you’re within his vision at all times.

“Maybe we’ll find some strings for your guitar too. They’re small, so it’ll fit my pockets.”

Hobie falters for a moment before stopping in front of the door. “You opened my guitar case?”

“Yeah,” you say as you cup your hands around a foggy window whilst you try to take a peek inside. When you’re met with silence, you lean away to look at him. “Am I not supposed to? I’m sorry, I got curious.”

“No, love, it’s alright.” His pinky brushes along the back of your hand. “It’s jus’ that I haven’t opened it since the houseboat broke down.”

“Oh, well, it’s fine, just that the stings are a bit fucked. No water got in or even a scratch on it.”

“That’s good.” With a relieved sigh, he gently taps the glass window to double check that there aren’t any shamblers hiding inside.

The two of you wait for a bit, but when a minute passes by without the sound of a pained groan or movement inside, Hobie grips the door handle.

He sees a wind chime a second earlier before he could open the door. With his height, he easily stops the chiming before it could chime out with a hand. Hobie then yanks it out, and gently places it on the ground.

“Good eye.”

“Thanks—” he’s about to push the door open, until your hand catches his wrist.

“Alarm.” You mutter with a shaky tone, pointing at the sign hidden behind the tall grass of the overgrown lawn. ‘This house is protected by Octavius security.’ It reads in big bold letters.

“Fuck me.” Slowly, he lets go of the door knob. “What are the chances that they don’t have power either?”

“I don’t know, but we can’t risk it.” You swallow thickly, a hand brushing along your stomach for comfort. Pursing your lips, you remember a conversation you had with James on one warm evening, warm enough that he made popsicles for you both. Yours was mango because he said that fruit was better for the baby, and he had chocolate instead. You’ve been craving mangoes nowadays, but can’t say anything to Hobie to add more to his stress. “I’ve got an idea, follow me.”

Slowly, with a hand on your knife, you carefully tread the lawn and over to the side of the house. Hobie follows closely behind, too afraid to lag behind you, afraid that you’ll get lost in the tall grass, or get snatched by one of the dead.

There’s a fallen kid’s bicycle on the ground, half buried in grass and dirt. Once upon a time a kid rode that up and down the neighborhood, now it lays there, rotting, slowly rusting, like the world around you.

“Here.” Clearing your throat, you both make it to the back door without a hitch. So far so good. “Okay, let’s hope that—” you begin to bend down, but Hobie stops you halfway with a hand on your chest.

“Let me. What are you looking for?” Crouching, Hobie looks up at you as the grey clouds start to obscure the sun behind your head, covering the halo around you.

“A key under the welcome mat.”

“Lovie, I don’t think…” and yet he still lifts the dirty mat, only to find a single key under it. “Well, fuck me sideways.”

“Already did that.” You cheekily joke, helping him stand up with a hand wrapped around his lean bicep.

Hobie smiles, really smiles, the kind of smile he would flash at you during lazy mornings where you two have nowhere to be that day. “You offerin’?”

Chuckling, you snatch the key from him as you insert it inside the lock. “Maybe if you find me some shoes.”

“Promise?” His lips curl into a mischievous smile, one that you’re incredibly familiar with.

“Yes,” biting your lip with a stifled laugh, you take a step back for him. “Could you please open the door?”

“How’d you know that the key would be there?”

“James’ dad owns a security company, and he told me that some people would usually forget their codes, or are afraid that when there’s no power they won’t be able to go inside because the system automatically locks the house. So sometimes they’d ask to not have an alarm at the back door, for big houses that is. For the key, well,” you shrug smugly. “I just applied common sense.”

He smiles proudly at you. “I keep forgettin’ that his dad had his hand in a lot of pies.”

“Just open the bloody door, Hobs.”

“Yes, ma’am.” He mocks a salute, unlocking the door slowly as the door creaks. Hobie peeks through the gap, waiting for any shamblers to appear. Tapping his blade on the door, once, twice, he waits some more, a precaution. Whilst you keep watch of the surroundings, heart beating loudly in your chest. “I think we’re good, lovie. Just need you to stay close to me, yeah?”

You nod, mouth feeling dry as you grip at the hilt of the kitchen knife. Your feet feel like you’re standing on warm sand, and your belly does somersaults, the baby could probably feel the tremors in your body as you enter the home with Hobie right in front of you.

This time, you’re making sure that you see the threat before it happens. The two of you sweep the kitchen first, the pantry has some food left but no monsters lurking in it. He finds the laundry room, same thing, no dead nor a soul inside.

You breathe a little better, and Hobie gives you a reassuring look, nudging your arm in a simple, ‘we’re okay,’ gesture.

While you keep watch, Hobie ransacks the pantry.

One thing has caught your eye though, on the counter, there is an empty flower vase with yellowing water, and beside it is a wilted and long dried up bouquet of roses. You take a peek inside the card, and it reads, ‘happy mother’s day!’ Scrawled by tiny hands written in crayon.

He loads up the duffle bag with food first, canned foods are the priority as he avoids the perishables. You wanted to check the fridge whilst he’s doing that but he can’t, or won’t let you out of his sight. You did promise to watch his back, so you did with your hand on the pistol right on your waist as he stacks cans upon cans of food.

Then he sees the biscuits, chocolate coated ones that he knows you like the most. He takes a box of those, checking the expiration date wouldn’t have meant anything when he has lost track of the date already. But if it doesn’t smell or isn’t covered in mold, it could still be good, so he packs it instead of another can of peas. He grabs a few seasonings too, and what’s left of the rice they had. He read that rice is good for the baby, so he takes it even though it weighs a ton.

The duffel bag is filled to the brim already when he finishes packing.

“Love.” He can’t help but smile, turning around to face you. “We’re not goin’ to starve.”

Chortling, you give him a quick yet loving peck on his shoulder. “Thank you.”

“There’s more in the fridge, and there are still jugs of water in here.” He whispers, in case there are lurkers upstairs.

“We also need soap.” Your eyes glances over to the laundry room. “What do we do?”

Pursing his lips, his eyes darts from the fridge, where there are magnet souvenirs and family photos on it, then over to the laundry room. He really needs clean clothes too. “We load this up in the trunk, dump it all in there then come back here.”

“Greedy, but I agree. I can’t sleep for another day in those sheets.”

With your approval, and a squeeze to your hand, the two of you trek back to the car, and carefully dump the canned goods inside the trunk of James’ car.

“I’ve never asked.” Hobie starts, a hand clasped around a can of peaches. “What happened to the window?” Glancing at the missing window at the back that was hastily wrapped in tarp and taped by duct tape, you follow his gaze.

“A horde got to us when we were leaving the condo building.” The stacking pauses on his end. “We were okay, we made it out by using molotov cocktails.”

He smiles fondly as something swims in his eyes, pride perhaps? Or perhaps jealousy. “You learned from the best.”

“We did, Hobie.” You tap the back of his knee with your foot as you finish your side. “I hope we find deodorant.”

Nodding, Hobie shuts the trunk as quietly as he could as he takes the empty duffel bag in his hand. “You smell great, love.”

“It’s because your brain started blocking the smell.” Giggling, you start your trek back again with him in tow. The steps are lighter, less careful now that you know what to expect.

“Nah, I think it’s your pheromones, you smell fit.”

“Never say that word ever again, Hobie.” That earns a kiss from him as he steals one from behind, right on your nape, before stepping around you to get to the laundry room before you could.

It goes like that for an hour, when the bags get full, he dumps it into the car and goes back again. It’s routine for the two of you, one that he refuses to go in and out alone when he can’t bear to leave you outside or inside the house for that matter. Even though it was tedious, going back and forth, he would still do it if it meant never straying too far from your side. He lost you once, he’s not planning on losing you ever again.

Both of you have cleared out the first floor, you found laundry detergents, food and water, now you’re on a mission to get some new clothes or maybe some pillows and blankets while it’s still light outside.

The walls of the house have grown familiar for you, the pictures on the walls of an unknown family, all strangers, and yet you found a connection to them. Somewhere in between taking their supplies, you wonder about them. Did they prefer beef over chicken when everything you found in their freezer was beef? Did their son ask for snacks before dinner like every kid does? How were they living now? Did they escape together? Or perhaps they’re shambling somewhere together with the rest of the dead.

Brows furrowed, your feet are on fire as you take a breather on the steps, taking hold of the bannister as you inhale through your nose and exhale out of your mouth. A breathing exercise that you read in your book.

“Love?” Hobie calls your name with worry. “You good?”

“Yeah, it’s just that…my feet are really fucking swolen and it kind of hurts. And I sort of need to pee.” Wincing, you give him an apologetic smile.

“Alright.” He sighs in relief, almost smiling. “I’ll take you to the loo.”

Hobie does a quick sweep of every room, there are only two bedrooms upstairs, and one office that is under lock and key. Every room is quiet and pristine, except for an odd smell coming from the master bedroom. Once he deems it safe, he helps you into the bathroom, keeping watch just outside the closed door.

Hand on his weapon, he keeps finding himself looking at the nursery right in front of him. It has light blue walls, powder blue like the sky on a good day in London, and it’s painted with fluttering birds and flowers. There’s a crib in there too, pristine, probably newly bought when there is still plastic wrapped around it. On the other side of the room is a small bed, meant for a toddler with rocketship bed sheets and glow in the dark stars tacked on the ceiling. In between them is an old rocking chair, oak and probably older than Hobie. And sitting on top of it is a box of trainers, with a neat pink bow on the lid. It’s from the brand that he knows you have been saving up for before the dead started walking.

He glances at the closed bathroom door, hearing you shuffle on the other side. The door is closed, and he didn’t find any undead inside the whole house. The place is safe and the nursery faces the loo where he could still keep an eye on you, so he takes a step away from the door and over to the rocking chair.

Hobie makes his strides quick and quiet, crossing the short distance over to the box as he takes it. He opens the lid, finding the same soft blue inside, the shoes seem to be larger than your usual size, but it would now fit you.

Grinning, his mission is accomplished. He shoves the pair inside the duffel bag, turning around with a triumphant smile on his face. “Love.” He shows you the box just as you exit the bathroom. “Look.”

The sheer happiness on your face makes his chest warm. He hasn’t seen you have that expression in a long while, it’s as if he’s a thirsty wanderer who finally found an oasis. For the first time ever since the party, he grins widely, the unabashed carefree smile that tugs at the corner of his lips first, right next to the piercing, a lopsided smile that never fails to turn your legs into jelly.

“Please tell me it’s my size.” Your hands reach for the box, squealing giddily once you see the size on the side.

“Open it.” His stomach thrums with excitement.

“Yes, new—!” Your face falls at the emptiness, and once you turn to look at the father of your unborn child, his cheeks are puffed, trying and failing to stifle a guffaw. “You wanker.”

“I couldn’t help it, lovie.” Tossing the box away that lands into the crib with a thump, he leads you to the rocking chair as you scowl at him like back when he accidentally ate your cheesecake in the fridge that you were saving for the end of the day. Hands on your shoulders, he’s still smiling at you, crouching down as he retrieves the shoes from the duffel bag. “‘m not evil.”

Your expression melts from annoyance to giddiness once again. “It’s blue.” You utter softly, lashes batting as Hobie slowly unlaces the old dirty shoes you have on.

