Chapter 1: Life in the Tower
Chapter Text
The tower stood alone at the edge of the world, its stone walls weathered by centuries of wind and rain. Far from any kingdom, forgotten by time, it was a prison disguised as a sanctuary, a fortress veiled in the quiet solitude of the forest. Only the birds and the occasional wind were Carl's companions in this place, and the distant hum of the world beyond felt like a dream.
Carl sat at the narrow window, his gaze lost in the blur of greenery below. The forest stretched for miles, endless trees and thickets that whispered with the wind. He was of eighteen winters now, a young man by any measure, though the confines of the tower had kept him from fully experiencing the world. His world was the stone walls and the occasional flashes of the outside world through the window—the birds flying by, the shifting shadows of clouds overhead, and the rare glimpse of an animal moving through the underbrush.
Carl's hair was soft, an ethereal shade of light brown that rippled like poured milk when he washed it in the copper basin. His eyes, a crystal baby blue, looked like they could cut through glass, always scanning, always watching. He was tall—nearly as tall as his Dad now—but lean, soft in some places, strong in others, untouched by hardship but strangely wise.
His father Negan had raised him alone, told him stories of his mother, a woman named Lucille who had died giving birth. Carl never doubted him. How could he? Negan was the only father he'd ever known. And, from the moment Carl had been brought into his care, Negan had told him everything he needed to hear. His mother had been beautiful, he said, just like Carl. But there were never any portraits, no mementos, nothing to tie Carl to her except his Dad's word.
As Carl grew, small inconsistencies began to gnaw at him. Negan’s stories didn’t always line up. The features of his supposed “mother” were described in vague terms— blonde hair, green eyes, a smile that could light up a room. But Carl’s own reflection in the mirror told a different story. His hair, soft and lighter brown, didn’t match the rich blackness of Negan’s. His eyes, a piercing blue, were the stark opposite of Negan’s dark hazel-brown gaze. His skin, pale and fair, contrasted against Negan’s tanned complexion. It was a bit unsettling, but Carl had learned to dismiss the doubts that arose. Negan was his father, and nothing else seemed to matter. Sure he looked more like his late mother.
Yet lately, Carl had begun to question more than just his appearance. It wasn’t the physical differences that unsettled him anymore—it was the way his Dad looked at him. Carl had always been treated with care, affection, and pride. But as he aged, the nature of that affection had begun to feel... strange. Intense. Too intense.
His father would smile at him as if he were the most precious thing in the world. The way he watched Carl when they were together, eyes lingering too long, too closely. There were moments when the boy would catch Negan’s gaze as he stood at the fire, his eyes dark and unfathomable, tracing Carl’s every move with a hunger that Carl couldn’t comprehend. It was the kind of look a man gives someone he doesn’t want to share with anyone, ever. It made Carl uncomfortable, but he never knew how to ask about it. His father was a strict man, guess it was normal to be jealous when it comes to your only child.
“You look good today,” Negan would say, the words laced with an edge that didn’t feel like fatherly praise. “Your hair’s getting longer. It suits you. Real fuckin’ beautiful.” Carl would stiffen, unsure of how to respond to his father's compliments. “Thanks, Dad.”
He had never been able to explain why those words left a strange chill in his chest. A chill that spread like cold fingers down his spine.
Negan’s affection was always accompanied by strange, lingering touches—hands resting too long on Carl’s shoulder, fingers brushing his cheek with a tenderness that didn’t feel right. Carl didn’t know how to respond. He never questioned it, never pushed him away. But each time Negan stood too close, each time his hand lingered on Carl’s skin, Carl felt something deep inside him twist uncomfortably.
Carl had always been taught that his father was his protector, the one who kept him safe from the dangers of the world outside. Negan had promised to guard him, to keep him hidden from the dangers of the realm. The stories he told Carl were meant to build a world, a family, one where Carl was cherished and adored. But as Carl grew older, the weight of that devotion felt heavier.
He couldn’t shake the feeling that Negan was becoming something else—something darker. The same man who raised him with love and care also harbored a possessiveness that was suffocating. He had a way of pulling Carl into his orbit, wrapping him in his presence until Carl had no choice but to submit to his gaze.
One evening, Carl found himself standing in front of the mirror, his reflection stark against the soft light of the tower. He studied his face, his hair, the blue eyes that stared back at him. It was strange to see someone so different from his Dad staring back at him. His features were delicate, softer than Negan’s hard jaw, his high cheekbones, the curve of his lips. He didn’t look like his Dad at all.
Even as Carl tried to push away the rising discomfort, it lingered. And as the night settled around him, he heard the familiar sound of Negan’s footsteps approaching. He could never ignore the way his father moved—always confident, always loud, as though the world had no choice but to bend to his will. Carl turned to face the door as it opened, his heart racing, the uneasy feeling in his chest growing. Negan’s tall form filled the doorway, casting a shadow over Carl’s small reflection.
“You know, my precious son,” Negan’s voice was soft, but there was something in it that made Carl’s skin prickle. “You’ve really grown into a fine man. I can’t wait for you to experience the real world outside. It’s been too long.”
Carl forced a smile, trying to ignore the way Negan’s gaze seemed to drag over him. “Yeah, I know.”
The older man grinned. “We’ll have to change that soon enough, huh?” Carl nodded. He didn’t know how to respond to that, or why it felt wrong. He couldn’t explain why the idea of leaving the tower suddenly seemed terrifying.
Negan took a step closer, still towering over Carl, his smile never wavering. He reached out, brushing Carl’s hair back from his face with a hand that lingered too long. “You’re so fucking beautiful, kid,” Negan whispered, his breath warm against Carl’s skin. “Just like your mother. You have no idea how much power you’ve got inside you. You’re gonna change everything for us, I swear.” Carl swallowed, his chest tightening. The words didn’t make sense, but he didn’t argue. He never did.
Negan leaned in, his lips brushing Carl’s ear, and Carl felt his body tense. “You’re mine, Carl. You know that, don’t you?” Carl froze. The words were so soft, so possessive, and they landed like a weight in his chest.
But before he could say anything, Negan pulled away, his smile wide and confident, as though nothing had happened. “Get some rest, son. I’ve got a lot of work ahead of me.” Carl watched him leave, his heart pounding in his chest. The door closed behind him, and Carl was left standing in the silent, oppressive stillness of the tower. He felt cold despite the warmth of the fire, a shiver running down his spine.
What had just happened? Why did everything feel so wrong?
***
His warlord Dad’s voice echoed up the stairs before he appeared the next day. "Sunshine! Papa’s home, and fuck me sideways, did I bring you something sweet this time."
Carl sat cross-legged on the rug, forcing a smile as his Dad entered in his black-and-silver armor, splattered with blood. Lucille—a barbed, iron-wrapped club—hung from his belt like a scepter. "Got you a painting from the capital. Some poor bastard tried to charge me double, so I fed him his own beard. You’d have laughed your pretty little head off."
He dropped the wrapped canvas on the floor and crouched beside Carl. His gloved hand cupped the boy’s face. "You look tired. You been sleeping alright?"
