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𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐦-𝐁𝐥𝐨𝐨𝐝𝐞𝐝

𝐒𝐞𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐝 𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫

word count: 2.7k~

warnings: strong language, violence against witches, murder, attempted sacrifice

a/n: this is the 2nd chapter of my au longfic based off the The Originals (what if the child was a teenager/YA throughout the show duration and not at season 5?). This chapter features both my OC’s AND Klaus’s pov with a proper pov switch—where Rebekah and Elijah are introduced for the first time. It is also the first and last chapter dual pov will be featured in the same chapter throughout the series. If there’s a warning I skipped let me know.

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𝗖𝗵𝗮𝗽𝘁𝗲𝗿 𝗧𝘄𝗼 | 𝗧𝗵𝗲 𝗣𝗿𝗼𝗽𝗵𝗲𝗰𝘆

      𝐀 𝐖𝐇𝐈𝐒𝐏𝐄𝐑 𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐍𝐓 𝐎𝐅 𝐌𝐔𝐋𝐓𝐈𝐏𝐋𝐄 𝐕𝐎𝐈𝐂𝐄𝐒 surrounded Deena's unconscious body as she began to awaken slowly. It was the blazing heat of fire marked around her frame, skinning her flesh of salted sweat which woke her up. She was faced with a bright color of reddish-orange dancing in the sky. The tug of her wrist slammed back down onto the cold concrete bed. She lifted her other arm—slammed right back down. Her legs—back to the bed they went. Lifting her head, she saw her ligaments had been restricted, tied down by some magical force that kept her positioned like a snow angel without the snow.

        "Que ce passe t-il (What’s going on)??" She struggled to break free, her brain unable to comprehend the matter of force that has bound her body to the bed without physical ropes. Just like when Davina was thrown against the wall and how she fainted when she felt fine before. Her breathing heaved. "Help! Someone help me, please! I've been kidnapped!"

        No matter the amount of force she used, gravity pulled her right back down.

        But there could still be hope. As she took in her surroundings, met with the dark night of the clear moon illuminating her brown skin, she knew off bat she was in a cemetery. The grey stones and engraved names and burnt-out candles and freshly bloomed flowers gave it away. And through the flames, Deena spotted a shadow. Six shadows scattered around her. They stood still with their hands at the sky as if they were praying.

        "Hey," Deena called out to the nearest shadow. Though she noticed their eyes were closed, they could still hear her. "Hey, get me out of here! You got the wrong person! What are you doing?"

        A twig snapped behind Deena and one of the shadowed individuals revealed themselves to the panicked teenager.

          "I know you," Deena exclaimed. "You're the woman I met today, Zoeè. Please, if you let me go I'll pretend nothing happened. I'll say nothing I swear. I don't even know you."

        The woman, Zoeè, peered down at Deena, a glint in her eyes as they found comfort elsewhere. Maybe she did feel bad for Deena getting caught up in all this mess, for something she had no knowledge of, knowing she deserved none of the torture that was to come as she was just a child. And she has never harmed a child nor was it in her plan to do so, but her pleads weren't enough to free her. She was determined to go through with the tricky spell. It had to be done.

        With a small shoulder lift, "I'm sorry, hun. If I could do it any other way then I would, but you are the key to strengthening our coven and placing back the balance which your existence upsets. But I'll try to make it quick."

        Deena is riddled with fear at the sight of Zoeè's hands locked on the sides of her head. She kicked her feet, lifted herself from the chest in hopes of shifting her head from within her hold. Deena had no idea what was to come or the reasoning behind Zoeè's hand positioning; she just felt like something bad was going to happen and wanted to prevent that gut feeling eating her within.

        "No, no, no—" The haunting chants grew louder, words Zoeè began to repeat back. The flames intensified, and something unexplainable sent Deena into a surge of pain.

She screamed.

        It was as if her bones were merging into one and her heart was being squeezed by rusted nails. Like her nails were being ripped one-by-one or a giant soul-sucking monster blowing its hot air against her body draining Deena of life. Her body has never experienced anything like this before. A wet substance begins to leak from her nose, curved down the sides of her sweaty cheeks and painted Zoeè's hands. Which she didn't mind. She was expecting the mess plus more. Then from the corners of her eyes. Blood so thick it could form a river to drown in; unable to see nor hear as the blood continued to rip her from life.

       "ÇA FAIT MAL (IT HURTS) , STOP!" Deena's screams were cut short by a puddle of blood coughing violently out of her dry lungs, the metallic taste filled in every corner of her mouth, seized in between her gums and the hardest parts her toothbrush couldn't reach. She cried but it was hard to tell which were tears or blood. "P-please."

       And as her prayers were answered, a gust of wind blew through the dark air and a loud snap of a thick bone followed by a thud silenced the air, just after a slushing sound of blood leaves the flesh of a woman screaming in pain.

        The heat from the fire died out and Deena's left arm was lifted from the magical hold, but she was too weak to lift a muscle and the blood continued to pour, choking her to death.

        Another high-pitched scream filled her thick ears. A body drops. And finally, Deena was able to breathe when Zoeè removed her hands with a jolt, the scent of fear grew at the bloody scene unfolding before her. The excruciating suffering stopped integrating her insides and her body didn't feel bound to the concrete bed. And though Deena still had no will to move a muscle, she forced herself up enough to spit out the blood clogged in her throat and plopped right onto her back.

        The puddle of blood led Zoeè to the dark blond man with raging golden almost yellow eyes. His pink lips drenched in dark blood, curled into a devilish grin. "I heard there was a party without me. Or did I ruin it already?" The lifeless body of a witch Zoeè knew plopped to the ground. He placed his finger between his lips after wiping the stained blood around his mouth, savoring the last taste of the witch he drained within seconds.

        Hitched breath, Zoeè stumbled back in fear at the presence of the hybrid. She almost tripped off the stand that held up the concrete bed, but held her position immediately. "K-Klaus," She swallowed hard, eyes frantic at her dead coven sisters who lie with their throats ripped out.

      Deena's head twitched. She could've sworn she heard the name which her father possessed, but the thick blood in her ears prevented her from hearing much but low vibrations. Her body has been through too much. And frankly, she's exhausted. As she clawed for air drenched in cold sweat, darkness comforted her body and her eyes slowly began to shut.

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      𝐊𝐋𝐀𝐔𝐒 𝐒𝐓𝐎𝐎𝐃 𝐎𝐕𝐄𝐑 𝐅𝐈𝐕𝐄 𝐃𝐄𝐀𝐃 𝐖𝐈𝐓𝐂𝐇𝐄𝐒 with pride in his work of the dead. He quite missed the thrill back when there were no restrictions and he could feed his cravings by going on a little witch hunt—well, it's not as easy now as it was before. Witches had tasteful blood apart from muggles. He could almost taste their magic being absorbed into his bloodstream though magic had no use in his bones. Who knew all it took was Davina's cry for help from the witches again to allow Klaus to experience the good old days.

        Zoeè, the annoying witch who has had it out for Klaus since the treaty had been placed, followed the silent footsteps of his brother, the noble Elijah Mikaelson who appeared a few seconds late to the feast. "Now, now, Niklaus. We have a deal with the witches; we leave them in peace with their practices if the favor toward us is extended."

        Klaus saw how Zoeè's presence calmed upon Elijah's arrival, though fear was brooding beneath her skin. Feared blood was the best. His nobility title made Klaus nervous as he knew his brother had a tendency to seek sympathy for the opposing team if a door was led open, especially when he was faced with a witch Klaus caught sneaking out his bedroom the past few mornings. He must be done with the wolf girl in the Bayou. He just needs to make sure it stays closed and the plan doesn't crumble. Though there wasn't much planning put into this surprise attack.

        "But there is a problem," Klaus looked to his brother for support. Testing his loyalty. "Right, brother?"

        "Indeed, there is,"

        Klaus's grin broadened.

        1 Mikaelson is a warning. 2 Mikaelsons was a threat. Zoeè felt uneasy in the presence of Klaus Mikaelson alone. He was unreasonable and his actions were too unpredictable. Maybe with the Noble Elijah here to control his brother's impulse, she may be spared.

        "This got nothing to do with either of you." Zoeè dismissed the problem with a shrug. Her thudded heartbeat in Klaus's ear told him otherwise.

        Elijah crossed the dead witch and revealed his clean-shaven face and pale skin illuminating under the moonlight, his brown eyes trained on Zoeè while smoothing down the creases on his suit. "Actually, it does. You see, we received a message that the girl you intend on sacrificing tonight is a child miraculously born of Mikaelson blood. And Klaus is to be the father." Elijah cocked his head upon Zoeè's uncomfortable expression. "Of which you already knew seeing how you are not surprised. Now, we know it is impossible for my brother to reproduce any biological life-form as he has been technically dead for the last millennium. But because it is simply a rumor, we must investigate. And to do that, we need the child. Alive."

         Elijah followed the scent of blood to the child who currently lay unconscious. He could sense the torture her body has been through by the clogged air forcing itself from her lungs. He felt for the girl. As opposed to Klaus who's afraid of the possibility of this child being his which he knew sounded ridiculous, but it was something he couldn't ignore. Therefore, he was terrified. He refused to look at the child, but he could hear her faded heartbeat losing its strength.

        "This is witch business and the Mikaelsons are not allowed on sacred grounds. Nothing personal."

       "This is very personal," Klaus growled. It could create thunder alone and rumbled in Zoeè's bones. "Seeing how you and your little witchy friends would go through great lengths to tear down my empire and conspire against me again, when I have granted you your very freedom to do as the witches please as long as they stay in their lane and be of use when I need them. You have even brought in some girl off the streets, claim she is my child, to lure me here and kill me! Pray now to your god, because I cannot be killed!"

        "There is no lie or conspire against you, Klaus! The child is yours by blood. But why does it matter what we do with her when none of you knew she existed?"

        "Because whether she is Klaus's child or not, she is presumed to be a Mikaelson. And if she is, you have already broken your treaty with us. Therefore, you hold no upper ground and you are merely a snack." Klaus rolled his eyes upon his little sister's arrival. Of course, she had to make her entrance the best of all.

        Zoeè jumped at Rebekah's tall figure sneaking up behind the frightened witch. She lifted her hand to cast out a spell when she saw Rebekah reeling too closely to the unconscious girl, but before Zoeè was able to speak her first syllable, Rebekah was at her side within seconds and tossed her against the concrete wall before she had time to react.

        Rebekah slung her hair confidently over her shoulder. "Nice try, but that was cute."

        Klaus peered from the corner of his eyes, watching silently as his sister rushed to check on the girl. She checked her pulse though all of them could hear her faded heartbeats. But just like him, they were unsure if the child was going to make it given her current condition.

        It was making them nervous. Rebekah even more.

        She did what she thought was right at the moment and fed the child her blood. While doing so, her free hand lifted the girl's head as she slowly began to awaken and was forced to swallow down her blood so that she wouldn't choke. "Take your time, love,  drink slowly," She sung.

        "Yes, I agree." Elijah agreed with Rebekah's point. "And how do you presume we should handle this information?"

        Zoeè somehow managed to her feet with a limp. She was surrounded by the Mikaelsons and that was making her nervous. Her only hope was Elijah though he failed to call off his siblings. She still had hoped what they shared was real enough to save her.

        Klaus stepped forward, next to Elijah with his fangs piercing out his gums. His mouth filled with blood from the previous witch he fed on. "I say we kill them all. Each and every one of them. May their sacrificed blood teach the witches a lesson or two about going against us." He encouraged.

        Zoeè never imagined dying this way but if she did, then so be it. She will die willfully for her coven and her ancestors and her beliefs, but she will not go out without a warning. "Even if you kill me, it won't end here! The coven is aware of the prophecy and the power that lies in her blood. And as more discovers her danger, they gone keep coming until she's dead." She pressed her hand against her bruised side, a metallic taste of blood slipping between her lips.

        "Simple. Then we kill the whole coven. Poof—" Klaus emphasized his hands as if he were blowing up mini bombs. "Problem solved."

        "Niklaus," Elijah sent his brother an unspoken glare. Klaus lifted his shoulders with a shrug as if he should consider the proposition. Klaus's irrational actions will lead to much more than a coven on their heads and they don't need any of that. "We don't want a bloodbath on our hands, we just want the child. Once we have her in a safe place, we will be out your hair. And if the rumor is false, she will be sent back. How does that sound? Do we have ourselves a deal?"

        Suddenly—

        Rebekah's body flew back as she was feeding the child by the force of Zoeè's magic. She then snapped her neck. Klaus wasted no time and went in for the kill, but was thrown back into someone's grave and pinned to the wall where he could not move, bound by a magical force restraining him. Elijah was brought to his knees writhing in pain.

        Zoeè rushed in front of the child to keep them away from having her. "I'm sorry, but you can't have her. I will complete the spell if it means saving my coven, and then I will sacrifice the child while you all watch." Zoeè stretched her hands over Deena's unconscious body and began the spell all by herself. She didn't care if it was taking too much of her or if it was killing her from inside. She needed to complete the spell no matter what.

        Despite the pain, Elijah rose to his feet. He saw it was up to him since his siblings were unable to fight back. "Then forgive me," Within seconds, Elijah's brown eyes were coated licorice black. Black veins shrouded beneath his skin around his eyes. He was a demon. His true nature. "I have tried to reason with you but it seems reasoning isn't your thing. And one thing you should know of me is that I am not patient. And my patience runs out faster than my temper."

        With a swift movement, he took Zoeè's neck into his mouth and ran her dry, releasing Klaus who fell to the ground. Her screams filled their ears like sweet music. Dead with a snap of her neck.

𝐓𝐇𝐀𝐍𝐊 𝐘𝐎𝐔

𝐅𝐎𝐑 𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐃𝐈𝐍𝐆

If you like what you read and wish to read more of this fic, you can read here

𝐀 𝐃𝐫𝐚𝐠𝐨𝐧’𝐬 𝐓𝐨𝐮𝐜𝐡

𝐒𝐞𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐝 𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫

word count: 4.2k~

warnings: violence/mild gore, war, death, prostitution (living at a brothel), strong vulgar language, Targaryen/Dornish mixed bastard, mentions of sexual themes, and overall mature setting for mature (18+) audience.

a/n: this is the 2nd chapter of my AU HOTD longfic featuring my Black!OC. If there’s a warning I forgot to add let me know.

<-PREVIOUS | NEXT->

𝗖𝗵𝗮𝗽𝘁𝗲𝗿 𝗧𝘄𝗼 | 𝗦𝘁𝗮𝘁𝗲 𝗬𝗼𝘂𝗿 𝗛𝗼𝘂𝘀𝗲

"𝑺𝒀𝑳𝑽𝑰𝑨 𝑹𝑼𝑵!"

        The world stopped moving. Screams of those running for their lives muted, only her shallow breath was heard. The metallic taste of his blood sunk between her gums as Sylvia sat there. Unable to process, unable to move, unable to breathe.

        "Sylvia! What are you doing? We are under attack!" A pair of hands violently shook the girl from her stiffened position. It's Brianne again. "Here, let's put on your scarf and draw less attention. We must—"

        Sylvia pushed Brianne to hold Yanis' lifeless body in her arms. Fire burned his flesh clean off his skull, made him unrecognizable and no longer beautiful. Tugging him free, she was jerked violently by a man on a horse with a fist full of Brianne's black curls. Because of her grip on Sylvia's arm, forced her over the wooden bench onto her back, wheezing out a breath. Yanis continued to burn and Brianne's screams grew distant before she was silenced.

        Another tugged Sylvia to her feet and saw it was her mother. Not a sound was heard from her moving lips until Sylvia forced herself to zone out of the chaos and focus on her voice. 

        “Sylvia, we must go now! We run for the woods until we reach the sand and then the sea. Just as planned. Do you hear me? Are you hurt?" She smeared the blood off her face and checked her body for visible wounds, relieved none were to be found.

        "N-no, I'm fine. But Yanis. . . "

        She followed her tearful gaze to the unrecognizable body. His clothes were partially recognizable though. 

        “I’m sorry,” her mother apologized, though she sounded far from it. At least for her daughter she pretended to care even if Sylvia saw through it. “He was good in many ways, but life must carry on. We are no longer safe here. They will burn us down with the city if we aren't quick."

        She took her mother's hand and ran.

        The blazing fire of screams trapped inside their homes burned bright and warm against their skin as they ran through the tight alleyway to avoid the main roads of death and terror. Her loose braids were thick of residue raining the sky, lungs thick of smoke and the rotten stench of men, women, and children gut down, given no chance to fight for their home or run to safety.

        Sylvia caught a glimpse of their invaders, but they wore the colors of Dorne. The colors of their home, attacking their people. She never grew an interest in politics as her mother had, but knew their lord was a big-mouth greed with plans to break faith with his allies for their enemies. It was only a matter of time before someone raised their blade at his neck.

        A knight rushed between their secure hold and swung his steel sword. Though his presence took them off guard, Sylvia's mother acted swiftly and pushed her against a horse-less wagon filled with ale crates, seconds from slicing her head clean off. He dared to swing again all while she swallowed the churn pushing up her throat and struggled to gain control of her double vision.

        She shouldn't have drunk as much as she did. She shouldn't have trusted Yanis the way she did. She should've known this would happen and been prepared from the start, but none of them did.

        With a gasp, Sylvia pushed off the wagon to the ground just in time. His sword got stuck in the crates leaking a puddle of ale. The knight then noticed her uncovered hair, but it didn't change the faith in his heart. "Fucking white-haired bitch." He spat, still struggling to pull out his sword.

        Sylvia's mother revealed a dagger hidden in the band around her exposed thigh and jammed it deep into the tissues of his neck. Blood spluttered like a river as the blade sliced across and he fell to his knees, suffocating on his own blood, then on his face as death met him. Sylvia was too stunned to speak.

        She knew her mother was stronger than others aside from her toned muscles and bones ceasing to age, but never knew how strong of a person she was until now.

        Wiping the dagger clean of blood, her mother chuckled at Sylvia's stunned expression. "What? Did you think you were the only who has killed a man before?" 

        Sylvia took her offered hand to her feet. "I hunt animals, not men."

        "Animals are no different. They just don't speak our language or pay to fuck."

        A herd of knights charged in their direction with bloodied spears and swords. There were too many to take and Sylvia's skill set wasn't prepared to fight against combative human beings. Her mother must have known her fears or shared the same sentiment because she demanded they split up for a better chance at survival, but so she could lure them away.

        Sylvia grabbed her hand before she took off running. "No. I don't want to split up. Just come with me." She begged. "Please, ma, let us run together."

        She eyed the knights gaining closer by the second, physically torn between her choices that may change their faiths forever. Any hope Sylvia had left dispersed itself when her mother removed her tight grip and caressed a sweaty palm against her cheeks. A tear was captured.

        "I will find you. I will always find you because you are my daughter. Mine. We’re forever bonded, don't forget that.” Her mother's smile faltered with thought. "And if I do not make it. . ."

        "Don't speak like that!"

        "We must be realistic! Here, take this. Keep it safe.” A heavy pouch was placed in Sylvia’s hand. She didn’t need to look through it to know it was money. Possibly more than enough to own land with working staff. “I’ve been saving toward your future behind Madam’s back. Thought if your father wouldn’t come then we go to him and demand his acknowledgment. But this is yours to have and more than enough to live comfortably, wherever in the world may you go.”

        Sylvia cried. “Just come with me. Let’s see my father and demand it together. Like we planned.”

        Instead of tears, her mother smiled as warmly as the first smile Sylvia ever recognized. Full of love and care, pure happiness and free of stress. “If I can’t find you and the Gods decide to take me as I am, I will wait for you afterward however long it takes. Now go.” She shouted. “GO!”

        Sylvia almost tripped over the corpse when her mother pushed at her. She staggered backward—refusing to leave her but to remember every detail of her face—before clutching the pouch to her chest and ran for her life. Away from her.

        She found the woods and realized she wasn’t the only one trying to escape or prevent others from escaping. Knights weren't in her view but their sharp blades ending the lives of innocent people and children who had yet grown in their shoes were heard silencing them. It seemed most were running to the nearest village for sanctuary, but Sylvia continued toward the sea not to stray from the original plan.

        She wished to help, but even she couldn’t help herself. Having drunk too much ale to navigate through the woods with a sober mindset; bumping into trees, scraping pointy bushes, and tripping over rocks and sand hills. There was this buzzing in her ears aside from her pounding heart. Sweat poured Yanis' blood down her face, and her eyes dashed from one tree to another casting dark shadows, losing importance of the mission.

        But she kept running.

        Through the woods, to the sand, then to the sea.

        "Through the woods, to the sand, to the sea." Sylvia chanted like a song to help redirect her focus.

        Tempted to wait for her mother to catch up, Sylvia pushed forward. No looking back. She mustn’t look back. Pushing through her tight dry lungs until the emptiness of sand awaited her arrival up ahead, ecstasy flourished. Through the woods, to the sand, to the sea.