“It is.” Chuckling fondly, he gently takes off your shoes, palm carefully cupping your heel, a thumb brushing along the hill of skin before slipping the new shoes on you. “Brand new too, we hit the jackpot.”

“I think it’s the exact same one I was saving for.” You still remember the road to and from work, where a shoe place is situated right on the road home, where you always look at the display longingly, waiting for the shoe to go on sale. “Just in blue.”

“What was the colour you wanted?” He slips the next one on your other foot, tying it twice, making sure that the laces won’t suddenly untie and make you trip and fall.

“Black,” you admire the shoes on you as you wiggle your feet about. “Easier to pair with my clothes.”

“Either one suits you.” Taking both feet, he taps the heels together playfully. “They fit you perfectly.”

“Thank you, Hobie.” You follow his smiling eyes as he stands up, a hand perched on the armrest of the rocking chair as his knees creak.

“Thank the bloke who got it.” His head tilts to gesture at the room. He wonders if the man who lived here got the shoes for his wife on mother’s day, or just because he wanted to show his love for her. Hobie knows he would do the same for you.

The irony doesn’t escape you when you find yourself sitting in the middle of a nursery. Maybe in another life, you and Hobie are refurbishing the spare room in his houseboat, the room you both use as a workspace slash art room slash library. It was littered with trinkets from you and Hobie the last time you saw it. You don’t remember much what was on the shelves when it’s been so long but you do remember the feeling whenever you spent a whole lazy afternoon with him in there.

The soft rocking of the boat would lull you to sleep whilst you read on an old lazyboy you two found abandoned on a street corner, the same one you had to call in James and Yuri to help haul it in the van. You would read and Hobie would tinker with his gadgets, sometimes taking odd fixing jobs from friends, fixing an antique clock, a radio, or a fan. The sound of the tinkling metal, the curses under his breath, and the water splashing against the side of the boat, it felt like home. It was warm and cozy, but it was colder in the winter when the space heater doesn’t help much with the chill. Those were the days where Hobie would huddle close to you on the armchair underneath all the blankets even when you both don’t fit in the chair. You miss those soft days, the peaceful days where you don’t have to be careful where you step, where the stench of death and decay doesn’t stick to your nostrils. It was just living, now all you know is surviving. Surviving to see Hobie for another day. Surviving to see the day your baby is born.

“Love,” he senses your heavy thoughts, hand reaching out to your chin, lifting it with his knuckle softly. Hobie doesn’t have the right words to comfort you, maybe there are no right words that will ever comfort you, but he tries, the only way he knows how, the only way that could get your mind out of the plague that is your mind. “You wanna take a look around? Maybe they’ve got something we could use for the baby.”

“We’re in a nursery, Hobs,” you say with a teasing tone. “I’m sure there’s baby stuff here we could use.”

Hobie chuckles, exhaling through his nose as he helps you off the rocking chair. He wonders if he could fit the chair in the car, the baby would love it, you would love it. The cabin already has a rocking chair but it’s old and weathered, looking like it’ll keel over once someone sits on it.

“I’ll check if they have books on giving birth.” His hand lingers on your hip before turning to the bookshelf with colourful children’s books.

“I’ll raid the closet.” Your hand instinctively brushes along your stomach, feeling the heaviness weigh you down.

You didn’t plan to get pregnant, moreso get pregnant during the end of the world where society has collapsed. You always knew from the moment you saw those two red lines that it wouldn’t be easy for the two of you, but now, you just feel regret and shame. Regret that this happened so soon in your life. Ashamed that you can’t be of any help to Hobie as the months go by. And when the inevitable comes, you could die, and you don’t want to leave the love of your life all alone in this world with a newborn to take care of. Or worse, you both don’t survive, and Hobie’s truly left alone.

You’re tired, exhausted already from carrying the extra weight on you. Bones aching on a microscopic level, as if you have a sack of cement on the small of your back. If you feel this tired just after a few months in your pregnancy, you fear for the coming months. What if you end up being bedridden? You’ve heard countless horror stories from women in your family at how terrifying it is to give birth. They said that when you’re giving birth, you have one foot buried in the ground. But they had doctors and medicine, while you have a book from the 90’s about childcare. You might die in front of Hobie while covered in blood and screaming in pain. You don’t want that to be the last thing he remembers of you.

Fists clenching, you feel the indents left on your palms. You take deep breaths, reminding yourself that stress isn’t good for the baby. So you start to distract yourself instead. You stare at the adorable clothes on the rack, all colour coded, from dinosaur onesies to tiny coats and matching beanies, you have the urge to take it all. The owners of the house have great taste, and you feel guilty for even being inside.

Taking a red and white plaid onesie that has matching socks, you turn to show Hobie.

“Lovie, look.”

“Hobs, look.”

You simultaneously turn to face the other.

You smile as he mirrors your expression. “‘Oh, the places you’ll go,’ really?”

“It’s a good read.” Shrugging, he shoves it in the dufflebag. “But look, baby names.”

You’re supposed to be happy, to smile at the book and imagine the names you could name the bundle born out of love, but you can’t find that happiness as you feel a lump on your throat form. Baby names are the last thing on your mind right now.

“That’s great, Hobs.”

“Couldn’t find any books about births, though.” Placing it inside the bag, right beside a teddy bear he nicked from the crib, Hobie smiles at the small pile he gathered. If he noticed your faltering expression, he doesn’t say anything about it. “What’d you find?”

“It looks kind of punk, doesn’t it?” Lifting the onesie, you peek over it, trying to hide your wobbly expression.

“Lovie…” taking the fabric in your hands, he grins fondly at the onesie. It’s so small, barely the size of his forearm, and he can’t help but imagine a little version of you wearing it. “This is the most fuckin’ adorable thing I’ve ever seen.”

“Take it?”

“Absolutely.” Peeking behind you, he sees more, eyes going wide at the swaddling cloths, tiny booties and the cutest bear onesie he has ever seen. “I say take ‘em all.”

You snort, backing away as he helps himself to the baby clothes. “That’s greedy, Hobie.” Despite your words, you help him shovel in the small socks and cute bibs. “Take some towels too, I read that they drool a lot.”

A laugh escapes his throat, barely contained as he almost forgets where he is, what might be lurking in the dark corners of the house. “Love, look at this one.”

He lifts up a plain yellow shirt with the bold pink letters that reads, ‘Daddy’s favorite.’ You clamp your mouth shut, before spluttering out a giggle.

“D’you think they have an adult sized version of this?” His eyes sparkle with playfulness. “For you, I mean.”

“Fuck, you’re so annoying.” And yet you shove the tiny shirt inside the bag with your cheeks aflame and a laugh bubbling in your throat.

“Love you too.” Pecking your temple, he moves away from the closet. “C’mon, we gotta move on to the bedroom.”

Your brows raise to your hairline, heat blossoming in the pit of your stomach. “What, right now?” You haven’t done that in a while, fuck, you just now realized that you haven’t done it since you found out about the baby. Your hands are suddenly at the hem of his shirt, desire filling your chest.

Hobie’s brows furrows for a moment before realization flickers on his expression. Eyes drifting down at your pawing, and then back over to your half lidded eyes. “Fuckin’ hell, love, not that. We need sheets and new clothes. Although that’s temptin’.” He pecks your pouting lips, giving you a sly smirk through the kiss. “Maybe later if you play your cards right, hm?” Now he’s in the mood too. It just crossed his mind when all he thought about recently was how to survive and finding you alive.

If your cheeks weren’t searing before then it’s fiery now. “I can’t believe I let you fuck me.” Groaning, head tilted back to hide your flustered expression, you walk past him towards the master’s bedroom.

“C’mon, lovie, that’s the reason why you’re pregnant.”

You flip him the bird on your way out that makes him smile even more. For a moment there he felt normal, that everything was back to normal and he’s at home with you while the houseboat rocks gently.

The two of you make it to the bedroom, and the smell hits you before he gets a whiff of it. It’s dank, like mold clinging to the damp walls, like the smell of wilted flowers downstairs, only stronger, more prominent.

“God, what is that smell?” Plugging your nose, you wince. “It kind of smells like teeth at the dentist. I’m gonna hurl if we stay here long.”

“Don’t know, but I don’t like it.” Hobie moves you aside gently before treading the dry carpet to open a window. The sun is beginning to set outside, and worry gnaws at his chest. Soon this place would be crawling with the undead. “We need to hurry, this is our last run before we head out.”

“Yeah, gotcha.” You don’t argue as you hastily grab everything you need. Some clothes that might not fit either of you perfectly, even a few maternity clothes you found, a couple of thick coats, and the sheets you’ve been eyeing.

The bags are almost full when you finish grabbing the things you needed, and Hobie even managed to find a couple of camping backpacks to fill it with two pillows and more blankets. He’s ready to leave when you remember the towels.

“Shit, Hobie, we need towels.”

“Love, we can wash the ones we already have.” Fixing his hold on the bags, he checks the ticking clock on the wall and the sun setting in the horizon that paints the sky a deep bloody orange.

“Those are threadbare, Hobie, I could the count strings on it. I’ll be quick, promise.” You’re already at the bathroom door, opening it as it creaks, the sound echoing through the hallway.

“Lovie, wait, let me—”

The stench permeates through the bedroom from the bathroom, stinking up the whole place, the same wilted flower smell. Teeth, it wasn’t just teeth, it’s bones.

“Fuck…” The bile rising up your throat and the spit filling your mouth almost made you retch. But the sight of the bodies hugging in the bathtub, surrounded by dead flowers makes your heart fall to your stomach.

The door is shut before you could let out a sound. Hobie holds you in his arms, and you stay there, frozen, still staring at the door, as if you could still see them decaying inside the tub.

“C’mon, love, we need to go.” Hobie whispers in your ear, gentle and reassuring as his hand rubs up and down your arm. He calls your name with the same gentleness, honeyed and saccharine, trying to get you to move.

Once you blink away the blurriness in your eyes, you turn to Hobie with an unreadable expression. There were three of them in there, no, four, a family, one still in the mother’s cleaved open belly. Their skin has turned to leather, sun dried, stretched over blanched bones.

“Love?” His thumb traces the length of your jaw, grounding you to the present. “We need to go.”

“Yeah, let’s go—”

There’s a shadow in the doorway.

It hunches in the dark, breathing, watching.

You act first, grabbing the shotgun from Hobie’s back as you aim.

Hobie exhales, eyes wide, before yanking at the barrel, pulling it up and away from the figure.

The shot rings out through the house and out of the opened window.

Pieces of the ceiling fall on the carpet, paint and wood cracking and splintered, falling upon the stranger like raindrops.

The figure now crouches, grasping at its ear, while a hand, a wrinkly old palm stretches at you, surrendering.

Your ears ring, a shrill deaf tone that rattles your teeth inside your mouth whilst Hobie nurses his singed hand.

“Fuck!” You yell, but you don’t hear your own voice.

The sounds are muffled in your ears as Hobie grabs the gun from your hands.

“What are you doing?!” His voice fades in and out in your hearing. His eyes are wide, frantic as he points at the crouched figure. “He’s alive!”

The words strike you like a fist.

