"In your dream, you are jealous of tragedies.
and the truth is, we all want our own tragedy,
because life is pale without it.
We want the teeth, the screaming.
the survival that comes with it."

111 AC

⋇⋆✦⋆⋇

Naerys walked through the darkness, but it wasn't walking—not exactly. Her bare feet sank into the syrupy floor beneath her, every step dragging through the muck like wading through treacle. The nightgown she wore clung to her legs, soaked in something slick and warm, trailing behind her like a shroud. She couldn't see, but that was almost a relief, and the pitch blackness was an escape from whatever strange things cracked and squelched beneath her soles. She didn't want to know what they were. Her right arm was stretched out to the side, fingertips brushing the walls, which were just as sticky, just as wrong. 

She was back in the labyrinth. Always back in the labyrinth.

The air was stifling, thick as if it had weight, and every breath she took felt like inhaling soot. There was no breeze, no noise beyond her slow, trudging steps and the constant dripping of something unseen. Her feet ached, but she could not stop. She never could. The labyrinth did not allow it. Some nights were merciful. Some nights, she would wake before she reached the center before she could see what waited for her there, but not today.

So she dragged her feet like a child avoiding punishment, unwilling but unable to disobey, and the hallway wound on endlessly, its serpentine path curving and curling into itself. On and on, until finally, she arrived at a cavern.

A dim light, pale and sickly, filled the chamber, and Naerys flinched as it seared her eyes after so much time in the dark. She blinked, tears stinging as she adjusted, but the smell—gods, the smell—hit her like an anvil. The cloying stench of rot and decay wrapped around her, sinking into her skin, her dress, her very bones. She could taste it in the back of her throat, metallic and rancid, as though she had swallowed the death that hung in the air.

She knew what would be waiting, and she didn't want to see it. Instead, she let her gaze wander to the walls, searching for the source of the light, though she already knew she'd find none. It didn't matter. The glow came from everywhere and nowhere, a cold illumination that seeped from the stone like an infection, festering.

And still, she didn't look at the figure. She didn't want to.

But her eyes betrayed her, and slowly, with a deep, sinking dread, she turned toward the center of the chamber. There, standing in the midst of the room, was the thing. He wore the dull, shapeless grey robes of a maester tonight, though the hood was drawn over his head, over a face that wasn't a face, hiding a man who wasn't a man. He was too smooth, too featureless, like a blank slate where a person should have been, and his arms were folded across his chest, his head cocked like he was waiting for her to speak, to apologize, to beg.

Naerys never knew what for. 

The figure moved, taking a step toward her, and that sound—the one that always came, like nails against stone—echoed in her skull before she even heard it. Her teeth clenched, her innards knotting as the dreadful clicking reverberated through her mind. His feet were always hidden but he had to have been shod, for nothing else could have explained that abysmal noise.

When he stepped aside, Naerys's breath hitched in her throat, the sob she had swallowed earlier clawing its way back up. For weeks now, she had been spared this sight—this dreadful, inescapable nightmare—and for a fleeting moment, she had foolishly believed she might be free of it. But the gods sought to punish her for a sin she knew not of, and there it was, laid out before her, as clear as the terror that gripped her heart.

Behind the man was the bed, and in it, a woman lay once more. The faceless woman, as familiar to Naerys as her own name, and though her features were just as blank as his, she was unmistakable. Her skin was nearly translucent, an eerie veil of flesh that barely concealed the network of veins and blood vessels beneath. It was like looking through a shroud in the face of death itself.

But what Naerys hated the most, what sent a shudder of revulsion through her bones, was the grotesque swell of the woman's belly. Discoloured and bloated beyond recognition, it stretched the skin so tightly that inky veins spiderwebbed across it, a cracked mirror reflecting something unspeakable. It was as though some corruption had taken root there, poisoning the life that might have once grown inside.

Naerys despised this part the most.

In the past, she had made the mistake of watching what came next, back when she was far too young to have known better, but she had learned her lesson well. And so when the grey-robed man raised his taloned hands like a predator above the woman, the princess squeezed her eyes shut. 

