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Chapter Text

.ᐟ

ᴡᴇʟᴄᴏᴍᴇ ᴛᴏ ᴄᴏᴍᴍᴏɴ ᴛʜɪɴɢ, ᴀ ꜰᴀɴꜰɪᴄᴛɪᴏɴ/ᴀᴅᴀᴘᴛᴀᴛɪᴏɴ ᴏʀɪɢɪɴꜱ ᴏꜰ ᴛʜᴇ ᴀ ꜱᴏɴɢ ᴏꜰ ɪᴄᴇ ᴀɴᴅ ꜰɪʀᴇ/ꜰɪʀᴇ & ʙʟᴏᴏᴅ ᴄʜᴀʀᴀᴄᴛᴇʀ, ɴᴇᴛᴛʟᴇꜱ 'ɴᴇᴛᴛʏ', ᴡʜᴏ ᴡᴀꜱ ᴀ ꜰɪɢᴜʀᴇ ɪɴ ᴛʜᴇ ᴇᴠᴇɴᴛꜱ ᴏꜰ ᴛʜᴇ ᴅᴀɴᴄᴇ ᴏꜰ ᴛʜᴇ ᴅʀᴀɢᴏɴꜱ. ꜱʜᴇ ɪꜱ ᴋɴᴏᴡɴ ᴀꜱ ᴛʜᴇ ꜱᴏʟᴇ ʀɪᴅᴇʀ ᴏꜰ ᴛʜᴇ ᴡɪʟᴅ ᴅʀᴀɢᴏɴ ꜱʜᴇᴇᴘꜱᴛᴇᴀʟᴇʀ, ᴀɴᴅ ʜᴇʀ ꜱᴛᴏʀʏ ᴇɴᴅꜱ ᴡɪᴛʜ ʜᴇʀ ʀɪᴅɪɴɢ ᴏꜰꜰ ꜰʀᴏᴍ ᴛʜᴇ ʀɪᴠᴇʀʟᴀɴᴅꜱ ᴏɴ ᴛʜᴇ ʙᴀᴄᴋ ᴏꜰ ꜱᴀɪᴅ ᴅʀᴀɢᴏɴ ᴛᴏ ɢᴏᴅꜱ ᴋɴᴏᴡ ᴡʜᴇʀᴇ.

ɪ'ᴠᴇ ᴀʟᴡᴀʏꜱ ʙᴇᴇɴ ɪɴᴛʀɪɢᴜᴇᴅ ʙʏ ɴᴇᴛᴛʟᴇꜱ, ʜᴇʀ ʟɪꜰᴇ ᴀɴᴅ ʜᴇʀ ʀᴏʟᴇ ɪɴ ᴛʜᴇ ᴅᴀɴᴄᴇ. ʜᴇʀ ʟɪꜰᴇ ʙᴇꜰᴏʀᴇ ɪᴛ ᴀʟʟ, ʜᴏᴡ ꜱʜᴇ (ᴜɴɪɴᴛᴇɴᴛɪᴏɴᴀʟʟʏ) ɢᴏᴛ ꜱʜᴇᴇᴘꜱᴛᴇᴀʟᴇʀ ᴛᴏ ʙᴏɴᴅ ᴡɪᴛʜ ʜᴇʀ, ᴀɴᴅ ʜᴏᴡ ꜱʜᴇ ʟɪᴠᴇᴅ. ᴛʜɪꜱ ꜱᴛᴏʀʏ ᴡɪʟʟ ᴄᴏᴠᴇʀ ᴀ ᴘᴀʀᴛ ᴏꜰ ʜᴇʀ ᴄʜɪʟᴅʜᴏᴏᴅ, ʜᴇʀ ᴛɪᴍᴇ ʙᴇꜰᴏʀᴇ ꜱʜᴇᴇᴘꜱᴛᴇᴀʟᴇʀ, ᴡʜᴇɴ ꜱʜᴇ ᴍᴇᴇᴛꜱ ꜱʜᴇᴇᴘꜱᴛᴇᴀʟᴇʀ, ᴀɴᴅ ᴛʜᴇɴ ᴛʜᴇ ᴇᴠᴇɴᴛꜱ ᴏꜰ ᴛʜᴇ ᴅᴀɴᴄᴇ. ᴀʟʟ ꜰʀᴏᴍ ʜᴇʀ ᴘᴏᴠ, ꜱᴏʟᴇʟʏ. ᴘᴀʀᴛꜱ ᴏꜰ ᴛʜᴇ ʙᴏᴏᴋ ᴀɴᴅ ᴛʜᴇ ꜱʜᴏᴡ ᴡɪʟʟ ʙᴇ ᴍᴇʀɢᴇᴅ ʜᴇʀᴇ, ʙɪᴛꜱ ᴏꜰ ʙᴏᴛʜ.

ᴀꜱ ᴛʜɪꜱ ᴛʜᴇ ᴡᴏʀʟᴅ ᴏꜰ ᴀꜱᴏɪᴀꜰ, ɪᴛ ɢᴏᴇꜱ ᴡɪᴛʜᴏᴜᴛ ꜱᴀʏɪɴɢ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ɪᴛ ɪꜱ ʟɪᴛᴛᴇʀᴇᴅ ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴅᴜʙɪᴏᴜꜱ ᴄᴏɴᴛᴇɴᴛ ᴡʜɪᴄʜ ɪɴᴄʟᴜᴅᴇꜱ: ᴄʜɪʟᴅ ᴀʙᴀɴᴅᴏɴᴍᴇɴᴛ, ᴍᴇɴᴛɪᴏɴᴇᴅ ᴏꜰ ᴄʜɪʟᴅ ᴀʙᴜꜱᴇ, ᴍᴇɴᴛɪᴏɴ ᴀɴᴅ ᴀʟʟᴜꜱɪᴏɴ ᴏꜰ ꜱᴇxᴜᴀʟ ᴄʜɪʟᴅ ᴀʙᴜꜱᴇ, ᴍᴇɴᴛɪᴏɴꜱ ᴏꜰ ʜᴏᴍᴇʟᴇꜱꜱɴᴇꜱꜱ, ᴇxᴘʟᴏɪᴛᴀᴛɪᴏɴ, ʙʟᴏᴏꜱʜᴇᴅ, ᴘʀᴏꜱᴛɪᴛᴜᴛɪᴏɴ, ᴍᴇɴᴛɪᴏɴᴇᴅ ᴏꜰ ɪɴᴄᴇꜱᴛ, ᴘᴇᴅᴏᴘʜɪʟɪᴀ, ʙᴀꜱᴛᴀʀᴅᴘʜᴏʙɪᴀ, ᴇʟɪᴛɪᴄɪꜱᴍ, ᴋɪᴅɴᴀᴘᴘɪɴɢ, ᴠɪᴏʟᴇɴᴄᴇ, ᴀʀꜱᴏɴ, ᴡɪᴛᴄʜᴄʀᴀꜰᴛ. ᴍᴏʀᴇ ᴡɪʟʟ ʙᴇ ᴀᴅᴅᴇᴅ ɪꜰ ɴᴇᴇᴅᴇᴅ.