“What?” You ask, befuddled, heaving heavily as you stare wide eyed at the stranger in the doorway.

“I’m s–sorry…” a trembling voice says, spluttering and weeping on the floor. “I’m sorry, I–I didn’t mean to—” he chokes on air, coughing as he desperately tries to clear his throat.

Narrowing your gaze, honing in to make out the man’s face, you see an old man cowering from your stare. Guilt gnaws at your conscience.

“Oh, fuck, I’m sorry. I didn’t—” you wipe your hands at your jeans, as if it’ll clean the gunpowder on your skin. As if it’ll undo what you have done. “I didn’t know, I thought you were one of them.”

“Mate,” Hobie’s words feel dry on his tongue. “Who are you, how’d you get in here?” If the man was dead, he wouldn’t be so afraid, as he eyes you underneath his bucket hat. If he was, he wouldn’t have wasted time staring in the doorway instead of devouring you. Hobie’s wary as he stands in front of you protectively. He might’ve saved the stranger’s life, but he doesn’t know him and what he’s capable of. “You can stand up, we’re not goin’ to hurt you if you don’t try anythin’.”

You stand still, breathing heavily as you keep your weapon close while your hand shields your stomach.

The stranger is old, trembling as he stands up as instructed, back hunched, and messy hair untrimmed; his dirty blonde hair is matted under his hat. He looks frail, and you could easily outrun him, but you’ve learned never to underestimate anyone in this world.

“My—” his voice is crackly at the edges, tongue trying to wet his dry lips. “My name is Norman, I’ve been here since…since I don’t know.” His tone is weak and rough like someone who has a cold. “My son, he has a place here, but—but I forgot where it was, and I got lost. He…he said that he’ll meet me here in town.”

“Old man,” Hobie takes a step closer, while his free hand holds onto your wrist, keeping you close, all the while his other hand grasps at the weapon on his hip. “We’re not ‘ere to fight, but if you could jus’ move away from the stairs. We need to get out of ‘ere before any of the dead come.”

“I– I don’t know where I am.” His lips wobble, sniffing as his big brown eyes fill with unshed tears. “I’m sorry, who…who are you, lad?”

Hobie slowly inches towards the door as you hold onto his shoulder, blade at the ready as you peek over him.

Something in you pities the man. He reminds you of Yuri’s grandmother when she got sick, when there were days she wasn’t herself. You recognize the same condition in the man, how in the world has he survived this long all alone?

“Hobie, I think he’s unwell.” You whisper to him, feet feeling the dry carpet below you, the sky outside is going dark, and the automatic lights inside the hallways open. There’s power, and you could see the office door that was locked is now wide open.

“I know, love. We jus’ need to get out of ‘ere.”

The old man’s eyes pleads you for help. His face is gaunt underneath his salt and pepper beard, the skin around his eyes are darkened, and eyes beady. His nails are awfully long, curved and yellowed at the end. He has been surviving on his own whilst his own mind attacked him.

“He needs help.” Your grip on Hobie’s shoulder tightens desperately.

James would’ve helped him. Just like he helped you.

“Love.” The protest is on the edge of his tongue. But when Hobie turns to the man and his raggedy clothes, and the gaunt of his cheek, skin blemished and blanched, it reminds him of the people he would meet at the soup kitchen he volunteered at. The same place where he used to come to when he was struggling. “Norman, right?”

The old man reluctantly nods, as if he’s trying to recall his own name.

“C’mon, before the dead get ‘ere. They would’ve heard the shot.” Hobie grabs the fallen bags from the floor, glancing at you briefly as your expression is a mix of regret, relief, and pity. “Lovie, stay close. You too, Norm.”

“I haven’t heard that name in awhile.” He mutters under his breath, nodding along to his instructions.

Hobie lets him walk first, keeping a close eye on him, in case he is bitten. If he followed behind you, his mind wouldn’t be at peace if that was the case.

The whole house is lit up the moment the sun faded from the horizon. In the warm yellow lights, the place doesn’t feel so eerie. In another world he would have a place like this with you and the baby, maybe have the kid grow up in a nice house like this. It was near impossible before the world collapsed, now it’s just wishful thinking. Like how one would imagine winning the lottery.

“Where did you two come from?” Norman asks, arms curled around himself for comfort.

“The woods, we’ve got a cabin there.” Hobie adjusts his hold onto the bags, crossing the threshold towards the kitchen and to the back door where you two entered. Where he propped a can of peas on the door to keep it ajar just in case.

You watch as Norman’s face furrows, as if he’s trying to recall something deep in his mind.

“We have to hurry—”

Hobie sees it happen in slow motion, Norman’s hand wrapped around the door knob of the front entrance, tugging at it out of instinct.

“Norman, no!” You scream, but it’s too late.

The alarm blares around the house, echoing throughout the neighborhood. If the shot didn’t gather the dead’s attention, the alarm would.

There are rushed bare footsteps slapping against concrete outside.

“Run!” Hobie grabs you harshly, yanking and pulling you towards the back door as you reach your free hand over to Norman.

He takes your hand desperately. In his addled mind, he recognizes danger, and it makes him sprint behind you.

Hobie lugs the bags around his back and arms, whilst leading you outside. The same carefulness when you two arrived is out of the window the moment he heard gurgled groaning.

He turns his head towards the cul-de-sac, and he sees a gaggle of the shambling dead run at break neck speed towards him.

Their limbs flail right behind them without a care, they’re caked in blood, jaws unhinged, claws raised up as the wall of rotting stench follows them. Blood drips from their eyes, gnashing their teeth in the air as if they’re tasting him on their blackened tongues.

He makes it to the car, throwing the bags into the backseat and helps you inside the passenger seat before going around the hood to the driver’s side and hops in quickly. Thank fuck he had the foresight to not lock the doors. It was a horrible decision back then when there was danger of getting the car nicked, but he figured that you two were the only survivors in the whole town. He thought so at least.

“Love!” He yells your name, whilst you frantically put on your seatbelt. He could see the corpses run in the reflection of the side mirror.

“Norman!” You scream, waking the stranger from his terrified stupor, frozen just beside the car. “Get the fuck inside!”

The old man scrambles inside, tossing his whole body in the car whilst Hobie doesn’t waste time in starting the car, or even waits for Norman to shut the door.

The engine splutters weakly.

“Fuck you! C’mon you stupid, cu—!”

The pained shrieks of the dead come close as the car roars to life.

Exhaust fumes exit out of the car as Hobie steps on the gas. The wheels screech on the cement, leaving tire tracks as he drives quickly out of there.

A can of peaches rolls out of the backseat and onto the street just before the opened door beside Norman slams shut as Hobie turns a corner, watching the corpses fade in the rearview mirror.

“Holy fuck.” Panting, bad leg aching, you turn to Hobie with wide eyes. “Are you okay?” Your hand squeezes his trembling arm.

“Yeah, yeah…” Hobie swallows the bile in his throat, utterly relieved to be out of there. He takes your hand, and presses a heavy kiss on your knuckles whilst keeping an eye on the road. “You?”

“I’m good.” Smiling and chuckling, knees wobbly, you turn to Noman, who is still laying on the pile of canned goods and bags you got from the house. “You okay, Norm?”

The man’s lips stretches into an easy smile, “yes, thank you.”

You rub Hobie’s bicep, giving him a quick loving peck. “Let’s go home, Hobie.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“But, aunt—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“To drown me perhaps?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And yet that mere stag still holds your heart.

—

You hate it when Aerion is right.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The cane smacks again, and Lyonel finally moves.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Aerion—”

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

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

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

“It won’t happen.”

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What—?”

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

He’s hurting, why is he hurt?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I haven’t heard that in a while.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You shouldn’t be here.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You don’t belong here.”

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

“What have they done to you?”

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

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

“I’m surviving.”

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

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

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

“Lyonel…”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Did you really love me, Aerion?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It’s an old shop that was built during the early 80’s. It used to be one of those laundry places that cleans your clothes for you exclusively, now people only come by to use the coin washing machines. You barely have to do anything, all you need to do is make sure the machines are running, and to buzz people in when they knock on the door. There have been…incidents in the past so the owner installed the buzzer so you can control who gets in and out. It’s been fairly safe so far in the past three months you’ve been working here. And there are CCTVs all around that you can see on your tiny monitor by the cashier that only opens for Janet, the manager, who does the laundry in the back for the customers who wanted their clothes professionally cleaned.

Sometimes you wonder how the place is still running in this day and age, it’s probably bleeding money at this point. Or perhaps it’s a front for a money laundering scheme. You could only imagine.

It’s eerie inside, the buzz of the harsh fluorescent lights you’re not allowed to even dim, the black and white tiles from another decade, the rust slowly eating at the machines and that same lavender scent from the laundry soaps that you have grown to hate. But the place doesn’t scare you when you love horror movies, nothing fazes you. Still, you don’t dare watch a scary movie on your phone while at work lest you feel like something’s watching you from behind.

Janet’s been here since the 90’s, and will continue to do so until the place closes down. You don’t pity her for the mundane cycle of work she has been doing for decades, you actually admire her for it, she’s consistent at least. When you’ve only been working here for a few months and you already can’t stomach the smell of fabric conditioner and the incessant hum of the washing machines.

The place feels lonely at night, but you’re used to the loneliness, the persistent silence that rings in your ears, your voice remaining unused for hours that you have to test it every now and then to check if it still works. Loneliness is a common thing for you, a security blanket of sorts. A routine that your body and mind is so used to that whenever that routine is broken, you feel off. Weird, like someone took a piece of you but you can’t tell which piece they took.

The pads of your fingers graze your throat for the umpteenth time tonight. An instinct, a mannerism that you just can’t break as you run your fingers around your neck, feeling the phantom pain.

It’s one of those nights where no one has come knocking on the doors. It’s a regular Thursday night, a normal day where the air feels chilly at night but sweltering hot in the morning. Janet just finished her shift and left the place tidy, leaving you with nothing else to do than to take inventory in the back of the house.

The room where not a lot of people have seen is just through the curtain of clothes covered in plastic that obscures the rest of the laundromat is eerie at night. Like a butcher’s freezer with the dangling meats on hooks, but instead of that it’s clothes hanging on a rotating metal rack that shrieks whenever it roars to life. You’ve only been at the back of the store once in the morning and it’s not any better when the heat from the steamer and the sounds from the industrial washing machines gut punches you, with the metallic thudding that grinds your teeth. At night it’s colder, darker, and silent. A place that feels like it’s from another time.

Janet keeps a tight ship, and it’s no surprise that she has all the supplies organized on the shelf. From the gallon of laundry soaps to the chemicals that would probably blind you, she has them all categorized better than a library.

Sometimes you wonder why she even needs you in the first place.

But you still need to do inventory when there is no other work for you to do. You could sweep the floor or wipe the benches clean but you don’t really feel like doing any of that tonight, especially when it’s still so early in your shift. You can always do it later when Janet returns so she could see you doing something other than reading your book that has gotten you into trouble when she caught you, in her own words, ‘slacking off.’ There’s no slacking off here when there’s literally nothing else to do that she hasn’t done yet. You swear she’s every employer’s dream employee, Janet is a whole army.