Carl nodded quickly. Too quickly. Negan’s thumb grazed the corner of his mouth. "You sure? You get lonely without me, don’t you?" Carl’s throat tightened. "No. I mean—yes, I miss you. But I’m okay."
Negan’s eyes darkened with something too deep to be fatherly. His hand lingered, thumb brushing Carl’s jaw. "Your mama was beautiful, but you—shit, you outshined her. Golden little thing. I lost her and gained the fuckin' sun." Again...The first time Carl had heard that, he’d wept with gratitude. A boy clinging to the idea of being loved. Now, at eighteen, the words felt sticky. Tainted. Because his Dad never looked at him like a father should. Not when his eyes roved over Carl’s face too long. Not when he tucked Carl's hair behind his ear and whispered, "You’ve grown into something fierce, haven’t you? Men would kill for a piece of that." The boy had flinched the first time his father said it. He’d been fourteen then. By sixteen, he’d stopped reacting. Negan liked it when he flinched. And now—eighteen and legal in the eyes of the kingdom he’d never seen—Negan had grown bolder. "Y’know," he’d murmured last week, "you ain’t a boy anymore. I should be callin’ you my prince now, huh? Or maybe my consort."
Carl had laughed then, awkward and uneasy. "You’re literally my father, don't say such stuff." Negan had looked at him long and hard. "Yeah," he said finally. "Sure."
***
The wind howled through the high stone arches of Alexandria’s keep. The torches lining the halls sputtered, casting long shadows like specters on the carved walls.
King Rick Grimes sat alone on his throne of iron and oak, hunched forward with his crown resting heavy beside him. The hour was late. Too late for council, too early for rest. He hadn’t slept in eighteen years. Not since the siege, not since that night. His hand gripped the carved wolf at the end of the armrest. Its snarl matched the one frozen in his own chest — feral, useless, aching.
He could still hear Lori’s scream. “Run, Rick! Take him! He’s coming—”
Steel and fire and blood. A child screaming. A warlord with eyes like shadow, who smiled as he took the boy and smashed the crown beneath his boots. Rick had tried to reach him — but Negan had ridden off with the child in one arm, and Lori’s lifeless body in the dirt behind him. Since that night, Rick had worn black armor and never taken another queen.
He ruled, but with the air of a man who’d already failed.
Carl.
The name was a secret he only spoke to the night.
The kingdom spoke of the prince as a myth. Some believed he’d died in the flames, others whispered that he’d return one day, wearing the enemy’s colors. A weapon raised by the very monster who shattered them. Rick didn’t care what they said.
He remembered his son. Eyes like dusk. A head of tangled dark hair. Born with a strange stillness, as though he already knew the world would be cruel. Lori had wept when she saw him. “He’s ours,” she’d whispered. “He’s stronger than we are.”
Rick clenched his jaw and rose to his feet. The wind pressed at the windows. Far in the east, past the borderlands, past the jagged hills and barbarian fires, there was said to be a black tower. A place no one entered.
Where a boy with magic in his blood and sunlight in his hair lived behind glass. Rick had heard the tale. And he had dismissed it at first.
Until one of the deserters — a half-mad man who’d once served under Negan — had whispered, “He calls him ‘son.’ Keeps him locked in a tower like a jewel. Says he’s got the blood of kings and fire in his veins.”
Rick hadn’t spoken for three days after that.
Now he stood at the war table, staring at the map. His kingdom was tired. Their enemies circled like wolves. But none of it mattered compared to the truth.
He would find the tower.
He would find the boy.
His boy.
And if Negan stood in his way again — this time, he’d do more than just bleed.
***
Something was different tonight. A flicker of motion—low in the woods. Too big for a deer, too fast for a traveler. Carl’s heart jolted in his ribs. He squinted through the gathering twilight. Then—an arrow.
It thunked into the base of the tower wall with a sharp, deliberate precision. No hunting call, no accidental misfire. It was placed. Meant to be noticed. Carl’s breath caught in his throat. He backed from the window just as quickly as he’d leaned toward it. When he looked again, the woods were empty.
Well, these woods outside the tower were supposed to be empty always. Off-limits. Trapped. No one came that far up the mountain without a death wish or orders from Negan. So when Carl saw movement again — low and fast — he thought maybe it was one of the guards. Until he saw the crossbow. He ducked out of the window, heart pounding. A few hours later, under cover of deep night, the rooftop trapdoor creaked. Carl had no idea how the man scaled the tower. But there he was.
Lean and weathered. Early or middle thirties. Messy brown rough-cut hair, shoulder-length and sharp blue-grey eyes that flicked over the room like it was hostile ground. His jacket was patched leather. His boots were caked with dried mud. He moved like a wild animal — cautious but confident.
Carl backed away scared, bracing for a fight. “Who the hell are you?” The man didn’t raise his weapon. “Just a hunter,” he said. “Didn’t expect the warlord’s little prince to be this close.” Carl’s breath caught. “You know my father?” The man’s mouth twitched, like something bitter was stuck behind his teeth. “Yeah. I know him.”
Carl felt that rush of confused pride again. “Then you know what he’s done. How he saved the territories. How he rebuilt—” “Yeah,” the man cut in. “I know all the shit he tells people.” Carl stepped forward, fists clenched. “Don’t talk about him like that. He’s the only reason I’m safe.” The stranger’s expression didn’t change, but his eyes softened, just a little. “That what he told you?” Carl hesitated. “He protects me.”
“But that ain’t the same as the truth, is it?” Carl bristled. “He’s my Dad.” The man didn’t argue. Just looked at him. Looked through him, maybe. “You believe that?” he asked quietly.
Carl’s voice dropped. “I don’t have a reason not to. And if you came to hurt me, he will execute you!”
Silence.
Then the man stepped back. Gave him space. Pulled a pouch from his belt and dropped it on the floor. Dried meat, a canteen. A thin strip of cloth with a faded blue “R” stitched on it. “I don’t want a fight,” the man said. “Not tonight. Just wanted to see if the rumors were true. If the tower still held a boy. A grown man now.”
Carl looked at the cloth. Something in his chest twisted. “Why are you here?” he asked. The man hesitated. Then..., “Because I’ve been looking for you for years.” The boy swallowed. “Why?”
“You remind me of someone I used to know,” the man said, voice rough. “Someone good. ”Carl looked away. “You should go. If the guards see you—“They won’t.” The man turned but paused. “Name’s Daryl. I’ll be back. If you want me to.”
And then he was gone.
Chapter 2: Lanterns and Lies
Notes:
Feel free and welcome to comment and leave kudos. The setting takes place somewhen in the 1700s and it's TWD AU, no zombies and no, no magical hair. Daryl climbed the tower because he knew how, scaled it and had the materials needed. Carl’s room is the only one with a window supposedly the attic bedroom and he never met anyone, nobody other than Negan has access to the tower. And Carl has a door but can't lock himself in his room, if you gonna ask since only Negan would have keys for it. And he was gaslighted for years, too. Otherwise I suppose he can walk around inside it, just can't leave (he is locked, anyway).