ᴘʟᴇᴀꜱᴇ ᴋᴇᴇᴘ ɪɴ ᴍɪɴᴅ ᴀɴᴅ ʀᴇꜱᴘᴇᴄᴛ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ᴛʜɪꜱ ɪꜱ ᴍʏ ɪɴᴛᴇʀᴘʀᴇᴛᴀᴛɪᴏɴ ᴏꜰ ɴᴇᴛᴛʟᴇꜱ ᴀɴᴅ ʜᴇʀ ꜱᴛᴏʀʏ. ɪ ᴡɪʟʟ ʀᴇᴍᴀɪɴ ᴀꜱ ʟᴏʏᴀʟ ᴛᴏ ᴍʏ ꜱᴏᴜʀᴄᴇ ᴍᴀᴛᴇʀɪᴀʟꜱ ᴀꜱ ɪ ᴘᴏꜱꜱɪʙʟʏ ᴄᴀɴ ᴀɴᴅ ᴡᴏʀᴋ ᴍʏ ɪᴅᴇᴀꜱ ɪɴᴛᴏ ᴛʜᴇᴍ. ʙᴜᴛ ɴᴇᴛᴛʟᴇꜱ, ᴀꜱ ɪ ꜱᴇᴇ ʜᴇʀ, ɪꜱ ᴀ ʙʟᴀɴᴋ ꜱʟᴀᴛᴇ ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴠᴇʀʏ ʟɪᴛᴛʟᴇ ꜰʟᴜꜰꜰ ᴛᴏ ʜᴇʀ ᴄʜᴀʀᴀᴄᴛᴇʀ. ꜱᴏ ᴛʜɪꜱ ɪꜱ ᴍʏ ᴠɪꜱɪᴏɴ ꜰᴏʀ ʜᴇʀ, ᴀɴᴅ ᴡʜɪʟᴇ ɪ ᴀᴍ ᴍᴏʀᴇ ᴛʜᴀɴ ᴏᴘᴇɴ ᴛᴏ ᴏᴘɪɴɪᴏɴꜱ (ᴀʙᴏᴜᴛ ᴛʜɪꜱ ᴏʀ ᴛʜᴇ ᴇɴᴛɪʀᴇ ᴅᴏᴛᴅ ꜱᴛᴏʀʏ ᴀꜱ ᴀ ᴡʜᴏʟᴇ) ᴀɴᴅ ᴄᴏɴꜱᴛʀᴜᴄᴛɪᴠᴇ ᴄʀɪᴛɪᴄɪꜱᴍ, ᴅɪꜱʀᴇꜱᴘᴇᴄᴛɪɴɢ ᴍʏ ꜱᴛᴏʀʏ/ᴡʀɪᴛɪɴɢ ʙᴇᴄᴀᴜꜱᴇ ɪ ᴅɪᴅɴ'ᴛ ᴡʀɪᴛᴇ ᴡʜᴀᴛ ʏᴏᴜ ɪᴍᴀɢɪɴᴇᴅ ʜᴇʀ ᴀɴᴅ ʜᴇʀ ꜱᴛᴏʀʏ ᴛᴏ ʙᴇ ᴡɪʟʟ ʙᴇ ɪɢɴᴏʀᴇᴅ, ᴅᴇʟᴇᴛᴇᴅ, ᴀɴᴅ/ᴏʀ ʙʟᴏᴄᴋᴇᴅ.

ᴀʟʟ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ꜱᴀɪᴅ ᴀɴᴅ ᴅᴏɴᴇ, ɪ ʜᴏᴘᴇ ᴛʜɪꜱ ꜱᴛᴏʀʏ ɪꜱ ᴡᴇʟʟ-ʀᴇᴄᴇɪᴠᴇᴅ ᴀɴᴅ ʏᴏᴜ ᴇɴᴊᴏʏ ɪᴛ.

-ꜱᴛxʀʏꜱᴍxᴛʜ

Chapter Text

𝟶𝟶𝟷 - 𝙴𝚊𝚝 𝚈𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚈𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚐 | 𝙷𝚘𝚣𝚒𝚎𝚛

"hoᥒᥱყ, ι wᥲᥒt to rᥲᥴᥱ ყoυ to thᥱ tᥲbᥣᥱ. ιf ყoυ hᥱsιtᥲtᥱ, thᥱ gᥱttιᥒg ιs goᥒᥱ."

𝟶𝟶𝟸 - 𝙼𝚊 𝙼𝚎𝚒𝚕𝚕𝚎𝚞𝚛𝚎 𝙴𝚗𝚗𝚎𝚖𝚒𝚎 | 𝙼𝚊𝚔𝚘, 𝙿𝚘𝚖𝚖𝚎, 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚂𝚝𝚛𝚘𝚖𝚊𝚎

"tυ sᥲιs ᥴ'qυ'oᥒ dιt "soιs ρrès d'tᥱs ᥲmιs ᥣᥱs ρᥣυs ᥴhᥱrs" mᥲιs ᥲυssι "ᥱᥒᥴorᥱ ρᥣυs ρrès d'tᥱs ᥲdvᥱrsᥲιrᥱs"

𝟶𝟶𝟹 - 𝚆𝚎 𝙱𝚘𝚝𝚑 𝚁𝚎𝚊𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚍 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝙶𝚞𝚗 | 𝙲𝚑𝚛𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚎 𝙱𝚊𝚛𝚊𝚗𝚜𝚔𝚒

"oh ყᥱs wᥱ both oh ყᥱs, wᥱ both rᥱᥲᥴhᥱd for"

𝟶𝟶𝟺 - 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚆𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚒𝚜 𝙵𝚒𝚗𝚎

"thᥱ sιᥣt of oυr wᥱddιᥒg bᥱd thᥱ ρᥱbbᥣᥱs whᥱrᥱ ყoυ ᥣᥲყ ყoυr hᥱᥲd"

𝟶𝟶𝟻 - 𝚆𝚊𝚒𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚘𝚗 𝚊 𝙼𝚒𝚛𝚊𝚌𝚕𝚎 | 𝚂𝚝𝚎𝚙𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚒𝚎 𝙱𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚛𝚒𝚣

"ι ᥲm rᥱᥲdყ, ᥴomᥱ oᥒ, ι'm rᥱᥲdყ. ι'vᥱ bᥱᥱᥒ ρᥲtιᥱᥒt, ᥲᥒd stᥱᥲdfᥲst, ᥲᥒd stᥱᥲdყ"

𝟶𝟶𝟼 - 𝚂𝚒𝚕𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚂𝚙𝚘𝚘𝚗

"ყoυ wᥱrᥱ kιᥒd, ι wᥲs ᥴrυᥱᥣ. ιᥒ ᥲᥒothᥱr ᥣιfᥱ, mᥲყbᥱ ι wᥲs ყoυ"

𝟶𝟶𝟽 - 𝚂𝚊𝚒𝚕𝚘𝚛 𝚂𝚘𝚗𝚐 | 𝙶𝚒𝚐𝚒 𝙿𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚣

"ι sᥲw hᥱr ιᥒ thᥱ rιghtᥱst wᥲყ"

𝟶𝟶𝟾 - 𝙼𝚒𝚍𝚍𝚕𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝙽𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 | 𝙴𝚕𝚕𝚎𝚢 𝙳𝚞𝚑é

"ι'm gᥱttιᥒg whᥲt ιs mιᥒᥱ, ყoυ goᥒ' gᥱt ყoυrs"

𝟶𝟶𝟿 - 𝙻𝚊𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚛 | 𝙿𝚊𝚛𝚒𝚜 𝙿𝚊𝚕𝚘𝚖𝚊

"ᥱmotιoᥒᥲᥣ tortυrᥱ from thᥱ hᥱᥲd of ყoυr hιgh tᥲbᥣᥱ"

𝟶𝟷𝟶 - 𝙲𝚊𝚗'𝚝 𝙲𝚊𝚝𝚌𝚑 𝙼𝚎 𝙽𝚘𝚠 | 𝚁𝚊𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚕 𝚉𝚎𝚐𝚕𝚎𝚛

"ι'm hιghᥱr thᥲᥒ thᥱ hoρᥱs thᥲt ყoυ broυght dowᥒ"

𝟶𝟷𝟷 - 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝙱𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚊𝚍 𝚘𝚏 𝙻𝚞𝚌𝚢 𝙶𝚛𝚊𝚢 𝙱𝚊𝚒𝚛𝚍 | 𝚁𝚊𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚕 𝚉𝚎𝚐𝚕𝚎𝚛

"ι dᥲᥒᥴᥱd for mყ dιᥒᥒᥱr, sρrᥱᥲd kιssᥱs ᥣιkᥱ hoᥒᥱყ"

𝟶𝟷𝟹 - 𝚆𝚒𝚕𝚍 𝚄𝚗𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚛𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚆𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚜 | 𝙹𝚘𝚗𝚊𝚑 𝙷𝚊𝚞𝚎𝚛-𝙺𝚒𝚗𝚐