        A nearby scream as terrifying as the next had startled Sylvia. Her feet started dancing all over the place being thrown off-tracked, and the one second she peered over her shoulder to the shriek of a child, a lowered branch up ahead, knocked her out cold.

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        𝑾𝑨𝑲𝑬 𝑼𝑷, 𝑺𝒀𝑳𝑽𝑰𝑨.

        A prolonged groan rumbled through Sylvia’s chest upon her mother’s soothing voice calling to her. She gripped at her throbbing head and forced her eyes shut at a burning light like it was held to her face, a constant swaying created a sickening pit deep in her belly. 

        Wake up, my child.

        "She is up." Announced an unrecognizable voice.

        The wet pressing of a cloth dabbed her temple. "Ma?" Sylvia squinted at the figure of a woman leaning over with a face shaped like her mother's but with curly strands fitting above the ears, shorter and looser than her mother's.

        The longer Sylvia stared, the more her features transfigured from her high cheekbones and plump lips to an oval face with light freckles like someone flickered sand at her face and it stuck. Tannish skin and eyes of mixed green were filled with genuine concern, startled when her eyes shot open and wide.

       Sylvia sat up with a scream, her head instantly wavering as her brain shifted, so it felt like. The woman scattered back with a gasp, holding her pregnant belly, and hid behind her husband who sat protectively in front of her. They were the least of her problems when confirming the answer to motion sickness—they were at sea. Miles and miles away from land where everything appeared the same.

        Sylvia's heart dropped with panic. "Where am I? H-how did I get here? Who are—"

        She turned over the nearest edge of the boat to relieve herself of that churn choking up her throat. Living on land near water all her life and never once boarded a boat was ironic. There was never time or an opportunity to explore the option. Her mother didn't like her hanging around the dock, neither did Yanis, and it was unsafe with all kinds of grimy people lingering about. Had she been stubborn enough to seek her own opinion, she would’ve already seen the world. But to be surrounded by an enormous body of water with no chance of escaping having not learned how to swim was panicking too. Worse even.

        The woman handed her a wet cloth, the same that was cleansing her face. They were clearly no threat to her so Sylvia took it with a soft thanks and wiped her mouth clean. A deep reddish color stained the cloth and knew it wasn’t her blood.

        “I am Mar’kel. This my husband, Jorio.” She introduced while rubbing her belly big enough to burst. “And this, Malero if boy. Or Nilora if girl.”

        Jorio touched on the other questions asked earlier. “We sailed to Toland from the Free Cities for a new start, only days later to escape our new home in seek of another. That is how we found you.” He continued after a short beat, more fluent than his wife. “I wanted to leave you behind but my wife begged me to carry you. She believes your white hair signifies something special. You’re lucky to be alive.”

        My hair? That caught Sylvia off guard. She didn’t even want to think of the state of her hair.

        Mar'kel perked at the last sentence and scooted closer. "Yes, I hear stories of white-haired Gods. Never seen so close, but powerful people I know. And they ride dragons, yes? Do you have dragons?" Her eyes lit up like a child being told a bedtime story.

        Sylvia's mother spoke of Dragonriders. Said her father came in on one; bigger than the moon, a roar strong enough to shake one's organs. A terrifying day for small-minded people who never believed in such creatures existing.

        "I’ve never seen a dragon before," Sylvia told her honestly and Mar’kel frowned.

        "But your skin—it's dragon scales, yes? And hair is white, yes? And your eyes. . . "

        Sylvia grazed along her scales, out in the open to be viewed. She still heard her mother’s voice telling her to stay cover and keep her head down.

        "Yes. All true. I was born like this, but still. . . no dragons. I'm sorry to disappoint."

        Mar'kel offered a small smile and went shuffling in their things. It was then she remembered the pouch her mother gave her and almost had a panic attack until she discovered the bulky brown thing at her side. Aside from silver and gold coins, a beautifully crafted necklace with a red ruby pendant and gold bangles lay inside. Sylvia believed it was her mother’s, as were the bangles she used to play with on her arms, or that her father gifted the necklace, and wanted to feel close by slipping it on. 

        Jorio assured they hadn’t stolen a thing and weren’t thieves. For now, Sylvia believed his word.

        Dizzy from looking out into the endless sea, Sylvia struggled to fight the churn scratching up her throat again. The wet cloth was still clenched in her fist in case she threw up again. "How far are we from Toland?" She asked. The boat was so small that she could not fit in her space.

        "Quite far," said Jorio, navigating his compass to peddle in the right direction.

        "Where do you plan to go?"

        "Not back to The Free Cities. Yronwood, maybe. They have high valleys. Closer to sea, and I hear there is good work there. . ." Jorio noticed the frown painted on the girl's face and inquired further. "Do you have family in Yronwood? Or. . . back in Toland?"

        "My mother. She was there with me during the attack and promised she’d be right behind me. . .but she is not here.” She swallowed thickly, blinking away tears. “I am, though."

        Jorio nodded in understanding. "Sorry it was us who found you and not your mother. I can only carry so much at my old age." He said, not that Sylvia held it against him. "You think, if she made it out, she would know you were heading to Yronwood? She could meet us there."

        Sylvia’s gaze narrowed as she muttered, “I doubt it.”

        If her mother made it out alive, which Sylvia prayed she did, Yronwood wouldn’t cross her mind first. There was nothing there. It held no value to their lives. Since a young girl, all they ever spoke of was the great King’s Landing. It’s where Kings rule outside of Dorne and where her father resided. Or DragonStone, as mentioned countless times before. If she made it to either one of those places, the chances of her mother finding her there were greater. And she would wait for her.

        Sylvia cleaned herself of Yanis’ blood, seeped beneath her nails and used the ocean’s reflection to wash her face. The salty water dried her skin and felt as though the sun was slow-roasting her, but it was better than holding a constant reminder of a man she loved. She scrubbed at her clothes but it only made it worse, so she left it be. Mar’kel offered half a broken bread, smiling brightly. She didn’t take it at first so the woman placed it in her hand anyway and told her to eat and gain strength, that it should be enough to last until they landed in Yronwood. In the opposite direction from King’s Landing.

        Days seemed much longer traveling by sea and the sun made it even worse. It didn’t take long until Sylvia grew used to the wavering motion, especially on a somewhat full stomach. She rested along the boat’s edge, dancing her fingers along the current crashing against them. She could lose herself in the deep blue sea, almost black as the sun finally started to set in. It took her mind off her mother and left space to plan her next move in Yronwood. She had enough money to board another—and bigger—boat heading to King’s Landing.

        "There's a ship!" Jorio announced.

        Pulling back her hand being violently crashed upon, Sylvia sat up from her resting position to a large ship floating in their direction. She was quick to cover her hair and hid the brown pouch in her boot. Neither needed to flag their attention as they were spotted immediately being the only little boat in view. Even the current pulled them close.

        "State your house." A knight dressed in grey armor that was nearly white stated once the ship was close enough for him to be heard. Compared to their boat, it was taller than any structure with enough power to flip their boat by the waves it created.

        “We are just passing by.” Jorio said.

        “This far out? Should a storm come in the night, your boat will be shredded by the waves.”

        “We’ll make due.”

        Jorio tried paddling away but the current kept them stuck to the ship.

        “Looks like you need a ride. Real food and nice comfy sheets for the pregnant woman,” humor thick on the knight’s tongue. “State your house.” He asked with more demand as though their help would only be spared should their houses align.

        Mar'kel and Jorio grew silent, the same as Sylvia.

        They came from no house of a certain status, a kingdom that thrived on its own. Sylvia was raised in Dorne so she stood with them, but their armor was not of Dornish colors nor were their accent. And because her interest in politics was little, she didn’t know the kind of relationship outsiders had with Dorne. The last war fought was within the country against their own people as it’d been for a while after countless wars with other regions. 

        Sylvia lifted her head to identify the knight who spoke. The ship was too tall to view their banner and foggy to set their attire behind a kingdom with stories that had been told. Dorne was no friend to most, a region that could never be conquered no matter the treaties placed. Respected for their bravery, loved for their trades, but not as equally feared.

       Thinking carefully of her answer, Sylvia then foolishly went with the first thought on her mind. “House Targaryen.” She stated with confidence despite her nerves. Either it would get them killed or lend another day to live. Her chances were more certain than any house within Dorne, so she thought. 

        The knight’s expression widened with surprise and disappeared to inform whomever the ship belonged to. 

        Sylvia bit her tongue, feeling Jorio’s stare. Almost convinced her thoughtless statement had gotten them killed, a worn-out ladder was tossed over the ship. Jorio stabilized it before helping Mar’kel climb up first. Sylvia climbed up second with Jorio right behind, carrying the rest of what he could on his back. 

        A sword at her neck halted Sylvia once touching the wooden surface. Quite close the reflection wasn’t as appealing and one wrong move could have her bleeding out to death. Muffled cries came from Mar’kel being torn from her husband, forcing Jorio to react until a knight aimed his sword at her pregnant belly. Only then, he headed with caution. The closer knight holding Sylvia hostage against the edge tossed her to the ground, next to Jorio who pulled his wife protectively in his arms after she had been released.

        They were now surrounded by a bunch of white and few red armor. Fuck.

        The floor creaked beneath a short fat man with a head of black and grey hair long to his neck. A metal pin of a hand holding a crown glimmered against his dark clothing, and Syliva lowered her gaze when his presence stood before them.

        “There hasn’t been a Targaryen along the Sea of Dorne for years now. In fact, I am in close contact with their house, almost like family, aware of all their long and short travels. And yet,” his gruff voice held much authority and was gutter deep. “I don’t recall logging any recent travels this far out, nor can I say your faces regard familiarity. So, tell me, who was it? Unless you don’t wish to sleep with the fish for impersonating your king, speak.”

        Mar’kel and Jorio held no shame in turning their heads toward Sylvia without sparing a word. Blood could’ve spilled by how hard she bit her tongue.

        His boots stood before her. “So it was you. Who are you, boy? Or. . .girl in men’s clothing?” A hint of muse was found in his tone.

        Sylvia needed to be smart about this. The man seemed close to the crown and possibly her father, but she was no liar. Not entirely. She may not be full-blooded or raised in a lovely castle dressed in silk gowns and eating sweet cakes with high-born ladies, but her father’s blood was hers as she was his child. This might also be her golden ride to King’s Landing, or her last breath.

        Her pulse pounced through her fingertips as Sylvia removed her scarf, revealing her messy braided hair she once was taught to hide from the world. She then lifted her head to the old man with ocean blue eyes and a bushy beard shaping his face, exposing the scales along her skin and the color of her eyes.

        “I am Sylvia, born on the soils of Dorne, and my father is Daemon Targaryen." A collective of gossip flourished the ship, and the man only tilted his head with a calculative expression. "I have lived in Toland all my life until we were caught in the middle of a civil war. This kind family took me aboard their boat until you found us. I dare not impersonate your king or his house, but no lies have yet been spared. I only ask you let them go and allow me safe travels to King’s Landing and I’ll be out your hairs.”

        “Should I allow you safe travels, what is your next step when arriving at King's Landing?” He asked.

        The plan was simple. At least it sounded simple to Sylvia. She would buy land or a nice home with her own room and living space to reside in until her mother found her. 

        Unlike the original plan, she wasn’t sure if meeting her father was something she wanted. He was a stranger to her despite many stories told, and there’s a possibility he wouldn’t want her around. All the letters sent and not one response proved he wanted nothing to do with Syliva and her mother. Why ruin his peace now? 

        “That is for me to figure out when I get there,” Sylvia said, and the old man raised his brow with slightly parted lips and a soft huh.

        He appeared rather intrigued with information of her background, unable to deny her Targaryen-like features that were one of a kind, and said, “Well then, Sylvia, Sands of Dorne, said bastard daughter of Prince Daemon Targaryen, you are welcomed on my ship and your friends are free to go.” He motioned the guards to release Jorio and Mar’kel, his eyes never leaving Sylvia as he stepped closer. “King’s Landing isn’t safe for a woman of your youth and physical appearance as said bastard of Prince Daemon Targaryen. However, I do believe I can make the proper arrangements to ensure your living situation is. . .comfortable.”

        Sylvia eyed the man when she stood. He didn't look knocked on the head and was confident as he spoke. Given the ship, the authority he had to command knights and permit her company, he was a man of wealth. And with that came power, and a price for his kindness. 

        “What do you want?” She asked directly, assessing the greedy look in his eyes.

        He smiled with a wicked touch. “That is for me to decide when we arrive.”

        “Just who are you again?”

        “How nice of you to finally ask,” he said and then offered a short bow of his head. “I am Haron Baratheon and Lord Hand to King Aul Targaryen of the seven kingdoms. And I believe we will be of good use to one another quite soon.”

𝐓𝐇𝐀𝐍𝐊 𝐘𝐎𝐔

𝐅𝐎𝐑 𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐃𝐈𝐍𝐆

If you like what you read and wish to read more of this fic, you can read more here

𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐌-𝐁𝐋𝐎𝐎𝐃𝐄𝐃

𝐔𝐏𝐃𝐀𝐓𝐄

Book Three of Warm-Blooded :

(Season 5 of the originals)

Chapter 6 | Treat The Disease, Treat The Symptoms

~ 𝘮𝘢𝘬𝘦 𝘴𝘶𝘳𝘦 𝘵𝘰 𝘤𝘭𝘪𝘤𝘬 𝘰𝘯 𝘵𝘪𝘵𝘭𝘦 𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘬 𝘵𝘰 𝘴𝘦𝘯𝘥 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘯𝘦𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘰 𝘨𝘰 𝘵𝘰 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘤𝘩𝘢𝘱𝘵𝘦𝘳. 𝘈𝘯𝘥 𝘭𝘦𝘵 𝘮𝘦 𝘬𝘯𝘰𝘸 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘩𝘵𝘴 ~

𝐀 𝐃𝐫𝐚𝐠𝐨𝐧’𝐬 𝐓𝐨𝐮𝐜𝐡

- still obsessed I wrote this scene. Still obsessed with them and exploring their relationship with more to come … link below

A Dragon’s Touch

Chapter 7 | If I Knock, Will You Let Me In?

𝒲 𝐸 𝐿 𝒞 𝒪 𝑀 𝐸 𐀔

⸻ 𝒜 𝐵 𝒪 𝒰 𝒯 𝑀 𝐸 ⸻

she/her - ⚤ - sagittarius - infp-t - writer of OC-centric longfics & original works featuring Black women always as the protagonist (ofc my fics are open to all who acts right) - lover of many fandoms that will soon come to light - taking no request unless it’s regarding my fics, but happy to gush with you over fandoms and my fics - minors DNI

⸻ 𝐹 𝐼 𝒩 𝒟 𝑀 𝐸 𝐻 𝐸 𝑅 𝐸 ⸻

AO3 WATTPAD

⸻ 𝑀 𝒴 𝒲 𝒪 𝑅 𝒦 𝒮 ⸻

T H E O R I G I N A L S

↳ Warm-Blooded (oc-centric series <4 books>, father & daughter duo pov)

H O U S E O F T H E D R A G O N

↳ A Dragon’s Touch (oc-centric longfic, au, medium-burn, targaryen/dornish mixed!bastard X oc!targaryen prince)

T W I L I G H T

↳ Something About You (oc-centric longfic, college-setting, slight au, slow-burn for now, black!oc X seth clearwater <aged-up ofc> — coming soon )

⸻ 𝒮 𝒯 𝒜 𝒯 𝒰 𝒮 ⸻

Back from my writing break. Currently writing and preparing updates.

dividers credited to @anitalenia

𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐌-𝐁𝐋𝐎𝐎𝐃𝐄𝐃

- what happens when you turn an entitled rich werewolf into a vampire (a new look at Henry Benoit) … link below

Book Three of Warm-Blooded

(season 5 of the originals)

Chapter 6 | Treat The Disease, Treat The Symptoms

𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐌-𝐁𝐋𝐎𝐎𝐃𝐄𝐃

— Klaus Mikaelson and his somewhat mortal daughter, Deena Salée are finally the same age (21). He no longer physically passes as her father—he barely did before. And now it’s time he retains another family title to ward off suspicion …link below

Book Three of Warm-Blooded

(season 5 of the originals)

Chapter 3 | Your Sword And Shield

𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐌-𝐁𝐋𝐎𝐎𝐃𝐄𝐃

— a vulnerable moment between Klaus Mikaelson and his somewhat mortal daughter, Deena Salée. The two have been struggling with their relationship since coming into his life, that it’s time to sit down and communicate to understand each other best even if it’s not something Klaus is used to.… (there’s more to this scene) link below

Book one of Warm-Blooded

(season 2 of the originals)

Chapter 15 | The Original Tribrid

𝐀 𝐃𝐫𝐚𝐠𝐨𝐧’𝐬 𝐓𝐨𝐮𝐜𝐡

— a moment with Prince Viseron and Sylvia as the two snuck out of the castle to exist amongst the smallfolk. But of course, the prince and his blunt tongue gets the best of him. At least he’s not greedy and loves to share…link below

A Dragon’s Touch

Chapter 8 | When She Arrived

𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐌-𝐁𝐋𝐎𝐎𝐃𝐄𝐃

— Kol Mikaelson will seize any opportunity to tease his big brother, Klaus Mikaelson, especially when it involves his somewhat mortal niece (Klaus’s daughter)…link below

Warm-Blooded Link

Chapter 20 | A King Does Not Run, He Disappears (1st pic, book two of Warm-Blooded, season 3 of the Originals)

Chapter 3 | Your Sword And Shield (2nd pic, book three of Warm-Blooded, season 5 of the Originals)

I’m new here and been tryna discover many Black fanfic writers to follow and support, but the many I’ve found so far—TALENTED AS FUCK. Writing on another level with all the pairs I’m looking for like omgg I need to get inside some of y’all’s heads

𝐀 𝐃𝐑𝐀𝐆𝐎𝐍’𝐒 𝐓𝐎𝐔𝐂𝐇

𝐔𝐏𝐃𝐀𝐓𝐄

A Dragon’s Touch :

Chapter Ten | Desires I Have

~ 𝘮𝘢𝘬𝘦 𝘴𝘶𝘳𝘦 𝘵𝘰 𝘤𝘭𝘪𝘤𝘬 𝘰𝘯 𝘵𝘪𝘵𝘭𝘦 𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘬 𝘵𝘰 𝘴𝘦𝘯𝘥 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘯𝘦𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘰 𝘨𝘰 𝘵𝘰 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘤𝘩𝘢𝘱𝘵𝘦𝘳. 𝘈𝘯𝘥 𝘭𝘦𝘵 𝘮𝘦 𝘬𝘯𝘰𝘸 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘩𝘵𝘴 ~

𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐌-𝐁𝐋𝐎𝐎𝐃𝐄𝐃

𝐔𝐏𝐃𝐀𝐓𝐄

Book Three of Warm-Blooded :

(Season 5 of the originals)

Chapter 7 | A Piece Of Me To Carry

~ 𝘮𝘢𝘬𝘦 𝘴𝘶𝘳𝘦 𝘵𝘰 𝘤𝘭𝘪𝘤𝘬 𝘰𝘯 𝘵𝘪𝘵𝘭𝘦 𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘬 𝘵𝘰 𝘴𝘦𝘯𝘥 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘯𝘦𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘰 𝘨𝘰 𝘵𝘰 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘤𝘩𝘢𝘱𝘵𝘦𝘳. 𝘈𝘯𝘥 𝘭𝘦𝘵 𝘮𝘦 𝘬𝘯𝘰𝘸 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘩𝘵𝘴 ~

𝐀 𝐃𝐑𝐀𝐆𝐎𝐍’𝐒 𝐓𝐎𝐔𝐂𝐇

𝐔𝐏𝐃𝐀𝐓𝐄

A Dragon’s Touch :

Chapter Eleven | Weak-Blooded

~ 𝘮𝘢𝘬𝘦 𝘴𝘶𝘳𝘦 𝘵𝘰 𝘤𝘭𝘪𝘤𝘬 𝘰𝘯 𝘵𝘪𝘵𝘭𝘦 𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘬 𝘵𝘰 𝘴𝘦𝘯𝘥 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘯𝘦𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘰 𝘨𝘰 𝘵𝘰 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘤𝘩𝘢𝘱𝘵𝘦𝘳. 𝘈𝘯𝘥 𝘭𝘦𝘵 𝘮𝘦 𝘬𝘯𝘰𝘸 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘩𝘵𝘴 ~

𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐦-𝐁𝐥𝐨𝐨𝐝𝐞𝐝

𝐓𝐡𝐢𝐫𝐝 𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫

word count: 4.5k~

warnings: strong language, eventual violence, classic Niklaus resorting to violence and drinking away his problems

a/n: this is the 3rd chapter of my au longfic based off the The Originals (what if the child was a teenager/YA throughout the show duration and not at season 5?). This chapter features Klaus’s pov, an insider to his struggles accepting his role as a father. Rebekah and Elijah makes their return. Davina as well. If there’s a warning I skipped let me know.