Blowing a raspberry, you write down the amount of supply the store has left. It’s damp and chilly inside, and you could feel how cool the tiles are underneath your old sneakers. But you don’t mind it when you have your favorite flowery bomber jacket on you. It’s sort of like your uniform here when you don’t bother dressing up nowadays when there’s no one else to see you looking nice. As if you ever bother nowadays, you’re always too tired, too gloomy to try to look your best. You know it would make you feel better if you put on something other than a graphic tee, the occasional turtleneck and jeans combo. Plus anything other than the old bomber jacket that has a permanent orange stain on the cuff.

Taking a sip of your lukewarm coffee that you forgot that you made at the start of your shift, you purse your lips at the stale taste, making a face, before placing it gently on the shelf before you. The ceramic against wood sound echoes around the silence.

You count the laundry soaps.

One, you touch your neck again.

Two, you feel the tightness around it, curling around you, but you know it’s not there.

Three, your breath sticks to your throat as you cough harshly, inhaling air desperately before taking a gulp of the bitter coffee again to stave it off.

Three gallons left. The coffee works to ground you.

Janet would be pissed about the amount of soap left when she goes through half a gallon each day. It’s a mystery how she always runs out so easily when there are barely any customers. You’re starting to think that she drinks this stuff.

You jot down that you need to order more in your notes so you could call the supplier in the morning before going home. Home, you’re not entirely keen on going home when the silence still follows you there. At least here it’s a different kind of silence, and the faces on the wall don’t follow your every move.

While you’re in the middle of writing, your phone buzzes in your pocket, you take it out excitedly, silently hoping that a friend remembered you. But it’s just a notification about a sale on a game you wishlisted. Nothing out of the ordinary, nothing of note. As usual.

You feel the tightness around your throat, you don’t let it persist as you take another drink of your coffee.

It doesn’t work this time as you wheeze out a breath, clawing at your throat down your chest, as if you’re trying to cleave yourself open to see your jugular.

Tucking the pen in your ear, and throwing your phone and notepad onto the shelf with a solid thump, you hold onto the only solid thing before you. Your fingers tugs at your turtleneck to let yourself breathe, feeling the roughness of the wool, like barb wires tightly wound around your neck.

The only lamp that Janet only lets you turn on while you’re alone in the back flickers atop her table where she has a dozen pictures of her family including her twelve grandkids. The pictures are of strangers, but you can still feel their judging eyes on your back.

You try to pay it no heed as you inhale and exhale, nails digging into the wood, legs wobbling, feeling the lightning crawling inside your limbs as it freezes your fingers, twisted like tree branches. Your limbs feel numb and yet you feel everything around you.

Your phone buzzes again, another notification that doesn’t mean anything worthwhile. You claw at your skin, leaving marks upon yourself.

The flickering stops completely, and the lights shut off.

It’s been happening a lot recently, and the repair man said it’s no cause for concern even though the massive electricity bill has skyrocketed, bleeding the shop drier.

The darkness should’ve made you feel worse, should’ve made you claw harder until you cut yourself open and reach for your trachea, but it does the opposite. The dark soothes you, enveloping around you as you could see nothing else but the light from your phone.

Slowly, your breathing evens out, and in the dark you feel at ease.

Inhaling deeply, your legs feel like jelly, as you rest your forehead against the edge of the shelf until you could feel your limbs again. Your fingers curls away from the wood, and you shake it wildly until you feel the static under your skin ebb away.

It takes some time for you to collect yourself, to bring every part of you together again. But you manage to do it, time and time again you survive through it.

Taking a deep breath that restarts your mind, you blindly reach for your phone and open the flashlight. Your hands still tremble, but you try to keep them still, opening and closing your fingers around your phone and grounding yourself.

You shine it around you. From the smiling pictures on the small office table, to the old timey rickety closet doors that houses spare parts for the washing machines, to the large industrial machines that you’ve once had a nightmare about getting stuck inside. You find the circuit breaker, rubbing a hand along your face, you walk slowly over to it.

“Again? I thought the repairman fixed this shit.” Mumbling, you talk to yourself, this job does that to you.

Scratching your neck, you feel for the circuit box as you use your phone as the source of light. You feel the cool edges of it as you open the box. There are two lines of switches, all labeled, probably by Janet too. You turn all of it on and off again per the repairman’s instructions. Still, it doesn’t budge, and you’re still in the dark. It would be nice to remain in the void but the doors couldn’t be opened if there’s no power, and you’d rather not be stuck here forever. “Fucker, that’s great.”

Thumping your palm against the wall from your frustration, you suddenly feel a bump underneath your hand.

Blinking, you shine the light over it, palm rising from whatever it is. Only to find a new switch just beside the box. It’s red, different from the other switches and it’s placed lopsidedly at a ninety degree angle. Switches don’t look like that.

“What the fuck?” Index tracing the switch, you flip it open.

Nothing happens.

The humming silence stays, and the darkness envelopes you.

“What the fuck did that repair man do?” You haven’t been here long but you know there wasn’t a switch here last week. Nor the week before that, you would know, you watched the man try to fix the damn thing before your shift started.

Running a hand on your face, you accidentally nudge the pen perched on your ear, sending it tumbling down on the floor, rolling on the tiles as the sound bounces off the walls.

That’s your only pen. “Great.” You sarcastically say. You then shine the light on the floor, roaming it around to find the missing pen.

You practically turn the place upside down but you still don’t find your pen. It’s not under the tables, not under the shelves or even the washing machines. You even lift all the heavy plastic bags filled with laundry and yet it’s nowhere to be found.

Standing up from your crouched position after taking a peek underneath another washing machine, you suddenly feel a draft coming from somewhere. It flutters your lashes, as your breath catches in your throat. It smells odd, like mold. It’s not unusual when the building is old, but what’s unusual is the sliver of light coming from the floor.

Tilting your head, you walk around it curiously.

The light is just tucked in between shelves, small enough for a person to fit through but not enough for a whole washing machine to place over it. There’s a rectangular shape left on the tiles, like something was on it for years before it was taken out. Maybe a water cooler or a space heater.

As you get closer, you feel the draft even more. Maybe there’s a crack on the tiles and it’s letting in some air? But you’re on the ground floor, where would the air even come from? It couldn’t be gas when it doesn’t smell like rotten eggs either.

Pointing your light on it, you crouch down, feeling the warm draft kiss your cheeks. It’s odd, it’s the kind of air that is usually wafting from the back of the laundry shop whenever Janet finishes another batch of clothes. Like steam, but the temperature is lower, but still comfortably warm. It reminds you of the summer evenings back in Santa Clara when you lived there once upon a time in your life.

Out of curiosity, you touch the sliver of light.

Instead of the tile, the pads of your fingers clip through the solid floor. Like submerging your fingers in still waters.

“Fuck!” Flinching, you fall harshly on your behind, grasping as you lift your fingers to your face. In the dark, you see the shape of it. All five fingers are intact. Eyes wide, the sliver of light follows your gaze as you tilt your head from side to side.

You’re not dreaming right? It’s not one of those dreams you have whenever you make a mistake of taking your meds before bed instead of in the morning so you don’t feel groggy. Those dreams were weird and fantastical, sometimes scary but you always wake up after. But there’s no waking up from this.

Wetting your dry lips, you crawl back to it, knees hitting the cold tiles as you loom over the floor. It doesn’t look off, apart from the light in the crack, like a door left just slightly ajar to let the air in. But it’s not a damned door, it’s a tile where there’s supposed to just be hard concrete underneath it.

Swallowing thickly, you feel for your phone whilst keeping your eyes on the floor as if it’ll swallow you whole.

When you don’t feel the shape, nor see the light from the flashlight, your stomach falls.

It must’ve fallen into the floor when you recoiled away.

“Fuck me.” Fingers trembling, you reach inside. Fingers disappearing into the floor, like reaching in between closed curtains or in between couch cushions.

Half of you expects to feel the phone just under it, and another part of you expects for something to pull at your hand. Neither happens. Instead, your fingers sink inside, then your palm, then your wrist, until your whole forearm disappears into the floor.

You wretch your arm away, panting and grasping at your hand checking if it’s still attached to you.

What did you just discover?

You need to get your phone back, and just as you’re about to decide to just leave it there and just get another that will most definitely have you scrounging for money to buy food, you hear the unfamiliar yet unmistakable sound of your ringtone.

It’s a soft ballad, a favorite of yours, one that you chose so it’ll be unique, just in case someone calls you, you would know it’s yours. The song is muffled underneath the floor, as if it’s merely under the sheets on the bed, or ringing from a different room.

The song continues, and as you take a deep breath, you brace yourself onto the shelves beside the space on the floor and plunge your head inside like you’re diving in.

The song sounds nearer to you, and instead of the dark, you’re enveloped in sickly yellow. It almost blinds you at how bright it is inside. It’s all yellow wallpaper, yellow carpet, and the smell of lavender is replaced by the stench of damp carpet and mold.

You’re looking down at the floor, as if you’re inside the ventilation and looking straight down from the grid ceiling. Until you realize that you actually are looking from the ceiling. You’re upside down as vertigo scrambles your brain, hair dangling from your head, feeling the bile rise up.

You have no words as you feel the awful feeling creeping on your chest and up to your throat again.

Recoiling away, your eyes take a while to adjust to the absolute darkness around you. There’s no yellow anymore, just the darkness of the laundry shop.

Your fingers tremble, and your legs shake. Instead of standing up and pacing the floor like anyone else would do, you brace yourself once again, and dip your head in.

Your phone stops ringing, and you finally see it atop a pile of laundry that smells faintly like sweat. The screen is cracked from the looks of it, but it still works as it lights up for a moment. You can’t make out what it says. The curiosity gnaws at you.

Looking around, arms getting tired beside your head, you see a weird interior, like a house that hasn’t been moved into if the house was made by a drunk architect.

There are random walls sticking out, a half wall in the corner, two hallways leading to more yellow wallpaper, and a washing machine half embedded into the wall.

You feel the same warmth on your cheeks you felt from the draft. Looking down at your phone, it’s too out of reach for you.

You have to go down.

One minute you’re staring at the floor from atop the ceiling, the next you’re gathering blankets from the pile of laundry that still hasn’t been picked up, it’s been there since you got here, and you doubt it’ll ever be picked up when it’s starting to smell like a closet. You tie each end together tightly, testing it as you tug at every knot. You have the foresight to make footholds on it to make climbing up and down easier, you’re no professional athlete. It takes nine sheets to make a long rope of mismatched fabric. And you manage to do it all in the dark while only using the moonlight from the small window behind one of the machines.

You tie the end of the blanket onto the handle of the machine, making sure it’s all secured. All those years learning how to sail with your grandad has finally paid off when you’re using the same knots he taught you. You hated those days under the sun where your skin cooked, and the salty water that splashes on your face stings your eyes. Back then you didn’t know how good you had it, sometimes you wish that you’ll sail again with him and not complain this time around. That you’ll actually enjoy the time you have left with him.

With the bundle of sheets in your arms, you toss it onto the weird hole.

It unfurls quickly as it falls inside, the rope turns taut as it finally reaches below. You wipe your clammy palms onto your jeans before taking a peek inside. The length is just right as the other end dangles just above your phone.