"stroᥒgᥱr thᥲᥒ thᥱ υᥒdᥱrtow thᥱ ᥒιght ყoυ rᥱsᥴυᥱd mᥱ sιᥣhoυᥱttᥱd bყ thᥱ rιsιᥒg dᥲwᥒ"

𝟶𝟷𝟺 - 𝚆𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚆𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝙼𝚢 𝙻𝚒𝚏𝚎 𝙱𝚎𝚐𝚒𝚗 (𝚛𝚎𝚙𝚛𝚒𝚜𝚎) | 𝙼𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚢 𝙼𝚘𝚘𝚛𝚎

"ᥣook ᥲt thᥱ worᥣd, so ᥴᥣosᥱ ᥲᥒd ι'm hᥲᥣfwᥲყ to ιt"

𝟶𝟷𝟻 - 𝚃𝚘 𝙰𝚜𝚑𝚎𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝙱𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚍 | 𝙰𝚛𝚌𝚊𝚗𝚎, 𝚆𝚘𝚘𝚍𝚎𝚍

"how doᥱs ιt fᥱᥱᥣ to rᥱᥲᥴh thᥱ ᥣιᥒᥱ thᥲt ᥒo oᥒᥱ ᥱvᥱr got to ᥴross?"

𝟶𝟷𝟼 - 𝚃𝚑𝚞𝚖𝚋𝚜 | 𝚂𝚊𝚋𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚊 𝙲𝚊𝚛𝚙𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚛

"somᥱbodყ works for thᥱm ᥲᥒd so thᥱყ thιᥒk thᥱყ got ιt mᥲdᥱ bυt thᥱყ'rᥱ ᥲᥣᥣ jυst workιᥒg to gᥱt ρᥲιd thᥱ vᥱrყ sᥲmᥱ"

𝟶𝟷𝟽 - 𝙿𝚞𝚙𝚙𝚎𝚝𝚎𝚎𝚛 | 𝙴𝙿𝙸𝙲

"for ιᥒsιdᥱ thᥱ mᥱᥲᥣ (thιᥒk of ყoυr ρᥲst) shᥱ hᥲd ᥴᥲst ᥲ sρᥱᥣᥣ (ᥲᥒd ყoυr mιstᥲkᥱs)"

𝟶𝟷𝟾 - 𝙽𝚎𝚠 𝚃𝚛𝚊𝚍𝚒𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗 | 𝚂𝙰𝚈𝚂𝙷

"whᥱᥒ ყoυ'rᥱ twᥱᥣvᥱ fᥱᥱt tᥲᥣᥣ ᥲᥒd thᥱყ'rᥱ ᥴrowᥒιᥒg ყoυ kιᥒg ᥱvᥱrყthιᥒg ყoυ do ιs thᥱ ᥒᥱxt bιg thιᥒg"

𝟶𝟷𝟿 - 𝙻𝚘𝚜𝚝 𝙱𝚘𝚢 | 𝚁𝚞𝚝𝚑 𝙱

"hᥱ sρrιᥒkᥣᥱd mᥱ ιᥒ ριxιᥱ dυst ᥲᥒd toᥣd mᥱ to bᥱᥣιᥱvᥱ bᥱᥣιᥱvᥱ ιᥒ hιm ᥲᥒd bᥱᥣιᥱvᥱ ιᥒ mᥱ"

𝟶𝟸𝟶 - 𝙸'𝚕𝚕 𝙼𝚊𝚔𝚎 𝚊 𝙼𝚊𝚗 𝙾𝚞𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚈𝚘𝚞 | 𝙳𝚘𝚗𝚗𝚢 𝙾𝚜𝚖𝚘𝚗𝚍

"wιth ᥲᥣᥣ thᥱ forᥴᥱ of ᥲ grᥱᥲt tყρhooᥒ"

𝟶𝟸𝟷 - 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝙵𝚛𝚞𝚒𝚝𝚜 | 𝙿𝚊𝚛𝚒𝚜 𝙿𝚊𝚕𝚘𝚖𝚊

""dᥱvιᥣ", ყoυ ᥴᥲᥣᥣ mᥱ, bυt sᥱᥱm to bᥱ ᥱᥒjoყιᥒg thᥱ frυιts of mყ ᥣᥲboυr thᥲt ᥴᥲmᥱ to mᥱ too ყoυᥒg"

𝟶𝟸𝟸 - 𝙵𝚊𝚖𝚒𝚕𝚢 𝙻𝚒𝚗𝚎 | 𝙲𝚘𝚗𝚊𝚗 𝙶𝚛𝚊𝚢

"ι'm so good ᥲt tᥱᥣᥣιᥒg ᥣιᥱs thᥲt ᥴᥲmᥱ from mყ mothᥱr's sιdᥱ toᥣd ᥲ mιᥣᥣιoᥒ to sυrvιvᥱ"

𝟶𝟸𝟹 - 𝙽𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝙶𝚎𝚝 𝚝𝚘 𝙷𝚎𝚊𝚟𝚎𝚗 | 𝚂𝚊𝚛𝚊𝚑 𝙱𝚕𝚊𝚒𝚗𝚎

"ᥒo sιx fᥱᥱt ᥒᥱvᥱr goᥒᥒᥲ bᥱ ᥱᥒoυgh to bυrყ mᥱ"

𝟶𝟸𝟺 - 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝙰𝚙𝚘𝚕𝚘𝚐𝚢 𝚂𝚘𝚗𝚐 | 𝙳𝚒𝚎𝚐𝚘 𝙻𝚞𝚗𝚊

"toro, ι ᥲm frιghtᥱᥒᥱd bυt ι'ᥣᥣ υsᥱ mყ fιᥒᥲᥣ brᥱᥲth to tᥱᥣᥣ ყoυ thᥲt ι'm sorrყ"

𝟶𝟸𝟻 - 𝚁𝚎𝚖𝚎𝚖𝚋𝚎𝚛 𝚖𝚎 | 𝙰𝚛𝚌𝚊𝚗𝚎, 𝚍𝟺𝚟𝚍

"ι'm oᥒ mყ owᥒ, rᥱmᥱmbᥱr mᥱ"

Chapter Text

.ᐟ

NETTLES 'NETTY'
"THE GIRL BEARS THE STINK OF SORCERY UPON HER."
RIDER OF THE SHEEPSTEALER

ALYN OF HULL "THE COMELY SAVIOUR"
"I WANT SONS AS BRAVE AND STRONG AS YOU."
BASTARD OF CORLYS VELARYON

PRINCESS RHAENA TARGARYEN
"I WANT TO BRING MEANING TO MY NAME."
DAUGHTER OF DAEMON TARGARYEN & LAENA VELARYON

KING CONSORT DAEMON TARGARYEN 'THE ROGUE PRINCE'
"DREAMS DID NOT MAKE US KINGS, DRAGONS DID."
RIDER OF CARAXES, KING CONSORT

ALYS RIVERS 'WITCH QUEEN'
"I'M NO WOMAN AT ALL. I'M A BARN OWL, CURSED TO LIVE IN HUMAN FORM."
BASTARD OF HOUSE STRONG, ACTING MAESTER

QUEEN RHAENYRA I TARGARYEN 'THE DRAGON QUEEN'
"TELL MY HALF-BROTHER I WILL HAVE MY THRONE OR I WILL HAVE HIS HEAD"
RIDER OF SYRAX, CONTENDER FOR THE THRONE

ULF 'THE WHITE'
"BEST MAKE ME A KNIGHT, THEN."
RIDER OF SILVERWING, BASTARD OF BAELON TARGARYEN(RUMOURED)

HUGH HAMMER 'HARD HAMMER'
"I'M READY!"
BASTARD OF SAERA TARGARYEN, RIDER OF VERMITHOR

ADDAM OF HULL
"THE DRAGON CAME UPON ME, NOT ME HIM."
RIDER OF SEASMOKE, BASTARD OF CORLYS VELARYON

PRINCE JACAERYS TARGARYEN 'THE STRONG'
"I WILL HAVE YOU HANGED AND YOUR BODY FED TO THE DOGS IN THE STREETS."
FIRST BORN OF QUEEN RHAENYRA TARGARYEN, RIDER OF VERMAX