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𝗖𝗵𝗮𝗽𝘁𝗲𝗿 𝗧𝗵𝗿𝗲𝗲 | 𝗡𝗮𝘁𝘂𝗿𝗲’𝘀 𝗟𝗼𝗼𝗽𝗵𝗼𝗹𝗲

       𝐊𝐋𝐀𝐔𝐒 𝐖𝐀𝐒 𝐐𝐔𝐈𝐄𝐓 𝐀𝐒 𝐇𝐄 𝐈𝐍𝐒𝐏𝐄𝐂𝐓𝐄𝐃 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐆𝐈𝐑𝐋 𝐂𝐋𝐀𝐈𝐌𝐄𝐃 𝐓𝐎 𝐁𝐄 𝐇𝐈𝐒 𝐂𝐇𝐈𝐋𝐃. From her thick curly roots, to the smeared blood currently being wiped clean from her delicate features, to the soft beatings of her heart indicating she was calmly resting. In his hand, he held an old photo of him sitting next to Vanessa. Who was clearly the girl's mother given the identical features they shared, alongside a letter explaining the situation of his existence with clear instructions to NOT come to New Orleans.

        Yet the girl—Deena, as stated in the letter—came anyway. Hard-headed.

        Klaus remembered Vanessa almost as if it was yesterday. He met the young aspiring witch at a local art exhibit held in The French Quarter where she first struck his interest, besides being the only who wore silly socks with a tight-fitting dress. She was not only well-spoken in art, but she had a way with words in which Klaus wouldn't notice the smile he wore until she told him, and she was her own person with a peculiar taste in fashion. And he liked it. In fact, he loved it. They hit it off quickly and spent every chance they had with each other, until one day she disappeared without a word. Klaus assumed it was because of him and didn't blame her since she was too good for his world and she deserved more than what he could provide for her.

        "Impossible," Were the first words Klaus said. He tossed the photo to the floor and faced his back to Deena to slip her from his memory, to Elijah who spoke not one word until Klaus spoke first.

        Elijah picked the photo from the floor and placed it on the table beside the written letter before Klaus seized a chance to rip it. "Whether it's true or not, the child needed our help and we gave that to her. Nik—"

       "You expect me to believe this child is mine from a silly photo with a woman I dallied with years ago and some loveless letter of lies?" Growled Klaus. His mouth suddenly felt dry and though he did his best to put up a front, the fear in his eyes was evident and by the end of his words, panic had entered. "I am a vampire. I cannot procreate!"

        Rebekah rinsed the cloth of blood in the warm water of dark red ready to be refilled and continued to clean the child's face and arms the best she could. The scent of her blood was alluring, preying them to feed into their cravings with just a taste, a single drop of her blood until there was no restraint to stop. But they have lived long enough to control their thirst, and the blood lust wasn't as appealing when the victim's a child and presumed to be a Mikaelson.

        "Magic made you a vampire as us all, Nik." Rebekah pointed out. "But you were born a werewolf; it courses in your blood given by your father, so it is possible. Ludicrous but possible. And we can confirm it with your blood and hers. And a witch."

        That shut Klaus up.

        "The child has already been through enough, and we can't be sure of which witch we can trust until we figure out the origin of this madness. Let's not bother her anymore and hope she wakes soon." As Elijah spoke, he watched Deena intensively under his black lashes and compared her physical similarities to his little brother. Her lips. Her ears. Even her nose with a slight readjustment, accurately portrayed Klaus but there was no way to be sure without that spell Rebekah mentioned.

        Rebekah rolled her eyes. "She will be fine. With my blood in her system, she's healing a lot faster than before. And I know a witch we can use; she was just here not too long ago banging on our doors to hear her out. And by the looks of it, she cares enough to do anything for her," Rinsing the last of Deena's blood into the bowl, Rebekah placed the rag on the dresser and carried the bowl into her arms to be refilled. She caught sight of Klaus's quietness, his eyes never leaving the child and added, "And if we hold this off any longer, we might as well shave our heads bald and pay ourselves a visit to the loony bin, and I don't rock a bald look. I would rather stab myself with the white oak before I plug in a bloody razor."

        Rebekah left for the bathroom.

        They knew exactly who Rebekah spoke of—Davina Claire, the teenage witch who wanted but nothing to do with the Mikaelsons. More specifically Klaus. After Elijah thought about the decision, he began to view Rebekah's point and agreed. However, the decision wasn't up to him.

         Klaus could feel his brother's heated stare as he looked to him for answers he didn't have nor wished to answer. He stood quietly acquainted with fear more than anyone has witnessed since Mikael's invasion back in 1919. He does want the answer, but he's too prideful to ask for help and he was too afraid of the outcome.

        Elijah then understood he would have to make the decision for them both and found Rebekah's gaze as she exited the bathroom with a clean bowl of warm water. "Let's do the spell."

━━━━━━ ━━━━━━

        𝐃𝐀𝐕𝐈𝐍𝐀 𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐄𝐃 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐇𝐎𝐔𝐒𝐄 𝐅𝐔𝐋𝐋 𝐎𝐅 𝐕𝐀𝐌𝐏𝐈𝐑𝐄𝐒. Her eyes never left Klaus as she made her way down the hallway and into the spacious room, waiting for a reason to use her magic against him, until she found Deena lying unconscious on the freshly made bed in the room she had once lived in back when Marcel was around and things were a bit hectic because of her. Or at least similar. She rushed to Deena's side with a gasp.

        "She will be alright," Elijah answered her panicked thoughts as she pulled back at the blood staining her hands when she reached out for her. She sent him a soft glare and carefully took Deena's hand into hers. "Will you be able to perform the spell?"

        Klaus, remain quiet. The quietest he's ever been.

        Davina noticed her friend appeared a lot brighter in her complexion despite her blood-stained clothes. Even noticing her cuts vividly healing before her eyes which meant she was given vampire blood, and she felt guilty. Like it was her fault for not protecting her or keeping her away from Klaus as she intended to do. And by keeping the supernatural world a secret to protect her, she felt she had done more harm than good.

        "I can try but since her blood is tainted, I'll have to—"

        "The blood on her clothes is pure. Can you use that instead?" Asked Rebekah.

        Davina narrowed her gaze from Deena's stained clothes. It was easy magic she's done before and responded, "I'm only doing this for Deena and no one else, so don't call me here again. I don't wanna be mixed up in your family drama." Her gaze found Deena's. "And she shouldn't have to either."

        "You have my word," Elijah promised.

        If Klaus was in his right mind, he would've had something to say about this but for the first time in a while, he had no energy to feed into petty drama.

        Because Davina knew she could trust Elijah out of all the original siblings, she began the spell. She emptied the bowl of marbles she found on the dresser and began to remove Deena's blood into the bowl leaving her shirt spotless as if it had been recently washed. She then faced Klaus. "I need your blood." She demanded.

        One by one, they looked to Klaus who was currently in his own world. He didn't hear Davina but he soon felt their stares and allowed Elijah's voice to be heard as he called his name softly. Of course, he was worried for his brother. He's never failed to hide his worrisome in times like this. Klaus followed his gesture towards Davina waiting for something he had. What was it she asked for? My blood? Without wasting another second, he bit into his wrist and held it over the bowl as his blood began to mix in with Deena's. He pulled back his arm as he began to heal and waited in the far corner.

        Rebekah practically hovered over Davina as she continued on with the spell and Elijah stood in the center of everyone, his eyes never leaving Klaus. About five minutes later, Davina stood from her seat indicating she was finished with the spell.

        Rebekah peeled herself from the wall. "Well, is it true? Has my brother officially knocked some poor woman up against her will?"

        Klaus saw the way Davina looked at Deena, the look was enough to give him the answers they longed for, but he needed to hear it from her lips. He was desperate as they all were for the answer. She sighed finally meeting Klaus's anxious gaze. "She's a hundred percent Klaus's child." Davina announced.

        Klaus was shocked into silence.

        Not one word has been spoken as they struggled to process nature's loophole. A child, a true Mikaelson, here in flesh by the blood and DNA of Klaus, the Original Hybrid unable to create any lifeform of the living. It was difficult to create a logical answer in their heads how any of this was possible. Klaus has slept with countless women throughout the centuries, so why is it now that it's possible for his seed to create a mortal being? What made Vanessa so special out of all?

        Rebekah felt bitterness towards the situation. Though she was happy her brother has a child he could watch grow old and she has become an aunty, she knew that kind of possibility wasn't possible for her. And she desired what Klaus had—a family. From her own DNA, conceived naturally from her body, children of her own. But she was a vampire. Unlike Klaus, she could not procreate. There was no loophole for her.

        However, Elijah failed to hide his glee. After years of cleaning up after his brother's retaliation, years of watching his demons mold his anger to fear that has built a wall between his misery and his own happiness; wanting nothing but the best for him and for him to let go of his grudges against the world and start letting people in, he believed this could be a chance for Klaus to start over fresh. For not only Klaus, but for himself and for Rebekah. Maybe with the child's presence, could diminish their negative ways and bring back empathy. Something they haven't felt in a while.

        Klaus shuffled into the desk behind him, his tear-filled eyes never left the unconscious girl. He didn't look at her with hate or displeasure; it was a softer look that couldn't be explained in words. There was too much roaming around in his head and in his heart and in his actions, it was too much for him to process.

        Davina suddenly lifted the blood-filled bowl from off the bed and placed it on the smaller dresser near the bed in case Deena moved in her slumber. She clapped her hands together, gathering their destruct attention. The awkward silence was too much for her to stand in. "If that's all, I'm leaving." She sent Deena an apologetic stare before she was already out the door.

        In a flash, Davina's backside was pressed against the opened door with a hard thud. Klaus held her by the neck, seizing to scare her by his threatening presence. "What kind of trick are you playing, Davina? Do you think I can be easily fooled? Do you not fear your worthless life?" He tightened his hand as she fought out his hold. She even sank her fingers between so that she could breathe.

       "I did the spell like you asked!" Davina cried out.

        Elijah sped towards the abrupt commotion while Rebekah took a hesitant step forward, in an attempt to pull Klaus from off Davina before he did anything he'd regret, but his grip loosened from her neck as an enormous amount of pain surged his brain. He fell to his knees while gripping his head like a maniac. His groans of pain and her lifted hand allowed them to put together the pieces.

        Davina stumbled back as she caught her breath, rubbing her now red neck, eyes frantic on the other siblings in case they were going to try her. They held their ground. "Look, Deena's my friend. And as much as I wish I had sabotaged the spell and made your lives miserable, it wouldn't be fair to her and I wouldn't be able to live with the guilt. She is your daughter whether you like it or not. And if you don't believe me, fine! Find another witch who's willing to do the spell. Not that you have many to call. I'm outta here."

        The pain stopped as soon as Davina left the room. Klaus fell to the floor relieved of his torment. He will have his chance to murder that witch with his own bare hands someday. For now, he was focused on regaining his consciousness.

         Elijah was already at his side to help him up. "Niklaus—"

        "I don't need your help!" He pushed away his brother's helping hand and stood on his own. Everyone stood in silence. Klaus took one last look at Deena and fled the room within seconds.

        Elijah sighed.

        "How is this possible, Elijah?" Rebekah asked, staring at the child trying to find the similarities. There were a few, the same Elijah pointed out earlier, but it was hard to believe the child was real. "Despite him being a hybrid...is—is this natural? Is she truly his offspring? And If so, can he produce more?"

        "This is all new to me as it is for you, but spells cannot lie. And I trust Davina. She is a hundred percent Klaus's offspring. Now for the lather, I will have to look into that."

        She stopped at his side. "But—"

        "I said I will look into it," Rebekah recognized that tone and held off from asking any more questions that couldn't be easily answered. "Why don't you find the child something she can wear when she awakens? I will go find our brother and talk some sense into him."

        Without a word, Rebekah sped over to where Deena's luggage sat to look for come clean clothes.

        "And Rebekah?"

        She glanced up with a hum.

        He motioned his finger around the room. "Make sure the house is empty before she awakens. We don't need an incident to occur or a hungry vampire's blood on our hands."

        She rolled her eyes. "I'm always stuck with babysitting when I can do more than that," She whined. "The child I can do, but a house of pre-war vampires? They are already a pain in the ass."

        "Just get it done."

        She rolled her eyes and continued to search through Deena's clothes.

━━━━━━ ━━━━━━

       𝐊𝐋𝐀𝐔𝐒 𝐖𝐀𝐒𝐍’𝐓 𝐒𝐔𝐑𝐏𝐑𝐈𝐒𝐄𝐃 𝐖𝐇𝐄𝐍 𝐇𝐄 𝐅𝐄𝐋𝐓 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐂𝐎𝐎𝐋 𝐖𝐈𝐍𝐃 𝐎𝐅 𝐇𝐈𝐒 𝐁𝐑𝐎𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐑 entering the bar he sat at to drain his sorrows in. It was only a matter of time before Elijah tracked him down. He never ventured out of his usual locations and his secretive spots were a work in process. Bringing up his empire took up the majority of his time having to fight through an army of vampires loyal to his dear Marcel. Of course, he couldn't bring himself to kill the boy he raised to make an example out of him, so he let him flee.

        But none of that seemed to matter now that he found out he's a father.

        Father.

        A strange title he couldn't force himself to withhold. And instead of believing his forced reality, he decided to drink forth to a past he lived before the child was a thing. His glorious days he might call it.

        "You learn of the existence of your child and yet you sit here to drink it away?" Elijah swiftly made his way toward Klaus.

        Klaus placed down his 5th empty glass of whiskey and released a stressful sigh upon Elijah's disturbing question. "I do not wish to hear your nagging, brother unless you have come to join me?" With his head dangled over the glass-stained counters, he signal the waiter to pour him another glass.

        Elijah then unbuttoned his jacket and ordered the waiter to serve him another round of whiskey as he took his seat next to him. They sat in silence. But knowing Elijah, he couldn't hold off the conversation any longer.

        "What are you thinking, Niklaus?"

        "I think of nothing. But I do think I need a stronger drink, don't you agree?" Klaus was clearly bothered by the question and ordered stronger liquor he could drown in, which meant there was something on his mind. Elijah knew what it was, but understood his tough-hearted brother needed a little push.

        "Your expression tells me otherwise." He thanked the waiter who placed down his drink, and took a small sip before he continued. "Are you afraid you will become a bad father?"

        "And so she has gotten to you with her puny lies? Oh, the Noble Elijah." Klaus mocked his title with a scoff. "The Elijah I knew would not be easily swayed by an amenable spell performed by the very witch who has tried to kill me more than twice and more to come in the future. A spell so that she can forge a weakness to catch me off guard when I have no weaknesses to be used!"

        "And the brother I know would never be troubled with such matter if you truly believe her spell was purged." Klaus's heart thudded faster than its usual speedy pace, which Elijah heard or else he wouldn't have continued his boring speech. "No matter how you feel or what Davina's true intentions are, I do trust her and I trust she would not lie about something as great as this. Think about it, Niklaus, the girl's mother disappeared without a trace and when you asked of her to be located, the witch could not find her on any map which meant she was either cloaked or dead. A cloaking spell is only used when you want to hide from someone or you have something to hide."

        "Yes, thank you, Elijah, for explaining to me the usage of a cloaking spell. Care to explain how to have a quiet drink without your brother pestering him with bogus ideas next?"

        Elijah sighed. "I wish you would not joke for once."

        Elijah wasn't phased when Klaus slammed his glass against the counter and faced his brother with an irritated look on his face. "Well, how else should I process this kind of information, brother? Shall we light a candle in a dark room, stare each other in the eyes, drink from goats' blood, then share our darkest fears and insecurities with one another?" He offered, humor on his tongue.

        Elijah wore no smile on his face at his brother's silly offer. "I wish you would be honest with me for once and not hold up such a wall as if I am here to shame you of the very thing I want you to have—a family."

        He faced the counter with the glass already at his lips. It was beginning to taste like water. "I already have a family." He boasted.

        "And now you have a daughter, who is family."

        The glass pressed heavily on his bottom lip when he suddenly froze. His eyes grew big hearing the D-word and family placed into the same sentence, no longer able to hold up his glass or Elijah would see his hand was shaking. Turning his head to control himself or Elijah would catch the glossy glint filling his vision. Forcing his heartbeat to slow or Elijah would detect his anxiety. A new weakness. One he kept struggling to deny.

        Elijah made a good point about Vanessa because anyone who knew her knew she would never run from anything not even Klaus himself, but of course because of his nature, the thought never crossed his mind. He only assumed it was because of him, not the result of an action they both consented to.

        Klaus could still feel his brother's stare. He knew that if he didn't say something now—the absolute truth behind the wall he kept gluing up—Elijah would get it out of him one way or another. And frankly, he just needed an ear to hear him out. And since Cami was not in viewpoint, he had no choice but to open up to his brother.

        "Fine, you win. You want to know how I feel about becoming a father? I am petrified."

       He finally faced Elijah who had been waiting all day for this exact moment to unfold, only to feel guilty for pressing the matter. But it was what he wanted, and Klaus would give him just that.

        "Given the lack of fatherliness I received, I don't believe the subject is far-fetched. I mean, the girl is practically a young adult, what do I have in common with her? I have lived a self-ruled life of volition and a deep crave for violence as I rain hell upon my enemies, to suddenly become a father of a teenager in less than an hour?" He scoffed. His eyes suddenly black with anger while gulping down his drink in one sip and slammed the glass (almost breaking it) against the counter which caught a little attention. "Her mother knew of this knowledge yet she decided to keep it from me. Just wait until I track her down, she will never hear the last of me."

        Elijah was finally able to understand a piece of Klaus's mind. There is potential and he was already showing it despite his crave for harming the child's mother. "You have missed her childhood; her first word, her first steps, her early years of growth and you feel guilty for that. But now you have a chance to miss no more of her development. This can be a new beginning for us all, for you, Niklaus. Maybe this isn't a bad thing."

        "What if..." He swallowed hard. "What if I'm not ready? What if I'm not...good at this? Good enough? I have no experience of this sort and I don't always have the best interest of whomever I come across."

        Elijah is taken back at his vulnerability and placed his hand on his shoulder as a form of comfort. "No one is ever ready for fatherhood, it just happens. But you are not alone in this, you have me and Rebekah at your side. Together we shall find a way. Always and forever." He smiled warmly.

         For a moment, both brothers shared the weight of Klaus's fears. Hope sparked in his eyes and with comfort he knew his brother would always be at his side no matter the gravity of the situation and it made him feel a little less lonely. Almost happy even, until he remembered Zoeè and the silly prophecy she spoke of conjured out of ignorance, and the witches who seek to fulfill it by sacrificing Deena.

        He stood to his feet with a mission written on his face. "Enough milking my sorrows, brother, I have Camille for that. Because we," While placing down his bill, "have a long list of witches to kill."

𝐓𝐇𝐀𝐍𝐊 𝐘𝐎𝐔

𝐅𝐎𝐑 𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐃𝐈𝐍𝐆

If you like what you read and wish to read more of this fic, you can read HERE

𝐀 𝐃𝐫𝐚𝐠𝐨𝐧’𝐬 𝐓𝐨𝐮𝐜𝐡

𝐓𝐡𝐢𝐫𝐝 𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫

word count: 4.2k~

warnings: mentions of war and death, strong vulgar language, Targaryen/Dornish mixed bastard, and overall mature setting for mature (18+) audience.

a/n: this is the 3rd chapter of my AU HOTD longfic featuring my Black!OC. Her first time visiting King’s Landing and meeting royalty (OC members of House Targaryen). If there’s a warning I forgot to add let me know.

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𝗖𝗵𝗮𝗽𝘁𝗲𝗿 𝗧𝗵𝗿𝗲𝗲 | 𝗞𝗶𝗻𝗴'𝘀 𝗟𝗮𝗻𝗱𝗶𝗻𝗴

              𝑺𝒀𝑳𝑽𝑰𝑨 𝑺𝑻𝑹𝑬𝑻𝑪𝑯𝑬𝑫 𝑯𝑬𝑹 𝑨𝑹𝑴𝑺 along the ship’s ledge as they approached King’s Landing. A city her mother longed to see with her two eyes, together as promised, now forced to experience this moment by herself surrounded by knights loyal to the crown and others who’ve known this city by heart. A thrilling but anxious feeling she struggled to bury. As well as vomit that refused to vanquish with constant swallowing, remembering how unkind the sea was during long nights.

        Outlooking the city of cluttered buildings hidden behind a red wall taller than any known height, as though the Gods embraced the land that it molded within its structure, a majestic castle came closer into view as they traveled through the city by carriage. It reached the skyline at this angle. The city was far livelier than Toland with more people than she could count on her fingers; more land, more green, more water, more color. And although it was hot, there wasn’t a lingering dryness that left her throat parched, but humid with a wet earthy taste that kept her saliva wet enough. 

        But while its differences were known, it wasn’t Dorne. Home.