Even when the clamour began—the wet, sickening rip of flesh tearing, the sharp crack of bone snapping—she kept her eyes closed, clenching her fists so firmly that her nails bit into her palms, but it did nothing to dull the grotesque noises. The sound of chewing, slow and deliberate, filled the space around her, but it wasn't just in the room—it was inside her head. Viscous, slurping, monstrous. Each bite echoed in the hollow of her skull, and she could have picked the very coils of her brain apart, but she would still not be rid of it. 

Naerys pressed her hands over her ears, her fingers digging into her scalp as if she could block out the horror that crawled beneath her skin, but it was useless because it was everywhere. And still, she refused to look.

The woman's whimpers had turned to sharp, agonized screams, high-pitched and inhuman, as though something was being torn from her very soul. It sounded absurdly similar to a butchered pig, or rather, a pig that was just about to be butchered, in those mere moments when the executioner's blade hovered just above its jugular. The sort of sound that existed in the space between flesh and steel, and Naerys trembled harder, as though her own bones were being ground down. She wanted to be anywhere but here.

Then something nudged her.

She shook her head. She wouldn't look. She couldn't. She refused to.

The nudge came again, more urgent, and the woman's screams grew more unbearable like they were coming from everywhere at once, and Naerys could no longer dissociate.

Her eyes snapped open, and she gasped. The faceless man was now towering over her, his smooth, featureless face tilted downward. The chewing hadn't stopped though, but his face, as always, lacked any mouth, and his chin was slick with crimson gore, the blood glistening in the sickly light, dripping in slow, lazy rivulets down his neck, while some of them landed onto her cheek. 

Drip. Drip. Drip.

He had no eyes—no lashes, no eyebrows, nothing at all—only those smooth indents where they all ought to have been, and yet she felt him scrutinizing her. His gaze branded her skin and it took every ounce of her strength to keep from looking away. To keep her eyes locked on those haunting hollows and not on the carnage that still played out behind him.

But then he leaned forward, slowly, so slowly, until his mockery of a mouth was hovering just above her forehead. Then, with her mother's blood still on him, he pressed that flat skin to hers with a deliberate motion.

The sounds grew louder. The gnashing of teeth against flesh—it was all around her now until it was deafening, and the woman's screams reached a crescendo. When the faceless creature's touch stained her forehead, Naerys could feel it too—the pulsing, writhing masses beneath his robes, the creatures that squirmed beneath his skin. They pressed against her, writhing, alive and yet not, each movement an assault on her senses.

The woman screamed.

And Naerys screamed too.

She screamed and screamed, but no matter how hard she did, nothing escaped her lips, and yet her guttural squeals joined the ones already in her head, another pig to the slaughter. She could not pull away. The entity held her in place, almost grinning as the living things inside of him pressed closer, their forms sliding beneath her hands, beneath her own skin, slithering and tearing and tearing—

And then—

Nothing. 

⋇⋆✦⋆⋇

Naerys woke up screaming, or at least she thought she did. Her body convulsed with the effort, her chest heaving, throat raw, but no sound crawled past her gullet. The silence that greeted her was suffocating, but it was a modicum of mercy too, for her head had gone quiet, and in the absence of the massacre, she burst into tears, finding her voice at last as it escaped in pitiful whimpers.

And then, just as she thought she might drown in her sobs, gentle hands reached out, cradling her. She didn't resist, allowing the arms to pull her into a familiar embrace, burying her face into the softness that beckoned her, desperate for comfort. It was not her mother's touch—not the warmth she longed for with every breath—but it was the closest thing she had now in this cold, foreign castle so far from home.

"There, there, sweetling, you've been so brave," Fei crooned, her fingers massaging the girl's temples in a rhythm she knew all too well, calming the racing thoughts that tangled inside her head. Naerys hiccupped between sobs, still whimpering like a wounded dog, clinging to the maid as if she were the last tether to sanity in the alien world.