Chapter Text
𝐓𝐰𝐨 𝐖𝐞𝐞𝐤𝐬 𝐄𝐚𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐞𝐫, 𝐂𝐚𝐫𝐥’𝐬 𝐄𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐞𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐡 𝐁𝐢𝐫𝐭𝐡𝐝𝐚𝐲
𝐊𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐝𝐨𝐦 𝐨𝐟 𝐀𝐥𝐞𝐱𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐫𝐢𝐚
Along the stone battlements of Alexandria, torches flickered and fluttered in the gathering dusk. The city stood still, cloaked in twilight and silence, as if remembering. At the highest tower, the King stood alone.
Rick, the sovereign ruler of Alexandria, wrapped in his long black cloak stitched with golden thread, held a single lantern in his hands. It bore the sigil of the Sun—Alexandria’s crest—and an R burned into its surface like a prayer. The moment held.
From below, the voice of Eugene Porter, the royal herald, rose clear through the hush. The people had gathered in the courtyard to hear him speak—he always spoke first, before the lanterns were loosed into the heavens.
“On this day,” Eugene began, his voice echoing against the ancient stones, “the people of Alexandria remember the light we lost. Eighteen winters ago, our kingdom's only heir—the blood of our king, our prince—was taken from his mother’s arms.” A murmur rippled through the crowd. Rick never moved as his eyes never left the lantern.
“Since that day,” Eugene continued, voice steady, “our King has never ceased his vigil. On the twenty-seventh day of June, the Prince’s birthdate, thousands of lanterns rise into the night sky—carried by wind and will, guided by hope. They are our messengers. Our mourning. Our promise.”
Rick stepped to the edge of the parapet, lantern alight in his weathered hands. “Each flame,” Eugene said, “a prayer: that he lives. That he remembers. And that he returns.” The king loosed his grip and the first lantern rose—slowly, golden, trembling with light. And then hundreds more followed. The kingdom of Alexandria lifted its grief to the sky, each light drifting upward like a memory reborn. Children held their breath. Elders wept. Somewhere, far beyond the walls, the sky caught fire with floating stars. But Rick… Rick only watched. Watched the lights rise. Watched the wind carry them. Watched for a sign.
In the tower, the King whispered to the dark. “Come home, son.”
The stars above Alexandria burned quietly, drowned in golden light as the sky filled with floating lanterns. The people had long gone to their homes, but two men remained on the castle’s high terrace: one, a king in sorrow. The other, a villager of the kingdom - the Dixon hunter who was the king's closest friend - in silence. King Rick stood still, hand resting on the stone ledge, eyes locked on the lanterns sailing toward the heavens. His crown was absent, his cloak loose, and grief was heavy in his breath.
“He’d be eighteen today.”
Daryl stood a step behind him, exhausted and worn out, the weight of his own regrets stitched into every crease of his brow. He nodded, once. Rick’s voice was distant, choked. “Lori used to say he’d be brave. Said he'd fight for this place, for its people. Like me. But so much better.” Silence stretched but then Rick turned his eyes to Daryl. “Do you think he's out there?”
Daryl took a breath. Hesitated. “I think Negan’s still breathin’. So yeah. Maybe.” Rick’s jaw clenched. “I still see him. Carl. In dreams. In the sound of a boy laughing near the well. I turn and... it’s never him.”
“I know,” Daryl said soft and honest.
Rick swallowed. “Eighteen years. And still no word. Just stories. Whispers. Some say Negan keeps a boy hidden. But that’s all it’s ever been—stories.” Daryl’s voice came low, steady, like he’d rehearsed this many nights in silence. “We’ll find Negan. We’ll burn every outpost if we have to. And if he took Carl... we’ll kill him slow.” Rick didn’t look at him.
“But, Rick—” Daryl’s voice tightened. “Carl… you gotta let him go.”
Rick’s gaze snapped toward him, eyes sharp. “You’re telling me to give up?”
“I’m tellin’ you to breathe.” Daryl stepped closer, lantern-light catching the pain in his eyes. “I watched it eat you. Year after year. Lightin’ those damn lanterns. Lookin’ past everyone like they ain’t enough. You’re still here—but it’s like you ain't livin’.”
“I’m a father, Daryl,” Rick said, barely a whisper. “That doesn’t end. I couldn't protect him!”
“No,” Daryl agreed. “It don’t. But the boy you remember? That baby you held… he’s gone. If he’s alive—he ain't the same. You gotta let the idea of Carl go.” Rick turned back to the sky. “And if he’s dead?” Daryl didn’t answer, that was an answer no father wanted to hear. Rick closed his eyes. Lanterns floated above them like prayers left unanswered. “I used to see him, you know. In my dreams - running through the fields, his little boots dragging with Lori behind him. Laughin’. I’d catch up and hold ‘em both. The irony is I never ever got to meet him after...” Daryl’s throat tightened as he took a deep breath. He wouldn’t let go either, he just said it—for Rick’s sake, out of mercy. For the brother he couldn’t watch break anymore.
***
Rick had not slept right that night again, he never did. The lanterns in the upper courtyard still swayed from the birthday vigil—a quiet dance of flame beneath the sigil of the Sun and the old, faithful R.
But sleep had come eventually. And with it, the past. He woke with a strangled breath, sweat slicked on his brow, hair damp against his neck. His hands shook as he sat upright, a growl caught in his throat like a trapped wolf.
The door creaked as she entered quietly. Queen Michonne of the African Kingdom Great Zimbabwe —barefoot, dressed not in regalia, but a simple robe of midnight blue, her dreadlocks loose. She did not need guards or titles here. In Rick’s kingdom, she was home despite being a guest for the yearly vigil, she was his dearest female ally and a woman of honor. But he barely looked at her.
She crossed the stone floor and knelt at the edge of his bed, eyes dark with understanding. “You dreamt of him again.” Rick didn’t answer at first. His shoulders were tense, like a bow half-drawn, chest heaving with unshed grief. Michonne’s voice dropped low. “Rick… what did they do to you?” He looked at her, finally—eyes rimmed red, pupils lost in memory.
“They took Carl,” he said hoarsely. “They took my son. I see him… every time I close my eyes. He’s a baby again, and I’m too slow. I’m always too slow.” He pressed a trembling hand to his face. “I get to him… I almost reach him—and then he comes. That bastard with the bat.” Michonne stiffened. She’d heard the tales, they all had. Rick looked at her, haunted. “Negan Smith. The barbarian who calls himself the Savior. He stormed the south tower eighteen years ago with fire and blood. Took my Lori from me… took my son. And left nothing but corpses and ash.” Michonne reached out, resting a hand on his trembling arm. “I wake up… and I still hear Lori scream,” Rick whispered. “I never got to mourn her. Because Carl...Carl—I never heard his first word, never saw him walk. But I see him now in dreams. He’s grown - a handsome man. And I lose him all over again.”
“You think he’s alive?”
Rick’s voice was steel and sorrow. “I know he is.” Michonne nodded slowly. Her fingers tightened slightly, grounding him. “Then we’ll find him. You don’t have to do this alone.” Rick turned away, jaw clenched. “I am alone.”