        The people pointed and waved at the traveling carriages—at Sylvia as she gawked through the velvet curtains, taken aback by the people and their cultural differences, and a lingering stench. To process a world existed beyond the sea outside of deserts and sandstorms was exhilarating. She wondered if it snows here too having not seen it before.

        Mar’kel and Jorio split ways once landing ashore. He had no choice but to accompany the journey to King’s Landing given their boat was taken by the current, and assured Sylvia he would find good work to provide for his family.

        Haron Baratheon—Lord Hand, as stated to address him—was kind enough to allow Sylvia to join his carriage. His eyes would linger in her direction and she would catch him staring without break as if Sylvia was a mystical creature, but she didn’t mind his curiosities. Forgave him even since he took her in, informed her of the castle up ahead, and spared her life.

        The Red Keep.

        A line of knights dressed in white armor and golden cloaks awaited the return of Lord Hand with Sylvia following behind like some lost puppy still yet a stranger to this new region. Though he was kind to allow sanctuary, she knew better than to trust a helping hand with blind eyes because the price weighed heavier.

        Lord Hand advised Sylvia to wait outside the guarded bronze doors until she was announced, and anticipation grew with every passing second. Because she had never met her father before, only heard through countless stories her mother shared, Sylvia was unable to create an expression appropriate toward her arrival. The one created out of her naive imagination, hoped he’d smile gracefully and acknowledge her existence. Fathers back in Dorne did. Without shame too.

        “Father, how was your travels? We heard war broke loose again across the sea, but hope to hear good news with the Martells and the arrangements made the hundredth time.” Said a woman whose voice was carried by gracious echoes.

        Two passing servants carrying a basket full of sheets were caught sizing Sylvia down, their noses riled in disgust as they picked at her filth. It wasn’t until one pointed out her hair that regret followed by fear flashed. They offered a bow before hurrying off, eyes glued to the floor. Whatever that was about. But they weren’t the only avoiding attention; the knights paid Sylvia no mind but they were intimidating. Everything was.

        “Rather interesting, your grace.” Lord Hand responded to the woman, assumedly his daughter. The Queen. “Aside from matters that should be privately discussed, in my travels along the border of the Narrow Sea, I made a mild discovery sure to be the talk of the day. Perhaps weeks. Come on out, girl.”

        Sylvia’s head perked realizing that was her cue.

        The chatters of council members and lords and ladies of the Royal Court were silenced once the large doors opened and there Sylvia stood, gawking at the view. High ceilings bleeding in light from the sky, held with humongous pillars. Colors so vibrant it was blinding. Lord Hand cleared his throat and gestured his head to the spot next to him. She hurried down the red carpet stretching from the doors toward the throne made of an asymmetric monstrosity of spikes and jagged edges and twisted metal made of swords still sharp enough to cut.

        It was where an older man—King Aul Targaryen, First of His Name, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm, as proudly announced—with silky white hair pinned from his old face where a crown of gold sat. His slouched position straightened upon the girl’s entrance. Just as a beautiful black-headed woman—Lady Queen Alice Baratheon, as announced—stood beside the throne, glaring at her husband.

        Sylvia kept her gaze to the floor, fidgeting with her dirty fingers when reaching Lord Hand’s side. The carpet tracked her wet muddy boot prints. She never stood before royalty, a king and queen of the realms, and possibly her father somewhere hidden. Their customs were foreign, but knew when greeting high-borns—or in this case, royalty—one should show respect as customary.

        So, Sylvia lifted her chin and lowered her body with a curtsy as her mother taught her. With grace and beauty…or so she believed it to be. And since she wore no dress, had to improvise with her loose-fitting shirt that was given by the cook on the ship. It smelt of sweat and sausages but it was better than her other shirt still covered in Yanis’ blood and dirt from home. 

        “Oh God,” said Lady Queen Alice, unimpressed by the gesture. Lord Hand included by his lips pressing together with a sigh deep from his chest. 

        Sylvia started feeling a bit silly especially when a snicker erupted the gossiping crowd on her left. There were too many faces scrutinizing her existence down to the soul, but only one who made their laughter known and didn’t care to hide it. Only his silver hair registered before the Queen spoke up.

        “Have you fathered another bastard, husband?” Lady Queen Alice rubbed between thinly arched brows, looking at the King with low eyes. Despite her disappointment, it seemed nothing new to her.

        “I would remember if I did.” The King motioned toward Sylvia’s awkward stance. “What is your name, child?”

        Lord Hand spoke before she could. “This is Sylvia, Sands of Dorne, and takes claim as daughter of the late Prince Daemon Targaryen.”

        The room erupted in a collective of gasps and gossip with people squeezing between one another to get a better look at the bastard. The Queen noticeably sighed with relief. Possibly for the fact she wouldn’t have to provide for another bastard the King presumably has.

        King Aul scooted further in his throne, careful not to knick his hand along the sharp blades. Violet eyes widen with shock they could bulge out of his sockets. “Impossible,” though said to himself, the echo carried his voice across the room. His eyes were on Sylvia but his words were directed toward the Hand. “Daemon would have told me if he seeded a bastard especially one of her grown age. How old are you?”

        “Nine-and-ten years,” Sylvia answered, her accent far different and distinctive than everyone here.

        “That is long before his marriage with Lady Vana, my king.” The Queen mentioned. “During the—”

        “Yes. I am well aware of my brother’s travel as it was I who sent him to tarnish our enemies for the crown and won the battle that gave him the title I bestowed. A war of many, and a war that has come bite me back in the ass.” King Aul interrupted his wife who bit her tongue, still never letting Sylvia out of his sight. “Nineteen years is quite some time. My brother, as sneaky as he was, confined me with his secrets and there has been not a word of the existence of a child born on Dornish soil.”

        Perhaps her father was ashamed of Sylvia. Or he didn’t give a rat’s ass to acknowledge a bastard across the sea when his life and legitimate children was right where he’s needed. She didn’t hold it against him, but she would be lying if she didn’t want a proper answer. All those letters sent and not one response? Coming all this way for a false dream her mother fed, and he dare not show his face? 

        “Prince Daemon was known to enjoy common acts of pleasure and relish in an arm’s length of lovers to keep him company. There is no doubt in me to believe he wouldn’t find company of his own during his long stay in Dorne, a world free of imagination. And in such actions, resulted in the birth of Sylvia Sand. Perhaps without his knowledge.” Lord Hand defended.

        After a beating moment, King Aul beckoned Sylvia closer where he may view her better. The red stones beneath her feet were so clear that she could see her reflection, her dirty clothes and matted hair. She’d even caught the reflection of nobles standing in wealth from head to toe, wrinkling their nose at the stench of the slums that clung to her. She was nothing but scum to them. Undeserving of this opportunity to be presented before their King, defended by the Hand, and bastard of a war prince.

        But Sylvia knew avoiding their vile opinions and cowardly within her skin would do no better but give them more to talk about. She straightened her shoulders, lifted her chin and kept it high, and allowed the King to look at her. The Queen didn’t bother to dignify Sylvia’s presence with so much as a quick size-down, as she was no child of the King, and therefore, no threat to her or her problem to deal with.

        “And you are sure your father is Daemon Targaryen and no other man?” He added quickly as Sylvia opened her mouth to answer him, “Don’t you lie. It is a sin to lie to your king.” He spoke in a tone only a father would on a child, but Sylvia was no child nor a child of his from the looks of it. The feminine growth of her body held proof of her womanhood, yet it was hidden behind shapeless clothing.

        “My mother is no liar nor did she raise me as one; Daemon Targaryen is my father. During the Blood War, my mother kept him company before he left to fulfill his duties to his king where I was then later conceived.”

        “Why wait until now to stake your claim?”

        “It’s not in my intention to stake any claims my father withholds. I was perfectly fine living in my little village with my mother without knowing my father or him knowing me, but because of certain circumstances, here I am.”

        “Here you are, yes. But for what reason? What compensation do you seek from the crown?” He asked.

        Lord Hand stepped forward. “The bastard—”

        “I want nothing from the crown,” Sylvia spoke over him with a confession that intrigued the King to hear more, but not so much the Hand. She ignored his burning glare. “From my father. From this house. From anyone. My only wish is to remain in King’s Landing so what was lost shall be found. But. . .the other half of me can’t ignore the opportunity I have to learn about my lineage and how my features came about. This world was just stories when I was young, but now that I’m here, I wish to explore it.”

        As the King observed the girl once more, Sylvia saw the look in his eyes had softened with contentment. Perhaps he saw the prince in her, a face he knew better than anyone else. Certainly better than Sylvia. She may be a bastard but enough of her father’s blood, this house’s blood was in her veins; evident from the scales along her skin, the color of her hair, and purple in her eyes. It’s not of Dornish traits nor did her mother share any—that was all them. And frankly, coming this far across the sea in a world unknown, brought by Lord Hand who decided to take bring her to court, some recognition would be nice.

        “Very well, then. It seems you’ve caught me in a good mood and on a lucky day.” King Aul sat back on this throne but not too far. “I hereby affirm Sylvia, Sands of Dorne, be known as Sylvia Targaryen, eldest daughter of Prince Daemon Targaryen. I shall send word to Drangonstone and inform Lady Vana of my royal decree."

        Sylvia was just as stunned as the next, even more than Lord Hand. This was not what she asked of him. Nowhere near her desire to remain in the city, yet it was exactly what her mother wanted. No longer known as a bastard but legitimized in the eyes of the law and given more than what had been given in her entire life in just a few days, and all it took was an outbreak of a civil war.

        She dropped to her knees to thank King Aul. She had no words. No one else did either.

        Lady Queen Alice almost lost her posture at the degree and sought to question his decision. “My king, don’t you feel you are being too generous? You have always been fond of Prince Daemon, rigid with guilt after the following of his death—” Sylvia lifted her head. His death? “—but we don’t know the girl. She is all but a stranger. What if this decree inspires more bastards of Daemon’s or yours to come forth and ask more than we provide?”

        My father is dead?

        “Then we get to know the girl. My brother has only one child in his lifespan and the Gods have brought us another. Not only will I honor him and his services to the realm, but I shall hope his bloodline strives another hundred years to come.” King Aul addressed and stood from his throne. “Someone see the girl to a bath and proper clothing. I need a fucking nap.”

        The Queen chewed her bottom lip pink, glaring in the direction of her father as she and the entire court bowed as King Aul took his leave. Sylvia stood off to the side not to block his path, next to Lord Hand, and met his empty stare. There’s no telling if the outcome of this arrangement went in his favor or against his consciousness. Following behind the King, he ignored his daughter’s glower.

        A brown-haired woman with big round eyes rushed before Sylvia upon the Queen’s request. “My lady, if you’ll please, follow me this way.” She motioned after the King had cleared the room, trying to sneak a glimpse of her scales.

        Instead of replying, Sylvia peered around for the silver-haired individual who laughed at her earlier. She had hoped to catch a proper view of him before everyone cluttered together to exit, but he was nowhere to be found. Or he was hiding.

        “My lady?” The servant called again, closer than before, and Sylvia almost thought she’d mistaken her for someone else until it settled. “Shall we take our leave?”

        She would never get used to that. My lady. A proper title than bitch, boy, bastard, and aye.

        “Sure. Yes, we can go.”

————————-

                    𝑺𝒀𝑳𝑽𝑰𝑨 𝑾𝑨𝑺 𝑳𝑬𝑫 𝑰𝑵𝑻𝑶 𝑨 𝑾𝑬𝑳𝑳-𝑫𝑬𝑪𝑶𝑹𝑨𝑻𝑬𝑫 𝑪𝑯𝑨𝑴𝑩𝑬𝑹 consisted of many colors but blue and browns and reds were popular. Deep blue couches with three-headed dragon embroidery stuffed pillows. Brown bricked fireplace burning low, gleaming against the detailed oval rug. Red curtains pinned from the wide windows almost as big as the wall, framed with a series of paintings and banners of the same three-headed dragon. And many bronze decorations of items unknown to Sylvia as she never owned any of them before. Like this room that was about three to four rooms combined back home.

        “This is my room?” Sylvia asked, peering over her shoulder toward the woman following behind. She couldn’t keep her fingers or excitement to herself, touching everything in her path like the wet leaves of watered plants as tall as her and the quilted cloth slung over the couch.

        “Yes, my lady.”

        She went over toward the table where a basket of fresh-picked grapes and bright red apples sat. Plucked it but didn’t complete the next step. “And this?”

        “Yes, my lady.”

        She plopped the grape in her mouth, sloshing around its sweet with a tint of sour juice. Madam Marget reserved fruits—aside from apples—for her high-paying guest and whores and Zaal the cook, would notice if a stem was broken or someone blew their breath too close. Her mother was the house favorite and together would eat a hoard of grapes, raspberries, peeled oranges, and chugged rich wine until their heads grew heavy and their finger tingled.

        She ate another. Then discovered a bed big enough to fit five or more people, dressed with thick embroidered quilts and stuffed pillows shoved in designed cases. She never had her own room. Her own bed. Her own space. It was all too big that she missed her small room, where it was just her and her mother.

        “And this?”

        “Yes,” the servant repeated, barely hiding her annoyance well. “My lady. All of this, the room, is yours. In your name, as your birthright. If you would follow me this way, I may introduce you to Meya, your handmaiden.”

        From behind a bamboo panel where multiple women stood filling the tub with boiling water, a woman with deep auburn hair draped into a messy braid down her back revealed herself with a bow. “My lady, it is a great honor to serve you and this house. I intend to serve you well.” Her lips were so thin that when she smiled they were nonexistent, and beneath the red dress she wore—quite similar to the woman who escorted Sylvia and few who passed them—her breast filled every open space.

        Sylvia knitted her brows as she faced the servant beside her. “Are you not my handmaiden?” She asked, unsure how this went about and what exactly a handmaiden would do for her at her side already used to fending for herself.

        She laughed as though Sylvia said something funny, but it was a modest laughter. Very light and airy, hidden behind her hand not to offend her. “You flatter me, my lady, but I serve the Queen. I am here only to guide you to your chambers. Meya is well qualified and shall help you adjust and become a proper lady of the court. Should you need anything more, Meya is at your arm.”

        Another question touched her lips but the woman was already gone.

        When she took her leave, Meya guided Sylvia behind the thick panel to rid herself of clothes connected to an identical she once was. She kept the boots because the pouch of money and jewels remained, in close proximity should anyone get any ideas. Then, with offered help, eased herself in the water dusted with rose petals, hot enough to burn off her skin.

        The air smelled of spiced salts and perfume, foreign scents and fancy oils she wasn’t accustomed to. Sylvia soaked further in water steaming off her skin with a deep sigh, allowing her aching muscles to relax. But what followed next gave no prior warning to such torment. Under the care of servants, her skin was rubbed red and raw with a rag determined to change her tone or peel off her scales, her nails shaped and picked of dirt and dried blood. 

        Washing her hair required the help of many hands struggling to work through mats and knots with wide-tube combs, fingers, and horse-hair brushes. Sylvia’s cries were ignored until every stand was free of tangles and dirt. By the end of the process, the milky-like water had turned brownish-red with floating twigs and leaves. 

        Sylvia had never been pampered with such torment and washed with the help of multiple hands touching intimate parts. It wasn’t something she could get used to.

        She tugged her wet curls free from her nightgown shoved over her head and stood before the mirror—at the woman, a lady, a legitimate child of her father—as Meya recorded her measurements to send the seamstress for a whole new wardrobe.

        “Is this necessary? All the. . .extra hands?” Sylvia finally brought up. Everywhere she looked there were hands on her body, in her hair, reaching for her when she wasn’t looking.

        “It is, yes. You are no longer who you were before you stepped foot in King’s Landing. You are Sylvia Targaryen, eldest child of Prince Daemon Targaryen, royal blood of the leading house in Westeros. You must look your best even while you sleep. That is the way of a lady.” Meya replied, telling another a number to record. At a closer view, she was quite young but not as young as Sylvia, but graced with years before her first grey strand would grow in.

        “I’m not sure how to be one. A lady of the court. Or a lady at all. There aren't many examples where I'm from.” Sylvia admitted. A few giggled at her response but not in an antagonizing way but like a puppy barking for the first time. 

        With a firm look from Meya, they fell silent. She stretched the numbered strip from her shoulder toward her wrist, a warm smile on her young face. “You need not worry, my lady, that is my job to bear. I will guide you every step of the way. The world is slightly different from Dorne but I believe you’ll learn quick.” She hugged the strip around her slim waist, passing more numbers to record. “I suppose it will take some getting used to.”

        Sylvia took in the room as though it would be taken from her with a blink of an eye and she’d awake in the boat heading toward Yronwood. This was everything her mother ever wanted for her and it’s a shame she wasn’t here to witness it. But the plan remained the same; I will stay and wait for my mother’s quick return.

        Meya caught Sylvia yawning once again, her eyes fluttering and heavy head swaying back and forth. Her lips tugged upwards and with a wave of a hand, sent everyone away. “It’s been a long day for you, quite the journey across the Narrow Sea on top of your given status the King bestowed. Why don’t you rest for a while? Should you need anything else I will be here at your side.”

        She didn’t even have to ask twice. Sylvia climbed into the bed—the pouch hidden under her pillow, which she placed shortly after getting out the bath when no one was looking—and drew the sheets to her chin. Her head was thick with exhaustion as she drifted off into a deep slumber.

        But it wasn’t long until a voice of worry called from her sleep and Meya was hovered over her, inspecting Sylvia as she had gone somewhere. She rubbed her eyes while sitting up in bed that had molded her figure. Eyeing the room confirmed this wasn’t a dream but her reality. She was a lady of status.

        “What’s going on? Did something happen?” Sylvia inquired and her pulse spiked at an older man at her side, mashing herbs in a bowl to pour in a steaming cup.

        “You slept like the dead, unmoving the entire day through night and day again. Then you were burning in your rest so I called the physician to assess you.”

        The physician handed the cup to Sylvia to take. It smelt strongly of ginger and an unknown substance.

        “What is this?” She took the cup but didn’t dare sip it.

        “Mild supplements to get your blood pumping, my lady.” He gathered his tool and little-tied bags of herbs and shoved them into his brown bag. “Nothing to worry about, you are as young and healthy as a dragon. After your long journey, it is only natural you would sleep through days until it wears off. Should another fever arrive, do call for me.”

        Her nose scrunched in disgust at the bitter taste warm down her throat. She remembered how long it took the physician back in Toland to see her when she was bedridden with sickness and puking her guts red. There were so many cases of the sick going around that it took days for one to see Sylvia, to the point her mother had to pay differently to secure a visit and proper medicine. They were not at her beck and call as they were now, and for minor disturbances.

        Meya walked the physician out and lent her ear to another servant who entered the room while Sylvia struggled to swallow the rest. Her eyes grew wide with shock, bowing to the messenger, and rushed over. "My lady, the king has requested you join him for supper."

𝐓𝐇𝐀𝐍𝐊 𝐘𝐎𝐔

𝐅𝐎𝐑 𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐃𝐈𝐍𝐆

If you like what you read and wish to read more of this fic, you can read HERE

𝐀 𝐃𝐫𝐚𝐠𝐨𝐧’𝐬 𝐓𝐨𝐮𝐜𝐡

𝐅𝐨𝐮𝐫𝐭𝐡 𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫

word count: 5.4k~

warnings: mentions of war & death, mentions of prostitution (living at a brothel), strong vulgar language, attempted sa, Targaryen/Dornish mixed bastard, mentions of sexual themes, and overall mature setting for mature (18+) audience.

a/n: this is the 4th chapter of my AU HOTD longfic featuring my Black!OC. We meet more of the King and my oc’s father who are heavily inspired by King Viserys and Prince Daemon, and will meet new oc Targaryen characters. If there’s a warning I forgot to add let me know.

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𝗖𝗵𝗮𝗽𝘁𝗲𝗿 𝗙𝗼𝘂𝗿 | 𝗥𝗲𝗱 𝗜𝗻 𝗠𝗮𝗻𝘆 𝗙𝗼𝗿𝗺𝘀

                    𝑲𝑰𝑵𝑮 𝑨𝑼𝑳 𝑾𝑨𝑺 𝑹𝑬𝑨𝑫𝑰𝑵𝑮 𝑨𝑵 𝑰𝑴𝑷𝑶𝑹𝑻𝑨𝑵𝑻 𝑫𝑶𝑪𝑼𝑴𝑬𝑵𝑻 when informed of Sylvia's presence and passed it along his servant once she entered, beckoning her toward the table of roasted chicken, glistening honey crepes, assorted fruits and rich wine. Her mouth watered and her belly grew impatient to stuff herself full, but felt it was best to wait for the King to sit and eat first.

        Due to the King preferring privacy, Meya and everyone else were escorted from the room. It was just her and the King.

        Noticing the gesture, King Aul motioned her forward with a light chuckle. "Please, don't wait for this old man or you will be waiting till your grave." He sipped his wine, watching the girl devour her food as if it was her last meal, but first of many. "I trust you settled well in your quarters? Well rested I hear. You surely look better than when you first arrived; I can tell you're a woman."

        Neither could she. 