The chambers around her were familiar—though only as familiar as anything could become in three moons. Three moons. That was how long she had been here, how long she had been wed to Willem Stokeworth. And yet, thankfully, the man had never set foot in her room, never even returned to Stokeworth Castle since their hasty wedding, leaving his young bride alone to wrestle with her troubles. A blessing in disguise, and it was such a blessing that Fei had longed for—solitude, away from the watchful eyes of Aemma Arryn, the perfect opportunity to confirm her worst suspicions.

With a tired sigh, the older woman smoothed Naerys's unbound hair away from her sticky cheeks, wiping away the evidence of her misery with a handkerchief. The girl's breaths came in ragged little gasps, as if her lungs had forgotten how to function, and Fei clucked sympathetically. 

"What did you see, Princess?" she asked carefully as if to a skittish animal.

But Naerys could barely comprehend the question, her mind still swimming in the fog of the dream. She shook her head, blabbering incoherent nonsense, her lips trembling with the effort to speak. Fei wiped her eyes again, her grip insistent.

"Princess, what did you see? You have to tell me so I can help you."

Naerys shook her head again, more frantically this time, her eyes squeezing shut as if she could shut out the memories with sheer willpower. But the hideous mouth with no lips still smiled from beyond. 

"Make it stop," she croaked hoarsely. "Please, please, please, make it stop. I don't..."

"Who was it? Who did you see?"

"He... he doesn't..." He did not like to be spoken of, this much she knew. 

"Princess!"

"I don't want to... please."

She was hysterical now, as if a dam had broken inside her, and she began to weep in earnest.

"Mama," she wailed, her voice breaking on the word. "I want Mama. Please, let me go back to her. Please, I want Mama."

Fei sighed, her patience thin but masked beneath her usual veneer of calm. Reaching into her sleeve, she pulled out a small glass vial, holding it up to the princess's trembling lips even as she resisted. 

"Here," she murmured, almost affectionately. "It's alright. We can try again another time. Or you can tell me what you remember when you feel like talking tomorrow."

Naerys shook her head, the tears still spilling over her lashes. "I don't want to. Make him stop. Please."

"I can't do that if you won't tell me who he is."

Although it was only a mere formality, to confirm what she already knew, and if it was as if she feared, then there was no escaping fate. The Haunter only ceased when he was paid in full, and that was impossible. The debt their bloodline owed was far too great. 

Fei pressed the vial more insistently to the Naerys's lips, and eventually, she parted them, obediently swallowing the carmine liquid. It slid down her throat with a bitter tang, tasting faintly of rust and something darker, something she did not want to dwell on. But it helped. It always helped, even as the voice in her head called her a hypocrite repeatedly for reasons she didn't understand. The pressure in her chest eased, the grip on her lungs loosened, and her breath came a little easier, though she still felt as though the very marrow had been sucked from her bones. 

Perhaps, one day he would drink her dry too. What would happen to her then? Would she become a part of him—it? Already it lived inside of her, scraping the walls of her thoughts, clawing, whispering in the hollow chambers of her skull.

Whatever Fei had been feeding her each day, it kept her silent, at least. The Stokeworth family had not yet complained of her nightly outbursts, and Naerys wasn't sure if that was something to be thankful for. The concoction made the dreams far worse, more vivid in nature, and with every sip, she remembered more than she wanted to.

Sapped of her energy, she slumped back into her handmaiden's arms, allowing her to card fingers through her tangled hair. She had stopped crying, though every now and then, another plaintive mewl slipped out unbidden, prompting the older woman to press another kiss to the girl's temple and if Naerys closed her eyes, she could pretend it was Aemma Arryn's warmth that enveloped her instead. She did not close her eyes though, fighting against the pull of sleep even as it beckoned more invitingly with each passing moment. She could not sleep, she could not, she would not, she—

The Devourer could never be disobeyed. 

When the darkness claimed the princess once more, her breathing grew slightly more agitated, but it was nowhere as severe as before, and Fei smoothed a furrow between the child's brow. 

"I am sorry sweet girl."

And then she looked up to the heavens, eyes tracing the elaborate carvings on the high ceiling of the chambers, murmuring a prayer to another who deserved an even greater apology. 

Sister, I am sorry. 

The Devourer could never be denied. 