PRINCESS BAELA TARGARYEN 'THE BRAVE'
"I AM FIRE & BLOOD."
RIDER OF MOONDANCER, DAUGHTER OF LAENA VELARYON & DAEMON TARGARYEN

MYSARIA 'THE WHITE WYRM'
"AS LONG AS ONE HAS GOLD TO PAY FOR IT."
MISTRESS OF WHISPERS, LOVER TO DAEMON TARGARYEN, LOVER TO RHAENYRA TARGARYEN

ᴀɴᴅ ᴇᴠᴇʀʏᴏɴᴇ ᴇʟꜱᴇ ᴀꜱ ᴛʜᴇᴍꜱᴇʟᴠᴇꜱ

.ᐟ

Chapter Text

FIRE & BLOOD - THE DANCE OF DRAGONS
thᥱ hoυsᥱ of thᥱ drᥲgoᥒ

"In the end, the brown dragon was brought to heel by the cunning and persistence of a "small brown girl" of seven-and-ten, who delivered him a freshly slaughtered sheep every morning, until Sheepstealer learned to accept and expect her. Mushroom tells us the girl was a bastard of uncertain birth, born to a dockside whore. She was black-haired, brown-eyed, brown-skinned, skinny, foul-mouthed, fearless...and the first and last rider of the dragon Sheepstealer.

Munkun sets down the name of this unlikely dragonrider as Nettles ."

"ιf ყoυ gᥱᥒtᥣყ toυᥴh ᥲ ᥒᥱttᥣᥱ ιt'ᥣᥣ stιᥒg ყoυ for ყoυr ρᥲιᥒs; grᥲsρ ιt ᥣιkᥱ ᥲ ᥣᥲd of mᥱttᥣᥱ, ᥲᥒ' ᥲs soft ᥲs sιᥣk rᥱmᥲιᥒs"

thᥱ tᥲᥣᥱ of ᥒᥱttᥣᥱs

ᐟ

Chapter Text

ʟɪᴛᴛʟᴇ ꜱᴇᴇᴅʟɪɴɢ || 𝟣𝟣8 ᴀᴄ

"STAY AND WAIT RIGHT HERE, DARLING." Cold and slender hands released those of the small girl of only four summers. The bustling people of Spicetown had become a blur compared to the face of her mother, who looked down upon her. Her visage, hollowed from her usually warm demeanour, was now replaced with a grimace. Dragged from her cot at first light, the ragged toddler stood on the sidewalk in nothing but her nightshift with a coat draped over her, trying to rub the sleep out of her eyes.

Her mother said more than that; her mouth kept moving, Nettles thinks, but the lack of light hinders her already impaired ability to make out her mother's communications. If one would ask her now, she would figure—hope—that her mother was attempting to placate her smaller, shivering self. Explain away her cowardice and cruelty. How does a mother explain to her child why she is leaving her alone, in the streets, with empty pockets and an even emptier stomach?

Soon enough, the streets began to fill with people once again: merchants raising their shutters with groggy faces, fishermen hauling nets dripping with saltwater from the rocky shorelines, hunchbacked dock workers labouring like no tomorrow. And with this growing crowd, Gyna slipped away like seafoam, swallowed whole by the city's indifferent drift. She left behind only a confused little girl, barefoot and trembling before Madame Bessie's fruit stand, bare not only of shoes or coin, but of everything that less than an hour ago she had. Nettles stood there for a long time, blinking back the sting in her eyes, feeling the sudden, terrible loneliness rot into her bones.

That day, little Nettles would have had a better chance of stumbling across Balerion the Black Dread risen from the dead, or even Vhagar, before ever finding her mother again. She pulled on many sleeves, calling out in a small voice, asking many a person, and many a person turned away with blank, uncaring faces, too wrapped up in their burdens to spare a thought for a lost girl. One burly fisherman snarled at her to "shove off" before she scared away his customers. A group of drunken dockhands laughed cruelly at her, tossing a rotten apple at her feet as though she were a stray dog, one which she still ate. But there were a few, just a few, who offered pity-an old woman who placed a thin hand on Nettles' head and mumbled a prayer for her, before shuffling away with tears of her own; a stableboy who pressed a heel of stale bread into her hand without a word, eyes darting nervously for fear of his master's hand-taking anger.

She had scrounged what she could-a few crumbs from the bread stand when the baker wasn't looking, and a handful of withered berries dropped near Madame Bessie's cart-and drank straight from the murky edge of Blackwater Bay, choking on the salt and slime but too parched to care. As darkness crept over Spicetown and the streets grew meaner, Nettles wandered aimlessly, tracing and retracing the same alleys she had skipped down with her mother just mere hours ago, her heart growing heavier with each fruitless turn. Every familiar sight now felt twisted and strange without Gyna's hand to hold. Her little feet, bruised and growing sore, carried her in weary circles, but no matter where she turned, she found only the same terrible emptiness inside her.

"Aye, lass." Came the gnarly voice of a figure covered in the shade of a still-lit tavern. The man stepped out and revealed himself to the toddler; a man standing six feet to her three and 10 inches, a large and burly man, no doubt thrice her size and weight. His face was ugly, as if he had fought with an unruly cat, with jagged scars and droopy skin, thin hair with patches of skin here and there. He was as lanky as he was tall, and Nettles still knows that smell of ale and a pillowhouse worker. Rotted and crooked teeth, how many were of them anyway; cracked lips and uneven patches of hair where she could see.

"Hello." Gods. Her voice, once so small and shaky, came out as Nettles sniffled through her tears.

"A man's heard of yer fix. Can an old man lend a hand?" He would ask, approaching closer to her and crouching just a mere two hairs from her, forcing his wretched stench upon the girl's nostrils; the bile in her throat seemed to be drawn up from that alone.

"A small filly like ye ought to have someone to keep ya warm." He licked his lips as his dirty hands came to the side of her face, dragged up and twirled on her unruly curls in between her knuckles, a hearty chuckle coming out in violent coughs.

"I can't find my momma. She left me." Her bottom lip began to wobble as the wave of sadness threatened to spill over again.

Little memory returns to Nettles during the drinking. The man had seemed sweet enough. He brought her on out from the streets and into the tavern he'd been loitering in front of, bought a pitcher of ale and gave her the only proper food she'd eaten all day.

And he was kind enough to himself to try and cash a reward for his most courteous act. That night in the inn above the aforementioned tavern, Nettles remembers sitting atop the squeaky bed with its stained quilts for covers. Her small and twig-like legs swung from the bed's edge while she finished braiding her hair.

The man had washed her ever so kindly and was even sweeter to clean her hair, sticking his nose in her head of curls just to make sure the soaps left a good scent about her, rubbing the mud and dirt from her back, front, and the soil between her legs.

"Baw me bairne, sleep softly now." Nettles hummed softly to herself as she hopped from the bed, turned her back to him to pull the covers back and was ready to crawl in for a night's slumber.

"Now wait, girl." He grumbled, stumbling out of the bath, still reeking of ale and sour soap, his words slurring into a growl that scratched from his throat like claws on old wood.

Nettles paused, blinking up at him, standing barefoot on the warped floorboards, the chill biting at her heels. Her small hands clutched the quilt, the stink of mildew and old sweat clinging to the fabric.

The man loomed, a hulking shadow that swayed side as he was hollowed out with an anvil swinging side to side within him. He wiped his mouth on the back of his hairy arm, leaving a smear of spit, then dragged his filthy nails through his thinning hair.

"You ain't paid your keep yet," he said, voice dropping into something sticky and disgusting.

Nettles didn't understand - not fully back then. She stood frozen, the quilt still clutched vice-like in her fists, small shoulders heaving with quiet, broken breaths.

He reached for her again, quickly and roughly. She shrieked as his grip on her frail on closed in on her, and he pulled her close to his still, stank body. She wanted to run away crying.