        Sylvia couldn’t believe the woman in the reflection was her and not the tall boy she’d portrayed since her flower bloomed and her breast swelled. The seamstress returned with a beautiful dress far nicer than anything she owned and more than which she thought she deserved. The grey dress clung tight to her skin, shaping her womanly figure, with red and golden embroidery patterning of the low collar and along the fitted sleeves. Her shaped curls hung just below her shoulders, healthy and wild with multiple strands in decorative tiny braids and pinned from her face with a golden hairpin.

        She looked as though she’d belonged. And now she did.

        Sylvia drunk her wine to help flush out chicken stuck between her teeth. Because she wasn't a drinker, a cup and a half was the limit. "I did, thank you." She remembered Meya's quick lesson along the journey and added. "Your grace."

        King Aul smiled warmly at her attempt. "I summoned you so that I may know you better and personally welcome you, but I regret to inform that the man you look for has not ridden his dragon for two years."

        Sylvia knew the King spoke of her father. She also knew by the glumness painting his old features that he held his brother with high gratitude and loved him dearly. Having not known her father personally, there were no tears to shed and share along his silent grief but Sylvia sympathized. It seemed fate wasn’t in her favor and it’s a shame he died before he could reunite with her mother, or she could succeed in her plans of delusion. . .which ended up working out after all but not within her imagination.

        Perhaps his death was the reason he didn’t answer any letters or come save them, but that was two years out of seventeen. What happened then?

        “He was a good man.” King Aul continued after a sip of his wine. “Arrogant and ambitious and too honest for his soul, God rest him. A king the people would have loved had been older and easily controlled.”

        "How did he. . ."

        "In battle. Stepstones."

        Sylvia stopped eating. "Oh, I'm sorry."

        After a short moment of silence, King Aul offered a warm grin to hide his long-term grief. "Don't be. At least it was quick and he suffered no pain during his final moments, so I am told." He chuckled at the sudden change of moods and wished to revert the attention to the reason this meeting was happening. "Enough about me, eat. I hope you can fill me in on some details. What of your mother? Any siblings?"

        Sylvia continued eating. She weighed the honey tart between her greasy fingers and inspected the foreign treat before tasting it along her tongue. It's sweet. A lot better than it appeared.

        "No. Just me and my mother but we were split during the attack." Sylvia told the King, her voice somehow stronger than it wished to be. "I'm unsure if she made it out alive, but if she did, she knows where to find me. I intend to wait for her arrival however long it takes."

        Nodding, King Aul's keen to uncover more. "How did you get by? . . .Before the attack?"

        "My mother made a living as a whore. I took in daily chores."

        His expression didn't change upon learning this new information about her, but his mind did wander and contrived stories along her words instead of asking her, but one question didn't cave. "Are you still. . ." He trailed, hoping she would fill in the blank.

        It took Sylvia a moment to understand what he was asking until she realized and jolted upwards from her plate. "Yes. I-I gave myself to no man. My mother forbade my partaking in such acts because she wanted more for me. She’s very strict about that.”

        Although true, she had found pleasure with women within the house that left no evidence or proof of defilement. A man, she hadn’t. She was saving herself for Yanis.

        “Good. That’s good to hear.”

        King Aul cleared his throat with an uncomfortable shift. This was a conversation a woman should be having instead and saw he’d rather talk about anything else than her virtue, but he needed to be sure. Now that he's legitimized a bastard, it would be a shame to have tarnished both their reputation while making a fool out of him within a day especially given her Dornish background.

        "You said you are now nine-and-ten years? Nearing the age of when a woman should be already married. Do you house a husband back home? Or engaged with plans of marriage?”

        "No."

        "And there is no one in your heart?"

        There was, but he was long dead now. "No."

        "As you are well aware, my brother meant a great deal to me and I intend to thrive our house and his bloodline which now includes you. Something I would have never done and is the first and last of my doing." Said King Aul, another sip of his wine that's been refilled quenches his thirst. Sylvia barely finished with her first cup. "That means you will have to marry soon and bear a family as big as life gives you. I shall find you an exceptional suitor for my brother's sake, but I know with Lady Vana's arrival, she shall know what is best for you. Do you oppose?"

        Sylvia relished the idea of marrying a man worthy of her and birthing a few children in a house of love and compassion. It's what her mother wanted for her too. Though a secure-functional relationship wasn't what she had experienced before and grew scared of belonging to an abusive man for the rest of her life and children who would grow up to hate her someday; she enjoyed the silly fantasy because it was the opposite of her environment. Another picture of a life she painted had things turned out differently and her mother’s body wasn’t a means of income.

        And now, her fantasy shall become her reality.

        A man with a generosity of wealth. A man who shall love her as she is and will see her as a true equal. A man to learn from. A man who knows she deserves better and shall give her not only the world, but his entire undevoted heart. And anything more which her mother had listed repetitively, and the list was long.

        "No, your grace, I don't oppose." Sylvia accepted the assignment. King Aul was far too kind than her expectation of how a king would normally present themselves. It wasn't a king when looking at him, but an old man living out his days in peace and wine and a proper future he’d leave behind when the time came. "But I’m curious why you gave me my father’s name, more than what I asked. More than I deserve. You don’t know me. I’m a stranger who came into your life, so why trust anything I tell you? Why do what you did?”

        “I told you. My brother was everything in ways I wished I were and I’d be damned to let his bloodline die out with his only son one sickeness away from death, or a sword like his father. Bastard or not, his blood is yours. The scales along your face makes you closer to dragons than one could ever be. How could I not claim you?” Said King Aul, wiping his greasy lips with a napkin. He sat back in his chair and allowed his servants to remove what he finished. Sylvia was done before him but had more to finish since he didn’t eat as much. “You remind me of Daemon. Your spiteful nature and honest character. You are a stranger, yes, and I shouldn’t trust your word too easily, but I’m choosing to go against all advice. I’m giving you an opportunity in a lifetime no bastard, even mine, has reached. It is a great risk I’m taking with honor. Our house is the future, our future. Now yours to ensure it remains that way.”

        Sylvia couldn’t eat anymore or her stomach would explode. The King had given her a great responsibility she was now questioning it if was a quest she could fulfill. This life was not one she was raised into and she needed all the help she could get to become a proper lady of court. And while this new life had its lavish perks that needed time to get used to, Sylvia wasn’t sure how big of a burden he was asking of her. To think and put this house of strangers before anyone and to keep them in her best interest when the future was on the table.

        But as he said, this was an opportunity a bastard could dream of, exactly what her mother wanted. Kindness he won't extend ever again. And at least she’d remain in King’s Landing depending on her suitors. She must carry herself differently to survive this world alone with lessons her mother taught.

        “You have good a heart.” Sylvia could only say.

        But in his eyes, he was only a father, a grandsire, a man, hoping to see each of his kids and Daemon's happily and married. So the King chuckled lightly. "I hope so. Only a good heart can derive from sins of cruelty and motivate others to follow its lead, which I, came a long way from. I wish to remain a fair king till my deathbed."

        Sylvia said nothing and continued eating her meal when the king gestured for her to keep eating though there was no space left. To have all that she wished should she ask for more.

————————

        𝑨 𝑾𝑯𝑰𝑻𝑬-𝑯𝑨𝑰𝑹𝑬𝑫 𝑩𝑶𝒀 helped himself to drinks while he awaited Sylvia's arrival. Sat comfortably at the center table with his chair facing the entrance, he perked with interest as she furthered into the room and halted her steps upon his unfamiliarity. She sent her handmaiden a look of confusion.

        Meya softly gasped and greeted the boy with a bow, neither expecting his presence too. “My prince,” she motioned for Sylvia to greet him properly as briefly taught on her way to meet with the King. It was less poise and messy, still more work to be done. “May I present you her lady, Sylvia Targaryen, daughter of former Prince Daemon Targaryen. And he, Prince Aelor Targaryen, second son of King Aul.”

        The prince had to be at least a year or two younger than Sylvia. He had the face of a baby with naturally flushed cheeks, a look of innocent trouble. His eyes were a lighter shade of purple and wore his dark silver hair—as opposed to Sylvia’s and the King’s whose hair were much lighter—short and fluffy at his ears like the morning clouds. Skinny legs and frail arms with a long skinny neck, and ridiculously tall once he stood from the chair.

        “There are tales within our bloodline who are born with dragon-like features, blessed by the Gods who deem them worthy. I call it bullshit. A pity-case. I don’t believe in such a thing as it is rare, but rumors spread quickly and I had to come see for myself. See why a God would bless a bastard over true-borns.”

        “Your Highness, my lady is no longer a bastard as the King—”

        Prince Aelor shushed Meya with a wave of his hand, forcing her to chew her words. “Once a bastard is always a bastard. Acknowledgment doesn’t change it. A royal decree doesn’t change it. Even my father’s support doesn’t change what you are and who you’ll always be.” He was obviously trying to get a reaction out of Sylvia, one he wouldn’t find because she didn’t give a damn. 

        It would be different had she grown up a lady alongside this house, acknowledged since birth and fed into her head that she was more than a greasy bastard. Above them and all. . .But she’d always known her place and accepted it. Bastards in Dorne weren’t a curse or often a threat but acceptable as they were and most times treated the same as true-borns. His discreditment did nothing but confirm what she already knew. I am a bastard and I’m a proud one. Bestowed her father’s name didn’t change how she viewed herself except on the outside which gave proof of her new status.

        And frankly, Sylvia wished him gone. Exhaustion wore heavy over her head and she needed to take a piss. Plus Meya had other plans that could take the entire day.

        Sylvia stood, unmoving. “So what of it?”

        Prince Aelor gave a careless shrug.“Just wanted to be sure you know your place.” He inspected her features at a close distance that Sylvia had to lift her head to meet his curious gaze. His lips were red and his breath reeked of alcohol. Then his shoulders dropped with disappointment. "You aren't ugly. Just a girl."

        "What were you imagining?"

        "A dragon's head on a woman's body." He admitted.

        Sylvia could laugh at his crazy imagination but decided to withhold it to avoid offending him.

        "Can I touch—"

        Sylvia leaned away from the prince's reaching hand desperate to touch the scales along her face. Denying so, frustrated Prince Aelor as though he had never been denied anything before and his cheeks grew redder than an apple.

        "I wish to touch your scales." He explained frustratingly. "I am your prince and your king one day should my brother fall ill. If you are quick to refuse my request, I shall remember this day when you ask me of something in the near future."

        Meya was quick to interject. "My apologies your highness, the lady is still yet new to court. She isn't familiar with our customs but she would be pleased to be touched. Please forgive her ignorance."

        Ignorance? Sylvia shot her handmaiden a glare who dared kept her eyes elsewhere.

        Nodding, the prince stepped forward. "Ignorance is a woman's trait. I shall forgive you today."

        No one but her mother, Yanis, and past lovers had touched her face and Sylvia didn’t like it one bit. But because he was a prince with power beyond reach, and appeared as though he would throw a tantrum if she refused, Sylvia allowed him to proceed.

        As Meya said, Sylvia was a foreigner to their world. Refusing a prince could result in a harsher punishment than just getting it over with.

        His cool slender fingers touched Sylvia’s face, padding his printed tips along her scales, smoother to the touch from the thick cream Meya lathered. The thrill in his eyes grew like a child discovering fun for the first time, and it took Sylvia every last ounce of strength not to push him away. She felt like an animal, worse than anyone had treated her which wasn’t all that bad by covering up. The invasion, the live comments—it was insulting. 

        His thumb slightly parted Sylvia’s bottom lip, his index finger hooked under her chin and forced their gaze to meet. “There are no scales on my lips.” She reminded the prince, a warning to remove it immediately. 

        Prince Aelor ignored her and continued brushing, a lustful look filling his light purple eyes intrigued with the soft texture. And apparently more. “I hear your mother’s a Dornish whore. Is that true?” His brows rose with his voice but it wasn’t genuine curiosity behind it. 

        Sylvia’s jaw clenched. “It is.”

        She briefly looked to Meya, waiting for her to intervene—since she had much to say earlier—but was interrupted by his raising hand before she could defuse anything.

        “As I thought. My little ears are never wrong. And so I’m curious,” a tighter grip on Sylvia’s chin forced her closer, the smell of wine thick on his breath and tickling her lips. “If the apple doesn’t fall too far from the tree? Don't worry, what happens in this room, stays. Your virtue along with it."

        Sylvia shifted as far back as she could before their lips collided, ripping from his grip that his long thumb nail scratched her chin. Once free, she pushed the Prince. The strength behind her push was strong enough to lose his balance, his feet shuffling back as he failed to catch the table and fell on his ass. Meya rushed from behind to help him to his feet.

        “Get your filthy hands off me!” Prince Aelor shouted as he whacked away Meya’s help.

        He was livid. Too embarrassed by his situation especially when there were witnesses to his fall at the hands of a woman beneath him, his eyes bewildered. Meya and the cupbearer kept their heads to the ground not to add to it.

        “You dare lash at your prince?” Prince Aelor gripped the table and fumbled to his feet. “I will have you beaten to death and hung in a pit of fire then your head placed on a spike at my window!" He seethed while jabbing his finger at the air.

        Meya rushed to Sylvia's side and whispered, "Apologize, my lady. You were in the wrong. This is not Dorne."

        Sylvia failed to see her mistake and what Dorne had to do with this situation. Someone whom she wasn’t, not even the slightest, attracted to insulted her so she rightfully defended herself.

        “I will not.” Stated Sylvia as though to challenge the prince which angered him further. Meya attempted to apologize in her place but was stopped before she could begin. “I don’t owe you an apology, you owe me one. You made me uncomfortable by using your authority against me to sexually please you after you insulted me. Prince or not, you have no respect for women or for me. After all, it is a man’s trait. I shouldn’t expect much.”

        Prince Aelor was visually shaking. He didn’t expect Sylvia to talk back and neither did she. She knew better than to smart-mouth someone of higher status and got too bold. He was a prince. At any sign of his discomfort and irritation would anyone of sane mind would be on their knees begging for their lives—all which Sylvia refused to do.

        . . .She did wonder if she said too much. Did too much. If it was better to follow through and ask for forgiveness despite who was in the wrong—which he was—and as her mother often advised. She was still yet new to court and that mouth of hers could get her killed.

        "Aelor,”

        They followed the stern voice to a man leaning against the open door with a rather amusing expression as he watched the scene unfold, possibly from the beginning. And possibly another family member by his silver hair, lighter than Prince Aelor’s, pushed from his face and brushing voluminously with light waves down his back. Important by how quickly Meya and others greeted him with a bow. 

        Prince Aelor stuttered, “B-brother.”

        Brother?

        Sylvia didn’t shy from his violet eyes staring back with such intensity, that she was convinced he could see into her soul. He wasn’t ghostly white like his brother but had a light tan that proved his love for nature. Certainly older than them both, two or three years at most. He wore a black tunic with intricate designs of red and gold along the collar enclosed around his neck, along the sleeves of his shirt reaching the cuffs, fitting his build perfectly. A steel sword laced at his belt. Attire fitting for a prince. Or a soon-to-be King. . .?

        His gaze snapped to Prince Aelor as he furthered into the room. “How would father react if he heard you’ve offended our beloved uncle’s legitimized firstborn? Could you not have waited to stick your dick elsewhere? Preferably a common whore or one of your maids.”

        Prince Aelor’s anger festered toward the smug grin Sylvia failed to bite back. “She assaulted me!” He seethed. 

        “And she did so with ease,” he gestured his head behind him. “Go on. Leave us be before you cause another mess I will have to clean up.”

        There was something about this man’s presence that cautioned his brother from crossing a line Sylvia couldn’t see. Prince Aelor was prepared to strike back and defend his honor—now stood in fear of his brother than the woman who bested him. He sent a deadly glare, bumping her shoulder before he took his leave. The cupbearer following behind.

        Sylvia picked up the cup that slipped out of the Prince’s hand and placed it on the table. “Thank you.” She released a half-filled breath of relief, the rest still held prisoner as a feeling of fear slowly seeped in. It could be Meya’s still presence that she fed from or simply the man as he just stood there.

        “Your prince,” the crease between Sylvia’s brows allowed him to answer her confusion. “I am Prince Viseron Targaryen, first of my name, eldest son of King Aul Targaryen, crowned prince and heir to the Iron Throne. Therefore, you shall address me and my brother as such. It may even save your life and your attendant.”

        Meya kept her gaze on the floor. Her lips were purple by how hard she chewed.

        Sylvia straightened herself quickly with a curtsy, only because it felt right. "My apologies for offending you, my prince." She corrected herself. It felt strange on her tongue from addressing the people in her home by their given names to addressing the people in their homes by their given titles.

        It’s unknown whether Prince Viseron was insulted for not being addressed properly or if he genuinely wished to educate her by the tone of his voice. His watchful eyes held no emotion and the projection of words didn’t help either. But his beauty was known, as her mother and the rumors that traveled quick had whispered of their untold beauty that even the Gods could make no mistake in their creation.

        His eyes were on Sylvia he rounded the table just opposite from her and poured himself a drink like he'd been here before. And had been. She had never felt small in one’s gaze as he made her feel, and lie uncertain toward how he might proceed with this offense. After all, she did assault a prince no matter how it’s viewed.

        “I’m not offended. Though, you have wounded my brother’s pride.” Prince Viseron gulped his cup in one sip. “Shall he retaliate, which I’m certain of, I won’t save you then.”

        "There's no need. I can look after myself."

        At that, he smirked.

        He didn’t doubt that. At all.

        Placing down the cup, Prince Viseron stood before her. “This is the proper way to bow in the presence of your King, not whatever you were doing before as you still do now.” He then showed her the proper way which wasn’t what she was doing before, but it certainly felt as though it was.

        But it also confirmed another mystery. So it was he who laughed at her?

        “You should wear my dress then,” Sylvia quickly added before she forgot. “My prince.”

        Prince Viseron lifted himself from the bow and regarded the woman. His silence started to grow the feeling Sylvia attempted to wash away earlier. What she said had caught him by surprise and apparently wasn’t appropriate given Meya’s unsettling expression. She forced her eyes shut as if the day would pass over. She must regret agreeing to assist the new lady.

        The breath Sylvia held began to ease when a smile tugged the Prince’s lips. It’s bigger than the one he offered, and his eyes glistened with mischief and evil intent. “Why don't you undress yourself so I may?" Tilting his head, his violet eyes raved her feminine frame.

        Sylvia blinked. "Excuse me?”

        "You wish for me to try on your dress, and I happen to like the color red in many forms. Don't you think it's my color? Or are you jealous I might look better than you?"

        It's unsure whether Prince Viseron jests or if he was serious about Sylvia undressing herself before his watchful gaze. Mere teasing she doubted he’d take to the heart.

        He motioned toward the quiet handmaiden still refusing to meet his gaze. “Help her.” He demanded.

        Meya was hesitant to move. She didn’t wish to humiliate her lady to later retaliate against her for following the prince’s order.

        “Are you serious?” Sylvia questioned his sanity.

        “I don’t jest.”

        “If I refused your brother a kiss and more, what makes you think I’d stand naked before you?”

        “Because I’m not my brother, and you are in no position to refuse me even while you hold our house name.” Prince Viseron said.

        Sylvia was quick to repeat his words, “Even if the King hears of this?”

        No fear in his eyes at the mention of his father possibly hearing of this, and instead, found the situation amusing by his careless gesture. “You have much to learn if you wish to survive at court, my lady.” Aside from humor laced on his tongue, it almost felt like he was advising her. Or a warning perhaps, should she alert the King.

        Sylvia looked to Meya hoping there was a solution to get her out of this predicament and the prince on his merry way. She was still tired and the pressure against her bladder had yet lifted, only growing worse by the second. As if aware of the answers she sought, Meya shook her head. There’s no way out of this.

        Her options were limited, but Sylvia refused to give in just yet. “My dress is too small for you.” She fought back, and at which, he came back harder.

        “I will make it work.”

        "I like it better on me."

        The corners of his mouth lifted. "So do I."

        Fuck. Nothing worked! Nothing was working on him or changing his outlook. Prince Viseron refused her excuses and Sylvia fought relentlessly to keep her clothes on and not satisfy the bored prince, and yet, nothing worked.

        His gaze shifted behind Sylvia. “Did I stutter?” His tone was harsh and cold.

        The power in his harsh voice forced Meya off her feet. “N-no, my prince. At once.” With a curtsy, she sent her lady an apologetic look—who was certainly not happy with her compliance—before obeying his orders.

        Her small, shaky cold hands were felt at her legs, grasping the intricate hem to lift over Sylvia’s head. The prince stepped back for a better view with his head slightly tilted as he watched with delight as her dress rose higher and higher. 

        She bit the inside of her cheek until it bled and looked away, hating the look in his eyes. It felt like forever until her slim calves caught light due to Meya’s constant hesitation, praying he’d find reason at some point. He didn’t.

        She bit harder. All this change and fancy bullshit and still, Sylvia held no real authority. Still she must act the same as back home; the lonely invisible girl with her head down and face covered to avoid further situations like this from happening.

