"I fear no monsters,
for no monsters I see.
Because all this time,
the monster has been me."

111 AC

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Willem Stokeworth's return to his ancestral seat brought a heavy burden upon all who dwelled within its stone walls, but none more so than his wife. Her chambers, once a solitary refuge far from the bustling heart of the castle, had become defiled by his presence, as they were now deemed theirs. In the weeks following his arrival, Naerys found herself intruding upon scenes that left her recoiling with revulsion: her husband sprawled across their bed, taking his pleasures with a maid or a whore, his debauchery laid bare. There was no semblance of shame, no effort to conceal his wicked indulgences—he did not even bother to shut the door, delighting in the humiliation it caused her and the scandalous sounds that carried easily through the cold, unyielding stone.

It was only then that Naerys understood why the chambers were so far removed from the rest of the household, hidden away in a corner of the castle like a secret too shameful to bear. It seemed they had long been set apart, to spare the Stokeworth family from his deeds. In the past, when she alone had occupied the chamber, its remoteness served to shield them from the worst of her nightly fits, but now, with Willem's return, her sanctuary had been stolen from her, and there was no retreat. And worse of all, she could no longer impose upon Lady Cecilia's kindness or Arielle's hospitality for more than a night or two at a time for they would son begin to wonder at the bruises that littered her arms as she pinched herself repeatedly trying to stay awake. 

So, Naerys took to seeking her rest in the oddest corners of the castle, folding herself into the shadows like a bird tucking its head beneath its wing. The library became her usual hiding place, where she could nestle amongst the dust-laden tomes, and on one desperate night, she even ended up in the straw of the stables, only to be nearly discovered when her fitful cries startled the horses, causing a clamour that drew the stable hands. She could not return there, and her choices dwindled with each passing day. Sleep became an enemy; she avoided it as the shadows beneath her eyes deepened and the restless creature in her head scratched insistently at the walls of her skull, demanding to be let out.

When word came of a revel in the city, Naerys felt a wave of relief wash over her like cool water. The entire Stokeworth family would attend, Willem most eagerly of all. He had always been a man of bawdy entertainments, and Lady Cecilia assured her that such occasions kept him away until dawn more often than not. Though Arielle had pleaded for her to join them, her eyes alight with the anticipation of dancing and laughter, Naerys declined, her exhaustion far too heavy a shroud for any joy to pierce.

Perhaps tonight she would get to sleep in her own bed, and perhaps the creature would take pity on her and allow her to rest. 

She watched from the castle window as they departed, the torches flickering like fireflies in the twilight. Only when the last of their carriage wheels faded into the distance did she dare return to the chambers that were once her own, hoping, against all the cruelties of fate, that tonight might be different.

The room was much as she remembered, and yet so altered by Willem's presence. The scent of wine clung to the air, mixed with a faint hint of perfume that wasn't hers. The sheets were rumpled, the bed curtains half-drawn, and a goblet lay tipped on its side upon the dresser, its contents long since soaked into the floor. She moved quietly about the room, straightening what she could, as if the act of tidying away the disorder might somehow dispel the lingering taint of his depravity.

Then, she turned towards the bed and paused, staring at the tangled heap of stained linens, feeling her stomach roll with disgust. She should have called for the maids to clean up, but she did not wish to disturb their rest when the hour was late, so with a weary sigh, she set about pulling the sheets from the bed herself, the fabric spilling to the floor in an ivory cascade. Her hands trembled as she stripped away the bedding, leaving only the bare mattress behind. It was a futile gesture, but at least she might be able to rest tonight without the scent of strangers clinging to her pillow.

She settled upon the mattress without bothering to fetch fresh linens, curling herself into the smallest shape she could manage, her nightgown doing little to keep away the chill. As she lay there, the ache in her head deepened, a steady throb just behind her eyes. She had grown so accustomed to these nights, to the dread of losing control, of waking to find herself convulsing upon the cold stone floors with blood on her tongue and tears streaking her cheeks, but it still terrified her. 