But there was nowhere to run.

"I've kept you happy today. Do you not want to make me happy in turn, little filly?"

Nettles' lip trembled harder, her small body pulling itself inward, trying to make less of herself, to disappear like a wisp of smoke. She heard him mutter under his breath, 'perky thing', 'like a nameday present', the words sloshing around in his mouth like the dregs of beer at the bottom of his mugs.

He laughed at her tears, a noise that cracked open the floor beneath her feet, slithered his torso to come down and lick at her tears, before hauling her back toward the bed with a tug so hard her knees knocked against the frame.

"Good little filly," he cooed, mocking, as he pressed her down onto the quilts, his breath hot and rank against her ear.

It was then, as the old boards groaned and the ceiling seemed to tilt, that he trailed his dry and rough lips against her skin of no better condition. His hand groped and squeezed at her hips, her belly, and whatever she had for a chest.

Then Nettles kicked.

Even now, at her age of ten and seven, Nettles does not know where she got the courage and strength to deliver herself her freedom in such a fashion. Perhaps she had been so scared her leg jerked in reaction, or mayhaps the Warrior had given her his strength.

Whatever the case, she did it.

Wildly uncoordinated, she lashed out with both small feet, catching him somewhere soft, somewhere that made him grunt and stumble backward and to the squeaking floors, cursing. Nettles didn't wait to see what damage she'd done. She scrambled from the bed like a spooked cat, her bare feet smacking against the splintered wood as she darted toward the door.

The door was heavy and stiff, but she threw her weight against it, sobs catching in her throat, and somehow it gave, swinging open with a screech.

Down the crooked staircase she fled, past the blinking drunks and the slack-jawed innkeeper, out into the night air that smelled of piss and seawater.

She ran.

She ran until her legs gave out, until the lights of the tavern were a smear on the distance. At the edge of the town, where the grass grew greener and a field of wildflower petals tickled her bare legs, she heard them in the distance - sheep.

The little girl paddled along after the sound. Up the small hill with her heavy breaths heaving out of her, she finally found them. A herd of sheep plodded their way into a pen on the property of a small farm.

Nettles ran over quickly, climbed over the fence, scraping her knees bloody on the rough wood, and stumbled into the soft, woolly crowd. The sheep didn't mind her, it seemed, making room for the little thing among them.

She curled up between two fluffy ones, her head resting against one's warm side, while others looked upon the shivering girl and bleated between each other.

There, with the stink of manure and wet wool in her nose, Nettles finally found enough warmth to at least close her eyes.

Chapter Text

ꜱᴄᴀʀꜱ ᴜᴘᴏɴ ᴀ ʙʀᴏᴋᴇɴ-ʜᴇᴀʀᴛᴇᴅ ᴄᴏꜱꜱᴇᴛ || 𝟣𝟤0 ᴀᴄ

The blistering heat of the summer sun beats down against Nettles' back as she treks from the edge of town. For two years, the lost girl had lived away from society with the landowner, Garvy was his right name, Nettles later learned, from back when she first took to sleeping in the pen of sheep. He had found her on the morrow, and despite her initial fear, the man had been gracious enough to offer her a roof and feed for the exchange of her help around his lands.

And she agreed, after all, she was used to doing upkeep from a young age on the dockside, both in and out of the houses. He had been honourable and kept his end of the bargain; he gave her a roof over her head, clean clothes on her back, and food in her belly. She learned how to live off the bare necessities in the borderland wilderness, away from all others.

Garvy had been kind enough to guide her well these past years. Within her first year of living with him, Garvy began to share her bed; he would cradle her gently and love on her just so, much warmer than the burly man all those moons ago. His hands nor mouth never went below her chest, Nettles remembers. Soon enough, Nettles shared more than his bed. "My sweetest flower," he would call her as she bled on his cock that first time, though she didn't completely understand what had happened. He had been gentle, soft-spoken, and gave her all she had. She hadn't expected it.

Her life was sustainable; shelter, food, and what she had once praised for those years as love. She threw her back out while herding the sheep, feeding the pigs, skinning the wool, milking the cows and goats, collecting firewood, cooking, and cleaning from top to bottom. She gave and gave. She worked until her hands bled and her back ached, believing that if she gave enough—more than she'd ever given her mother— she'd be safe for the rest of her days.

Though it still had not been enough, however. As most recently, Nettles had celebrated her 11th nameday, she had done her chores around the farm cheerfully, skipping around and singing a merry tune Garvy had taught her. Then a young girl came up the hill that led to the town. Cayra, a girl of 6 summers, in a yellow-stitched dress and torn flats, loose blonde hair and green of eyes. She was Nettles' replacement, Garvy had explained.

She had become too old and was no longer wanted by the keeper. He told her to get lost and never come back. And a sinking clarity had come to her; she had never been loved, and she was never safe with him. Like her father, like her second father, and the man after him, like her mother, and like the man before Garvy—they had all given her a little, just to take whatever else she had. But she did as he bade, lest she face the wrath of violence, so she took nothing but the clothes on her person: a linen dress and wicker shoes.

But lost she is not; she had learned the layout of Spicetown to Hull well over the years of her life. But tired, she is. Spicetown had been much farther than she recalled; she had been walking long enough for the sun to inch into a new position, and her legs were growing weak. She wills her way to the dock sides, returning to where she had been so familiar with, tents and small homes of the whores that the men would come in and out as they left for and returned from their ventures.

The memory of peaking out of the crate her mother would hide her in when her callers came to for their fill. A talented woman, no doubt. A missing one now, Nettles realizes as she peers through the window of her old home. No longer did a tall woman of black tresses and ebony skin lure sailors to their pleasure, but instead a woman of tanned complexion and red of hair.

Nettles continues about her business, attempting to scout the easiest source to satiate her rumbling. Just then, she comes into view with a docked ship. It was the biggest thing she'd ever seen. With pretty, shimmering wood and polished metal, not a splinter nor rust in sight. The sail, bright teal and bearing a white seahorse. Even from the docks, she could smell salt, spice, and coin. A ship like that no doubt carried more gold than a Lannister could shit. And maybe, if she played this smart, her next meal too.

Luckily, it was easier than she had anticipated.

With the men going and coming from the deck, A small thing like her easily just scurries between workers, picking through their slacks, and the busy area concealing her moving below deck, which was clear of any men, merely their pillowwhores, who look at her briefly before returning to their own business. She ventures for some time through the large, hollow space before finally coming upon its galley and raiding its cabinets to stock herself up with biscuits, dried peas and beans, cheese, and hard candies.

She walks off a little further to find a storage space; crates, sacks, and other pieces were strewn about in the deserted area of the ship. Nettles shuffles about until she finds a half-empty container holding some spices or other. She slips on in and situates her small body in the corner with the bags towering to cover her from the quick and naked eye.

Later in the day, the ship rocks in the waves, bringing Nettles to a soothing sleep, as if back in the arms of her mother again and being cradled to bed. A feeling she is drawn further and further from by the minute. When she awakens, it is a loading dock on Dragonstone of all places, and the heavy musk of salty air, burnt sand, and brimstone had all but enveloped Nettles the moment her senses came back to her.

Once the space stills to a hay-drop silence, Nettles cracks open the crate and slips out, and the most curious muzzled feeling of moist, black and rocky sand crunching beneath her shoed feet. The hours waiting for the clear had left her stumbling through the pitch black expanse of Dragonstone's beaches and hiking her way into the town and its strong houses.

It isn't too late, fortunately, as some merchants and taverns still remain populated to some degree. Inside, the stench is far worse than anything that had cursed Nettles' senses before, with all types of bodily fluids spread about the planks for floors, the chairs, and even the walls. She walks to the front of the house, swiping a cloak off the drunk body of an unsuspecting, sleeping drunk. She jumps onto a stool at a high table where a bearded fellow looks no further than the clunk of silver stags slid over by tiny hands, before pouring a mug of fruit-heavy ale and a plate of greens and fish.