        But Sylvia was tired and she didn’t want to be that girl anymore. She came all this way to King’s Landing, a city who didn’t know the girl she left to burn with Toland, and she’d be damned if she was forced back to where she started. 

        I am Sylvia Targaryen now, daughter of Prince Daemon Targaryen, Blood of Dragons and the leading house in Westeros. I’ve shed my skin for new and now I must not be here for only my mother but for myself. 

        She might not have any real authority against a soon-to-be-king and may even cost her life, but she must mean something if King Aul himself saw it too and she would use it to the ground. This was a new world and in this world, she must adapt.

        Sylvia snatched her dress from Meya before her upper thighs were exposed and the fabric fell to her ankles like how it should. “No.” She stated with firm.

        Prince Viseron’s brow lifted. “No?”

        “M-my lady—“

        “Did I stutter?” Sylvia spoke over Meya’s attempt to control the conversation and save both their lives, at which the prince stood there baffled. Almost fooled he liked it. “If this is your way of humiliating me then you are wrong. I’m not ashamed of my body or to show skin, and had you asked nicely, I would have given you a tease. But I’m disappointed.”

        “Disappointed?” He inquired with amusement.

        "You're so worried about me being jealous of you in my dress, but you should fear how good I would look in your clothes.”

        "Are we to find out now?"

        “Sorry, but I wish to retire. It’s been a long few days and I don’t have time to entertain anyone.” Yawning, Sylvia brushed her shoulder against the prince as she passed him toward her bed. “Meya, please escort the prince out of my chambers so I can piss and rest another day.”

        Meya looked at her lady as if she had lost her mind. To command a prince, the promised heir ranked at a higher status, to leave of her accord. She must have gone mad.

        The light in his eyes were easily interpreted as amusement, which Prince Viseron very much was. Like his brother, he probably wasn’t used to a challenge, to someone defending themselves and treated him like any other. But there was something else. . .like he’d finally met someone to play with. Sylvia was unsure if that was a good thing or bad.

        The prince’s lifted hand stopped Meya from escorting him. “There is no need, I can walk myself out.”

        “Perfect,” but Sylvia was curious about another matter she couldn’t let go. “How did you learn to do that so. . .proper and elegant?” 

        He knew she referred toward the curtsy he displayed. “I enjoy watching women."

        Sylvia stood straight when he stalked toward her.

        "And you," now standing in front of the girl, Prince Viseron leaned forward, his lips brushing the rim of her heated ear. He then whispered for only her ears to hear. "I shall be watching you too." 

        A chill sent down Sylvia's spine when Prince Viseron pulled back with a smug grin. They held each other's contact as he spun around and then headed for the door. A knight as big as two men followed behind once revealed.

        When he left, Sylvia rushed for the silver pot under her bed. She lifted her dress with the help of Meya rushing over to aid her and knelt to relieve herself of all that wine and tea. “Do I look funny to you when I curtsy?” She asked out of all things.

        “You have much more to worry about than that, my lady.” Said Meya, so close they were breathing each other in. “I’ve been challenged with quite a task but fear not, fear not, we shall fix it together to assure we both live long—very long—healthy lives.”

𝐓𝐇𝐀𝐍𝐊 𝐘𝐎𝐔

𝐅𝐎𝐑 𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐃𝐈𝐍𝐆

If you like what you read and wish to read more of this fic, you can read HERE

𝐀 𝐃𝐫𝐚𝐠𝐨𝐧’𝐬 𝐓𝐨𝐮𝐜𝐡

𝐅𝐢𝐟𝐭𝐡 𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫

word count: 5.3k~

warnings: mentions of war, name-calling, vulgar paintings, strong vulgar language, Targaryen/Dornish mixed bastard, mentions of sexual themes, and overall mature setting for mature (18+) audience.

a/n: this is the 5th chapter of my AU HOTD longfic featuring my Black!OC, and the last chapter of this fic that’s posted here. If these previews interested you enough, be sure to check out the masterlist on where to read the rest!!! Hope I’ve gotten your attention by now. If there’s a warning I forgot to add let me know.

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𝗖𝗵𝗮𝗽𝘁𝗲𝗿 𝗙𝗶𝘃𝗲 | 𝗟𝗮𝗱𝗶𝗲𝘀 𝗢𝗳 𝗧𝗵𝗲 𝗖𝗼𝘂𝗿𝘁

                    𝑩𝑶𝑹𝑬𝑫𝑶𝑴 𝑺𝑻𝑹𝑰𝑲𝑬𝑫 𝑰𝑻𝑺 𝑭𝑶𝑼𝑹𝑻𝑯 𝑫𝑨𝒀 𝑨𝑻 𝑻𝑯𝑬 𝑹𝑬𝑫 𝑲𝑬𝑬𝑷, and Sylvia grew hatred toward her constant studies with Maester Ollins reading massive leather-bound books, thick with extensive history behind the legendary House Targaryen and their ties to Valyria—including hundreds of houses within Westeros and political relations with and against the crown or with each other.

        Reciting words never used in her vocabulary would lock Sylvia’s jaw and copying pages upon pages with shitty handwriting and barely any practice back home with her own mother, would tire her wrists out and left her fingers cramped. Her mother was far advanced in both reading and writing, taught later in life after Sylvia’s birth, but her teachings weren’t consistent. She could only practice reading after every written word her mother wrote for her father to one day read given her popular status in the house. Writing was rare and Sylvia hated it.

        And once freed of Maester Ollins, left hours in Meya’s care as she taught Sylvia the ways of a proper lady of the court. The study of etiquette involved far more than walking in pretty dresses and keeping one’s mouth clean of cake crumbs. Curtsy when in the company of new peers and those of higher political status. Never address them by name but by title unless given permission or were under Sylvia’s status, such as Meya and many others. Head up, back straight, chest out, arms locked in front, and walk with grace as though she levitated. Not with a boyish posture, as Meya described. She was determined to cleanse the boyish nature from molding her bones. Never say too much. Never say too little. Then would clutter the table with various utensils to use and label.

        You must act as though even the Gods are watching you, Meya would say, because being a lady isn’t just a privilege of improvement and betterment, but an example to the people—lower-classed women and the poor who’d do anything to be where you are, and has convinced themselves that if they do what you do, they will one day stare behind your eyes.

        Sylvia didn’t think being a lady would be challenging and she was wrong.

        She grew delirious and starved of her freedom. She missed home and drunk travellers, and ex-lovers—still friends—laughing over countless fools. She missed her splinter-prone bow and running off to the woods with Yanis to hunt. She missed her loose-fitting clothing and the effortless movement it provided. She missed being outside. Free instead of being cooped up within the same walls for hours.

        She thought more freedom came with holding her father’s name, but freedom never tasted sweeter than it did back home. And perhaps, she didn’t know the extent of her freedom in King’s Landing because she was afraid that if she stepped out of line, King Aul would take back his word and ban her from the city. 

        But enough was enough.

        She walked out in the middle of Maester Ollins’ dreadful monologues in need of a break. A walk to clear her mind and explore the majestic castle. And a strange shriek and heaviness in the air that interrupted her lessons many times.

        Sight of a massive erotic mural of the same and opposite sex engaging in sexual activities with each other and a dragon came into view. Sylvia cocked her head as she inspected the art. “This is interesting. . ." She said. "And new."

        Meya reached her lady’s side and viewed the mural, a light tint in her cheeks almost the same color as her hair. “Very, my lady. These murals of different acts are scattered along the castle walls. You will see them quite often.” She said.

        “I assumed they were traditional. Modest."

        “It prevails by day but is another story behind the curtains. House Targaryen are quite accustomed to queer customs and often aren’t shameful or demeaning toward expressing sexuality. Much like Dorne though quite different and forced behind closed doors.” Explained Meya, lowering her voice as a few castle staff passed by. “Your father once used to host parties of such acts.”

        “Without the dragons, yes?”

        Meya laughed at her highly concerned expression. “Of course. So I’ve heard, they were extravagant and would last for days that men would leave their wives to attend and gifted their most prized possession for an invite.”

        Sylvia's brow lifted with surprise. Beyond hearing of her father's ruthless personality, it was the first she heard of his life when he lived outside of her mother’s stories. And she wanted to know more. "What more have you heard about my father?" She asked.

        “I began my work here after his passing, my lady, so I fear my words aren’t recent or credible.”

        “I’d still like to know.”

        “I heard he cut the tongue of a man who slandered his house in public as an example for his filthy mouth. Then flaunted his tongue around his neck as a necklace, rotted with flies. Before his marriage to Lady Vana, while courting her, he asked her to give him a name. Any name. The name of any who caused her heart to squeeze with stress whenever they were within her presence, so she did. And on their wedding day, he delivered her uncle’s heart on a silver platter to wipe her heart clean and transfer that stress onto his.” Meya continued. “He always made such a presence that no one dared speak unless spoken to. One might even lose their eyes if they're met. He was quite intimidating and twisted."

        “He was a prince. I imagined he’d have to be. If one steps out of line, it's one's job to push them back or others will follow behind." Words taken out of Yanis' mouth filled hers with ease.

        They spun to the cheering formed within the training pit around two men fighting. At the center, Prince Viseron pointed his steel sword, taunting his sworn protector always a few steps behind his shadow with half of his wooden shield missing.

        Having the best view above, Sylvia leaned against the rail, watching impressively. He was quite skilled and his movements were fast, just as good as Yanis. Maybe even better. Her eyes overlooked his skills and traveled below to the sweat glistening his bare chest and highlighted muscles that were hidden beneath his clothing the first they’d met. Only trousers and boots were worn during the fight, leaving nothing to imagine, but oddly, left her curious to see more while it’s shown.

        “And what of him?” Sylvia’s lip tugged between her teeth without her knowledge, studying the prince who once tried to get her naked. He hadn’t tried since then not that she’s had time for him. “What stories you’ve heard?”

        “I dare not say anything, my lady. I’d like to keep my head another thirty years.”

        “Oh, come on. Your words are safe with me. Who would I tell? My piss pot?” Still quiet, Sylvia rolled her eyes as she reminded, “I wasn’t giving you a choice. I want to know about this prince.”

        Meya was hesitant for good reason, but given the vast differences between their status, she had no choice but to obey. “Some believe he was born from the wrong father.”

        “Why so?”

        “Because he takes after his uncle, Prince Daemon. Their fury burns strong. There are far too many stories to share and talking about him makes me shiver. But one thing is certain, he’s betrothed to Julie Lannister.”

        Standing off the side near her attendant was Julie Lannister. Long golden strands with multiple braids hung in loops and intertwined delicately down her back, emerald green eyes fearful of her betrothed’s safety. She was not only quite young—around six-and-ten (16) possibly—but beautiful too. Her black dress with a crimson outline shaped her womanly frame well, some could easily believe she was older than she appeared.

        “Such a fragile thing paired with a ruthless prince who doesn’t give a damn whether she lives or not. Tis probably why he's held off the marriage for so long. About—three months I believe. Although war and house relations has preoccupied the prince's time." Meya informed and Sylvia appreciated the information. It did come as a surprise to her. She hadn’t heard a thing about this girl and the Prince didn’t present himself as a man set to marry—if there was a certain way a man should act.

        It’s not uncommon for a prince or anyone of higher status to already be betrothed as it was to become her faith too. On the outside, they looked well-suited, but if their wedding had been halted then perhaps something was happening on the inside that no one knew. Answers Sylvia was curious about.

        The crowd displayed Prince Viseron’s victory by clapping their hands with glee. Lady Julie rushed to her betrothed with words of praise but he shared his win with his component and sworn protector, Sir John—Sylvia finally remembered when she was tested to name everyone within her house and their titles while walking backward and bumped into him. He apologized first though it was her fault, his voice gruffy and deep. Lady Julie was ignored completely and stood aside as she patiently waited to be included.

        As though Sylvia’s presence was felt above, his head lifted and met her stalking gaze. She pulled back from the ledge but it was too late to pretend otherwise and grabbed her dress to dip her knees in a cursty. Like a proper lady who hadn’t been spanked on the palm of her hand with a stick or straightened until her back ached and thighs burned, and all the boyish nature had washed out of her. Most of it.

        He’s impressed by her growth, his lips pulling into a half grin with approval. Then dipped his head to greet her. 

        Sylvia lifted and couldn’t hide the gushing feeling of pride forming in the pit. She’s worked hard perfecting herself that some acknowledgment would be nice. Expected even. She greeted Lady Julie as well when following the Prince’s attention, only she didn’t return the gesture. Her bottom lip turned pink from how hard she chewed, looking at him and then back to her before lending a stiff smile.

        Meya touched her lady's arm lightly. "We have spent much time walking these halls I'm afraid Maester Ollins might assume you've abandoned him and your studies. We should return."

        The Prince took his leave. Lady Julie followed after.

        "That's because I have abandoned my studies," Sylvia admitted. "Maester Ollins is an old fuck who never keeps his eyes on the books—“

        Meya gasped. “You must mind your words, my lady. Such foul language is unacceptable for a lady.”

        Sylvia ignored her and kept speaking. “He speaks in one note, for a very long time, and isn't patient with me when I'm doing my best. What more does he want from me?”

        "We can request another, but you mustn't put off your studies. You made the King a—"

        Sylvia walked away from her attendant. She headed in the direction of the Great Room so she could continue her studies and force herself awake whenever Maester Ollins spoke. She knew very well of the promise made with the King and hated when Meya reminded her at every given second.

        “There she is!”

        Sylvia’s steps halted toward four noble women—judging by their pretty dresses and well-kept hair—rushing in her direction like children at the Sand Festival held every year back in Toland. Silly betting games where men would run bare-footed and nearly naked across the hot sand for three days for life-changing coins and honor, suffering nasty blisters, dehydration, and even death. There were also cake-eating contests. But inside was filled with poisonous sand scorpions, eating until one ultimately died or was saved in enough time. There’d be endless music and hard syrup candies for the children. Joy all around, joy that Sylvia was forced to experience from afar.

        Sylvia glanced over her shoulder to pinpoint their attention but there was no one behind them. No one of importance unless they were signaling a passing servant or patrolling guards. But as they neared it was clear she was their pinpoint. A bunch of strangers. Rather close by how they clung to each other. 

        Meya greeted the noble women and Sylvia followed in pursuit. “My lady, this is—”

        “I shall introduce myself,” a blond-headed woman with loose curls down her back and wide sharp eyes dismissed Meya as she stepped forward from the group. She bent her knees into a proper curtsy and lifted herself, her eyes glazing upon Sylvia’s scales with mere interest. “I am Lady Clarice Hayford, Daughter of Lord Benjamin, House Hayford of Crownlands. This is Lady Mercia Rosby, House Rosby of Crownlands. Lady Anya Buckwell, House Buckwell of Crownlands. And Lady Emma Wode, House Wode of Riverlands.” The last house was said in a mumble but had caught on learning briefly of the Riverlands. Of all their houses that were loyal to the crown.

        Each lady kneeled into a cursty. And as Sylvia met each woman as they rose, her gaze fell upon Lady Mercia, if she remembered correctly. Golden brown skin, shades darker than sand on its brightest day, with thick brownish red curls too wild to tame but were a looser patterning than the mess on Sylvia’s head—pinned from her narrow face with dangling ornaments, dressed in the colors of the leading house.

        Pretty, Sylvia thought to herself, she’s very pretty. They each had their own charm, whatever it was, but Lady Mercia stuck out.

        Another, Lady Anya, stepped forward. “We are very pleased to make your acquaintance. We’ve already heard so much about you.” She was very soft-spoken, light and airy like a whistle in the wind. Wide-eyed with ghostly white skin and hair as black as night. It didn’t help that her eyebrows were nearly invisible, so she appeared sickly.

        “What have you heard?” Sylvia inquired, wanting to know what had been said about her.

        Lady Anya exchanged a look with the other ladies and Sylvia could’ve sworn one had shook their head, as if to refrain her from speaking the truth. Their smiles were wide and bright and clean of evidence when she tried to confirm the gesture. “Just silly chatting. You know how it is in court.” She didn’t. Not one bit of it. “When someone new comes around, everyone is so eager to know everything about them. Few are convinced they’ve known them their whole lives. But with you here, in our circle, I believe we’ll be great friends. The bestest.”

        “My God, Anya, we are not that desperate. Be calm.” Said Lady Clarice, tugging the girl back who sent a soft glare.

        “It was your idea. You wished to confirm if the King had lost his mind bestowing a b—.”

        The woman hissed in a manner that shut Lady Anya up. She lowered her head with a pout and stepped even futher back upon the lady’s gesture. 

        Then chuckled with nerves, ironing out the creases of her dress that shaped her figure. Her manipulated curls played the illusion that her hair was voluminous, but the knitted hair piece pushing everything back showcased otherwise. “You misheard me. I would never speak ill of anyone or question one’s decision, especially the King’s.” Said through clenched teeth, still smiling. 

        “Liar.” The girl mumbled loud enough to be heard.

        “Your scales,” Lady Mercia blurted and she had Sylvia’s attention almost immediately. “They are real, are they not? I have never seen anything like it before."

        Before she could speak up, Lady Emma interrupted her. “Of course, they’re real. Why wouldn’t it not be? She has dragon blood in her veins. Only with their blood is it possible."

        It’s said the women from Riverlands were all too ugly to look at and lacked feminine hygiene and beauty, as the writings said. Swamplands and ruins from war. Emma Wode was the only beautiful daughter her mother bore; a head of brunette strands down her back, pepper green eyes, and a curvy figure to look past her flat face. A beautiful girl like her should be seen, an end to vile rumors of their house and Riverland women.

        Sylvia stood before Lady Mercia, leaning slightly forward. “Would you like to touch them?” She offered and her eyes brightened with excitement mixed with surprise.

        “Could I? Is it not rude?”

        “Not if I’m offering.”

        Lady Mercia reached out her hand and touched the scales along Sylvia’s cheek. Her touch was hesitant at first before she grew comfortable, gentle as her soft fingers outlined its trail. It was true that no one aside from Yanis and her mother had touched her scales, but there were rare occasions when Sylvia would allow a few selectives to explore her face. In exchange, she could explore them. 

        She wasn’t expecting the same deal with Lady Mercia. Not yet at least.

        “They’re beautiful,” Lady Mercia whispered, shying away from Sylvia’s intensive contact appreciating her beauty at a closer range. She liked the greenish mixture in her brown eyes. Realizing how close they were, she pulled back her hand with an apology.

        “Can I touch too? I’m curious.” Lady Anya raised her hand.

        “Me as well.” Said Lady Emma.

        It wasn’t until Lady Clarice cleared her throat that the rest stopped pestering Sylvia and followed back in line. Clearly, she held reign within the circle, leaving the question of just how powerful her house was. And much of it she didn’t wish to lose to a bastard. “You will have to excuse their excitement. Young new faces are rare to come by. While some lack discipline, they also lack personal space.”

        Many didn’t react lightly to being put down for something they couldn’t control. They were all around Sylvia’s age and younger. Full of energy and light. Trying to make the most of their life before they were no longer a girl but a married woman with duties to their husband and house. She didn’t mind their lack of discipline or personal space, or even their constant questioning. She was new to court, to their world. It’s to be expected. 

        But what she didn’t like was someone putting down others to make themselves look good. “And what do you lack?” Sylvia asked Lady Clarice. “No one is perfect, not even me. I’m curious if you lack discipline too. A mouth that just keeps talking.”

        Her mouth twitched and her eyes seemed touched with irritation as she narrowed in on the lady who dared to question her. But then the moment passed, all traces of anger left, and she offered her a stiffened smile. 

        Her lips parted with an answer prepared, but Sylvia realized she didn’t care and spoke over her with more questions to ask. “What brings you ladies to me? Whatever it is it’ll have to wait another time. My studies call to me and Master Ollins doesn’t seem like a patient man to be kept waiting.” . . .studies she would do anything to get out of with a teacher she was close to hating, but it was her promise to the King. While she prepared herself for marriage, he would provide whatever was necessary so she could learn of the house who’ve stolen her features.

        Lady Anya jumped off her feet toward Sylvia, taking her arm to lock tight. It was the kind of strength that felt the girl was scared she’d run off, and she would if given the chance. The action was sudden. “Then we shall walk you to your destination and chat. We know the way. Maester Ollins won’t say a thing with us by your side.”

        “Ah. . .okay.” Sylvia managed to say.

        Lady Emma occupied the other arm, the other ladies at their side, dragging Sylvia forward as if she were a rag-doll with weak stringy legs, vulnerable to even the mildest of control. Meya remained a few steps behind with no means to interject. She looked content with her lady with others than just her putting up with Sylvia, a break from bending and molding her bones and attitude into a proper lady. Lessons that still needed time to sink into her bones. And apparently, her brain.