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Despite her desperate hope, tonight was no different, and Naerys wandered again through the ever-twisting labyrinth, its walls warping and contorting in that familiar disorienting dance. She could hear the squelch of flesh being torn, the distant echoes of cracking bones—a gruesome rhythm that pulled her forward against her will, down those endless corridors that always seemed to end in darkness. And there, at the labyrinth's heart, awaited the faceless figure, ravenous and ceaseless in its gluttony, devouring and devouring with an even greater ferocity than before. It tore through the carnage with terrible precision, its movements grotesquely methodical, and the bodies it mangled now bore shapes too familiar, yet disturbingly unrecognizable in their twisted disarray.

The creature wore maester's robes still, though the fabric seemed to writhe like a living thing, as if it had become part of the meat it desecrated. The once-healer's garb hung as a perverse mockery, stained and darkened by the work of hands that were not meant for this. It wielded those hands now not to heal, but to maim and shred, to slice and rend until there was no semblance of human form left within that hellscape. The pile of fragmented femurs and shattered ribs became an indistinguishable mire of muscle and blood, yet amidst the chaos, the only recognizable thing was the thin shift of pale blue, tattered and soaked in crimson, lying half-buried in the entrails.

Naerys could not look away. The sight of it seemed to anchor her to the nightmare, and yet, the edges of the world remained mercurial, melting into one another like candle wax under a flame. There were flashes of things she could not quite grasp—golden scales, sapphire butterflies, and verdant flames; a distant crying, like the bleating of a lost lamb; and the sickening scrape of steel grinding against bone. It all swirled around her, merging into a dreadful symphony that rose and fell with the creature's ghastly feast. Its jaws moved with a terrible rhythm, ripping through tissue with a wet sound, and its maw opened wider and wider still, swallowing the world whole.

But it was when she drew nearer that the horror reached its peak, drawn by some unseen force as the faceless figure finally turned towards her. Its robes unfurled in a movement almost tender, a parody of some forgotten intimacy, and she saw, though she wished not to, the vermillion-streaked claws that glistened beneath the tattered sleeves. They reached for her, but this time there was no cruel mimicry of a kiss pressed upon her brow, and instead, they pressed insistently against her lips, forcing them apart with a dreadful gentleness.

A putrid, coppery taste flooded her mouth as the creature shoved some gristly morsel between her teeth—raw and freshly torn from its latest conquest. The sickening taste of the macabre feast mingled with her sour breath, and she gagged, choking on the remains of whatever horror it had fed her. The edges of her vision darkened, and still, the hands did not relent, the faceless being shoving and shoving until she could feel the slick tendrils of madness clawing at the back of her throat.

She tried to scream, but only a gurgle escaped as he leaned closer, and she thought she heard it whisper, though its nonexistent mouth never moved, a soundless voice seeping into her mind like a poison, drowning her in the terror she could neither name nor escape. 

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Naerys awoke with a gnawing hunger that clawed at her insides, while outside, the moon hung full and heavy in the night sky, pouring its silvery light into the chambers, bathing everything in a cold, unforgiving glow. But nothing within her felt pure or sanctified; there was no holiness in the way her bones ached and her skin burned. Her shoulder blades throbbed as if seared with a branding iron, and when her shaking fingers touched her chest, she felt the dampness that had seeped through the thick fabric of her nightgown, the dark wetness telling her that the old wounds had bled anew, as they sometimes did. It was as if the tallies etched into her heart had been torn open by some unseen hand, their scores oozing misery.

The hunger persisted, insistent and all-consuming, but the memory of that vile morsel she had swallowed—if indeed it was real—turned her stomach. There would be no comfort to be found in the kitchens, no bread or sweet cakes or honeyed figs that could sate this craving or wash her mouth clean. It burrowed into her chest and lodged itself deep in her bones, a hunger that belonged more to the devourer than to a mere girl. Yet she was still a child, wasn't she? Only eleven, with an unbearable longing for home, for the gentle comfort of her mother's arms.

But it was not Aemma's hands that reached for her now, nor even the demanding probing of Fei. The hands that grabbed her were far harsher, fingertips bruising against her jaw as she was shaken from the depths of her feverish thoughts. She blinked her eyes open, the world blurring into clarity, and there, leering down at her with a lazy grin, was Willem Stokeworth. He was seated right next to her, and the stench hit first—alcohol, sweat, and something else foul beneath it all, perhaps sickness or the rot of too many indulgences.