"Where you hail from, girl?" Asks the gruff old worker, wiping some other cutlery, "Summer Isles, sir." The words come out jumbled and muffled through the occupied lips of a ravenous child, but they are true all the same.

"Can you work?"

Whatever she was told to do.

"Farm work...among other things." She throws down another bundle of silver stags for a refill of ale.

"Couldn't have picked a worse place, little lass." A patron and his lady friend come over to the bar and also throw a small purse of coins to the bartender. "Farm workers are no good here. Unless ye can farm ashes and soot for profit."

"What do you speak of?"

"Aye, lassie, the dragons." Oh?

She pauses mid-swig, ale trickling from the corner of her mouth.

"You mean... real dragons?"

The patron laughs, but there is no mirth in it. "Aye. Real as the burn marks on my arse. Big beast-like gods, they is. We little folks can naught but hope they don't eat us along with the crops—they blaze trails right through the fields. Nothing left but charred bones and black earth."

"Those blasted Targaryens and their untamed, hideous little beasts; they fly all about as they wish. Two are fanatical about fish and sheep. At least, that cannibal keeps to himself. Those two, on the other hand, be takin' up all of our goods."

Nettles blinks, setting down her mug slowly. The taste of fermented fruit suddenly turns sour. "And no one's stopped them?"

"Would you stop a dragon, girl?" the lady friend asks, eyes narrowing with something between pity and suspicion.

"Depends on the dragon," Nettles mutters, reaching for a piece of fish. She could take a dragon, Nettle thinks; she is quite smart and has bested many in her recent years. What's taming a dragon? "No one could ever stop those creatures, girl. They take no commands," the gruff worker adds, returning with a fresh rag and a curious glance. "'Specially not from somethin' so young and small like ye little lassie."

Nettles chews slowly. "Like me?"

"Maybe some witch could," the woman at the bar chimes in, crossing herself, clearly taking the piss out of the idea.

The little crowd all hoot in agreement, mugs and fists slamming down on the tabletops. Nettles'  eyes flick between the loudmouths and her plate. The bearded fellow raises a brow, leaning in. "You look mighty calm for someone who just heard they're livin' under the shadow o' winged death."

"I've had it worse," she mutters, wiping her mouth with the back of her sleeve. "And eaten it, too."

The tavern swells with bitter laughter and liquor-thick breath, a ruckus of mugs and coarse jokes. Nettles didn't care to listen. Her belly is full, her coin purse light, and her mind is floating beyond the heat and stink of men and meat and pipe smoke. She rises, the stool scraping quietly as she does.

The door moans shut behind her, and the wind outside caught her cloak like some tattered sail. She tugs the hood lower and clasps the cloak tighter, but the cold still creeps in through the seams.

°。°。°。°。°。。°。°。°。°。°

The man hadn't been wrong, it turns out. There was no work. Not for someone like her—not for many.

She wandered—a week, maybe two. Time bent strange when you slept beneath the open sky. The hunger gnawed at Nettles' belly like a rat at a sack of grain. Days now with nothing but a handful of stolen berries and half a loaf of stale bread she'd found behind the baker's shop. She wiped her grimy hands on her even grimier skirt and squinted at the morning sun rising over Dragonstone's jagged peaks.

"You're too small," the blacksmith had told her once, not unkindly but firmly enough. "Can't have you dropping my hammers or burning yourself on the forge."

Too small. Too young. Too dirty. Too female. Always something to say no to.

Nettles kicked a stone and watched it skitter across the dusty road. The isle was barren, and parts that weren't were hardly easier to farm. No crops meant no harvest work. No harvest work meant no coin. No coin meant no food. Her stomach cramped again, and she pressed her fist against it. Wouldn't do to look weak.

The fishing docks. She hadn't tried there yet. Fish still swam in the sea, drought or no drought. Nettles turned toward the harbour, her cracked leather boots scuffing against the rocky path. The smell hit her first—salt and rotting fish guts and unwashed sailors. Men hauled nets from boats while others mended sails or repaired tackle. Nettles approached a weathered man sorting through a pile of silvery fish."Need help, sir?" She tried to make her voice sound stronger than she felt. "I can clean fish. Sort them. Carry them to market."

The fisherman barely looked up. "Got my own kids for that. Don't need to feed another mouth." She tried five more boats with the same result. At the sixth, a red-faced man with arms thick as tree trunks eyed her up and down in a way that made her skin crawl. It was a familiar look. "Could find something for you to do." his voice was slick as the fish he gutted. "Pretty little thing like you. Come below deck, and we'll discuss payment." Nettles backed away, dejected.

Another day, she'd tried the tannery; too small to handle the hides, the stables; already had three boys mucking stalls for scraps, and the washerwomen; nothing to spare for help. Her stomach had given up growling and settled into a dull, persistent ache.

The market square offered no better prospects. Farmers with withered vegetables wanted to keep what little profit they could make. One woman offered to let Nettles sweep her stall in exchange for a bruised apple, but the woman's husband appeared and chased her off before she could finish the job.

"A thieving little rat," he'd called her, though she hadn't taken a thing. Though she ought to have had, they had a good set of silver that would've done her well.

And now, in the shadows of the afternoon, desperation has driven Nettles to the taverns. Most wouldn't even let her through the door, but at one of the smaller ones, a harried-looking woman with gray-streaked hair paused long enough to listen. "Can wash dishes," Nettles said quickly. "Sweep floors. Anything." The woman, Marla, looked her over with tired eyes. "Pay is a meal at the end of the night and a corner to sleep in. No coin."

Nettles nodded eagerly. A meal was more than she'd had in days—more than she'd probably ever have.

The work was brutal. Endless stacks of greasy plates, floors sticky with spilled ale, drunken men who grabbed at her as she passed. But the promise of food kept her going, hour after hour, her hands raw from hot water and lye soap. The smells from the kitchen were torture—roasted meat, fresh bread, onions sizzling in fat. By the time the last patrons stumbled out, Nettles was light-headed with hunger. She slipped into the kitchen, where Marla was clearing away the night's leftovers.

"Almost done," Marla said. "Then you can eat."

Nettles nodded, but when Marla turned away, she couldn't help herself. A half-eaten meat pie sat on a tray bound for the pigs. She grabbed it and stuffed it into her mouth, barely chewing, just needing to fill the aching void in her belly.

"What in seven hells do you think you're doing?"

The tavern owner stood in the doorway, his face mottled with rage. Nettles froze, cheeks bulging with stolen food." Caught another thief, have we?" he growled, crossing the room in three strides. His hand closed around Nettles' arm like an iron band.

"Wasn't stealing," she mumbled through her full mouth. "Was gonna eat anyway. You said—"

"Said you'd get a meal when the work was done. Not that you could help yourself to whatever you wanted." He shook her hard enough that her teeth rattled. "Marla, did you tell this little rat she could eat the customers' leavings?"

Marla looked away. "No, Barten."

"Please," Nettles whispered, swallowing the last of the pie. "I was so hungry—" "And now you're done." He dragged her toward the door. "No food, no corner, no job. Thieves get nothing in my establishment."

"Marla. Marl! Pl-please, I'm sorry!" But her persistent pleas of mercy, her begging for a second chance, were met with indifference all the same.

The night air was cold against her face as he shoved her into the street. Nettles stumbled, catching herself on her palms, the grit of the road embedding itself in her skin.

"Don't come back," the tavern owner called after her.

Nettles pushed herself up, blinking back hot tears. She wouldn't cry. Crying was for babies, and she wasn't a baby. She was eleven—almost twelve. She wrapped her arms around herself and started walking. Tomorrow she'd try again. The mines, perhaps. Or the castle. Someone, somewhere on this gods-forsaken rock, had to need a pair of hands.

But that kind of work came and went like the tide. She cried, one last time. Quietly, where no one could hear. But the tears dried fast, and after that, she didn't cry again, only when she was paid to do it, after all, what good was grieving something as useless as bones and virtue when it paid well.