It’s now or never if you ever want to see who called.

With trepidation, you climb down slowly.

The sheets creak under you, and with every sound, you take a pause and stop breathing. If this thing breaks you’ll be stuck down here forever.

You’re about halfway through when the smell of damp carpet gets stronger, and the humming of the light grinds your molars together.

With a careful grip and making sure that your feet are inside the footholds you made, sweat drips from your brow, as you take deep breaths in between climbs. You’re almost on top of the hill of clothes when your sweaty palm misses the rope.

“Oh, shit—!”

You fall backwards, dangling upside down as your foot is caught in the loop of the fabric. It saved you from a nasty fall onto a pile of dirty clothes, but your ankle aches.

Breathing hard, you fold yourself on the rope, trying to untangle your foot from the loop. You struggle, feeling the ache in the small of your back and your muscles straining under your own weight. The fabric makes an awful ripping sound, and you feel your soul leave your body, freezing in place. You brace for impact, but the makeshift rope remains hanging from the ceiling.

You look up, and everything is still in place. You don’t waste time climbing down the moment you get your foot unstuck.

You fall on your back, groaning at the dull ache from the landing.

The clothes under you smell terrible, like laundry that has been left in the basket for months. Sweat clinging to the clothes, stains dotted all over, and the fabric has turned rough under the touch. Standing up, you cough out the smell and cover your nose. It feels squishy underneath the soles of your shoes as you pick up your phone immediately and put it inside your pocket.

You’re supposed to be climbing up and getting the fuck out of the yellow hell. Instead, your eyes roam around the space, looking at the dreamlike place and feeling the odd warmth on your skin.

The place feels familiar almost. Like you’ve been here before, in a dream perhaps?

The air around you feels stale, like an attic that hasn’t been opened in years. Dust particles drift around you like fireflies. But it doesn’t make your skin itch, or get a sneeze from you. It just drifts there in the still air.

You tilt your head up and see a regular grid ceiling where the rope is dangling from, it’s undisturbed, like how the floor was in the shop when you placed your hand in. Like a surface of water letting you enter.

Taking a step back, you hear a crunch underneath the sole of your shoe. You lift your foot away, and see that your pen is broken, ink flowing out of the cartridge and staining the clothes around it.

Your pulse quickens at the sight. A hand reaching for your chest as you massage it.

With careful steps, you go down the pile of clothes. Some of it falls from the heap as you make it to solid ground.

A chuckle escapes your throat as you feel the unease that wedges itself in between your shoulder blades and feel it settle there. You don’t belong here. You shouldn’t be here. And yet you stay. Just like how you’ve done it in your life. You stayed despite not being needed, despite not belonging anywhere.

Something catches your eye, and you pick up a t-shirt laying beside your foot. It’s one you recognize from one of the customers that came in weeks ago. You would recognize it because you remember it fondly, you even once saw it in a dream. The owner was a guy your age, sandy blonde hair, sunkissed skin, the kind of man that wouldn’t have looked at you twice. But he was there, doing his laundry in the middle of the night while asking about the town, your day, and everything under the buzzing light. He was nice, and the conversation was easy, but he never went back. It was a fleeting piece of something that could’ve been, something that might’ve made living worthwhile, someone that would’ve made you far happier. Maybe you said something weird, laughed at his joke oddly, or you didn’t look into his eyes enough, whatever it is, it wasn’t meant to be. He was out of your league anyway, he would never have gone out with you in your flower bomber jacket and old blue converse that doesn’t have laces in it when you never bothered to replace it after the hospital took it during your last stay.

Why are you still here?

You discard the shirt atop the pile, then you see it— your own bomber jacket, it’s right under where the shirt was and the sight alone makes your heart stop. It’s the same piece, the same flowery pattern, pink cuffs and even the same orange stain on it. But it looks off. They’re almost identical, save for the pattern being wrong, a different shade that is invisible to the eye unless you look closely. And the flowers on it are lopsided, printed wrong, like a piece of paper jammed inside the printer in the middle of it printing and you suddenly yank it out. The peonies are stretched, the leaves are melting on the stems. Like someone tried to draw it from memory with water colors that were too watered down.

Rubbing at your neck, you let a shuddered breath out. You then take out your phone to open the camera, and you get a glimpse of the missed call on it, it’s an unknown number and beside it reads, ‘suspicious’ in big red letters. Coming down here was another disappointment.

Frowning, you open your camera instead of wallowing. You film the space, from the ceiling where you came from, to the details on the wallpaper and the hill of clothes.

The place looks like an abandoned office space, the ceiling and the lights on it reminds you of one. The damp carpet underneath your feet squishes with every step, the soles of your old shoes could feel how chilly it is, how off it feels. It feels like skin that was out in the snow for far too long.

As you move forward carefully, still filming, and taking quick peeks at your screen, the image looks as clear as day. This place is real, and you’re exploring it like how one would explore a friend’s house for the first time. Quiet steps, making sure you don’t bump into anything that could break lest you get kicked out of the house before you could even hang out.

Your hand touches the walls, it feels smooth, the wallpaper doesn’t feel weird, it’s room temperature, a tad colder probably, but nothing out of the ordinary like you thought. But as you stay still, feeling the wall, really laying your whole palm atop it, there’s a vibration underneath your skin. Like a hum, like the place breathes.

It sings.

Slowly, you move your head towards it, it calls to you. Forehead resting against the yellow wallpaper and you just breathe. The stale air, the damp carpet, and just let yourself breathe to the rhythm of the humming as it resonates within you, within your soul.

Eyes closed, your mind is tuneless and quiet. For the first time in a long while, your mind is silent. No heavy bone crushing thoughts that you’re used to, no anxieties, no fear, no loneliness. Just a clear head and the song of the walls.

You stay there for a moment, letting the song ease you, letting the yellow wallpaper embrace you. You have no idea how long you stood there, relaxed, unmoving, breathing, but you’re in no hurry.

The sudden shuffle of clothes flinches you awake. Your hand that holds onto your phone moves on instinct, turning towards the abrupt sound.

You see nothing at the end of the hallway, just more yellow wallpaper, and a random road sign— A caution falling rocks warning that is mirrored, the rocks looks too smooth from what you’re familiar with, it’s wrong.

Glancing at the wall again, you reluctantly push yourself away and walk towards the sign. The light above you flickers, just one, before stabilizing over you.

You don’t feel scared, you’re more curious than terrified. But you should be as you see wires on the floor. The cables are cut on your end, like a rat ate through it. You follow it, leading to a room with thick cables that runs into it with three walls and a jug of laundry bleach sticking out of the wall.

You’re more concerned about the wires as you film it, following it as you end up with a wooden wall. Not yellow wallpaper, just a piece of plywood on the wall that looks like someone placed it in the crevice to block whatever the source of the wires are.

There’s a shiver down your arm, and you feel eyes on you.

Craning your neck up, you see a camera, an older type of CCTV, like the ones you see on an old heist movie from the late 80’s. Tilting your head, you lift your phone and film it right back.

The camera doesn’t respond, the red light blinks, but it doesn’t move. Whoever’s behind it, it knows you’re here. And they may be behind the wooden wall.

You try to push it with your shoulder, but it doesn’t budge. The plywood is thicker than you thought. Your knuckles knock on it, the sound bouncing off the walls.

You should head back.

But you don’t, it could be the curiosity that makes you stay, or the feeling of ease that lingers in your marrows. Whatever it is, it makes you continue onwards and turn towards the jug and turn the cap open. Liquid spills on the floor, not teal blue or light purple that you’re familiar with, it’s black, oozing thickly down on the floor and onto the tips of your shoes.

Taking large steps back, you look at it with curious eyes, filming the phenomenon on your phone. It doesn’t smell like anything, it doesn’t smell like anything at all.

The goop ebbs on the carpet, crawling over to you as you try to avoid it. “Fuck… what—” your back hits the wall with a hollow thump. And you watch as the ooze seeps into the wall, like how a drain would.

You follow it, knocking on it, hearing the hollowness. There’s a false wall no bigger than a laundry basket. Pushing it open, it falls and reveals another room inside.

That shouldn’t be possible when the room next to the wall is where the pile of clothes were, not a room with a lone ironing board in the middle. You even check it, you go back to the place you fell from and look at the wall where the hole you opened was. It’s odd. It’s against logic. Nothing here makes sense.

And you shouldn’t be crawling inside it either. But you are, because for the first time in your adult life you don’t hear yourself telling you no, you don’t hear the doubts crawling the crevices of your mind. You don’t hear anything, it’s quiet in there, and you finally get to do whatever you please.

So you go in when you shouldn’t be, you touch the too long ironing board when you shouldn’t be. And you look up to where a ceiling is supposed to be, only to find more yellowed wallpaper and hangers, dozens of them. The lights are on the wall to your right, like the whole room was tilted at an angle, even the floor is lopsided, making you fix where you’re standing if you don’t want to slide down. One of the ceiling grid lights is left open, revealing the same room you first stumbled upon. The blanket rope swings from the ceiling, and the sight of it doesn’t bother you when it would, when it should’ve, your mind is calm at the sight of a rope dangling. Instead of it making your insides crawl.

You film everything in the room, at how stretched the ironing board is, at the shoes glued on the floor beside it, at the walls and at the dangling metal hangers above.

This place is weird and out of place, and yet you feel calm here, at ease. Maybe it’s the residue from the humming walls, or the air that shifts around you, but whatever it is, it feels more like home than home does.

There’s a sound of liquid being disturbed from the other side, where the wires were, where the ooze drips from the crawlspace you went into.

There’s that shuffling of fabric again. Like the sound of a nylon windbreaker rustling against itself along the wearer’s movements. This time it’s accompanied by wet plops of feet against a puddle of water.

Then a shadow, too long to be human, too tall, too odd.

You’ve outstayed your welcome.

You move immediately, not even looking back towards the sound as you shimmy into the hole of the missing light and it spits you out into the hill of clothes.

Pocketing your phone, you climb up the slope of fabric, like climbing up a sand dune as clothes fall from the pile every time you go up.

You make it up to the rope, and you look back, you don’t know why you looked back, but you see it. A glimpse of a figure, a shadow, merely a shadow that moved before you could register it as such.

Inserting your foot into the footholds you made, your attention is taken by the t-shirt again, the old comic shirt that the man you talked so easily with wore. You take it, shove it in your back pocket and start to climb up.

You make quick work of it, lungs stinging, arms aching as you heave yourself up back onto the laundromat floor.

The cold tile hits your cheek as you rest on it. The air doesn’t feel stale, there’s no damp carpet where your shoes sink in, and there’s no humming, no calm vibrations that quiets your mind.

Your head fills with thoughts again. Worries, fear, the past, the future, everything that gnaws at your insides and eats at every bit of your soul.

The light flickers open.

Turning your head at the floor where a whole world lies under, a creeping smile tugs at your lips.

You’re going back in there.

—

The video you took plays on your phone as your screen lights up the living room. You study it, review the footage and replay every second to memorize every detail. If you’re going to go back, you’re going to need more than a fifteen minute video of it. You need to feel the quiet again.

No matter how much you zoom in on the figure peeking over the wall when your eyes were closed from the footage, you couldn’t see whatever it was. It bothers you that you don’t know, maybe it’s not a threat to you?