⋇⋆✦⋆⋇

Naerys was a creature of habit, and the next morning she stood before the heavy doors of Lady Stokeworth's chambers as she did each morning, her fingers curling in the folds of her cerulean skirts. As the elderly Lord Stokeworth's wife had long since passed, the title of lady of the house fell to his oldest daughter-in-law, Cecilia, and Naerys often spent her time in her company. It was a strange habit for a being of solitude such as her, but she found that in polite company, the thing in her head was more prone to behaving. 

The dim light of the hallway barely reached the deep grooves of the wooden doors, but she knew the room beyond well, and the faint knock she gave was almost drowned by the oppressive silence, but soon enough, a young, bright voice responded. 

"Come in!"

Cautiously pushing the door open, the princess stepped inside. Sunlight flooded the spacious room, spilling over the cold stone floor and illuminating the embroidered tapestries that hung from the walls. Arielle Stokeworth, Lady Stokeworth's daughter, was only a few years older than Naerys, was seated by the window, a wide grin spreading across her face when she saw her. She waved, her fingers fluttering like a bird's wings, and her hair shone like spun gold in the morning light. 

By the fireplace stood Lady Cecilia herself, her hand trembling as she raised a flask to her lips, her other arm cradling a bundle to her stomach. Her face was pale, drawn with the weariness that Naerys could recognize from the shadows she had witnessed constantly under her mother's eyes.

The princess curtsied quickly, her gaze flickering nervously between the mother and daughter. "Is... everything alright, my lady? Are you alright?"

Arielle, far too eager to speak, answered before her mother could. "Mother is with child again."

The words startled Naerys, and she blinked, her surprise clear as she processed the information. Lady Stokeworth could not possible have recovered from her last labour which had come to pass only days after her arrival at Stokeworth castle, so how could she be with child so soon?

"With child... again?"

Arielle rolled her eyes dramatically. "Yes, again. And she's not happy about it. Frankly, neither am I. Five brothers are more than enough for one household, don't you think?" She winked at the princess, who remained rooted in place, too stunned to reply.

"Arielle," her mother began in warning.

"I need no more siblings, especially now that I have you as a sister," the girl added lightly. "So it makes sense that Mother does not wish to be with child again."

Naerys barely managed a nod. "I wouldn't want to be with child either..."

Arielle snorted, and the princess immediately regretted her words. Her eyes flew wide, and her hands darted to cover her mouth as though she had just uttered the most forbidden of thoughts. had she truly just said that out loud? What a fool she was, what a pathetic fool. Surely all the sleepless nights were addling her mind. 

However, Lady Cecilia only flashed her a wan smile, though her expression was tinged with something sadder. There was no reprimand, only weary acceptance in her gaze.

"I...I am sorry my lady." Naerys bobbed in another curtsy, avoiding looking at the older woman. 

Cecilia set the flask aside, exhaling slowly. "Nothing to apologize for princess, it's just a little something to help with the pain," she explained, though there was no need for excuses. Naerys, in her innocence, only nodded obediently, her eyes flickering with concern.

There was a brief, awkward silence as Lady Stokeworth hesitated, her eyes lingering on the child's slight form. She didn't know how to say what she wanted to say, but it needed to be said—this girl was in her care, after all, and she had a duty to her. Why she was even younger than her own daughter, and if she did not protect her, she would surely wither under this new union of hers. 

"If you ever..." she trailed off, the words she had been rehearsing catching in her throat. The idea felt absurd, to warn a girl so young, but she knew all too well the cruelties of the world. "If you ever feel ill, you must come to me first. Won't you, princess?"

Naerys blinked, confused. "Father says one must visit a maester if one is ill..."

"Yes, well... that may be true in the Red Keep, but here, at Stokeworth Castle, you must come to the lady of the house first. For all matters, including your health. Before you seek any maester."

Though she could not fully grasp the intention behind the well-meaning words, Naerys nodded. There was no point in questioning the rules here. She hoped though, that she would not have to visit Lady Stokeworth for such matters. She already had enough sickness of her own—to worry about these things. 