It was near the end of the second week—though she couldn't swear to it—when she found the cave—chasing a half-dead rabbit, barefoot and cursing, through the charred bones of what used to be an orchard. The trees were brittle things, blackened husks that dangled in the air.

The rabbit disappeared, but she found shelter instead. The cave wasn't deep, but it was dry, tucked behind a rocky outcrop shaped like a broken tooth. Stream nearby. Berries cling to thorny bushes with more stubbornness than fruit.

The first night she slept there, she dreamt of her everything she's known; the day her father had left them to return to Essos, the countless days of stashing away in crates while made to hear her mother make a wanton whore out of herself, the good years she had once with Garvy, Spicetown and its good people that she missed dearly—like Madame Bessie. When she woke, she was shivering, and her hand was clutching the hem of her cloak as if she were still a child clutching a blanket in the scary night.

She spat the dirt from her lips and went about her day.

°。°。°。°。°。。°。°。°。°。°

122 ᴀᴄ

By this time around, she had a rhythm. Wake before dawn, cloak tight and hood over her head. Slip into the edge of Dragonstone. Pick a pocket if she could. Steal a loaf where possible. Sell her labour, her hands, her back, her body—whatever would take.

The cave is her den. A cache for stolen bread, a place to stitch her torn breeches and wounds, to wash away blood and dirt and whatever else clung to her skin. She uses a flat boulder as a table, a bundle of rags as a pillow. Sometimes she sings to herself. Songs with no words. Just hums and tones and rhythms to tire herself out.

But her days would no longer be the same, it seems, despite starting like all others.

Nettles counts the coins in her palm for the third time, the metal cold against her skin. Seven coppers. It wasn't enough for a room at the inn, but it would buy her one supper that could last her 3 days if she were careful. She clutches them tightly as she passes the alehouse, the smell of roasting meat making her stomach clench painfully.

"You there, girl," a voice hollers from the shadows of a timbered house. "Come here."

Nettles hesitates, her spine stiffening. The man steps forward wearing fine wool, a merchant's attire, with a silver chain around his thick neck. His beard is neatly trimmed, his fingers adorned with rings. "I've a warm hearth and food to spare," he says, eyes travelling over her mud-spattered dress and tangled hair. "You look like you could use both."

Her stomach growls loudly enough for him to hear. Shame colours her cheeks, but she lifts her chin all the same. "What's the cost?" His smile doesn't reach his eyes. "Company. Nothing more."

Lies. There was always more. But the night is growing cold, and she hadn't eaten since yesterday noon. "Come," he says, not waiting for her answer.

The merchant's house was three stories tall, with tapestries on the walls and a fire burning in the hearth. He fed her soup and bread, watched her eat with an intensity that made her skin crawl. When she finished, he poured wine into a goblet and pushed it toward her.

"You remind me of someone," he says. "My Elaine." Nettles sips the wine, warmth spreading through her limbs. "Your wife?" His face darkens. "My daughter." Something in his eyes changes then, a hunger that had nothing to do with food. Nettles sets down the goblet, suddenly aware of how alone she still very much is. "How old are you?" he asks. "Eight, sir."

"Elaine was her prettiest at that age." His voice softens. "You have her eyes." Nettles' stomach twists; the bread and soup suddenly heavy within her. She knows what is coming next. She had known from the moment he called to her.

"I should go," she says, rising from the bench.

His hand shoots out, gripping her wrist harder than necessary, given how small she was. "Stay. Please. I'll pay you well," and she freezes for a minute.

"How much?" she hears herself say. Seven coppers wouldn't last. The cold was creeping back in. She would be a dead girl walking soon enough.

Later, in his bedchamber, Nettles stares at the ceiling as he pushes off the last remnants of her clothes. The fire is casting grotesque shadows across the walls. His hands are rough, impatient. She felt herself retreating inside her mind, to that cold, empty place she'd built, where the box kept her safe away from all.

"You look just like my Elaine at your age," he says, pulling her onto his lap, placing her hand at the hardness beneath his breeches, his breath hot and sour against her neck. "She's married now. To a Stokeworth." She must be so happy to be away from you.

It must be nice not having to fuck people like this, having someone take care of her like a fucking precious jewel

Nettles thinks, forcing her lips into a smile. Elaine's children likely have a real father who takes care of them, who loves them truly.

"Is that so, my lord?" she murmurs, letting her hand rest where he guided it. "You must be so proud."

"Oh, I am," he says, his fingers digging into her hip. "But you know what? Elaine's too serious. Never any fun. Not like you."

"Come here." he moves them about on the bed, shifting her to straddle him while he lies flat on his back. "Ride me like the good girl you are." Her legs feel like lead when his hands grip her waist, prompting her to him. She closes her eyes. But he slaps her hard across the face. "Look at me when I enter you," he hisses. "I want to see my Elaine's eyes."

The pain as he thrust upward made her gasp. It wasn't physical—that would've been better—it was the feeling of being hollowed out, scraped empty of anything that made her feel whole.

I hate this, she screams internally. I hate him. I hate myself. I hate it all. Each thrust sends a wave of revulsion crashing through her, her stomach churning as she tries to keep her mind separate from her body. But the feelings are inescapable, the sickening slide of his sweaty skin against hers, the harsh grip of his hands on her thighs, spreading her wide for his invasion. With each movement, she feels pieces of herself breaking away, floating off into nothingness.

"Tell me about your mother," he grunts, his fingers digging painfully into her hips as he forces her to move. "Tell me how wretched she is."

Nettles fights back tears. "Mother is... is horrible," she stammers, knowing the script by now. "She doesn't love you as I do, Father."

He rewards her with another slap that sends her ears ringing. "Louder! Tell me how much better you are than that wretch!"

"I'm better than her," Nettles cries out, her voice breaking. "She's a miserable, cold woman. I love you more, Father. I always have."

Inside her mind, Nettles is shrieking. Each word was a betrayal of herself, each motion a surrender to something vile. She wants to bash her skull against the stone walls until it is soft like a boiled apple. She thinks of the river that runs through the town, how dark and peaceful it is, how light and peaceful she might be once she submerges herself in it. How final. How it might feel to simply walk into its depths and let the current take her somewhere—anywhere—else.

"Praise me," he demands, his breathing growing more laboured. "Tell me how wonderful I am."

"You're magnificent," she whispers, the lie tasting like ash. "So strong. So wise."

He grabs her frizzy curls, yanking her head forward painfully. "Who does tight little cunt belong to?"

"You, Father. Only you."

How much more like her mother could she be? A man's slave as her mother had been; she was her father's slave before his whore; she was the slave to the docks and its men. And Nettles strode down her mother's path.

The words echoed in her mind as he used her body. Only you. Only you. But that wasn't true. A week ago, she belonged to a tavern patron; a time before that, she belonged to a lonely widowed wife; before that, another soul. She truly belonged to hunger, to desperation, nothing else. And with each passing moment, she belonged less and less to herself. If she ever did belong to herself to begin with.

Nettles begins to bite her lip until she tastes blood to keep from crying out in pain. "My sweet Elaine," he moans. "My perfect girl."

"Tell me how you love it," he grunts, his fat belly slapping against her with each thrust. His cock is a rod of iron inside her, hunting for his pleasure within her. "I love it... Father," she lies, forcing a moan from her throat. It sounds false, hollow, but he doesn't notice or care. She could feel his gaze on her, his eyes tracing the lines of her body, the curves that reminded him of his daughter. 

She wanted to vomit. Vomit until there was nothing left.

"This is what you're worth now," she thinks. "This is what happens when you aren't a good girl. No one would want you. Look what happened when your own mother and father didn't want you. How wretched you are."

"My wife hasn't let me touch her in years," he says, his voice like an oily rag being forced down her throat. "Too pious. Not like you." Nettles grits her teeth, her scalp burning. She didn't want to think about his wife, about the woman who shared his bed. It makes her feel even filthier, even more complicit in his sins. But he isn't paying her for her wants.