With a yelp, Naerys scrambled away from him, her feet slipping out from under her as she tumbled off the bed and stumbled against the far wall. She pressed herself there, her hand still clutched against her chest as though she could somehow staunch the bleeding with sheer will alone. Willem staggered to his feet too with a drunken sway, but he did not come closer, simply watched her with clouded eyes, his gaze drifting lazily over her like a scavenger circling a dying animal.

"I was only here to see my pretty wife," he murmured, though there was an edge of derision to his voice. He paused, his muddled thoughts catching up to his words. "Although... you're not very pretty, are you?"

Naerys shook her head, just once. Rhaenyra had told her that it was better if her husband did not find her beautiful. A husband who did not desire his wife would leave her in peace. She only wanted to be left in peace. 

"No, you are not," Willem confirmed with a sneer, his eyes narrowing as though seeing her for the first time. "I've had a YiTish girl or two in the past—though not many, so few of you out here. But the ones in the brothels, they're different. They're rounder... comelier. They don't look like you."

He took a teetering step forward, and Naerys flinched, her body curling in on itself as she finally found her voice. "I want my mother. Please... I want my mother."

The words seemed to amuse her husband more than anything, and he threw his head back with a harsh, mirthless laugh. "Oh, you miss her? What are you, a child?" he scoffed. "Even babes are not so attached to their mothers."

She felt very much like a child then, frightened and alone, but she dared not say so. She only clung to the wall, watching him warily, her heart pounding like a caged sparrow.

He continued in a drunken slur, his words slashing at her like daggers. "She's not even your real mother. What self-respecting woman would love you, physical proof of her husband's whore? She's probably glad to be rid of you."

Something inside her guttered out then, like a candle in a sudden gust of wind, but before the darkness could claim her, a spark ignited, flaring hot and volatile. It surged through her, an unholy desire born of hunger and hatred. For a fleeting, terrifying moment, she wanted nothing more than to lunge at him, to sink her teeth into him and tear until there was nothing left but a pyramid of ribs. The thought repulsed her, even as it thrilled her, and fresh tears spilled down her cheeks as she stammered, "You... you cannot speak that way about the king and queen."

Willem snorted, regarding her with disdain. "Oh? And who is going to stop me? You?" His voice dripped with mockery. "The one they care least for? The one they've banished from their presence? You're going to defend their honour?"

"Do not speak that way about my mother and father," Naerys snapped, her words carrying a hint of defiance that seemed to surprise even herself.

Willem's grin widened into something wicked and lazy. "I think I shall do as I please, wife." He paused, as though remembering something, and then his expression shifted. His brows relaxed, and a feigned gentleness settled across his features as he stepped closer. He reached out a hand toward her, his tone saccharine sweet. "Do you want to go somewhere with me, hmm?" he coaxed, as though speaking to a child.

Naerys shook her head.

The man's gaze darkened, and a flicker of irritation crossed his face. His patience, thinned by drink, was growing brittle. "Come now, wives are not meant to disobey their husbands. Didn't the queen teach you that?"

"I do not want to."

"What you want is of little consequence...I simply wish to introduce you to my companions. You see, they've never seen the likes of you before. Is it so wrong for me to show off my darling wife?"

Before she could respond, he lunged forward, seizing her wrist with a suddenness that startled her. He dragged her roughly toward the window, the moonlight spilling over them like a flood of silver as Naerys stood there, frozen with terror, her limbs numb and useless. 

Willem's grip tightened as he lifted her chin, forcing her face into the moon's harsh glow until it burned her eyes. She squeezed them shut instinctively, feeling the familiar pulse of something lurking beneath his skin, a writhing mass of twisted shapes that brushed against her in a way that made her skin crawl.

He laughed. "Quite a malady, isn't it? You're like a mongrel—some pitiful mix of things that ought not to be. But perhaps, in time, you could become something better. You are quite exotic, after all. You could become something I'd enjoy bedding." His fingers trailed across her jaw, rough and invasive. "A husband ought to enjoy bedding his wife, shouldn't he? Otherwise, what use is she?"

The dark-haired girl clamped her eyes shut tighter, wishing desperately that she could disappear into the darkness. Her ears burned at his vile words, and her mind was suddenly filled with images of rending flesh and splintering bone. If the devourer was real, she wished he would come alive now and render this man to mere meat. 