Cecilia nodded, a little relieved. "Good. We'll keep you safe here, princess."

The woman silently prayed that the princess would be spared from those horrors for as long as possible, that she would not be forced into the same fate so soon. She would do what she could. Moon tea could be prepared swiftly, and if taken early enough, it was effective. But for now, she would settle for this small comfort, hoping that her brother-in-law kept his distance, just as he had so far. Naerys deserved a few more years of virtue before the cruelty of womanhood descended upon her.

Arielle stood from her perch by the window, beaming as she sauntered toward them. "Are you here to challenge me to another game, princess?" She raised a defiant eyebrow. "I should warn you, I've been getting rather good."

The younger girl smiled shyly. "Yes, well... if you have the time to spare, I would very much like to see how you've improved."

From where she had settled on her bed, Lady Cecilia let out a warm laugh. "I doubt my daughter has improved much since you saw her yesterday."

Arielle groaned dramatically, shooting a mock glare at her mother. "Mother! You're supposed to be singing my praises."

Cecilia rolled her eyes, a hint of amusement in her expression. "Perhaps you might ask your brothers for that courtesy. My singing days are long over, I'm afraid."

"Never!" the girl declared, folding her arms. "We cannot encourage Robert's singing habit any more than we already do. I fear soon his head will grow far too large to fit through the castle doors."

At this, Naerys giggled, the exchange between mother and daughter reminding her very much of Rhenyra and the queen's bickering, and though it warmed her heart it also sent another pang of homesickness through her. 

Then, Arielle reached out to take her hand, a gesture as natural as breathing for the other girl, but Naerys flinched instinctively, pulling her arms behind her back before she could stop herself. Her skin felt too raw, her nerves frayed, and the simple act of being touched without warning sent a cold shiver down her spine. Would she feel the writhing masses under their skin when their hands met? Or would they sense the purification within hers instead? 

The Stokeworth's face flickered with hurt, a brief crack in her bright demeanour, but the emotion was wiped away quickly by another wide grin as she led the princess toward the table by the window where their game board was already set up. "Come on then," she continued cheerfully. "We'll see if I can finally best you today."

Naerys followed, though her steps were hesitant. Anxiety began to coil in her chest, tightening with every moment of silence that passed. Arielle had looked hurt, hadn't she? Was she angry now? Did she hate her? Her mind spiralled as she took her seat, her thoughts tangling into a messy web of doubt and fear. Perhaps she had ruined everything. She was careless with both her words and actions today. What if she had driven away the only friend she had managed to make here? What if the girl thought her strange or ungrateful? She did not want to be strange or ungrateful. She was trying to be good. 

Arielle reminded her so much of her sister, jubilant and excitable, always full of life, but Naerys found it hard to return that same energy, hard to match her brightness with that same fervour. She tried, she was trying, but it never seemed to be enough. It was as if there was a barrier between her and the world—a thick, invisible veil that dulled her senses and kept her apart, no matter how hard she reached for connection.

Her heart raced, her stomach twisting into knots, but then, just as she felt she might unravel completely, Arielle glanced up and winked. Her expression was encouraging, as though the earlier moment hadn't even registered with her.

"There," she challenged, moving her first piece across the board. "I've already got you cornered."

Naerys exhaled slowly, the tension easing just a little. She wasn't angry. She didn't hate her. At least for now, the friendship seemed intact. She could breathe again, if only slightly. She was trying to be good.

"Let's see about that," she retorted, focusing on the game. Her hands trembled slightly as she moved her own piece, but she willed herself to stay calm, to stay present, Ser Westerling's teachings echoing in her ears as she tried to imagine all the different ways the game could progress, and what the odds were for each possible move. If she made a decent attempt, his voice overtook the creature's briefly. 

This was good. This was working. This is exactly what she needed, a distraction to forget, for a little while, about the horrors that waited for her at night.

"You're deep in thought," Arielle remarked. "Shall I be afraid that you will defeat me once again?"

Naerys shrugged nonchalantly. "We must wait and see, my lady. Nothing is certain."

"Oh quit it, you know you're going to win."