It’s a new discovery, something that you could show people that, ‘hey I found this, I discovered this!’ It’s something that could change your life, make a name for yourself, something to remember you by. A legacy. The quiet, the song of the walls could help other people too.

So you hid it, pushed a shelf over the hole in case Janet accidentally falls in. You don’t want her to fall in, her poor back wouldn’t survive it. So you took care of it, made it seem like you didn’t just fall into another world like Alice. You got rid of the rope you made and folded it neatly back to where you found it. And once you were finished hiding everything, the sun was already rising outside. You were merely there for fifteen minutes, you made sure of it, you checked the footage and it says that you’ve only been filming for fifteen, not missing a whole six hours of the day.

Time could be moving differently there. If it is, then you’ve discovered something that has more potential than you thought.

The yellow rooms made you study physics, it made you read underneath the lamps of the library the moment your shift ended. And the more you read the more you understand how the world works, but it makes you understand what you discovered less and less with every passage. It shouldn’t be real, it shouldn’t even exist, and yet you have the proof, you have the footage and you have the shirt that is now hanging behind your bedroom door, smelling like your citrus detergent.

It stayed solid, real, and it’s another question answered.

But you have more questions, questions that are dying to be answered. If only your mind quietens enough to let you think.

The next week you come back to the shop with a backpack filled with supplies, as you wear the shirt under your bomber jacket, and a pair of running shoes that have thicker soles.

Janet didn’t give you a second look, nor paused at the backpack you’re lugging around. She said her goodbyes, left a note of the things you needed to do and left.

For once, you’re happy that you’re alone. You close up shop, write a note on the door that says you’re on lunch break and with a rope around your waist, a real rope this time, a rope for rock climbing, a rope that is rough against your skin— you move the shelf away and descend back into the yellow wallpaper with determination.

The song from the walls quietens your mind better than the meds could the moment your feet hit the hill of clothes. You feel like yourself, the version of you that wasn’t broken.

It takes a while for you to leave the first room, you sit by the wall, ear placed upon it as your eyes close. It rumbles your chest with warmth as it sings its song, it lets you sleep, a dreamless slumber you’ve been wanting since you got out. It’s quiet here, despite the hum of the walls and the lights, it’s quieter than your mind. So you sleep, and wake up to the alarm on your phone that you set to make sure that you don’t stay for too long.

That continues on for weeks, you go down the rope, sit on the carpet, right where it’s warmer, right where it’s not damp, right where it got used to the shape of you as you sleep with your head upon the sickly yellow.

Sometimes you’ll speak into it, secrets you’ve never told anyone, your worries, all the thoughts that never leave you alone. And it listens, it doesn’t judge, it doesn’t make you do exercises that don’t make a dent in your frenzied mind. And it lets you sleep, for once you have the energy to face the day, you’re far happier that even Janet noticed it. And you started your hobbies again, you cleaned your apartment, you washed your hair more than once a week, and you started going on walks just to feel the sun on your skin again.

Nothing disturbs you here, nothing wakes you up. So you stay, you sleep, and it welcomes you each time.

You never missed a day of work, a perfect attendance and Janet is none the wiser.

On the second month of discovering the backrooms, one you dubbed it when you found it in the back of the laundry shop, something else greets you other than the hum of the walls and the lights.

Instead of the chewed up wires, you see a figure in the hallway. It doesn’t move but it speaks. Different languages that rotate every minute. They’re greetings, loud and brash that it overshadows the song of the walls.

It angers you, it’s a disturbance to the peace you found.

So you walk towards it, coming face to face with a life size cut out of a caveman with a speaker in its chest. You rip the head apart with your bare hands, but the speaker still plays the teeth gnashing noise at a dissonance.

You walk towards the wires, step over the ooze on the floor and take the hammer from your belt, one that you picked up from the rusted tool box in the corner of the laundry shop you always brought with your supplies. It’s hefty but all it takes is a good swing. And you raise it up high, bashing at the wooden wall.

It’s cathartic, freeing, as you beat up the wall into shards of splinters.

You make a sizable hole, enough for you to fit inside and shimmy through despite the chunks of wood snagging at your jacket.

What you find is a whole new room. It looks like an expansive living room, where a balcony is raised up high, and a curved staircase leading to nowhere. But that doesn’t concern you as much when you see a table in the middle with tech you can’t recognize. The place is a mess of wires and stuff you have no idea how to operate.

You do recognize one thing, a CB radio, the same one your grandpa had in his sailboat. The light is on, and despite better judgement, you take the radio and click it open.

“Hello?” You talk into it as it whirrs awake. Your finger leaves the button as you listen for an answer on the other side. You’re only met with static. “Who is this?”

Still static.

“Worthless piece of shit.” You curse under your breath, tossing the radio down onto the table with a clash of metal.

Turning towards the place you came from, right in the crevice, you hear the voices from the speaker, then silence as shards of the caveman cutout are ripped to shreds violently by something hidden behind the wall.

Eyes wide, you turn and run.

You sprint towards the only place you could, right in front of the table is a niche in between two walls, and a light at the end. You follow the light, bolting into the crevice sideways as the walls between you make you claustrophobic.

You don’t stop as you hear the familiar shuffling of fabric right behind you, its footsteps are quiet, as if it’s afraid to be seen. Running into a new hallway, passing by a banner, you glance at a chair half embedded into the wall right beside a ship’s wheel and a trail of blood.

Turning a corner, you don’t look back as the shuffling of clothing turns eager, faster, closer.

There’s an opened door to your right, a room with a beach on the walls. You don’t go in. Something inside you tells you not to go in. The wall hums at a low dissonance, and you follow it instead, you turn left, past another hallway with a half wall in the middle of the room, past a mirrored stop sign, then over a large room with a pile of furniture stacked on top of each other.

The song of the walls persists here. But you don’t stop to listen this time around.

Heaving, hands on your knees, you’re lost.

“Motherfucker.” Panting, sweat dribbling on your brows, you keep running as the shuffling continues on, not giving you reprieve.

Your heart beats a thousand miles per minute, you run into another caveman, speakers bouncing around the walls as you run past it.

A chair sticking out of the wall hits your hip in a harsh thud that will surely leave marks on your skin. But you persist, you run through lopsided rooms, warm rooms, cold rooms, past a hallway with green light, past another that has a single red balloon floating inside.

Then it happens, you weren’t looking where your feet would land, and you fall.

You fall ten feet, landing with a harsh crunch that has you screaming in pain. Your shoulder blooms with blinding pain as you writhe on the damp carpet. Tears pour from your eyes as you heave in place, clutching at your shoulder.

For a minute you gather your strength, breathe in and out before opening your eyes.

A swinging rope greets you. Not the rope you brought inside, a rope of hemp, a rope that you used for the sailboat dangling just inches from your nose. It’s broken in half, frayed at the edges, your throat closes in on itself as you frantically crawl away. Your backpack hits the wall, and your heart stops at the sight of a fallen chair beside the swinging rope.

There, just next to where you were laying down is the other half of the rope— a noose.

Heaving, hands on your throat, you cough, trying to get rid of the stone that is lodged in your throat.

Then there’s hands on you, several.

You didn’t hit a wall as a curtain of white hair falls over your face, and you see her.

Janet, but not entirely Janet. It wears her face, distorted, like a screen glitching mid nod, three sets of eyes, four noses, and two mouths. She smells like mold. And she’s just mere inches away from your face.

A scream rips from your throat. Scrambling away, you fumble on two feet.

Janet looks at you, no, not Janet, this Janet has needles sticking out of her arms, four, four arms. Faces melding in her middle, you recognize some, her grandkids, her children, and one that is frozen mid scream, all painted in the same navy blue uniform she always wore.

“Janet?” She doesn’t run towards you, just tilts her head, eyes not truly looking at you, but through you, like the real Janet.

The rough hemp slides into your palm, the noose laying just underneath your skin.

Your throat begins to close up again, until the crinkling of fabric bounces off the yellowed walls.

Fake Janet turns away abruptly, face planted right on the wall, hiding from what’s coming.

On wobbly feet, you run once again.

Weird rooms whizz past you, one filled with old couches, one with broken cameras, one with two doors placed side by side, and one that has the stench of death permeating from it.

You have no idea where you’re going, you should be tracking the places you’ve been so you could backtrack and get back to the laundry room, but whatever’s chasing you doesn’t grant you reprieve.

There’s a door in front of you, it’s painted in all black, and it’s the only thing at the end of the hallway so you go in.

You fall once again, three feet into a bright red hallway that stretches on both sides.

Groaning, and in extreme pain and exhaustion, you’re starting to regret your choices, maybe you should’ve just taken your meds today instead of going back here. Instead of listening to the warm song of the walls. And now you find yourself in a dirty and dilapidated, in what looks like a hospital hallway with flashing red lights.

The moment you stand up on two wobbly feet, mouth feeling dry, lungs on fire, an alarm sounds out. An alarm that rings in your ears loudly, bursting your eardrums.

Your palms land on your ears, cupping around it, trying to quiet it down. But as you look around, you see them— shadows, figures, large, small, tall, wide. There’s several of them, all gunning for you from the end of the hallway.

“Fuck me.” You sprint away, dodging everything from wheelchairs, metal tables, to filing cabinets.

A corner of a table hits you in the same place on your hip, and you wail in pain, limping, but you don’t stop, you keep running.

Screaming, your legs are on fire, muscles aching, a stitch blooming on your side as you feel the fatigue turn your bones into jelly. You’d give anything to be at home, even if it’s quiet there, even if it’s lonely there.

And yet you persist, running, dodging, weaving in between cabinets as you see the door at the end of the hallway. The exit sign blinks at you, and you run faster, dragging your sore feet as you bust through the door and into water.

The door shuts behind you, no more red flashing lights, no alarms, just the sound of something slithering and wheezing through the door you came from.

You turn your head at it, face drenched, clothes damp, and you see that the door has disappeared. Sunk back into the wallpaper.

Heaving, you lay in the puddle, shaking in pain and exhaustion. There’s a sailboat half melted into the floor, bearing the same name of your grandfather’s sailboat— ‘princess,’ he called it, because before you came along, it was his princess. Tears sting in the back of your eyes, turning your vision blurry.

A pair of shoes appears in front of you, it’s familiar. You don’t run this time.

You’re too tired to fight, too tired to run. So you stay there. Waiting for whatever’s in front of you to end your life.

But it doesn’t, it stands there, staring down at you with those familiar eyes, and yet an unfamiliar face.

“Grandad?”

—

You stay inside the half melted sailboat on the bed you used to sleep in, on the same pillow that still has the familiar scent of the sea. But it still feels off, the mattress is too firm, and too cold, and the walls are painted green, when you remember it being blue. The same blue as the sea. Even the glow in the dark stars your grandfather helped you put up on the ceiling looks wrong. They’re not really star shaped, like someone who has never seen stars tried to draw it.

Your grandfather, or whatever stands beside the ship’s wheel stays there, unmoving, not truly looking into your eyes.

It appears that he doesn’t need to sleep or eat, he just stays there, a hand on the wheel, frozen in time. Standing still, too still to be human. Whenever his back is to you, you could just imagine that you’re twelve again, sailing with him as he sings off-key while you eat a pack of sour candy and read a comic to pass the time.