Willem's expression hardened, his disapproval evident as he tutted. "Open your eyes. There's no enjoyment in bedding a child. Your time has not yet come, but when it does..." He trailed off, letting the silence speak the rest.

Naerys shook her head frantically, shrinking from his horrifying implication. She wanted to claw his lips off until there was nothing left to speak such foulness. Her pulse quickened, and tears stung at the corners of her eyes.

His grip turning vicious, Willem's fingers dug painfully into her cheeks. He shook her, forcing her head back. "Filthy half-breed," he snarled. "You cannot disobey me. Open your fucking eyes!"

He pulled her with a rough jerk that made her cry out as he began dragging her toward the door, the reek of alcohol thickening the air around them. She floundered after him, her legs struggling to keep pace as he pulled her along, her bare feet skidding against the floor. Panic surged through her like fire, setting every nerve alight. She clawed at the walls, her fingers scrabbling desperately for anything to grab hold of—a tapestry, a shelf, the grooves in the stone floor—but each attempt only slowed their march for a heartbeat before he yanked her forward again.

His grip often slipped, the clumsiness of his state making his movements unsteady and unpredictable, but his height and weight gave him the advantage. When for a moment she managed to grasp the edge of the wooden bedpost, he slammed his fist over her fingers, drawing a strangled cry from her as he tore her loose. 

But the effort seemed to distract him, and summoning whatever strength she had, Naerys wrenched herself free from his grasp. He stumbled slightly, his clouded eyes flashing with anger, as he raised his hand. 

Then he struck her across the face.

Naerys had never been struck before. Despite the status of her tainted blood, no one had even raised their voice at her, much less their hand, and the blow sent her reeling, her head snapping to the side as her cheek flared with pain. She staggered, the world spinning around her, and crumpled to the ground. The taste of copper filled her mouth, and for a moment, everything was silent, save for the pounding of her heart.

Willem nudged her limp form with the toe of his boot with a sneer. "You better not tell my meddlesome sister-in-law of this," he muttered, his disdain palpable. "She takes great pleasure in restricting mine. Perhaps I really will try you when I'm sober enough to enjoy it, and all the begging in the world won't save you. A bastard such as yourself should be grateful that I, a trueborn lord, am gracing you with my attention, that you have the privilege of being my wife."

With that, he turned and lurched out, but she remained there, her body shuddering as she listened to the fading echoes of his footsteps. And beneath it all, a darker sound stirred, like the low crackling of bones breaking apart, growing louder and louder until it seemed to drown out everything else—the dull thrum of her heartbeat, the raggedness of her breaths. It consumed her.

Suddenly, Naerys found herself scrambling to her feet, spurred forward by a tempest of fury and a need she could scarcely comprehend. She slipped through the doorway in pursuit, and when she spotted him leaning over the bannister just beyond their chambers, it seemed almost too easy. His arms hung limply over the edge, and he hummed some vulgar tune that dripped lazily from his lips, half-forgotten lyrics slurred in a drunken reverie.

He was already bent over the railing, already so dangerously close to the edge, teetering over the yawning abyss below. It wouldn't take much—just a nudge, a brush of the fingertips, the faintest of shoves—and he would fall. He would hurt. The thought took root in her mind, as if whispered there by a voice she didn't recognize. Or perhaps it was hers, buried deep, now crawling to the surface like a vengeful serpent. She didn't know how she found the courage to step forward or what she even meant to do until it was already done.

He had struck her. This man, who wasn't fit to shine a knight's boot, had dared to strike her. She may not have been a princess—she may not have been anything worth remembering—but she was still a person, and he had struck her. He had dared speak of her saintly mother and noble father with his foul tongue. And though she couldn't crush his skull between her teeth, couldn't wrench him apart like the thing she housed within, she wanted him to hurt so very badly. 

In that split second before he fell, Willem Stokeworth turned and saw her. He even managed to curl his lips into a smile. "Looks like you changed your—"

And then he was falling, but his flailing fingers managed to catch the edge of the railing first, the wood groaning under his weight. He dangled there for one precarious second, his eyes wide with a sudden, panicked clarity. Naerys stared at him, frozen. Somewhere deep within her, the part of her that had been nurtured by Aemma Arryn and raised with kindness surged forward, whispering that she must help him. She must pull him back up, she must scream for aid, she must do something—anything—to save him. 