        Multiple conversations were had and many questions were left unanswered due to lack of time to answer them before the next question was thrown out. It seemed Sylvia was learning more about them than they did about her. She preferred it that way. Her life was nothing of interest compared to highborn ladies who’ve seen more of the world than she had. Their hands were untouched by hash labor, smooth to the eye, their nails long and perfectly round. No scent of piss, puke, and sex lingered from their skin but the sweet aroma of lavender and. . .berries? There was not one strand out of place—thoroughly washed and brushed with limited knots and tangles, carefully curled with overnight remedies and styled to utter perfection. Not even the wind could displace their attendant's hard work.

        Even their stories were untouched by the cruelty of the world and filled with mindless pettiness, harmless pranks, and endless fun, surrounded by riches and an arm's length of friends. They were perfect. All of which Sylvia lacked and couldn’t help the jealousy pitting deep in her belly.

        A reminder that two worlds stood before them despite their feet walking the same land.

        “We remain at court while our fathers and many noble lords have been called to discuss trivial matters that have disarrayed our house and its people.” Said Lady Merica as they directed Sylvia down the wide-set stairs and through the long halls that were endless and beaming from the sun burning through. She had no idea what the subject was but went along with it.

        “I came to visit my brother. He’s recently joined the Knighthood. My father thinks it will strengthen his heart and bring forth honor.” Said Lady Anya.

        Lady Emma tugged on Sylvia’s arm, pulling her closer from Lady Anya’s previous tactic to have the girl to herself. A constant game that forced Sylvia to break free. It surely didn’t stop them coming back. 

        “But that isn’t all, is it?” Lady Merica sent a mischief look in her friend’s direction and it was the first her face had color, warming up as she refused to admit her true intentions. 

        Sylvia was very much lost. “What am I missing?”

        “She has eyes for Prince Aelor.” Lady Clarice unveiled and Sylvia scrunched her nose with disgust. She wished she hadn’t asked. 

        The girl gasped out with shock. “I do not!”

        “Do too.” Lady Emma teased. “The biggest crush. He is all you ever talk about. His kind eyes. His long legs. His calming nature. His beautiful hair.”

        Kind eyes? Calming nature? What version was she seeing?

        She unlocked their arms to cover her ears as she shouted. “I will not hear of this—this slander! And neither will either of you speak another word of my affections—should I have any—or else I’ll scream my lungs bloody and never stop until the sky roof caves in, crushing you whole.”

        “Why not save your screaming on your wedding night? You’ve practiced long enough.”

        A squeal of giggles bellowed from Lady Mercia as she took off running when Lady Anya chased after her. They laughed at the two using passing servants to block each other’s contact. Lady Mercia seemed like a shy woman at first but she was far from it, at least around her friends. There were occasions when she’d speak less that was practically invisible, and occasions when she’d make herself known and make use of it. A balance of both. 

        Sylvia certainly didn’t see what Lady Anya saw in the Prince and was convinced the girl got hit in the head by an apple or something heavy. They wouldn’t be House of The Dragon together but House of The Ghost. Uncanny and unsuited.

        Finally having Sylvia to herself, Lady Emma tugged her closer and Lady Clarice was quick to fill the empty spot. Their constant attention and closeness made her uncomfortable for reasons that she wasn’t used to. “My father claims it’s to spare our ships and men to prepare for the war up ahead. Only the best shall prevail.” She was back on the conversation of their reasoning for being at court. 

        “Except we need strong men and strong ships that won’t flood the first wave it's met.” Said Lady Clarice, in a tone that held a known story close to Lady Emma which she ignored.

        “But while at court, we accompany the future Queen to strengthen our relations that’ll benefit our future and make our house proud.” 

        “Future Queen,” muttered Lady Clarice with a sense of mock. “Whenever that will be. It's embarrassing enough having to listen to her delusions and pretend to care. There is only so much advise one can give before it’s time to return home.”

        Their shared laughter made known they knew of Lady Julie’s current predicament with Prince Viseron. Neither Sylvia nor Lady Mercia—when returning after the two grew tired and heavy with breath—found the situation humorous. She didn’t know the girl enough to find the joke and feared she’d contract her faith by downing her misfortune.

        But Sylvia couldn’t move on from their current topic deciding which games they should indulge in before supper when something Lady Emma had mentioned weighed on her mind. War.

        War was nothing new to her. Horrid stories roamed the fires back at Toland from men and former knights drinking away their trauma to any ears that would listen and even she had her first taste of it. But what concerned Sylvia was where this war was taking place and who was the intended enemy. She came to King’s Landing to create a future and safe home for her mother when she came, and couldn’t do any of that if her future was at risk. Based on many blurred lessons of war around the world with Maester Ollins, King’s Landing wasn’t all that invincible given the history of why the wall was built in the first place.

        “Will it be here? The war that's to come?” Sylvia asked.

        They grew quiet, having silent conversations with their eyes that Sylvia couldn’t understand. But when Lady Clarice was quick to fill the void when answers were sought, it was then she understood why they were hesitant to speak. “The Conquest of Dorne. The battle to last over centuries to come.” She held no filter as she played her fingers through her golden locks, eyeing Sylvia’s expression. She remained calm. “The Martells will never concede. Never to bend the knee to the crown nor compromise their terms to end this shitful fight, ultimately wasting our resources and men. Them vipers aren’t grateful no matter what we do. But enough is enough. Should they refuse us once more, we will come back harder.”

        One could not live in Dorne and not know of its conflicts not only within the country but outside of it. Even for someone like Sylvia, who didn’t care to know as it was never her concern nor was she sitting at the table with something to offer. It was strange living on the outside of the world, on the lands of the same enemies that were plotting against her home.

        Sylvia didn’t know where to stand. 

        While her roots were in Dorne, her lineage was far from it. One came with traumatic memories and a life that served no purpose while one was an opportunity in a lifetime, a purpose of many should she choose one. Or perhaps she didn’t have to choose. With her given title, she could pursue anything. There was no limit as far as she knew.

        Sylvia would always be proud of her home, grateful of her upbringing, and prideful of her Dornish roots—but wasn’t stupid to risk her life for the damn country or piss off others who were against them. The same one that took everything from her. Her mother included. And it’s people they claimed to care for. Her loyalty never extended beyond that.

        “I see,” said Sylvia, uncomfortable with their eyes on her every movement. Probably they were expecting her to curse this country and accuse Lady Clarice of spreading lies to fuel more propaganda. 

        They soon reached the door that led to the Great Room. Maester Ollins was currently inside because his distinctive voice carried through the cracks.

        Lady Anya waved her hand, dismissing the short awkwardness. “Enough of that depressing subject. Let’s leave it to the men. Why don’t you join us for a round of fox and hound after your studies before supper?”

        Sylvia never heard of this game before. “I don’t know how to play this game.”

        “You never heard of fox and hound?”

        “No. Should I? Is it popular here?”

        Lady Anya’s jaw dropped as if the girl was learning her first word, and one of the ladies had to remind her that Sylvia was not from around.

        “I can teach you. It’s quite easy once you get the hang of it if no one’s adding any last-minute rules.” Lady Mercia offered, and Sylvia would like that very much. “I’ll be the fox for the first round if you like. Just until you grow comfortable.”

        “That goes against the rules. Every newcomer must be the fox. Even I had to be for three rounds.” Lady Emma argued.

        “Surely we can bend one little rule for our new friend. That which you are—a friend in our circle. A position quite hard to obtain, even Lady Julie scrambles for our companionship that we offer you at no obligation.” Lady Clarice scooped Sylvia’s arm, walking closer toward the door and leaving the rest of them behind. Only Meya joined a few steps behind. “I hope you make up your mind soon and join us for a round or two, milady. It is a fun game to know more of each other and I can show you great hiding spots. As my father says, it’s good to have friends in every corner of the world each with something to offer.”

        Her sharp eyes and naturally arched brows made her appear as though she was constantly plotting. But while her aura was mean-spirited, she didn’t look like one with much motive other than hoarding friends under her belt within her control.

        Sylvia never had friends outside of the pleasure house or around her age, especially highborn ladies of such status—a status they shared. Making a variety of friends could serve her well in the future. She wasn’t sure what it could be or when, but knew it was in her best interest to join their inner circle. Be their friend. Accept their companionship and maintain good relations. And play a few rounds of fox and hound.

𝐓𝐇𝐀𝐍𝐊 𝐘𝐎𝐔

𝐅𝐎𝐑 𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐃𝐈𝐍𝐆

If you like what you read and wish to read more of this fic, you can read HERE

𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐦-𝐁𝐥𝐨𝐨𝐝𝐞𝐝

𝐅𝐨𝐮𝐫𝐭𝐡 𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫

word count: 4.7k~

warnings: strong language, a stalking presence, mentions of suicide, shitty French translations

a/n: this is the 4th chapter of my au longfic based off the The Originals (what if the child was a teenager/YA throughout the show duration and not at season 5?). I know the lore around vampires; Rebekah and Elijah are just being weird, already full. And just weird. This chapter has slight omniscient pov. If there’s a warning I skipped let me know.

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𝗖𝗵𝗮𝗽𝘁𝗲𝗿 𝗙𝗼𝘂𝗿 | 𝗛𝘂𝗺𝗮𝗻

        𝐖𝐈𝐓𝐇 𝐀 𝐂𝐋𝐄𝐀𝐑 𝐓𝐇𝐑𝐎𝐀𝐓 𝐎𝐅 𝐅𝐑𝐄𝐒𝐇 𝐀𝐈𝐑 𝐓𝐎 𝐁𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐓𝐇𝐄, Deena woke up with a gasp almost as if she was drowning. She immediately sat up on guard as she remembered last night's situation. However, she wasn't in a graveyard, she was in bed, in someone else's room. And it wasn't night. The morning sun blinded her and blocking out the light didn't help either.

        At her feet, a pair of folded clothes lie. It came from out her suitcase—a pair of blue mom jeans with a short-sleeved basic shirt and a yellow smiley face in the center. This house, this room, must belong to the people who saved her that night. Or was it last night?

        It's unsure how long she's been unconscious.

        Maybe Davina ended up finding her afterall and brought her home? Which meant another long day finding Klaus all over again.

        She sighed as she got out of bed, cocking her head at how easily she stood without any aches or pain done to her body, which made no sense. She almost died. That pain...that feeling of extortion never left her memory. It was nothing she has ever felt in her entire life, something she never wants to feel again. And Deena wasn't dumb, whatever happened that night should've had a bigger impact to her body. So why did she feel completely fine?

        She decided to think about it later as a foul stench came under her arms. I've definitely been out for some days. She grabbed the clothes and took a nice long, warm shower in the spacious bathroom connected to the room. After getting dressed and pushing back her thick hair with a black cloth material headband, she was left with only one door yet to explore—the door which led to whomever house this was.

        There was no sign of life as she followed down the thick gray hallways decorated with a minimalistic taste. Her hand brushed against the rails peering out toward the open courtyard. Also empty. Deena even noticed a faded red color beneath her feet, a broken window a few doors down, and a door with its handle broken off. The place appeared somewhat rundown but it had a nice homey touch to the area. It was pretty huge so it had to be expensive.

        But where the hell are the people?

        She has passed by a few rooms, yet there was no sign of life, or the people who saved her that night. Not even Davina showing out from somewhere to greet her. It was so quiet she could hear her own breathing.

        Making her way down the old stairs toward the open courtyard, Deena couldn't help but feel like there was someone behind her. Someone so close she could feel their warm breath against her neck, but when she spun to confirm her suspicion while rubbing her neck red, there was no one there. However, for a moment, she could've sworn a shadow was standing at the top of the stairs.

         "Hello?" Deena decided to finally speak. She touched her throat slightly, remembering the thick feeling of blood clogged in her lungs. "Is there anyone here? N'importe qui (anyone)?"

        The strange tingly feeling of someone's presence returned. She ignored it.

        Deena found herself in a huge kitchen. It was the biggest kitchen her eyes had ever laid upon. If her mom was here, she'd love this kitchen and be in it all day. Herself too. It was spotless and brand new, almost as if it's never been touched. Odd how the house appeared as though it went through hell but the kitchen remains untouched.

        A gust of wind blew against her backside as Deena furthered into the kitchen.

        She was about to reach for the fridge handle in hopes there was something to eat, until a deep voice rumbled her organs. "I would not open that fridge if I were you. It's a bit of a mess and not prepared for your arrival."

        Deena spun around with a gasp, slamming her body against the cool fridge. She's faced with a tall, brown-headed man dressed in a sharp freshly-steamed black suit. She eyed the kitchen for a weapon to defend herself from the mysterious man with a familiar tone of voice.

        Recognizing her fear, he took a respectable step back to allow Deena her space. "My apologies, I tend to be silent on my feet." He explained. She only stared. "Where are my manners, my name is Elijah Mikaelson—" Deena's head perked at his surname. Mikaelson? "—Niklaus's elder brother, your...uncle I suppose is the proper word." Elijah noticeably cringed at the word 'Uncle'. Just as Klaus, it tasted foreign on his tongue.

        It took Deena a moment to connect Niklaus to Klaus Mikaelson, her father. So this wasn't Davina's place afterall. "He's alive?" She lets down her guard with a question that's been on her mind.

        Elijah sized the child for unhealed injuries. "Very much so. He is a tough man to kill." Of course, she'd be perfectly fine with Rebekah's blood in her system, but he was worried for her mentally. No child should ever have to go through a tragic experience even by the hands of witches and their long history of child sacrifices. "How do you feel? You weren't in the best shape when we found you."

        "I feel..." There were many things Deena currently felt; confused, energetic, powerful, relieved to be alive and to have found her father though she's yet to meet him, a lot better than when she arrived, and... "Hungry. Very hungry."

        "Yes," He searched around the kitchen for food that wasn't there. "Hunger. We should get you something to eat and I will make that happen. Come with me."

        Deena followed behind Elijah. "How long have I been out?"

        "About two days or so."

        Deena stopped in her trail.

        Elijah also heard when her footsteps haltered. When he faced her, he noticed a distant look in her brown eyes. "There seems to be something on your mind? What is bothering you?"

        Deena shook her head. "It's nothing. I shouldn't bother you w—"

        "I don't mind the bother. In fact, I would be more than eager to know whatever is on your mind at all times if you, of course, permit me to know."

        Her lips parted as she took a step back, not expecting his response. His attention. His care for her well-being and a will to listen to her and whatever was said out her mouth. She hasn't felt this way since her mother passed away and liked it. A lot. It was what she wanted, for someone to care about her again. She could only wonder what her father was going to be like when they met.

        "I-I don't," Deena shrugged, stumbling over her words to make sense of everything. "I don't understand what happened when I woke up in that graveyard. That woman seemed to know me but I don't know her—I don't know anyone here! She told me I could help her coven, that I was upsetting the balance of magic...and threw a girl I met against the wall like a wizard. And caused so much pain to my body without touching me. I don't...how? How's that possible?"

        Elijah took note of Deena's confusion. He was as well confused himself given her mother and her long history of heroic acts. "Your mother never told you..." He trailed off to leave the answer up for his niece to fill in and make sense of.

        Deena blinked. "Told me what?"

        Elijah fell to silence with a soft hum.

        Wishing to press the matter no more and lead the child to a source of human food, his ears perked at footsteps heading in their direction. He took a cautious step in front of Deena in a protective manner until the footsteps came with a face entering the kitchen. Elijah then backed down.

        A white woman with long, flowy blond hair dressed in a leather jacket with a light pair of jeans (in this heat) entered the kitchen they were just about to exit. She noticed Deena on her way in and rose her threaded brows in surprise almost as if she'd seen a ghost. "Well, look who is alive. Of course, you would be, you're a Mikaelson; we always survive whatever hell is thrown our way." She paused, thinking. "Well...not all, but most find a way."

        Deena looked to Elijah for confirmation. "This is R—"

        She stiffened as the woman went in for a hug. She failed to warn Deena of this action and looked to Elijah for help who simply allowed it to happen. "Wow. You smell good," She inhaled deeply. To the vampires, to Elijah more specifically, the saying could've meant anything and he was going to stop his sister from whatever impulse until Rebekah sensed him. "Relax, Elijah, it's a compliment. You know I would never harm a child nevertheless my niece."

        "Sorry...who are you?"

        "Rebekah Mikaelson, but you may call me Aunt Bekah. I quite like it; It has a nice ring to it. Aunt Bekah." She repeated to see how it sounded off her lips again.

        Another Mikaelson whom Davina mentioned. His sister. Unsure of their ages, they both appeared quite young. Rebekah near her age or older and Elijah in his mid 20's. She wasn't sure where her father fits in yet but given the picture he took with her mother, he should be in his late 30's or early 40s possibly. Davina also mentioned they were troubling and terrorizing the city, but they didn't seem all that scary to her. She admits, there was something definitely off about them but not entirely questionable.

        "I'm Deena Salée...which you know already." She laughed nervously, overwhelmed by meeting her family. It used to be only her and her mom, but now she has an uncle, an aunt, and even a father...wherever he might be.

        Elijah smiled. "Salée it's a French surname and judging by the accent, you are?"

        She nodded proudly. "Oui,"

        "Mon frère a vraiment une attirance pour les françaises, du coup, je ne suis pas vraiment surprise." (My brother definitely has a thing for French women , so I'm not surprised)

        Deena lifted a brow at Rebekah's perfect pronunciation. "Tu peux comprendre le français (You understand French)?" She asked. She was happy to have met someone who spoke her native language.

        "Please, I probably invented it." Rebekah mused as she pulled herself onto the squeaky clean counters. She brushed her fingers through her long locks before flipping it effortlessly over her shoulder. "With all the time we have, acquiring languages is like teaching a baby to walk. It's easy. Après tout, tu est à New Orleans (After all, you’re in New Orleans). French is everywhere."

        "We want you to be comfortable, Deena. If you prefer us to communicate in a language you're most comfortable with using, we will be happy to abide." Elijah reassured.

        Rebekah agreed as well.

        Deena only met these people today and they would go to great lengths to make her comfortable even enough to speak her language. It was all too real to be true. More dreamlike than true. "I appreciate it, but we spoke both English and French at home. I can use the extra practice anyway so English is perfect for me."

        "As you wish,"

        Both vampires flickered to Deena at the sound of her stomach growling. It was the tiniest growl. One she couldn't hear though she felt its soft vibrations beneath where her hand rested. Rebekah jumped off the counters, searching through cabinets and hidden spots when Deena lifted her head from her growling stomach, which growled more. A sound Deena heard this time.

        She slammed the nearest cabinet with a dragged groan. "No matter how many bloody times I check, no human food lies about. You must forgive us, Deena, we weren't expecting guests. Alive at least." Human food? Deena looked to Elijah who was glaring at Rebekah, who paid no mind to either of their stares and faced Deena with her arms crossed. "What do you say, little niece? Shall we eat a restaurant dry?"

        Despite her confusion, Deena gave a nod. "Okay," She eased into a smile.

        "Rebekah," Elijah called pressingly. "A word please in the hallway." Once acquiring his sister's attention, he gestured to the hallway outside of the kitchen.

        Of course, she arrived within seconds using vamp speed. Elijah released a stressful sigh at her rash actions. Luckily, Deena was occupied with an ancient-looking vase in the kitchen to witness it.

        "Did I say something wrong? You know I've never been great with children, but I'm willing to learn. Always."

        "It's not that," Elijah peered into the kitchen to check on the child once more. She sat at the counter waiting for their return.

        Oddly, she felt the vibrations of their voices speaking. The same vibrations she heard from those around her. And sometimes if she focused hard enough, she'd hear sounds she could not see. But she couldn't hear them. It was an on-and-off thing that started a month ago. Possibly a special gift. Like a mutant from X-Men.

        It was so strange to Elijah—to all of them—after living an immortal life with no care for mortals who surrounded them as they all perished in time and often by their hunger, to now having a mortal child of their blood in their care. He couldn't keep his eyes off her and believed it to be a fever dream.

        "I'm afraid the child has no knowledge of this world and the creatures which lie within it. I believe her mother has failed to inform her."

        Rebekah scoffed. "Her mother is a powerful witch, an unforgettable one who has done a lot for the communities in her prime time. How could she not know? You can't just turn off magic whenever you want."

        "Her mother might have her reasons. Though she was respected by the deeds she sow, she was as well a threat to those who despise her coalition outside her community." Elijah explained, placing himself in her shoes. "For now, we should reframe from making Deena think we are otherwise but human, which begins with the choice of your wording sister."

        "Well, how the hell do you suppose we do that? The Quarter is roamed with vampires and witches, including her hybrid father who can't control his impulses. Not to mention tonight's a full moon so every vampire who's not across that river will be here. And if she's anything like her mother, I'm sure there's a magical storm cooking up somewhere in her. If not now."

        Deena's ears perked, the vibrations of Rebekah's voice repeating back 'if not now'. She heard her. As clear as day, as if she was standing right over her shoulder, Deena could hear their conversation. Well, not all. She only heard that part and what's to come after. Anything else before that line, nothing.