"Faster," he demands, his hand cracking against her hip. "And look at me when I'm speaking to you." She meets his watery blue eyes, seeing nothing but lust and cruelty. He doesn't see her, doesn't see Nettles. He doesn't even see a girl.

"Mother would be so proud", she thinks ironically. "All those lectures and hands-on shows, now I'm putting the only thing she's ever taught me to work. If only she could see me now. Maybe then she'd find something to be proud of, something to love."

"You're such a dirty girl," he pants, his breath coming in short gasps. "Nothing like your mother."

And yet.

"Please," she whispers, not even sure what she was begging for. An end to this, for one. An end to everything. But he takes her plea as encouragement, his movements becoming more frantic. "That's right, beg for it. Beg me." The words come automatically now, spewing out like the bile burning in her gut. Her body is here, performing its role, while her mind screams and claws at the walls of her skull.

"When this is over", she promises herself, "I'll find somewhere to scrub myself clean. Mayhaps I will stumble into the Dragonmont and return to the Stranger as nothing more than ash in the wind."

His fingers dig into her flesh, leaving bruises she would discover tomorrow. Nettles fixes her gaze on a crack in the ceiling plaster. "Tell me again about your slag of a Mother," he commands, his voice thick with lust. "Tell me how she neglects me." Nettles swallows hard. "Mother doesn't... doesn't love you as I do," she whispers. Each word was another stone added to the pile, crushing her chest.

"Louder," he demands, slapping her face hard enough to make her ears ring.

"Mother is cold!" she cries out. "She denies you what you need. What you deserve." He smiles, pleased with her performance. "And what do I deserve, Elaine?"

"Everything," Nettles says, feeling something inside her crumble to dust. "You deserve everything." Everything that the Stranger has in store for your damned soul.

His hands push her thighs apart, fingers probing roughly. Nettles bites her lip until she tastes blood, trying to disconnect from the invasion of her body. Nettles feels pieces of herself falling away. Who would be left when this was over? Was there anything of her still worth saving?

"Tell me how much better I am than your husband," he demands, his fingers drawing shapes into the flesh of her buttocks. "He's nothing compared to you. I hate him," she recites, her voice flat. I hate you. "You're stronger. Bigger. Better." Crueler. He slaps her face again, harder this time. "Mean it!"

Nettles forces herself to look into his eyes, to manufacture the adoration he craves. "No one compares to you, Father! No one has ever made me feel this way." At least that much is true. No one had ever made her hate herself so completely.

"Say it," he growls. "Say you love me more than anyone."

"I love you," she chokes out, the words burning like wildfire. "More than anyone."

As he spends himself inside her, Nettles retreats further into the darkness of her mind. She imagines herself standing on the edge of that river, the water black and inviting below. One step. That's all it would take. One step to end this hollow, worthless existence.

When he finishes, he throws her off to the side, breathing heavily. Nettles lies still, feeling his seed leaking between her thighs, feeling nothing else. Nothing at all. Just the feeling of the prepped Moon Tea being poured down her throat, his softened cock slithering back in for warmth, and his hot breath against the back of her neck.

"You'll stay the night," he pulls her into his sweaty chest, groping sloppily at her chest.

Nettles nods, unable to speak. The bag of silver he'd promised is sitting on the table across the room. Enough to survive another month. Another month of this empty shell of a life. As he begins to snore beside her, Nettles stares at the ceiling, counting the cracks in the plaster. One. Two. Three. The river would still be there tomorrow. And hopefully she would no longer.

After a week of keeping company, Nettles finally steps away from the hut's door. Each footfall is a jagged limp; her legs tremble with stiffness, and the bruises beneath her linen throb hotly. Her eyes are surely puffy and bloodshot, her throat raw from swallowing bitter Moon Tea and the acrid bile of her stomach.

Yet in her satchel lay seven bulging pouches of silver stags, each coin stamped with a stag's head and nicked at the edges—her payment. The leather satchel smells of sweat and the ghost of his scent, but she would take that stench if it meant freedom. 

At dawn, she limps into town, the sun's first rays spilling pale gold across her hollow cheeks. She moves like drifting smoke, slipping unnoticed between sacks of grain and bundles of herbs whose fragrance mingle with the reek of livestock. She pauses by a half-asleep herder slumped against his sheep pen, the sour tang of spilt ale on his person. Two scraggly ewes graze nearby; she wrenches open the gate so gently that their hooves make no protest. Then, hauling them by the collars, she melts into the narrow alleys until only the bleat of alarm fades behind her. 

Beyond the village, the path winds along a burbling river whose clear water dances over smooth stones. Ferns brush her calves, the moss cushions her steps, and the air carries the sharp tang of pine. Finally, she discovers her shallow cavern hidden where the banks rose steeply, its mouth half-concealed by braided vines. Inside, the earth floor is carpeted in yellow-green moss, and a thin stream trickles at the back. She tethers the sheep to a gnarled tree root just outside, then wades into the cold water. Fingernails scraping skin, she scrubs until she reaches raw skin and her wounds sting again, trying to wash away the memory that is on it. Yet the grit beneath her nails, the ache in her bones, the shame in her belly—they do not wash free.

As she stands there, water lapping at her shins, a dark fog begins to settle over her mind. The weight of the world presses down, heavy and unyielding, drowning out any light that once flickered within her. She thinks of how much simpler it would be to let the river take her, to let it wash away the pain that seems to cling to her like a second skin. There is no joy left, only the haunting emptiness that gnaws at her soul, whispering that she would be better off gone.

Nettles wades deeper, the cold water rising past her knees, her thighs, creeping up her torso like icy fingers. She knows she can't swim, and that knowledge offers a twisted solace. Perhaps the water would embrace her like a long-lost friend, welcoming her into its depths where nothing could reach her. As if returning to the womb. Her heart beat a mournful rhythm as she imagines slipping beneath the surface, the world above fading into a distant memory.

But just as she takes another step, the water swirling around her waist, she hears it—a sudden crack startled her—branches snapping under massive weight. The ground shudders. Her heart nearly stops at the low, feral rumble that follows, a sound no bear could muster. She slowly throws her tunic over her, eyes wide, throat clenched, as a colossal figure emerges between the oaks. 

Mud-brown scales glisten under sun rays, a neck like the trunk of an ancient oak, broadened ribs shifting beneath mottled hide. Half-folded wings hung like tattered sails, veins pulsing beneath leathery membranes. Two yellow eyes—sharp as flint—hovered hungrily over her bleating captives. 

Fear screamed in her veins: Run! Hide! But her legs are roots in the ground. Instead, she raises trembling hands. The sheep, oblivious to their doom, nibble at surrounding wildflowers. Steeling herself, Nettles snatches a jagged river rock. With one swift strike against the first ewe's neck, the bone cracks—its ragged bleat cut short. The second spins away, but she seizes it by the wool and slits its throat in a single motion. Warm blood slicks her fingers as she drags both bodies forward and lays them at the dragon's clawed feet. 

The creature lowers its massive head, steam rolling from flared nostrils. It sniffs the carcasses, then her, its breath a gust of damp earth and iron, its giant nuzzle throwing her off her balance and onto her tush. Nettles stands to her rigidly, limbs quivering, but she holds her ground. The dragon's maw gapes wide—jagged teeth curved like broken spears—and, with a guttural inhalation, he devours the pair of sheep in two thunderous gulps. Flesh torn, bones swallowed, the echoes vibrating in the hollow cave. 

When the last crunch fades, the dragon turns, coils his thick tail around his bulk, and draws his wings in close like a cloak. With a soft, contented huff, he settles on the mossy floor and closes those glinting eyes. Nettles remains frozen, heart drumming wildly, until darkness crept in and the moon cast silver paths across his muddy scales.

Torment and fatigue pull at her eyelids, and without quite meaning to, she eased onto the softest patch of moss, curling herself along his flank, where he has no direct view of her. The creature's slow, deep breath was the only peaceful sound she'd known in days—and at last, weighed down by exhaustion, she slips into a fragile sleep beside the dragon in her hidden cave.