Whatever this being is, he doesn’t seem to want to hurt you despite how odd and terrifying he looks. His clothes are wrong, buttoned wrong, the wrong shade of blue, just wrong.

He just stays there on the wheel, sometimes he’d move around, steps on a puddle, turns away to look at the boat, then he goes back to the helm again. Sometimes he’d even look at you, expression flat, unmoving, perhaps trying to place your face in his mind, or just plain curious as to why there is another being in his domain. It’s odd being near him, like seeing a ghost at the end of the hallway, only for the spirit to flicker away at the last second once you turn to face it. But this time, the ghost doesn’t fade away.

The song of the walls is back in the sailboat room, you don’t try to leave, you don’t even want to leave when it’s comfortable here, where the sound of fabric couldn’t follow you. You don’t know why it hasn’t tried to enter the room, maybe it’s terrified, or maybe it lost track of you.

Your mind has gone foggy. You keep track of time with your phone, there’s no cell service inside so even if you could call someone, what would you even tell them? How would they even rescue you? Would someone even answer?

It’s been two days since you got stuck here. Two days of eating biscuits and rationing the water you packed. Your phone’s battery is still holding on to fifty percent, and you’d like to keep it that way as you shut it off when you have no need to check the time or want to look at old pictures to reminisce and remember that you’re still alive. There’s no day or night cycle here, and that confuses your circadian rhythm, there’s only the yellow walls and the ever permanent hum of the lights. But you don’t mind when your sleeping schedule has always been fucked.

You’ve searched every nook and cranny of the sailboat room. There’s an ever-present puddle of water all around it, never drying out. You could try to gather it in your water bottle but you’re sure that it’ll kill you faster than whatever was coming after you. The walls are still in the sickly yellow wallpaper, save for a corner where there’s a drawn on sun. It’s something you would see on a child’s drawing, crudely drawn with orange paint. You don’t know if it’s always been a part of the room or if someone once got stuck here too and drew the sun there to remember what it looked like, or to try what it felt like to be underneath its warmth.

There are three doors around you, one on your left just under the painted sun, another on your right, and one on the ceiling. You highly doubt you can reach the one high above, so your only options are the ones on the walls.

You’ve been gathering the courage to leave, to find the exit and go back home and never come back here. But once you look at the copy of your grandfather, you could just hear his humming in your head, his warm calloused hand patting your head, and you find yourself turning back into the boat and laying underneath the familiar wrong temperature covers and watching him through the window.

On day four, you hear something shift in the wall. You were pressing your ear against it, palm laying over it like always to find comfort, until you hear the creak within it. Like something shifted, something changed.

You figure it was just your imagination, your mind making up things again that you’re no stranger to. But you’re not in a place that has rules, a place that doesn’t make sense. Maybe the walls are actually shifting. Maybe something did change, or maybe something moved the walls.

On day five, you gather the courage to leave the room. But you made precautions, you packed a marker in your pack just for this exact reason, to mark the walls in case you got lost. It would’ve been great if you had done that before while the entity went after you.

You use the sailboat room as your north star, marking each corner of the walls you pass by with arrows pointing in its direction. You already know it’s safe there, so in case something goes wrong, you can find your way back to its hum.

You don’t take out your phone this time around to record the place, you want to conserve battery, even if it’ll help you in finding your way back by reviewing the footage.

You make it past three corridors away from the sailboat room before you catch a glimpse of a shape carrying a stool way ahead of you in between a crevice in the wall. You don’t call for it as you turn back to where you came from.

On day seven, your phone refuses to open. It should still be at forty percent. When you curse under your breath and tap at its sides, it flickers open, the screen glitching and humming the same tune as the walls. You only know it was actually day nine because you saw a glimpse of the date.

Your supplies are dwindling, you don’t bother with it when you don’t feel hungry anymore. You just press your head against the wall and listen to it sing and all your worries melt away.

On day twelve, you went out again. You made it as far as nine corridors away from the sailboat room, roughly a thousand steps. You find another room with a gaudy beach wallpaper and a door that won’t open no matter how hard you try. You leave it alone, and trudge on. Then you see blood on the wall and a dead seagull, you turn back.

You’ve mapped out the place on the walls of the sailboat room, each having their own distinctive marks on each room you’ve encountered. You must’ve walked a thousand miles by now as the map has grown larger than the wall itself.

You still listen to the humming when you feel too tired to explore, when you feel lonely, which has been a lot lately. The song within the wall and the reprieve it gives you is addicting, you need to be weaned off it if you want to get out of here.

You’ve lost count of the days.

Patrolling around the backrooms comes second nature to you now. It’s as if you’ve made it a place of your own. You walk with certainty, and you don’t bump into anything anymore. The shuffling of fabric hasn’t appeared since you fell into the sailboat room, nor do you want it to ever appear ever again.

You walk around the same path, trying to map out a deeper part of the backrooms, a part you’ve never been in. You tread carefully this time, a marker in hand and a hammer in the other.

Then you hear it— voices. Not the mechanical sound from the speakers that you’ve heard through the walls, and have seen playing on a couple of the same caveman standees, but real voices. People, there’s people here.

Hope blooms in your chest as you follow the voices as best as you could.

As you get closer, you hear three distinct voices. One woman and two men. They’re talking above each other, but you’re still too far away to understand what they’re saying.

Once you turn a corner, you see them. Two men, one woman just like how you heard them as.

One is tying a rope around the other, while the woman is apprehensive, rightfully so.

“Hello?” Your voice calls out to them and you barely recognize your own voice. They freeze in place, simultaneously turning to you with equally shocked faces. “Are you real?”

“Holy fuck, Clark, you got someone else in here?” The woman vaults from her seat, heaving, eyes wide as she glances between you and the older man.

“What, no! I don’t know who she is!” He defends, whilst the one with a rope around his hip points a camera at you curiously. “Who–who are you? How’d you get here?”

You wet your lips as you take a step forward. They all back up tentatively and you freeze on the spot. They look at your hammer as if you’re about to bash their heads in. So you clip it on your belt instead. “I’m real, I’m human.” You tell them your name, you haven’t heard of it in a while.

“Are you okay?” The man with the camera tests your name on his tongue, repeating it.

You haven’t been okay in a long time, the only time you were is when your head is pressed against the yellow wallpaper. “I—I don’t know.”

“I’m Bobby,” he points at himself as he looks at you through the camera’s lens. “She’s Kat, and he’s Clark.” Kat waves awkwardly at you as Clark just stares. “How did you get here?” He’s oddly warm to you.

The lenses hone in on your face as you hear it whirr. “I fell.” You simply say, tone wobbly as your fingers play at the frayed edges of the old comic shirt. “Can you help me get out of here, please?”

“Fuck, how long have you been here?” Kat is the first to walk closer to you as the blonde films the interaction with bated breath. The kind woman sidles beside you, hands to her sides as if she’s approaching a wounded animal.

“I don’t know, a while. I lost count on day twelve.” Your voice catches at the end and her hand grasps at your arm lightly. You almost cried at how warm and real she is.

“Please, you have to help me.”

“Twelve days? How come I’ve never seen you?” Clark asks, eyes glancing down at the slope then over to you as if he’s calculating something in his head.

“I–I avoid anything that moves.”

“There are things that move here?” Kat grasps at her hair, shaking profusely at the two men. “That’s it, Clark, we have to get out of here.”

“What the fuck.” Bobby hisses in between his teeth.

“No, no, we still need to see what’s down there.” Clark gestures at the slope. “Just this one thing, Kat. It’s perfectly safe! She’s been down here all alone and probably going insane.”

You’ve heard that last word one too many times.

“It’s not worth it.” She argues back, shaking her head.

“I kind of want to go down there.” Bobby declares as three heads turn towards him simultaneously. “I’m curious too.”

“I don’t think you should.” You’re on Kat’s side as she agrees with you, nodding along.

“Well, we’re not leaving here until we do.” Clark shrugs, hands landing on his pants with a thump. “You just have to wait, kid.”

You should argue back, say your piece with clenched teeth and furled fists, instead, you fumble your words, like always. You blink and Bobby’s already going down the slope.

This might not end well.

Instead of standing there like a tree, you go to help them with the rope. The quicker this is done, the faster you can go back home. Hands against the rough rope, almost identical to the one you came down on. Kat looks at you, giving you a tight-lipped smile as thanks. While Clark stares warily at you.

“Be careful, Bobby!” Kat’s voice shakes with trepidation.

“This isn’t as deep as I thought—” he almost slips, and you yank at the sliding rope, palms stinging from the friction.

“Bobby!”

“I’m good, I’m good!” His voice goes farther and farther away.

“Alright, what do you see?” Clark asks, yelling down below.

“Just a bunch of dirty laundry.” He replies back as the rope moves to the side.

“Laundry?” Your mouth turns dry. “What—what else?”

“It stinks in here.”

The rope moves further into the level below as you watch Kat’s anxiety clear on her face.

Your lips smack together as you feel your legs go numb under you. “I have a really bad feeling about this—”

“You’re not helping.” Clark mutters under his breath, not even sparing you a glance.

“Bobby?” Kat yells.

“Yeah?”

“Just checking if you’re okay!”

The rope is almost at its end as it slides onto your reddened clammy palms.

“We should go please. I don’t want to spend another—”

“Shit! Pull me up! Pull me up!” Bobby runs frantically up the slope on all fours, feet sliding down as he struggles.

The three of you frantically pull at the rope, until he finally makes it up with Clark helping him up by his arm. He then takes the camera away from Bobby and places it on the bed.

Bobby saw something. Just like you had.

“Something moved.” You don’t say it like a question, you state it as Bobby hyperventilates whilst Kat tries to calm him down.

“There’s fucking something— fuck!” His hands tries to remove the knot around his hip. “What kind of knot is this?”

You know what kind, it’s the kind that you use on ships when the wind is rough and tends to take the sails away so you use a knot that isn’t easy to untie. Why did Clark use that knot?

“Here, let me.” Pursing your lips, you sympathize with him as you try to untie the tough knot. Hissing in between your teeth, Bobby keeps moving, chest heaving and eyes blown. Whilst you avoid Kat’s frantic movements as she tries to make his breathing ease. “Do you guys have scissors—!”

The rope tugs him down, and he instinctively grabs onto something close to him— you.

“Oh shit, Kat!” His fingers dig into your arms bruisingly as you plant your feet on the ground, hands trembling whilst you desperately untie the rope. “Help me! Fuck!”

There’s fear in his blue eyes as he pleads with you, gripping onto you like a corpse in rigor mortis. “I’m trying!”

“Shit, Bobby!” Kat and Clark tries to pull him away from the slope, panic setting in their bones as you feel hands on you, tugging at you harshly.

There’s only the darkness below and a flickering light. Then you see it, a shift in the dark, a shadow waiting down below.

Adrenaline thrums in your veins as you see the rope lift from the slope, then all it took was one strong tug.

You and Bobby tumble down together, his grip still on you and around your ankle, his chin hits the slope in a sickening thud. Screams echo around the place. You don’t know if it was your scream, you just know that you have to act quick.