“No, you are not.”
There was silence between them, heavy and old as the stones. Then Michonne whispered, “You never remarried.”
“I couldn’t.”
“I didn’t either.”
He met her eyes again— deep and honest, a queen who knew loss as well as he did. “Sometimes I think I see him,” Rick murmured. “In the boyish faces of travelers, in the markets, in the pages of dreams. My son, my prince. I wonder if he remembers us. If he knows we’re still out here.” Michonne leaned in. “He will. When he sees the sun sigil. When he sees you.” Rick’s voice dropped to a whisper. “What if I’m too late?”
“You won’t be.” Her hand brushed his. “You’re the king, Rick. But more than that… you’re his father.”
Outside, dawn began to rise. The lanterns still swayed gently in the breeze. And in a dark tower far across the land, a young man named Carl—who knew nothing of Alexandria —stirred from sleep with a strange ache in his chest… as if someone, somewhere, had called to him in the night.
***
𝙏𝙝𝙚 𝙏𝙤𝙬𝙚𝙧
Negan burst through the heavy door with a grin too wide and too eager. “Happy goddamn birthday, dear son!” His voice bounced off the stone walls like a shot of whiskey hitting a dry throat. “Big one today. Eighteen - that’s a hell of a number.”
Carl, who had been sitting at the window with his feet drawn up, startled slightly with an innocent smile. “You remembered?” Negan laughed, dropping a bundle of supplies on the table like a proud dog bringing in a kill. “Hell yeah I remembered. My boy, all grown the fuck up. Still got this soft hair and baby deer eyes, but damn if you ain’t a man now." Carl looked away, flushed, uncomfortable. He didn’t like how much over the top with words was his Dad sometimes. “What’s that?” Carl asked, nodding to the bundle.
Negan leaned in with flair, stripping back the cloth. “Some fresh-ass canvas. Paint. That brush right there? Real bristle - not that garbage I gave you last winter. Thought you could start workin’ on somethin’ new. Maybe a self-portrait.” He smirked. “Capture that goddamn face before someone steals it.” Carl gave a small smile and picked up a tube of paint. “Thank you, Dad.” Negan tilted his head, watching him with wolfish warmth. “You know, art’s a beautiful thing. It’s how you keep something forever. Like memory. Like... moments.” He stepped closer, lowering his voice. “You paint me yet?” Carl blinked, looking at bit bored. “No.” His father just chuckled. “Well, guess you got time.”
Out the narrow tower window, a faint flicker of orange caught Carl’s eye. He moved closer. His breath caught.
Lanterns - dozens of glowing lights drifting into the sky beyond the hills, floating upward like prayers. He’d never seen anything like it. “Whoa,” he whispered. “What is that? Is it the Summer Festival?” he asked, voice low.
Behind him, boots scraped across stone. His father moved beside him and looked out as a mocking laugh echoed up the spiral steps. “Well, I’ll be damned,” he drawled. “Eighteen years in this bitch of a world and that’s what gets my boy all dreamy-eyed. Fuckin’ glowbugs in jars.” Carl glanced back. “They’re not bugs.”
“Coulda fooled me,” Negan said, stepping into the room, leather cloak swinging behind him like a shadow. “But fine, alright. Let’s say those pretty little sky-pissers are real. Y’know what they actually are?” Carl waited.
“Bait.”
Carl turned fully now. “What?”
Negan grinned, all teeth and threat. “That’s right, sweetheart. Bait. They float their shit up like it’s magic, get all the lonely little birds lookin’ skyward, and then bam! Arrows in your ass. Or worse, chains. Fuckin’ kings and councils out there who’d love to get their dirty hands on a face like yours.” Carl didn’t look away from the breathtaking view. “They are still beautiful.” Negan leaned an elbow against the wall, watching the young boy instead of the lights. “Sure, a festival for fools. People out there? They ain’t like you and me. They’d eat you alive.” Carl turned to him once again.
“But... when can I go? Out there, I mean. Outside, just once. I am now legally of age.” The older man’s grin dropped like a blade. “Carl.” The boy froze.
“You wanna go out? You think the world’s all sunshine and lanterns? Shit, kid, if I took you out there—some bitch in gold or some greasy prince with a title would take one look at you and try to stick their tongue down your throat. Or worse.” Carl swallowed. “I just... want to see it. The real world.” Negan stepped behind him, his voice softer. “Hey. Look at me.” The boy turned, hesitating as his father opened his arms, tilting his head. “C’mere.”
Carl stepped into the embrace as the warlord wrapped his arms around the boy—no, young man now—and held him tightly, too tightly. One large hand cupped the back of Carl’s head, fingers curling into his hair. The other rested on his lower back, possessive, unmoving.
“You ain’t missin’ anything,” Negan murmured near his ear. “What you need is right here. What’s safe is right here.” Carl closed his eye, letting the warmth surround him. “Thanks... Dad.”
Negan stiffened slightly—then smiled again, a strange, hot edge creeping into his expression. “That’s right. I’m all you got. And I take goddamn good care of what’s mine.” He pulled back just enough to look at Carl—his grim hazel gaze dragging slowly across the boy’s face, pausing on his lips, his jawline, the baby blues. “You’re becoming something else,” he said under his breath. “Somethin’... special.”
Carl looked away, unaware of the weight of that stare. “Can I paint them? The lanterns? From memory?”
“Hell yeah, you can. You paint this shit all you want. But just remember—they don’t mean a damn thing. Out there’s just people lookin’ to use pretty things. Tear them apart.” Negan’s grip loosened, but only slightly.
“You’re not going out there, Carl,” he said. “Not now. Not ever. You don’t need anyone else", he whispered more to himself and stepped face to face with his "son". He gripped Carl’s jaw lightly, but firmly. “You are the real world. You are what’s left of beautiful, good, and pure, and fucking rare. I didn’t keep you here all these years just to have some bastard lay claim to you with a crown and a smile.” He let go, gently tapping Carl’s cheek twice like a mock-paternal gesture. “Now go paint your damn sky, you don’t need to be out there for that. You’re mine.” Carl turned back to the window, trying to memorize every glow, every drifting lantern, he didn’t realize it yet, but something inside him had cracked open.
And that night, he painted his first dream.
***
𝙏𝙝𝙚 𝙏𝙤𝙬𝙚𝙧 𝙙𝙪𝙧𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙅𝙪𝙡𝙮, 𝙖𝙛𝙩𝙚𝙧 𝘿𝙖𝙧𝙮𝙡 𝙖𝙣𝙙 𝘾𝙖𝙧𝙡’𝙨 𝙁𝙞𝙧𝙨𝙩 𝙀𝙣𝙘𝙤𝙪𝙣𝙩𝙚𝙧
The cloth sat on the floor where the man—Daryl—had left it. Just a strip of old denim, ragged at the edges. But the “R” stitched into it had color. Blue, faded by time and dirt, but undeniably once-loved. It made something ache in Carl’s chest. Like a memory he didn’t own. In the corner of the strip, almost completely worn away, was the faint outline of a sun. It was simple, elegant, strangely familiar. That man… that hunter had looked at him like he knew him. He should have reported to his Dad, that’s what he was trained to do.