But the hunger in her was far greater. Her mother had raised her better than that, but blood never betrayed blood, and Aemma Arryn was not of her blood. Naerys's fingers still throbbed from where her husband had slammed his fist into them, the bruises fresh and hot, the bones underneath possibly broken. The memory of his sneer taunting her burned brightly in her mind too, and as she looked down at his pleading gaze, a terrible calm settled over her.

She hesitated for a heartbeat—then knelt and sank her teeth into his fingers.

She didn't know why she did it. She could have easily done to him what he did to her, or tried to pry him loose some other way but she did not. She only bit down, harder and harder, until she tasted the sharp tang of blood on her tongue. Willem let out a strangled shout, his grip faltering as the pain overwhelmed his strength. He slipped, his fingers scrambling uselessly, tangling for one last time in the waterfall of inky strands that spilled past her shoulders. A clump of hair tore free from her scalp, but she didn't feel it, didn't register anything but the metallic taste in her mouth and the roaring howl of triumph that filled her skull.

For one harrowing moment, it was not she who housed the devourer, but he who wore her like a suit of flesh. He was the narrow jaw that snapped shut, the pale bruised fingers that trembled. The very air seemed to split apart with the sudden silence, and then came the sound—crack, a sickening collision that echoed up the stairwell. 

Naerys clamped her hands tightly over her ears, though it did little to muffle the dreadful noise. She hadn't watched him fall. She hadn't needed to. She could hear it—the snapping of bone and sinew, the dry crunch as the devourer feasted on what remained.

But she, the girl, remained crouched there, her mouth smeared sanguine, and in the dark, she could be mistaken for a child who had snuck into the kitchen and stolen a cherry tart or two. 

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That was how Fei found her, two hours later, after cleaning up the mess she had happened upon downstairs. Naerys was still huddled by the railing, her small form curled up as if trying to make herself disappear entirely. Tangled strands of dark hair fell in a veil over her face, nearly engulfing her like some eldritch creature of the void, and only her azure eye, luminous with unshed tears, shone like a beacon in the darkness. Her body was tense, rigid with some unspoken dread, as though awaiting an attack that had yet to come, but when she lifted her head and caught sight of Fei, the fierce, unnatural stillness melted away. She became a child once more, her limbs softening, her expression crumbling into a look of desperate relief as she gazed up at her maid, wordlessly pleading for comfort.

Fei rushed to her, pulling the girl into an embrace, the fabric of her gown wrapping around Naerys like a protective cocoon. She gently smoothed back the wild tangle of hair, her touch tender as she examined the child for signs of harm. The bloody patch of scalp behind her ear, where clumps of hair had been torn away, and the bruises darkening the skin of her left hand did not escape her notice. Yet Fei did not speak of these things. She only pressed a kiss to each wound, as though her lips might carry some healing balm, and allowed the girl to whimper and shudder against her.

"Shhh, sweet girl, shhh," she murmured, rocking Naerys gently. "It has all been taken care of. You need not worry. You need not fear anything now."

Naerys pulled back, her gaze wide and uncomprehending. "I... I... oh gods, I think I... is he—?" Her composure was tremulous, a thread unravelling with her guilt.

Fei shook her head and kissed her temple again, her lips brushing over cadaver-old skin. "He was a drunkard, darling girl. Fell off his horse and broke his neck. It was a pitiful end, but it was not your doing. They shall find him come morning and be none the wiser."

"No," the girl whimpered, a raw edge of hysteria in her voice as she pointed past the stairwell. "Horse? What horse? You don't understand, I... it was me, I—"

Fei tightened her grip on her shoulders, her dark eyes firm. "It was not," she repeated, her tone brooking no argument. "There is nothing you need to worry your head about, princess. Nothing at all. You are fine. You can go home now. You will get to see your mother."

The mention of her mother seemed to shatter whatever fragile hold Naerys had managed to keep on herself. She shook her head frantically. "Mother... Mother will hate me. For what I've... what I've done. She will think me a—a monst—a murderer."

Cradling her face in her hands, Fei sighed. She had not expected such a thing to have happened so early on, but she supposed it could not be helped. 

"She will never have to know. You had no choice. Sometimes it is necessary."