        But that wasn't all. The ancient-looking vase she once admired before she took her seat at the counter, rattled. Right before her eyes, a force once used after her mother died. When she mourned her death, every window in the house shattered and papers flew everywhere—the same that's happening now. Against the vase.

        She peered back to where Elijah and Rebekah conversed and continued watching the vase, until her focus was brought back to Elijah's speaking. "I have the means to do some digging. Afterall, she is a Mikaelson born from a hybrid father and w—" Deena jumped to her feet with a yelp as the vase continued to rattle, more violently now. Its rattle kept her from concentrating on their conversation and putting together the mixed pieces.

        "...but for now, we are human. And we are hungry..."

        There was something about the rattle, around this very room, within her, which was calling to her. And when she lifted her hand, not knowing what else to do, or why she should do it—it stopped. The rattle stopped. Astonished, Deena peered down at her hand. Then at the vase. What the hell? Did I do that?

        "Deena, are you ready to go?"

        Deena jumped with a gasp at Elijah's voice scaring her from behind without any warning. Her heart thudded in their ears and intensified as she followed his curious gaze toward the vase...the vase she stopped with her hand. 

        "Y-yeah, I'm ready. Just waiting for you two."

        Rebekah revealed herself from behind Elijah's tall figure. "Great because I know an amazing place that will make you feel right at home." She cheered.

━━━━━━ ━━━━━━

        𝐃𝐄𝐄𝐍𝐀 𝐖𝐎𝐔𝐋𝐃’𝐕𝐄 𝐒𝐔𝐆𝐆𝐄𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐃 𝐀𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐑 𝐏𝐋𝐀𝐂𝐄 𝐓𝐎 𝐄𝐀𝐓 𝐈𝐅 𝐄𝐋𝐈𝐉𝐀𝐇 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐑𝐄𝐁𝐄𝐊𝐀𝐇 were only going to watch Deena eat instead of eating themselves. They acted as if she was filming a mukbang or was fascinated by how much food she digested though all she ordered was red beans and rice with ham hock and lemon water on the side. They brought her to this local spot which served traditional dishes famous in New Orleans. She was overwhelmed by the menu and asked the waiter for recommendations. After having a taste of this delicious delight, Deena could never go back. This was currently her favorite spot.

        A hand soft on Deena's shoulder, "How you liking your food, baby?" It was Lovelie, the owner of the restaurant 'Mama's Joint'. She appeared in her late 40's though with her hair braided individually and pulled back into a half-down style, she looked even younger. But she was sweet and her aura reminded Deena of her mother in a sense.

        "I might become a regular." Deena replied. Judging by the red sauce on her lips, she enjoyed the food a lot more than expected.

        Lovelie smiled. "I'm pleased to see it's a Mikaelson thing. They sure favor this place. Kept me in business for years."

        It was new to be referred to as a Mikaelson though her surname legally remained a Salée. She didn't feel worthy of having their name when they were still strangers to each other. She felt it's a name she must earn and not be given on a silver platter. But stranger or not, it didn't stop Elijah from introducing Deena to Lovelie as his niece.

        "Much more than your delightful cuisines but the culture you put into your work. We always appreciate the city inside and out." Elijah complimented.

        "I'm touched," She sent him a pleased expression before she tapped Deena's shoulder again. "Let me know if you need anything else."

        After she left, Deena took note of their untouched food. Rebekah ordered a drink while Elijah ordered a chocolate fudge cake—all which still remained untouched. The most Elijah had done was poke his fork in the cake.

        "Are you guys not eating?" They followed Deena's furrowed brows to their untouched items.

        "I'm afraid I ate before coming here," Elijah replied, crossing his arms. And he had, but it wasn't human food.

        Deena looked to Rebekah waiting to hear her excuse next. "Me too, but this cake looks tasty," She slid Elijah's cake in front of her and began eating. She ate as if Deena was holding a gun to her head when it was only a simple question, and smiled when feeling Deena's stare. "Just as I remembered...eating this a day ago."

        They both went back to eating. Rebekah actually enjoying the sweet delight though full from an earlier feast.

        But for now we are human and we are hungry. The words played back into Deena's head as she ate her food silently. She inspected them—two perfectly statued humans who appeared human for the most part. They act like humans. They sort of ate like humans. So what did Elijah mean by that statement? Were they not human at all? Or didn't believe they were? They were a bit weird in a sense but Deena brushed it off. It was nice to be around family again.

        Elijah felt the presence of someone near and peered out the window to confirm his suspicion. A fainted smile then curled his lips after narrowing his gaze to the hand fidgeting with the folded napkin.

        Deena went to follow his gaze wanting to know what caught his attention, but her view was clouded by Rebekah's head as she barged the young teenager with questions as if they were in an interview. "Tell us about yourself, Deena. I feel the better we know each other, the more we won't feel like strangers." She continued, shoving a forkful in her mouth. "How about we start with the basics? What's your favorite food? Favorite color? Any boys you fancy? Or girls? Do you recall a moment in life where you felt...magical?"

        Elijah's eyes went big at Rebekah's question and cleared his throat loud enough to put her in her lane, but she ignored Elijah, waiting patiently and eagerly for Deena's response. More so the lather.

        Deena looked between the two. "Um..." She trailed.

        While Deena thought of what to say, Elijah decided to speak in his word while he had the chance. "One question at a time, Rebekah. She is still eating." He told her in a calm, pressing manner.

        She rolled her eyes. "You can't blame me for being excited, but fine. I will wait until she's finished eating. I forget mort—" Caught herself with a smile. "—we tend to eat slow at times. Take your time, dear. Just not all day."

        "It's okay, I'm finished."

        Deena continued to stuff down ham despite her mouth already filled with rice. She was trying to finish her meal in a couple of bites, but her calculations were way off. Much off. The servings here were much bigger than what's given in her country, it would probably take her a day or two to complete. But it didn't stop her from trying.

        Elijah saw she was forcing herself to eat faster and grew worried, as well as the stalking guest across the street before a phonecall occupied his attention. "Please, do take your time and be careful to not choke." He reached for her drink, placing it in front of her and held it there until she took the cup to sip from. "If you wish to finish your meal, we can wait. Believe me, we have all the time in the world to hear the side of your story."

        And Deena did just that. She ate as much as she could hold with the help of lemon water washing down the food. The rest would be scooped in a to-go box and bagged up for a later dinner or midnight snack.

       After a moment of letting everything settle, she sat in her chair with nothing on her brain as she began to think about herself. Of course, she knew all of the things she liked and found passion in, but having to form them into words so that another person could understand her was hard. It reminded her of the first day of school when the teacher chooses a student one-by-one to stand up and share what they've done over the summer including three interesting facts about them. Deena was normally picked last and when she couldn't think of what to say—despite being given a 20+ student headstart—she'd repeat what another had said in different words. But this time, she was the first to be picked.

        "I'm not really a picky eater so I can eat just about anything, but I love cheesecake! It was so bad at one point my mom had hidden the cake and forced me to eat something real. But no matter where she kept it hidden, I always found it. I like oranges too—my favorite fruit. I eat them mostly in the mornings but I like them as a fresh snack throughout the day. And..."

        Deena paused just to make sure she wasn't talking too much or boring either of them to death, but they seemed to not mind her chatter and were genuinely interested in her life.

        Rebekah shared a smile upon hearing the story. "Damn. I guess I'm the only picky eater in the family." She jokingly smacked her lips.

        "Continue on," Elijah prompted.

        "Uh...I like pastel colors, nude is nice too. Better most times. Opposite from my mom who wore every color on the rainbow, she would change her clothes four times a day if it wasn't as crazy or expressive enough. And she would..." Deena stopped herself before she got carried away speaking too much about her mother. Because when she did, she would get emotional, and when she's emotional, she will cry; and when she does cry, it will be hard to stop. And weird things happened when she cried. "Sorry. I was supposed to be talking about me, but I'm here talking about my mom instead. I probably killed the mood." The chuckle Deena let loose was painful, easy to see through, so she stopped and started messing with her unfinished food.

        Elijah handed her a napkin he wasn't fidgeting with the moment a tear shed. "It's quite alright, Deena." He was never great at comforting children, but he was better at it than most of his siblings. So he believed. "I don't mind either story you tell."

        "Speaking of your mother, does she not know you're here? France is very far away, you're a minor, and I'm sure your mother's stapling missing posters across towns."

        Silence.

        Elijah sent his sister a soft glare. She has a big problem with not reading the room and saying whatever was on her mind without thought. "If you prefer we talk about something else we can," Offered Elijah. "Maybe even about ourselves so you don't feel the spotlight is only on you."

        Deena admired her uncle's compassion. She actually would rather talk about them instead of herself because what she was practicing in her head failed to translate properly out her mouth.

         But since they were on the conversation, Deena assumed now to be a decent time to tell everyone the truth. "My mom doesn't know I'm here," She started, fidgeting with the napkin under the table to avoid their contact. "But I didn't run away either. The truth is, she died a month ago; suicide. And when she left, I sort of went through her things—which is where I found a letter about my father and where he lived—then came here on a whim without much planning. I know she didn't want me to come here for whatever reason, but..." She shrugged. "I came anyways and I don't regret it. But if my presence here complicates anything, I don't mind leaving. I can—"

        Rebekah calmed her racy thoughts by grabbing her hand and bringing her mind back to earth. "You're a Mikaelson, love. There is no other place we want you to be but here with us." She reassured her niece, relieved they weren't shipping her back to France so soon.

        When both siblings exchanged a glance, it was clear they shared the same thought surrounding Vanessa's death—flawed. Neither knew Vanessa on a personal level or as well as Klaus did, so maybe it was true and she was fighting some inner demons she couldn't beat. But in a world they live in and the person Vanessa was, suicide was just another easy stamp on cases with evidence beyond the human's capacity. Either it was a case they couldn't understand, or was too lazy to solve and threw it away.

        Elijah stood from his seat, almost jumping in action, and acquired both their abrupt attention. "I will have to hold off on my introduction since a matter has come up." He sent a smile foolish enough to fool Deena, but Rebekah saw past it. "I will make it up to you another time, Deena."

        She frowned a little. "I understand."

        They watched him leave.

        Rebekah then scooted in. "Now that it's just us girls, do tell, do you have a lover back home? A prince charming or princess missing you and waiting for your return?"

𝐓𝐇𝐀𝐍𝐊 𝐘𝐎𝐔

𝐅𝐎𝐑 𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐃𝐈𝐍𝐆

If you like what you read and wish to read more of this fic, you can read HERE

𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐦-𝐁𝐥𝐨𝐨𝐝𝐞𝐝

𝐅𝐢𝐟𝐭𝐡 𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫

word count: 2.1k~

warnings: eventual violence, vivid nightmare

a/n: this is the 5th chapter of my au longfic based off the The Originals (what if the child was a teenager/YA throughout the show duration and not at season 5?). It’s also the last chapter preview posted. If these previews interested you enough to read more into the series, check out the masterlist to bring you where you need to go!!! If there’s a warning I skipped let me know.

<- PREVIOUS | MASTERLIST ->

𝗖𝗵𝗮𝗽𝘁𝗲𝗿 𝗙𝗶𝘃𝗲 | 𝗔 𝗗𝗿𝗲𝗮𝗺 𝗧𝗵𝗿𝗼𝘂𝗴𝗵 𝗧𝗵𝗲 𝗡𝗶𝗴𝗵𝘁, 𝗔 𝗡𝗮𝘁𝘂𝗿𝗲 𝗧𝗵𝗮𝘁 𝗕𝗶𝘁𝗲𝘀

        “𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐒 𝐈𝐒 𝐘𝐎𝐔𝐑 𝐑𝐎𝐎𝐌!” Rebekah held open the door to the same room Deena woke up in earlier today. Since it was just her and Rebekah since Elijah had matters to take care of, she decided to give her niece a tour of the large compound that was to be her home. "Was once Kol's, but he no longer needs it. I figure you will put it to good use."

        The brother who died. One of them at least.

        Deena learned her family was a lot bigger than expected. Her father was the middle child out of his six siblings, most who have died of natural causes or complications at a young age, as Rebekah—the youngest—explained. She didn't talk much about their parents, her grandparents, and kept details about the dead short and simple. She did mention her grandparents were from Norway, but born in some town called Mystic Falls before they found comfort here in New Orleans. But as Deena continued to spend her time here, though it hadn't been long, New Orleans was beginning to feel like home too.

        "Wow, this is a lot of white."

        Now that she wasn't panicking over an unexplainable memory and it was confirmed her heart was in fact still beating, Deena could finally appreciate the room. A king-sized bed divided the room equally. Dressed in cream-white sheets and brown-mixed pillows, no evidence of blood which was there earlier. The floors are wooden, a perk for spills and paint. Near the bed stood a sizeable curtain-less window with a built-in couch. There were also two doors located in her room beside the main door; one led to a full-sized bathroom with two sinks and a connected bath and showerhead, and the other led to a walk-in closet.

       This room had no personality.

       And after living the majority of her life with her colorful mom, she wasn't used to classic, bland interior and it was a major turn-off.

       Rebekah glanced out the window with curiosity. "Trust me, I know. My brother hired some uptown designer from Manhattan to refurnish the house after it was occupied by a handsome fella we don't speak of." She continued. "I don't think your father cares much for the interior as long as the house is still standing and there's no signs of the previous owner."

        Nodding, Deena entered the closet, astonished at its size. She never had this much space back home, but she wasn't cramped either. "I didn't bring a lot of clothes to fill this closet. I brought what I could carry and left everything back home, which isn't going to last me but a week or two."

        "Not a problem. Say the word and we'll go on a girls-only shopping spree!"

        Deena would never fight against someone willing to pay for her, but this was different. Her old friends back home who had big families told her once that first impressions were everything. Once you start asking for money and depending on everyone's help and getting too comfortable while doing so, then you gain the title of a "Beggar". And Deena didn't want that kind of label stuck to her name forever.

        "I don't know..." Exiting the closet to Rebekah struggling to pinpoint the drain in her tone, Deena continued. "You guys already done so much for me; you fed me, welcomed me willfully into your home, gave me a roof under your house, and now you're offering to pay for this and that. I don't want you thinking I can't do for myself even when you aren't around. I don't wanna waste your hard-earned money on useless needs."

        Though this room could use a makeover and a few outfits won't hurt.

        With a sigh, Rebekah plopped down on the couch at the window. "Love, you're a child." And so was she. There were the same age, but she seemed to possess an old soul. "These are basic needs you shouldn't have to think too hard about. If I had your mindset each time a man has offered to spoil me, I would have been called an ungrateful bitch. Which I have for other reasons," She was stirring away from her point, losing Deena in the mix but got back to what she was saying. "But to the point, you can be independent and willing to accept help at the same time. You are my niece and will be the only—let me provide for you. Money is not a problem and it will never be. How about we go pick up some things and refurnish this room into your likings? I know you hate it as much as I do. It's giving me a bloody headache."

        Rebekah jumped to her feet excited to venture out in the city and spend a load of money without looking at the price tags. It was also an excuse to hang out with Deena more though she has all eternity to do so. Having a mortal, growing niece meant so much to her and she wanted to be there every step of the way.

        Deena rubbed her neck, filling her lungs with a tiresome yawn. "Can we do it another time? I'm a little tired. Jet-lagged." Deena felt the opposite of tired; she felt energized to the point she could jump off a tall building and somehow survive. She had two days to get over her jet-lag but after eating at Mama's Joint, she needed to sleep it off.

        "Of course, we can. Whenever you want. I will be right outside if you need me."

        Deena headed across the room where her open luggage lies next to the bed. She had already taken off her shoes before entering and bent to her knees to search for something comfortable to wear. Sleeping in jeans made her uncomfortable, so she found a pair of boy boxers and stood to undress—until Rebekah's figure was standing at the door Deena watched her disappear from. She clenched her chest with a gasp. She was silent on her feet like Elijah.

        "Sorry for scaring you," She sent her an apologetic smile. "Just wanted to tell you that if you happen to wake up and find the courtyard scattered with random people, don't be alarmed. They work for your father. Tonight's a...a meeting is being held. They could be here all night possibly, but I rather you stay here until morning. You're a pretty girl and who knows what their intentions are."

         A business meeting all night? Deena decided to not question it and gave a nod. "I might sleep all night through day anyways." She reassured. "I ate too much."

         Rebekah sent one last smile before closing the door behind her. Leaving for real this time.

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        𝐒𝐔𝐃𝐃𝐄𝐍𝐋𝐘, Deena is running in the woods.

        Her chest heaved, her throat cold and dry from the amount of air rushing in her lungs, sweat painting her skin like a beautiful piece made of oil painting, she kept running even when she was close to giving out. It was so dark with little to no light guiding her besides the full moon shining down against her shoulders. She couldn't see anything and had to trust her instincts to guide her out the woods that went on forever like an endless maze.

        She glanced over her shoulder—nothing but darkness.

        She kept running.

        She didn't know who or what she was running from or why she felt nothing but fear, but she kept running and never looked back.

        Deena ran past the tall trees encaving her surroundings and entered the entrance of a large green field of nothing. She took a moment to catch her breath, hovered over her quivering squatted knees as she sucked in a large proportion of air that was failing to calm her hammered chest. Then suddenly, a shadow appeared before her. A familiar face. One that pained her to see.

        Deena stepped forward, cautiously with furrowed brows. "Maman?" It was her. Her mother. Tall, thick tight curls filling her head, wearing the last thing Deena saw her in; a fitted tank top under black overalls with paint dried along the thigh area and splattered dots at her waist. Overwhelmed by suppressing emotions, tears filled her brown eyes. "You're supposed to be dead. How are you here? Why are you here?"

        She went to hug her mother, only to fall through her like a ghost. She plunged hard to the ground with no will to get up.

        Deena stared up at her mother who stared down at her with disappointment. "Why are you here? I told you not to come here yet you came anyway? You never listen to me, Deena. Why don't you ever listen?"

        Deena stared at her hands. "Why can't I touch you?" She questioned, ignoring her mother's clear disappointment. "C'est un rêve (Is this a dream)? Am I dreaming?" 

        "You need to leave this city. It's too dangerous with you being here."

        "But I just got here. I'm not leaving."

        "I'm protecting you, Deena!" She shouted with panic then lifted her gaze to nothing but darkness above. "You don't know what you're doing. What you are. What I've done to ensure your safety. It's only a matter of time before she finds you."

        "Who?" Deena struggled to her feet. "Who's coming for me?"

        Instead of answering Deena's concerns amongst many things, she watched her mother peer around the field as if she was looking for someone or sensed someone was near and reached for Deena's wrist, successfully touching her. Deena's eyes grew wide with shock. She felt warm. Real. She could even feel the tiniest hairs brushing along her arm.

        "How is this possible? You feel so real."

        She continued to drag Deena across the field. "She knows you're here. She has sensed you. Come home now—home where I can protect you. Where you should be."

        Deena was stuck on the fact she could touch her mother that she didn't realize how tight her grip was digging into her skin. "Maman, you're hurting me—Ouch!" She attempted to pull free but her mother didn't bother. Deena tripped over herself, and instead of them stopping or her making sure she was okay, she was being dragged along the grassy field. Her mother has never been this powerful. And the woman she knew would never hurt her. "You're hurting me, get off! I said GET OFF!" A magical force came from her hand, releasing her grip from her mother's.

        The force was too strong and sudden it swept her mother off her feet and Deena just a few feet away. She didn't realize what she did until it happened. Her hand clamped over her mouth. "I'm sorry! I didn't mean to. Maman, I—"

        However, her mother wasn't phased by her magical powers. She was looking past Deena with a fearful look on her brown face before she stumbled back.

        Deena was unable to see what her mother saw before a cold hand gripped her neck, suffocating her of oxygen she was already lacking. It was a person in a black cloak. All she saw was blackness when looking for a face. When the figure motioned their hand through the air, blood leaked from a scratch burning across her cheek and Deena gritted her teeth to conceal its pain.

        She couldn't fight them. They were a lot stronger than her. Even her mother failed to fight them off and disappeared after chanting words said by the hooded individual. They then lashed out their tongue, licking Deena's sweat-stained skin, tasting her blood. And the magic that lurks within.

        They hummed, satisfied by what they discovered. "There is power in your blood, child. Such power I seek." A woman's voice spoke through darkness. A thick Nordic accent coated her tongue. Deena squirmed under her hold, unable to escape from, but her breathing grew heavy and pain signals tracked all over her body. The dark head lifted their gaze to the full moon rising at its peak, and though her expression was blacked-out, Deena felt her frown. "But it seems another force of nature calls onto you. We shall meet again. Even if I must stop nature at its course, we will."

        Deena was released.

        She woke up with a terrifying scream scratching up her throat in a puddle of sweat. Red eyes that were once dark brown ceased beneath the shadows, and her ears were filled with the loud cracking of her bones invading her peaceful nature.

𝐓𝐇𝐀𝐍𝐊 𝐘𝐎𝐔

𝐅𝐎𝐑 𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐃𝐈𝐍𝐆

If you like what you read and wish to read more of this fic, you can read HERE