This isn’t an indifferent being like the copy of your grandfather, this was like the one that chased you, or probably the same one with the shifting fabric and quiet footsteps.

As you fall down, head hitting against the wall, you try your best to balance on the slope as you slide. You take the hammer from your belt and ready it the moment Bobby lands on the floor.

Before you could land, you jump from the slope, using the momentum to swing your hammer.

It doesn’t look like a man, or anything you’ve seen before in the backrooms. This being, this entity is seven foot tall, long limbs and a lopsided face that’s too long, too wobbly. And it looks like Clark.

You don’t ponder as you smack its large head with a hammer, cold blood splashing on your face, before you land harshly right on the foul heap of clothes. Your shoulder cries in pain as you yelp, eyes filling with stars for a moment.

The hit stuns it for a moment, the lights flicker wildly. It groans, its animalistic whimpering ring in your ears.

“Run!” Without thinking, head wobbly, you grab Bobby off the floor and make a run for it.

He cries in pain as you heave him to his feet, taking him over to the door that was placed wrong.

“Bobby!” Kat screams from upstairs, whilst you could see Clark trying to peek at the moving shadows.

One tug at the rope was all it took from his hip and it falls on the floor just as you push him through the door. You almost untied him upstairs, just one second more and you two would’ve been spared.

You’ll apologize to him later for the roughness, but as you stare at the creature that’s now holding onto the limp rope, you’ve never felt fear this intense, not when you were running from it before, not when you were all alone in the dark with a noose in your grip. This is different, there are other people that will get hurt. And you’re terrified for them.

It turns its head at you, a creaky slow movement as it taunts you before tugging at the rope harshly.

“Kat, run!” You warn, throat thrumming.

The sound of scraping furniture makes your teeth shake. Then the screams, two of them, two bodies sliding down. They’ll end up like you.

You don’t wait, you don’t stay as you watch it lumber over to you. Its peg leg thumping against the floor like a death knell.

With a heavy heart, you go through the door and slam it shut. You then take a chair beside you to block it.

It bangs on the door, almost breaking it. Then someone screams, it takes its attention away from you and Bobby.

“What are you doing? They’re still out there!” Bobby struggles to stand up, limping and using the wall to stand up. “Kat!”

“We’ll find them later!” You take his arm and throw it over your shoulder as you try to run as fast as you could with him in tow.

“Kat!” He screams too close in your ears as you try to navigate the winding yellow corridors. “Fuck! Kat!”

There’s more screaming just beyond the wall, you block it out, taking whoever you can still save.

“I know, Bobby! But you have to shut up or else it’ll come after us!” Heaving, he looks at you like you grew two heads. Whilst you try to find a landmark, anything, from the arrows you made to rooms you already passed through. It’s hard to navigate when you’re lugging around dead weight.

“We can’t just leave her—”

“I know! I fucking know!” Sweat dribbles off your brow as you pass by the dead seagull that’s now dried up and smelling like death. You know this place. “We’ll find her later, I promise. For now we have to run, okay? Bobby, tell me that you understand.”

Your eyes pleads with him, his blue eyes swims with thoughts, conflicted. He nods after a second as you pass by the beach room and you finally see the arrows you drew on the wall. You follow it, whilst Bobby picks up the pace, wincing through the pain.

“Where are we going?” His head is on a swivel, looking around to see if you’re being followed, and hoping to see either Kat or Clark. You can feel how afraid he is, from how his brows furrow, jaw tight and eyes turning glossy.

“Somewhere safe.”

A/N: Please reblog the fic if you liked it!

Hobie spots you outside in the backyard after he’s been looking for you for the past twenty minutes. At first he had his eyes on you the whole night, waiting for Yuri and the rest of the band to leave you two alone so he could hold your hand behind their backs. But the moment he took his eyes off you to talk to a friend, he glanced back only to find you nowhere to be seen.

Hobie doesn’t like hiding his relationship with you from his mates, he’d rather scream to the whole world that you’re his and he’s yours but alas, Yuri will beat his ass for dating her best mate since kindergarten. When she specifically told everyone that you’re off limits, in her words, “she deserves a decent lad that will make her happy and not a bunch of punk rockers that will break her heart.” To that he agreed to, you deserve to be happy, but not the latter, he would never break your heart. He has fallen too hard for you to even think of doing that to you.

It’s not like you obeyed Yuri’s words either, you liked Hobie back wholeheartedly, embraced the prospect of dating him. From the first lingering touch alone through every hangout, to the stolen glances across the room, you took all the signs and went with it by asking him out yourself. Your reason? If Yuri ever found out, or the day finally comes when you have to tell her all about the two of you, she can’t blame him, not fully anyway when you’re the one who made the first move.

It was a ballsy move, and honestly? It made him fancy you even more. And now, six months into dating, countless date nights where you two had to go across town just to have dinner or walk around the park, and a lot of kisses— Hobie is fully committed to you, and you’re committed to him.

He doesn’t have the guts just yet to tell Yuri that the lacy underwear she found in his houseboat was yours, or that the extra toothbrush in your flat right beside your own wasn’t an old toothbrush that you use to clean the toilet but it’s his. Yuri has become hyper vigilant ever since she saw a sock underneath your couch that was clearly not yours. She thinks you’re hiding a new man from her, and she really wants to meet him to be the judge of his character. But she doesn’t know that she already met the guy and is in the same band as hers.

Yuri’s been pestering you about it, whilst Ned and James want to hear about the mystery girl Hobie’s been having around the houseboat. One time they went to his place to write some songs together whilst you two were snogging on his bed and you had to hide inside his bedroom for three hours. Your bladder was about to burst when they finally left. You couldn’t just leave through the windows either when you’ll fall into the canal and then they’d definitely know what’s up when they see you swimming around in the dirty river in your underwear.

Hobie’s about to come outside to see you when Yuri calls his name from the makeshift bar on the kitchen island.

“Oi, flat arse!” She yells above the noise of the party as she holds up a plate of biscuits and half a sandwich cut into a triangle. “Have you seen our girl?”

“No,” he shakes his head, shuffling over to the glass door to hide you. “Why?”

“Can you find her for me? She said she’s starving and this is the only edible food in this place.”

“Sure.” Taking the plate, Hobie has an intense urge to go out and sprint towards the nearest shop to get you something more filling.

“Oi, fuckwad! Order us a pizza or something! Use your parents’ card!” Yuri screams for James.

James, who’s rudely interrupted by Yuri as he was about to kiss a blonde, glares right at her. “You fucking order it!” The card flew over the crowd when he tossed it.

Hobie catches a glimpse of Yuri fighting with a bloke when he caught it before her.

“It’s not yours, you cu—!”

The glass door is shut right behind him, muffling the ruckus inside.

You’re a sight to behold beside the pool. The rainbow lights illuminate your features, as your half lidded eyes catch the light. Your dress is hitched up, pooled around you beautifully, framing you as you smile wistfully at the water as your feet kick gently in it.

You feel him before you hear the thumping of his boots. “You better not push me in, Hobie.” Tilting your head over to him, your cheek presses against your shoulder as you smile sweetly up at him.

“Wouldn’t dream of it, lovie. I could get you wet without needin’ to push you into a pool.”

“Oh, you’re so charming.” Chuckling, the sound of your laugh is a balm to his soul. “What do you have there?”

“Half a sandwich and biscuits Yuri got for you.”

“Oh, thank fuck.” Your hands reach up over to him as the plate is handed over to you. “Please don’t be peanut butter and jelly—” you take a peek inside the sandwich. “Yes.”

“What is it?” Hobie sits beside you, folding his leg as he folds the hem of his trousers before taking off his boots.

“It’s mayo and pepperoni.” Taking a big bite, you offer it to him. “You want some?”

He makes a face, taking a sugar coated biscuit instead. “‘m good, love.”

Shrugging, you inhale the rest of the sandwich. “It wasn’t the best but Yuri did her best.”

“If I’d have known you were hungry I would’ve run to the shop and gotten you somethin’.”

“And what would you have gotten me?” Your eyes sparkle as you flutter your lashes and take a biscuit from the plate sitting in between you.

“Anythin’ you want. Anythin’ under fifteen quid that is.”

Hobie always loved the way your grin spreads across your face, lightening up his whole world.

“A whole fifteen, oh you spoil me, baby.” It takes you two big bites of the biscuit before gently pushing the plate away to scooch over to him closer. Hobie’s arm immediately wraps around you, tugging you to his side as he rests his chin atop your head. “I want to get out of here and make out with you in the houseboat.”

“Why wait?” His fingers squeeze at your side, tickling you slightly as he breathes you in, a combination of your sweet perfume and the pool chlorine wafting from the water. Hobie was only half joking, until you gaze at him with those familiar soft eyes that spell out ‘bedroom’ for him.

“You are insufferable.” With a giggle, you splash him with water with your foot.

Hobie laughs with you, trousers damp but it was worth it to see the playful smile on your lips that he keeps gazing at.

“But you’re right.” You shrug, that look he knows as your, ‘fuck it,’ expression as he watches you lift your leg out of the water and over his lap. One second you were beside him, the next you’re straddling his lap, shuffling to find a more comfortable position as your heels tap at the small of his back. “There, much better.”

Fuck, you’re going to kill him someday.

“Bloody hell, lovie.” Hobie’s breathless from that alone. His hands move to hold at your waist as you wiggle teasingly that has his breathing going shallow and his skin aflame. His lips are immediately on yours, kissing fervently, feeling how you smile through the kiss before completely melting under his touch. “You’re,” his tongue flicks in between your parted lips as you let out a breath. “Goin’,” your hips buckle, and his grip tightens around you, fingers digging into your skin as your dress pools around the two of you. “To kill me.”

“Only if I can come with you.” Giggling, your palm finds his hair, tugging him away, making him tilt his head back as you kiss the hinge of his jaw, feeling how he shivers under your touch.

Hobie’s rough palms glide along your back, panting, eyes half lidded and staring up at the starry sky that melts in his vision from your warm kisses. “Yeah, like…” his words flicker out of his mind when you nibble at his throat. “Romeo and Juliet— fuck me.”

“Trying to, Hobie.” Chuckling over his skin, feeling how he trembles underneath you just from a few kisses, well more than a few kisses. Still, he’s completely undone, chasing your lips, chasing the warm sensation as his fingers grip at your nape.

It’s his turn as he pulls your head back gently, granting him access to your neck as he wets his lips before digging in.

“Hobie, d’you have cash for—” Yuri stops in her tracks, coins dropping from her hand as she stares dumbfoundly at the scene before her.

“Yuri, what’s taking so long— holy fucking shit.” James guffaws, a hand slapping at his mouth immediately as Yuri grabs him. “Yuri, come on…” his voice is muffled and warbled by her hands gripping onto his pouted lips.

“Have you two seen— oh…” Ned almost stumbles into the two, eyes wide at how Hobie’s nibbling at your neck and how you’re smiling happily through the kiss. “Oh! We should, uh, go, lads…”

Ned tries to grab Yuri by her arm, knowing that she’s silently seething in place. But it seems that her anger is something else as she stomps over to the smooching pair, who are too entranced by each other to notice the stares.

“I’m going to push them in!”

“Yuri, don’t!”