"I did. I did, and I killed him," Naerys choked out, finally putting words to her cursed confession. "Oh gods, I killed... no, no... I am—"

"I've had to do it too," her maid interrupted calmly, as if sharing a mundane truth rather than a terrible revelation. "Sometimes the gods give us no choice."

Naerys recoiled as though struck, her eyes wide with horror. Her breath hitched in her throat, and the scream that tore its way out was scarcely louder than a frenzied whisper. "I don't want to hear about the people you've killed!"

Fei shook her head firmly, the movement laced with a sorrowful gravity. "Not people, sweet one—babes. Little babes, my own little girls. Do you think I do not know what it is like to feel monstrous? We have no choice, you and I."

The weight of her words seemed to draw the life out of her, and she slumped, her shoulders rounding under the burden of old grief. In her mind's eye, she saw them again—those tiny heartbeats she had snuffed out, delicate and fleeting, scarcely moments old. She remembered the lifeless bodies cradled against her naked chest, the wailing sobs that had escaped her as she wept over them, willing them back to life, knowing it was futile. If they had lived, they would have grown to look like Naerys. They would have borne the same troubles too, perhaps even worse, for theirs would have been an unbroken bloodline of corruption. Yes, perhaps it was for the best that they had not grown to see such things. She wondered if her fool of a sister had ever considered this, if it had crossed her mind to strangle this babe in her cradle too, where she would have gone peacefully, dreaming of a mother's touch and a belly full of milk.

"I'm sorry...I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. Am I... am I to be beheaded? Oh gods, I am sorry."

"No one is to be beheaded, princess. Come along now, let us clean you up. No more tears, no more sound. You must promise me."

With a guiding hand, Fei led Naerys back to her chambers, and the girl followed like a sleepwalker, her eyes hollow and vacant, her limbs loose as if drained of all their strength. The older woman sat her upon the edge of the bed and fetched the basin of water and the washcloth she had brought with her. Then, she began to clean the child's face and hands with a gentleness so unbearable it almost seemed cruel. Naerys's hiccups gradually subsided as she tried to compose herself, her thunderous heart steadier now, though her chest still trembled with the aftershocks of her panic.

When Fei reached her mouth, she paused, her eyes widening in both surprise and a modicum of admiration. "Dear gods, did you... did you eat of him?"

Naerys burst into tears once more, her head shaking so violently it seemed as though it might come loose from her neck. The foul taste of the morsel she had been made to swallow in her dreams flooded back into her memory—rancid and tinny, combining with the tang of her husband's blood still drying on her lips like a curse. "No!" she cried. "No, I would never. I only bit him. I am sorry, Fei. I am so sorry, I did not mean to."

"Oh, I think you did, my darling. I think you did."

"I did not!"

Fei wiped her mouth clean, her touch as tender as if she were handling a newborn. "It is alright," she soothed. "This is good. Better, actually. You will have peace now. You shall be able to rest." Her words softened into a coaxing hum, as though lulling a babe to sleep. "Won't that be lovely? You shall be able to sleep and sleep to your heart's content."

Naerys shook her head weakly, her eyes wide and pleading. "I do not want to sleep. He... he will be there."

But Fei's smile curved into something triumphant, a glimmer of dark satisfaction in her gaze. "No, he won't. I swear to you—he will not. You may rest."

And true to her word, when Naerys finally succumbed to her exhaustion, the shadows no longer followed her into sleep. For the first time in eleven years, her slumber was dreamless, deep, and uninterrupted by nightmares. It was as though the darkness itself had been devoured, leaving nothing behind but a vast and unbroken stillness.

And that horrible hunger was gone too, even though she had eaten nothing, and the meagre contents of her stomach had already been emptied at the scene of her crime. 

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A/N: aaaaand Naerys unhinged arc begins as a feral gremlin child (not rlly lol, she's still pookie except she is severely mentally ill and haunted by Lovecraftian eldritch deities so slay). Rip Gwayne, he does NOT know what he's getting himself into lmfao. I know she seems a bit of a crybaby rn and in the next chapter or two but like bear in mind she is 11 and is having quite possibly the worst week of her life lol. Baby's first murder is not an easy thing. 

Drop your theories on Fei and Naerys and just lore stuff in general, would love to hear them :) As usual, don't be a ghost reader. I live for yalls comments/questions/concerns/reactions, even a keyboard smash is highly appreciated and encouraged!