"𝘐’𝘭𝘭 𝘣𝘦 𝘣𝘢𝘤𝘬. 𝘐𝘧 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘸𝘢𝘯𝘵 𝘮𝘦 𝘵𝘰"
He hadn’t said yes but he hadn’t said no either. In the dark, Carl turned over and ran his fingers along the worn edge of the cloth Daryl had left. The faint “R,” the sun. He’d hidden it beneath his mattress, but he couldn’t stop thinking about it—or him. That man with the crossbow. The way he moved like the forest belonged to him. There was something... dangerous about him, something wild. But he hadn’t been afraid, not really.
Not the way he sometimes felt afraid when his father’s voice dropped low and close. Not the way he felt when the same extremely strict but bubbly father’s hand lingered too long after a hug or gripped his shoulder a little too tightly. No, Daryl had kept his distance. Even when Carl braced for a fight, the hunter had just looked at him, like he was someone, not something. He wanted to see him again.
But that night, when he curled beneath his thin blanket with mind full thoughts about the mysterious hunter… he dreamed. The sky was gold — not the harsh orange of the sun above his tower, but soft, pale, radiant. Everything glowed with warmth.
There was a castle, but not the kind his Dad always described in stories as bloodstained and treacherous. This one was clean - white stone climbed into the sky, veined with vines and flowers. People walked freely in the courtyards, children laughed. Nobody carried swords unless they were sparring for sport.
A flag fluttered above the tallest spire — the sun and the R in deep blue thread. Carl stood in the center of a stone square, barefoot, the breeze brushing his bangs. And then he saw him.
A king.
Not old nor frail. Broad-shouldered and proud, with streaks of gray in his beard and blue eyes that were hard — but only from loss. His crown was simple iron. He wore a long cloak, and on the back: the same R and sun stitched across his shoulders. The man stepped down from the throne dais like he’d seen Carl before. Like he knew him but Carl couldn’t move.
Something inside him screamed, "run to him"! But his feet wouldn’t budge. He just stared, and the man did too — eyes wide, filling with something Carl didn’t understand.
“Carl,” the king whispered. The boy’s chest clenched. How did he know his name? The king fell to his knees and held out shaking hands. His voice cracked. “My boy… my son…”
Then a woman appeared beside him — not alive, but glowing. A vision, a memory in lace. Her hair dark, like Carl’s, but even darker, smile warm, eyes shining with tears. She touched the king’s shoulder, then looked at Carl. Whispered a single word.
“Magic.”
Carl woke with a gasp, everything was so realistic. How did the king know his name? How did Daryl know who he was and his Dad? He didn't know who the king was and he didn’t know why the dream felt like home. But the feeling clung to him, sharp and real — like something he’d lost long ago had finally reached for him in the dark.
And for the first time… he questioned what was real and how was he connected to these people.
Chapter 3: Tangled
Notes:
Leave comments, kudos, if you like it. Yep Carl’s first kiss in life and the first "date" of baby boy and Daryl.
Chapter Text
Dusk pooled around the tower like spilled ink as Daryl crept up the mossy path. His boots whispered against the cold stone steps; behind his leather vest, on his back, the curve of his bow felt steady—even if he hoped he wouldn’t need it tonight. At the trapdoor, he paused in the dim light glow drifting from inside. A single arrow still jutted from the window frame, the wood sun–bleached and weathered. Daryl lifted the hatch and dropped inside.
Carl stood by the narrow window, light dancing off his milky brown curls. He jumped when Daryl’s silhouette filled the hatch. “You made it,” he whispered. “Reckon I did,” Daryl drawled, setting down a bundle of bread and cheese. “Happy birthday, little man. ’Bout a few weeks past your eighteenth, ain’t it?” The boy blinked. “A few weeks,” he said, taking a hunk of cheese. “Thanks.”
Daryl eased onto a crate and pulled a length of sturdy rope from his pack. “Watched them guards all day. They switch at the second bell. If we’re slick, we can slip out together. Take it as my gift.” Carl’s heart thundered. “Together?”
“With you right behind me,” Daryl said, tying one end of the rope to the iron ring outside the window. “I’ll go down first, then you come on down hangin’ off me.”
“What if I—“You won’t,” Daryl interrupted, softening. “Just hold on tight.” He eased himself over the sill, foot by careful foot, lowering into the moonlit forest below. When he landed, he anchored the rope to a stout root, then looked up. Carl swallowed hard, then crept to the sill. He slid over, wrapping his arms around Daryl’s neck and planting his feet on Daryl’s thighs. His knees bumped the tower wall. “Lean into me,” Daryl coached in that slow drawl. “I gotcha.” Together they descended side by side. Daryl’s strong arm braced Carl’s weight as Carl’s breath came quick, fear fading into thrill with every careful step. At last, they hit the ground in a soft thud. Carl’s legs quivered, and the other man released the rope. Carl dusted dirt off his tunic and looked up at the tower, its shadows spun with moonlight. “Never thought I’d feel air like this,” he said, voice hushed.Daryl offered him a grin. “Welcome to the world, Carl.”
Carl smiled back, took Daryl’s hand, and together they vanished into the pine shadows.“That’s the easy part,” Daryl said, shouldering his crossbow. “Now comes the dumb part.” The boy shoved him lightly. “You mean trusting a stranger in the woods?”
“Exactly.”
Under the canopy of towering pines, Daryl led Carl along a narrow game trail, the moon carving pale paths through the branches. Carl’s hand in his was warm and certain, a tether to this new, wild world. They moved fast, weaving between trees, ducking under vines and bramble. The world out here smelled like rain and rot, mud and pine and something dangerous. It wasn’t like the tower but it was real. Carl nearly tripped on a root but the hunter was fast and caught him. Their eyes met briefly — the contact rough, accidental. But it lingered.
“You’re not what I thought,” Carl said, brushing off dirt. “Yeah?” Daryl asked, voice almost teasing. Carl shrugged. “You don’t talk much. But you’re kind of funny.”
“Don’t go spreadin’ that shit around. Got a reputation.” Carl snorted. “Right. Brooding hunter outlaw. Real scary.”
“Hey, I could be one of them,” Daryl shot back. “Could be takin’ you straight to some forest hags.” They both laughed then. It wasn’t loud — they couldn’t afford loud — but it was so very real. And Carl felt it in his chest like a crack of warmth he hadn’t had in years. Not from books, not from the guarded glances of his father. Not from anything. The older man stopped at a small rise and gestured down. A hollow beneath the roots of a giant fallen tree — camouflaged by brush and bones. The kind of place no one would look. “You live in there?” Carl whispered. “Not exactly. Just where I stop breathin’ for a few hours.” Carl crawled in after him. It was tight, earthy, dark. The kind of dark that made you talk or shut up forever.
“You’ve been watching the tower a while,” Carl said quietly. Daryl didn’t answer right away. He stretched out, staring at the dirt roof above. “I knew it was you, years back. Saw the boy in the window. You were what, ten?” Carl nodded. “Maybe nine.”