"Well..." the princess's lips twitched. "You truly are getting better though, I promise."

"Liar!"

"I...a lady does not lie."

"Yes, but children lie all the time. My own brothers do it far too often." 

Naerys scoffed, "I am not a child!"

Arielle raised an unimpressed brow at her to tease her further. "Shall we stand and compare? Why, you're littler than my younger brother."

"Mother says being short of stature is indicative of a noble character." Naerys lifted her chin obstinately, finally meeting her companion's viridian gaze. But then, as if she remembered her own mismatched one, she dropped her eyes back to the game board, lips tilting downward. 

The Stokeworth girl leaned over the table, her arm outstretched, fingers ready as she made to flick the princess's forehead in a gesture that was painfully reminiscent of Rhaenyra herself. But just before she made contact, she pulled away, flicking the air above her forehead instead, taking care not to make contact with her skin. 

"Yes, you are certainly very noble indeed," she conceded good-naturedly. "Now let us finish the game and then perhaps you can teach me how to finally conquer your pawns."

"A lady never reveals her secret either."

"Why you—"

"Remember your manners with the princess, Arielle," Lady Cecilia interrupted sternly. "She is not Robert with whom you can squabble at free will."

"But Mother, she is my friend," Arielle glanced expectantly at Naerys. "Are you not, princess?" 

Naerys's cheeks bloomed scarlet and she ducked her head shyly, simply nodding. It was astonishing, but it made her happy. For someone to refer to her as their friend, there was something oddly reassuringly about it, to be acknowledged, for her sentiments to be returned. She just hoped she did not spoil it through some foolish action. 

⋇⋆✦⋆⋇

Dinner that evening was a jubilant affair, brimming with warmth and noise that seemed to fill every corner of the Stokeworth hall. The old patriarch, slouched in his chair at the head of the table, dozed with a gentle wheeze, oblivious to the chaos around him, while Lady Cecilia sat beside her husband, Arthur, their heads bowed in quiet conversation, sharing an amused exchange that only years of marriage could cultivate, and surrounding them were their children, each caught up in their own world.

Their youngest two, twins with impish grins, were in the midst of a resolute battle, peas flying between them like arrows. Meanwhile, the eldest, Robert, puffed out his chest with exaggerated pride, trying—and failing—to command the table's attention with a new song he had picked up from one of his many uncles.

The song, however, was a rather bawdy affair, much to the amusement of said uncles, Arthur's seven brothers, who were all present save for one. Robert struggled through the more scandalous parts, doing his best to omit the colourful expletives woven into the lyrics, his face scrunching as he tried to find more suitable words to substitute. His uncles egged him on, stifling their sniggers while the boy carried on, determined to impress with his tuneless rendition.

They were all here except for Willem Stokeworth, Naerys's own husband.

Meanwhile, the princess sat among them, eyes flitting from one person to the next, trying her best to appear engaged. Yet there was a part of her that stood outside of the scene entirely, as though watching it all from a distance.

Without her husband here, she could pretend. She could pretend this was normal. That she belonged here. The unspoken ease that passed between every member of the family—they were things she had never known, but in this moment, she could imagine that this was her life. That she would sit at this table years from now, surrounded by these same people, and that it wouldn't be so bad.

She looked around at them, at the easy smiles and the laughter that flowed without restraint. The kindness of Willem's brothers, the polite respect from the household staff, even the intrepid curiosity from the children—all of it was more than she had hoped for. Yes, she could grow accustomed to this life.

But no matter how much she tried to immerse herself, her mind couldn't help but draw comparisons. Dinner in the Red Keep had always been a more sombre affair. Silence often reigned unless it was a formal occasion, in which case the Lord Hand, his children, or some other highborn noble would join them. And even then, the conversations were careful, deliberate—words chosen like weapons or shields. The camaraderie of the Stokeworths was foreign to her, and yet... she missed the familiarity of those dispassionate meals in King's Landing. She missed her family. She missed her mother who would allow her to pass off her vegetables to her plate, and her sister who conveyed scandalous gossip to her in hushed resonance. 