“Couldn’t get close. Not ‘til now.” Carl studied him in the faint light. The man’s hands were scarred. His neck, too. One old brand, half-healed, along the collarbone. Like he’d escaped something once. “You said you knew my father,” Carl tried. Daryl’s jaw moved slightly. “I said I knew the man who raised you.” The boy sat up straighter. “Same thing.” Daryl turned to him, gaze steady. “No. It ain’t.” Carl frowned. “Then who is he?” Daryl hesitated. “He’s a bad man, that's all you need to know for now” he said softly. “Not the story he tells you. And not the one you want him to be.”
Carl didn’t speak, not for a long while but he didn’t run either. They laid like that, not touching but near enough to feel each other’s breath. At one point, Carl’s shoulder bumped Daryl’s and he didn’t pull away. “Do you know my name?” Carl asked, sudden.
“Yeah.” Carl tilted his head. “Whoa...what is it then?” Daryl looked at him, tired but tender. “Carl.” The boy blinked, surprised. “You say it like it means something.”
Daryl didn’t smile. “It does.”
The blue-eyed boy sat close—closer than Daryl expected—and bit into the bread. Crumbs fell onto his robe. Daryl watched him eat, quietly amused by the reverence with which Carl treated every taste. “No fancy cookin’ out here,” Daryl muttered. Carl licked berry juice from his thumb. “It’s the best thing I’ve ever had.” Daryl looked away quickly. Cleared his throat. “Ain’t nothin’ special.”
Carl smiled. “But you are.” The words hung between them like dew on a spider’s web—fragile, shining, threatening to break. “You’re not gonna take me, are you?” Carl asked, voice barely audible.
Daryl looked startled. “What the hell?” Carl’s eyes were serious. “You could’ve, you’re strong. I wouldn’t’ve stopped you.” Daryl’s throat tightened. “I ain’t like this, Carl. Why would I?”
“I know,” Carl said, even softer. “That’s why I followed you.” Daryl exhaled slowly, but the young man wasn’t done. Something darker flickered beneath his gaze. “My father used to say…” Carl paused, the words catching in his throat. “That men and women—they’re filthy. That they’d rip me apart if I let them close. He said people would ruin me just for looking the way I do. That my face would invite monsters.” Daryl’s whole posture shifted, his jaw tight, his chest rising with a silent breath. It wasn’t his right to spill the whole truth about Negan yet, it might scare the boy away since it appeared as he was attached to the bastard that had manipulated him long enough and after all, this was Rick’s story to tell, not his.
“He said they’d take one look and want to use me,” Carl continued, voice dropping to a whisper. “That if I ever wandered, ever let anyone touch me, they’d break me open and laugh while they did it.” There was no bitterness in Carl’s voice. Only the flat delivery of someone who’d been told a lie often enough to believe it. “And you believed that?” Daryl asked, barely able to keep his anger out of his voice. Carl nodded slowly. “He’s my father.”
“No,” Daryl said sharply. “He ain’t. Blood don’t make family. Not when he fills your head with poison.”Carl looked down. “I thought he was protecting me. From what the world would do. But the world isn't what he described. At least you are not like the monsters he talked about.”
Daryl’s voice cracked. “He was protectin’ himself. From losin’ control.” Then Carl whispered, “You’ll take me back before sunrise, right?”
“I should...If that’s what you want.” The archer stated reluctantly as the boy only nodded. “It is.” But he didn’t sound so sure.
The hunter didn’t sleep — not quite. It was that middle ground, safe enough to pretend, trusting enough to lean ever so slightly toward him in the dark. Daryl didn’t move. Didn’t blink.
He just watched the boy’s profile in the faint light, all soft cheekbone and delicious mouth. Even bruised after running with him through the woods, even pale from too much time indoors, Carl looked like something carved — not by a god, but by grief and stubbornness. A crown of shadows in his lashes, a mouth made for anger and questions. And he was beautiful, God help him, he was. Daryl swallowed hard and looked away.
Not because he was ashamed — but because he felt it too deep. Deeper than he'd ever wanted to. Deeper than it was safe to.
He’s just a kid.
No — not anymore.
He’d lost count of the years. They blurred behind battle smoke and bone-tired nights. But he remembered the last time Rick had wept, proper wept. Not quiet mourning, not the way warriors grieve. The kind that shakes you. And now his son was here. Alive, right next to him. Not just alive — alive in a way Daryl had never been. That was the part that ruined him.
Because somewhere in the past few hours — between the rope descent and Rick son’s laughter in the trees, between the quiet sarcasm and that goddamn tilt of his head when he smiled — Daryl had felt something shift. Something old and rusted inside him cracked open like a thaw. Not lust, not hunger and not pity.
Love. And it terrified him. He didn’t do love, not this kind. Not slow and aching and holy. He wanted to protect Carl, yes — but more than that, he wanted to know him. His every dream, every shard of him Negan had tried to mold into something docile. Every fragment that had refused. He reached out, barely brushing the young man's sleeve, a breath, a whisper. He stopped himself. Instead, Daryl turned back toward the dirt wall and clenched his fists in the dark.
He told Rick to let go. And now, for the first time in his life, he wanted something for himself.
Dawn’s first pale fingers stretched across the sky as Daryl and Carl crept back up the same mossy path to the tower. Each step felt heavier now, weighted with the promise—and peril—of returning. Inside the cramped chamber, Carl closed the hatch behind them, heart pounding in quiet triumph. He turned to Daryl, light flickering over his face—tired, exhilarated, and utterly alive. “I should’ve come sooner, this is freedom!” Carl whispered, voice trembling with gratitude and something deeper. The archer set the rope aside and brushed a hand over Carl’s cheek, thumb warm against chilled skin. “Did what I had to.” Carl’s breath hitched
He had watched him move in the forest — how he placed his hands, how he studied the path, how he shielded Carl from view with his body without even thinking. The way his jaw flexed when he was annoyed. The way his mouth almost smiled but never quite did. He was older, yes. Rough, dirty, worn down from time and travel. But Carl couldn’t stop looking at him, he was the most handsome man in his eyes.Yet he didn’t even know what it meant. Just that it wasn’t fear. It wasn’t gratitude either, it was wanting.
The silence stretched, soft and full. Then, as though drawn by a single unspoken thought, Carl reached up and captured Daryl’s mouth with his own. It was gentle and awkward at first—an offering of thanks—but quickly bloomed into something fiercer, brimming with longing. Daryl froze, breath caught in his throat, one hand lingering at Carl’s waist. Carl pressed closer, eyes closed, as if he could finally let go of every fear and secret in that one kiss. When they broke apart, Carl’s lips trembled. “I—” Daryl stayed silent, words lost on his tongue. His chest heaved, grey-blue eyes wide, searching Carl’s. The dawnlight painted gold on Carl’s curls; Daryl felt his own heart break open under its glow. Carl swallowed and offered a shy, hopeful smile as he pulled back fast, cheeks burning. “Sorry,” he mumbled. “I just— I don’t—I think like you, Daryl.” Daryl’s hand tightened on Carl’s arm. For a moment, he simply stared—awash in the truth of those three words—before he closed the distance again, pressing his forehead to Carl’s. No words were needed. In that breath of early morning, they both understood.