"Leave it to Willem to miss tonight's dinner as well," Arthur grumbled, his tone one of mild irritation, and it pulled Naerys back to the present. "I haven't set eyes on the man since..." He paused, his eyes softening with a brief glance in her direction. "In a long time."

The room fell quiet, and the young girl could feel their eyes on her, pitying looks that made her skin prickle. She stared down at her dish, her fingers gripping her fork a little too tightly as she tried to busy herself, counting the peas scattered across her plate. One by one, she counted, again and again, until one pea slipped off the edge of her plate, rolling away from her. She almost wished she could follow it, crawl under the table and escape the burden of their sympathy.

"Well, I for one, am grateful," Arielle chimed in from beside her. "I enjoy spending time with the princess, and if Uncle Willem were to come back, I wouldn't be able to do that anymore."

Her words drew a chuckle from a few of her other uncles, but her father was less amused. He turned a stern look toward her. "She is not here to be your companion, darling. The princess is here to be his wife. I am certain she yearns for the presence of her husband."

Naerys felt the meagre bites she had taken churn in her stomach, threatening to make a reappearance. Yearn? She most certainly did not yearn for that drunkard idiot. 

Arielle, ever irreverent, rolled her eyes. "Then we can pretend that she is here as my wife instead, so she can enjoy my company instead of his."

Robert, who had been silent for a moment too long, snorted into his drink at his sister's comment, prompting her to flick a pea at him, hitting him square on the cheek.

"Oi!" the older boy protested, wiping his face with a scowl.

Arielle grinned in triumph. "Perhaps you'll think twice before snorting like a pig at the table!"

The table erupted into raucous laughter once more, but the stiffness in Naerys's shoulders did not dissipate, and then the heavy wooden door creaked open, drawing all eyes to the figure who stumbled in. 

Speak of the devil. 

Willem Stokeworth's dishevelled state was impossible to ignore—his tunic rumpled and half-tucked, the hem caked with dirt, his hair a mess of oily strands falling into glassy, red-rimmed eyes. The smell of sour ale clung to him like a second skin, and the sagging slackness of his posture spoke of hours spent in the taverns or, worse, with questionable company.

"Ah, it seems as though my absent brother has finally made an appearance," Arthur muttered sharply, echoing the thought that was undoubtedly on everyone's mind.

The jovial atmosphere was snuffed out as quickly as a flame caught in a gust of wind. The oldest Stokeworth brother pinched the bridge of his nose, his features tight with the strain of frustration, while his wife pressed her lips into a thin, bloodless line. Their elderly father still dozed blissfully unaware at the head of the table, but there was no mistaking the tension that now pulsed through the room like a physical force.

Arthur shot another glance at his youngest brother. "By the gods, Willem, get yourself cleaned up before Father sees you in such a state."

Willem's glazed eyes scanned the table, a lazy sweep that passed over everyone present without recognition. When his gaze briefly grazed Naerys, he didn't linger, and she couldn't decide whether to be relieved or insulted. He hadn't even noticed her.

"What's the point?" he slurred, leaning heavily against the doorframe, one boot barely holding him upright. "Father'll find some reason to fume and punish me, even if I do. Makes no difference."

"Then do us all a favour and don't give him any more reasons. Not tonight."

Willem's lips twisted into something between a sneer and a laugh, though it lacked any real humour. "It can't be helped, brother. We can't all be as..." His eyes swept over Arthur's family with a venomous glint. "...as perfectly pretentious as you."

Naerys felt the insult land like a slap, despite the fact that it wasn't directed at her. The mood had soured beyond repair, and Arthur's mouth set into a grim line as he lifted a hand to wave dismissively. 

"We'll speak about this another time, Willem. Perhaps when you're sober and better able to articulate your grievances. Now go—before Father wakes and sees you like this."

The inebriated man complained under his breath, too garbled to catch, before pushing off from the doorframe and stumbling out, his footsteps uneven as they sounded down the hallway.

Arthur himself stood abruptly, tossing his napkin onto the table with a controlled snap. His face was thunderous, the weight of being both brother and head of the family apparent in his stiff posture. "Apologies, everyone. It seems dinner is over."

Without further prompting, the Stokeworths began to disperse, chairs scraping the stone floor as the servants moved to clear the remnants of the meal, but Naerys remained in her seat, her body frozen with a sudden, creeping dread. Willem had returned. Would he come to her chambers tonight? The thought made her irrevocably ill. If he did, she knew she could not bear it. She had heard the sordid tales of what husbands expected of their wives, but simply the thought of him demanding such things from her made her want to run back to the faceless chewing creature in her head and take her chances with it instead. 

As if sensing her distress, Arielle and Cecilia approached, the daughter brimming with enthusiasm while her mother carried the delicate grace of someone who knew when to extend kindness.

"Would you like to sleep in Arielle's chambers tonight, princess?" Lady Stokeworth offered carefully. "My daughter has grown quite fond of you, and it might be best to let my brother-in-law sleep off his... excesses in peace. He won't disturb you there, and you will be happier for it."

The older woman was kind, but Naerys could see the shadow of worry lurking just behind it, the thinness of her patience. Even in this seemingly welcoming home, she felt like an outsider, her role as the household wretch's wife a tenuous thread that no one truly knew how to hold.

Arielle, meanwhile, was practically bouncing with excitement. "It will be ever so much fun, princess! We may stay up as late as we wish, and I can show you my drawings."

"You must let the poor girl have her rest," her mother clicked her tongue in disapproval, guiding the two girls to the opposite end of the castle. She had already noticed the dark stains under the young princess's eyes, the plum-coloured bruises almost far too damning on someone so young. 

"But, Mother—"

"No more arguing, Arielle. You may show the princess what you like, but then if she wishes to go to bed, you must let her. You shall have all of tomorrow with her, and the rest of your days, since neither of you is going anywhere any time soon. Rest while you are still young and life allows you the privilege."

"You are being dramatic, Mother."

"I assure you, sleep is very difficult to come by the older you get." Lady Stokeworth tugged on her daughter's ear playfully. 

It was a phrase Aemma Arryn liked to employ as well, when she wanted her daughters to obey her in such matters, but Naerys still hesitated, her fingers clenching and unclenching. The thought of sleeping in a foreign room filled her with unease. She had already struggled to adjust to her chambers here, and every night had been a battle to stave off the nightmares, the ones that left her gasping for breath in the dark, her heart racing as though someone had pressed invisible hands to her throat. If she slept in Arielle's chambers, surely the girl would notice the restless tossing, the half-stifled gasps as she fought to wrench herself from the grip of her dreams. The very idea made her want to throw up.

But both mother and daughter seemed insistent, and Naerys didn't want to disappoint them. More than that, she didn't want to risk running into her husband in her own chambers. No, it was better this way. She could manage a sleepless night. Perhaps if she stayed awake until dawn, she could rest during the day when the creature was less oppressive, when the sunlight chased away the worst of his appetites.

Finally, she nodded. "Okay...if you are certain I will not be an inconvenience."

Arielle nudged her gently. "Oh, you could never be an inconvenience. In fact, you should try being one every once in a while."

Cecilia placed a calming hand on her daughter's shoulder. "Let us not corrupt the child with your proclivities, Arielle."

"Yes, Mother."

"Good girl, now go prepare your room for the princess. I'll escort her shortly."

The girl darted off, leaving Naerys alone with Lady Stokeworth, who watched her with a thoughtful gaze. "You needn't worry, princess. Willem will be too far gone to cause trouble tonight, but should you ever need anything... you need only ask."

Naerys forced a grateful smile. "Thank you."

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A/N: I don't usually put trigger warnings at the beginning of chapters, but I did mention that this fic will contain aspects of cannibalism/body horror/cult vibes in the intro chapter so hopefully this wasn't too much of a surprise. This is about the level of gore you can expect for the rest of it I think. Also, I promise more GwayNaerys scenes later on, I just wanna build her up as a character outside of his love interest a little before that lol.  

As usual, plz don't be a ghost reader. I live for yalls comments/questions/concerns/reactions, even a keyboard smash is highly appreciated and encouraged!