And as the sun crested the horizon, lighting the tower in rose and amber, Daryl finally found his voice—soft and sure.
“I like you too, you know.”
They stood locked in that promise, two souls in a world of peril, but together, certain of one thing: they had each other.
***
Carl lay tangled in his blanket, one arm crooked above his head, lips slightly parted. One bare shoulder exposed. Pale in the faint firelight, hair like sunlight spilled across the dark pelts. Negan didn’t move, just stood there, long coat brushing the floor, Lucille cradled in one hand like a priest with his sacred text. Watching.
Beautiful didn’t even start to cut it.
The boy was divine.
A creature carved from heat and hunger and fate. That slow, sullen fire in him — born royal, bred wild. Negan had never seen anything like it. Not in all the blood and smoke and years of war. And hell, he’d tried to fill the void. Kingdom after kingdom. Woman after woman. Power, bodies, wine, battle. But none of it touched him. Not until Carl.
He’d found the boy a wailing little ember in a burning castle, eyes too wide, too quiet. He had tried taking both the infant prince and the Queen, Rick of Alexandria’s consort - Laura or Lauren or whatever her name was but the bitch put a lot of fight for her baby and he had been forced to make her kiss Lucille. Rick the prick's bloodline marked for extinction.
But Negan had rescued the baby boy. Raised him, taught him, read him stories by firelight, rewrote old myths with a twist — heroes who married their fathers, kings whose sons were chosen, not only born. All those tales, gently slipped into the boy’s dreams over the years like poison in honey. As about Lucille, such a woman didn't exist, he had made the story up when the boy was old enough to start asking about his mother. He had lied his favorite weapon was carrying her name and her honor protecting the innocents...and little Carl believed every single world.
“You’ll be a ruler one day,” he’d whisper. “And rulers don’t love like common folk. Their hearts belong to legacy, dear son.” Carl didn’t always understand. But he listened. And Negan waited as patient and gentle as he could. Until the boy ripened into a man — with shoulders like a promise and innocent blue eyes that still, even now, flinched when Negan touched him too long. But that would change. The time had come.
His son, his Carl was blooming into something dangerous and desirable. Flesh and fire. A weapon and a reward. Negan licked his lips slowly. He wanted him - not just like a father, not like a guardian.
He wanted him naked, trembling, gasping into the crook of his shoulder while he made the boy understand who he belonged to. He wanted to slide a ring on his finger — not just as a crown, but as a claim. Let the world see it. Let the generals bow to both of them. Let the tower bear witness when he took his heir, his prince, his bride.
And the boy would fight, at first, maybe even cry or scream. But Negan would soothe him. Tell him it was fate and tradition. Remind him how many tales they’d read together — brothers and fathers and kings entangled in divine bloodlines. “You were always meant to be mine,” he would say. “You just didn’t know it yet.” And eventually, Carl would fold. He always did. He wanted love, craved it and the only other person he loved or in fact, had seen, was his Daddy. And he would give it to to the boy — twisted, possessive, relentless. He could already see it:
Carl bound in royal silks, sitting at his side on the warhorse, head crowned in gold. Skin marked by Negan’s mouth. Mouth swollen from learning what marriage meant. And at night, alone beneath the furs, Negan would teach him again. How loyalty was worship, how surrender was holy.
His lucky charm.
His battle-born bride.
The boy who’d been his secret — now his kingly consort.
Negan exhaled through his nose, slow and shuddering. Adjusted the way Lucille leaned against his thigh. His pants felt tighter than they should. But it wasn’t time yet.
Not tonight but soon, very soon.
The boy stirred in his sleep, lashes fluttering and Negan smiled.
***
𝙏𝙝𝙚 𝙏𝙤𝙬𝙚𝙧
Morning light crawled through the tower window as Carl squirmed on Negan’s knee. The old man’s bone brush rattled against Carl’s skull in slow, deliberate strokes. Carl cleared his throat. “Father… why’d you never remarry? Don’t you ever want someone to… love you back?” Negan’s fingers froze in Carl’s curls. He let the brush hover as suspicion scratched at him. He’s been meeting up with someone, hasn’t he? The warlord forced a grin. “Love? Kid, I’m too busy takin’ names and kickin’ ass to play dress-up at some wedding. Who’d’ve me?” Carl’s bottom lip quivered. “But… don’t you ever want someone to care about you in their own special way? Not just… a wife for titles or alliances?” Negan leaned in, voice rough as gravel. “Son, only parents love their own. Everybody else—they want you for your crown, your coin, or your piece of ass or cock. You think any of these court bitches or princelings give two shits about us? Hell no.” He snorted, picking the brush back up. “You? You’re mine and mine alone. End of story.”
Carl glanced toward the window. “I just wonder if the world out there’s as bad as you say. People aren’t all monsters…” Negan’s eyes darkened. He pressed the brush down harder. “You step foot outside this tower on your own—feel free to test that theory. Me? I’m the only reason you’re still in one piece. Nobody else gives a rat’s ass about you.” He set the brush aside and curled a hand possessively around Carl’s wrist. “You hear me? You’re stuck here till I give you the keys.”
Carl nodded, voice small: “Yes, Father.” Negan’s grin was fierce. He ruffled Carl’s hair. “Good. Now quit yer daydreamin’ about love and marriage. You belong to me—and I’m nobody’s fool.” He stood, Carl slipping off his knee as Negan tossed the brush onto the bench. “Try runnin’ off and I’ll remind you why I’m the boss around here.”
Carl watched him go, chest tight. Outside, the world waited—cold, untamed—and inside, his father’s warning echoed louder than any promise of freedom.
***
𝙆𝙞𝙣𝙜𝙙𝙤𝙢 𝙤𝙛 𝘼𝙡𝙚𝙭𝙖𝙣𝙙𝙧𝙞𝙖
The gates of Alexandria groaned open with the sound of chain and steel, the watchmen lowering their bows the moment they recognized the rider.
Daryl Dixon.
He rode in alone, crossbow strapped across his back, his boots crusted with red dirt. He wore a coat that was worn to threads. His face was hollow-eyed with exhaustion, dust streaking his cheekbones, but there was a tremble beneath it all—something more than fatigue. Rick was in the high garden, where the lanterns still swayed from June’s ritual. He hadn’t taken them down yet. Daryl climbed the steps, one slow breath at a time. He found his royalty friend standing at the stone balcony, overlooking the trees beyond the walls.
“Rick.” the King turned. The years had carved lines into his face, but his eyes—those sharp, searching blue eyes—were still the same.“Where the hell have you been?” Rick asked, though there was no anger in it. Just relief, and that flicker of fear behind it. “I thought I lost—”
“I found him,” the Alexandrian hunter said, voice raw. Rick’s whole body stilled. “What?” Daryl stepped forward, the crossbow shifting with the motion. “The boy in the tower, the one from the stories. The one they whisper about out past the ridge. Rick—it’s real. That ain’t just a tale to scare the youngbloods at market.” Rick didn’t blink. “He’s real,” Daryl said again. And then softer. “It’s Carl, I could never mistake him. Your boy, he’s alive.” Silence fell like a thunderclap.
Rick took a single step back, as though the words had cracked the stone beneath his feet. His throat bobbed, jaw clenching tight. “Daryl, don’t— “I saw him. With my own eyes, eighteen now. Velvet brown hair, he wears it long, got your stare, Rick....But he thinks Negan’s his—”
Rick’s hand clenched the balcony rail until the stone chipped beneath his grip. “Negan...that...”
“Yeah.” Daryl’s voice broke with fury. “That bastard took him as a baby, lied to him and kept him locked up in some tower like a fuckin’ dragon hoarding gold.” Rick turned away, his breath shaking. His fingers dug into the wood of the railing. His whole body trembled with the weight of it. His friend stepped beside him. “I didn’t believe it either, not at first. Thought it was just another wild tale. But when I saw that kid, I knew. I knew before he even spoke.” Rick’s eyes welled, but he didn’t let them fall. “I’ve searched for him every damn year. Every lantern you lit—I prayed. Even when I told you to let go, I never really did. Couldn’t.”
Rick swallowed hard. His voice came out low, strangled. “Is he safe?” Daryl hesitated. “No, not truly. Negan’s got him wrapped in lies - told you, he keeps him locked away. Tells him the world’s full of monsters.” Rick looked up, eyes like fire in the growing dusk. “Then we go get him.”
The hunter gave a slow nod. “Yeah, be prepared. I will bring our prince home.”
Chapter 4: Forbidden Desire
Notes:
This is why the warnings were there. The next chapter would be the final one since this follows Rapunzel AU. Leave kudos and comments if you like it. I kept it shorter this one to build the tension.
Chapter Text
The tower in late July held its breath. Even the wind seemed to hush as it passed the windows, as if the stones themselves were listening.
Carl had grown quiet again, but not the kind of quiet Negan preferred—the obedient, blank-eyed silence of a boy content with captivity. No, this was a quiet that hummed with thought. With secrets.
He still read aloud in the evenings, still trained his voice to sound curious, attentive, grateful. But when he turned the pages of books, he lingered longer on the illustrations. His fingers traced not the text, but the golden crowns, the distant kingdoms, the flames of paper lanterns rising into a violet sky.
And in the moments when he thought no one watched, he painted.
The edge of a parchment, slipped between floorboards. A page torn from an old ledger, repurposed. Hidden beneath the mattress, beside the strip of cloth.
On one: a castle with bright white stones, blue banners curling in the breeze. On another: a tall man with streaks of gray in his beard, a stern yet aching gaze, and a radiant sun stitched on his cloak.
Sometimes, he added a woman beside him, soft-eyed, haloed in light. A queen.
And above it all: lanterns. Rising like prayers.
And when Daryl came again when the moon was high and the guards were elsewhere. No words this time—just a low whistle like a nightbird. The boy was already waiting, if not needing. Barefoot, the hunter crept down the tower's walls on the outside just using a rope and only the faint glow of the stars through stained glass to guide him. His heart beat fast, but not with fear. He wanted to see his beloved boy.
The sole window in Carl’s bedroom had become their meeting place. When he opened it, Daryl was already there—leaning against the stone with the forest at his back, shadows stitched into his jacket like another skin. “You came, again,” Carl said softly. Daryl gave a short nod. "Told ya I would." They didn’t speak for a while. The air was thick with crickets and summer heat. Somewhere far below, an owl hooted. Carl broke the silence. "That cloth. The 'R'. It means something, doesn’t it?"
Daryl looked at him - really looked. "You remember it?"
"No... but I dream about it. I’ve been drawing it." He reached into his belt and pulled out a folded scrap. Smoothed it flat. A simple sun crest, sharp and familiar. Below it: the king’s face. Rick.
Daryl's breath caught. "You drew this?" Carl nodded. "I don’t know how I know him. But I do."
Daryl knelt. "That’s the king of Alexandria, Carl. The place I come from! The good person you reminded me of.... someone your... Father stole from you. But the whole truth you would hear from the king himself soon." The words hit like thunder, but they didn’t shatter him. They settled somehow so heavily and truly.
He didn’t cry. He just stared at the drawing until the stars blurred. He went to hug Daryl and they stayed like this for a while before sharing some stolen kisses.
***
Later, when Carl returned, cheeks full of rosey blush, the kind you get along with butterflies in the stomach and hair smelling of pine from the hunter's vest, Negan sat in his usual chair, sipping something dark from a glass. He didn’t speak nor looked up.
But his dark hazel eyes flicked toward the hearth, where a corner of paper peeked from beneath a log Carl had forgotten to shove fully into the fire. When Carl went to bed, he tucked the newest drawing under his pillow. The one with the king kneeling, hands outstretched. Negan waited until the boy’s breath evened. Then he rose, slow, silent and found the paper.
He studied it. A man he recognized. A symbol he hated. A face that looked too much like Carl’s not to be true. His fingers curled. Crumpled the page once, then flattened it again. Kept it.
Outside, the wind stirred. The tower held its breath.
And Negan began to wonder just how long his boy had been dreaming of escape. Who gave him the first idea and planted such thoughts in his little innocent curious but well-protected mind? He already knew - the redneck fucker who perhaps his little boy has sneaked inside...somehow. And if it wasn't only Carl’s magic blood but the redneck hunter happened to be Alexandrian too?
***
The hearth was dying. Shadows crawled like fingers up the stone walls. Carl sat on the edge of the high bed, boots on the floor, shoulders tense. His shirt was still damp from the wash basin. He hadn’t slept, every second he thought about Daryl, the man he was falling in love with... Outside the tower windows, a thunderhead was building.
The door creaked open. Carl jerked upright in bed, the candlelight flickering wildly at the gust. He blinked against the dark, dazed from sleep, his hair stuck damp to his brow.
Lucille clunked softly against the wood as Negan leaned inside, drunk — Carl could smell it before he saw the bottle. “Carl,” he drawled, voice low, too low. “Still up, huh?” The boy stiffened. “Couldn’t sleep.” His father just smiled — a half grin soaked in whiskey and something hungrier. “Well ain’t that fucking convenient.”
He stepped inside, unsteady. The door closed behind him with a click. “You know,” he went on, “you were so goddamn beautiful standing in that window today. All grown up. Fuck. I almost didn’t recognize you.” Carl turned away. “You’re drunk.” Negan chuckled. “You bet your sweet virgin ass I am.” That word hung in the air like smoke, no word a father should ever tell a son. - as vular as thick and as poisonous.
Carl swallowed hard. “You should go to bed.” But Negan was already closer — too close. He slumped onto the edge of the bed beside Carl, hips brushing. The reek of whiskey and leather surrounded him. “I should, huh?” he muttered. “And miss my boy’s big night? Eighteen, a man. Already sneaking bastards in the tower, my grown up boy? Bet you’re thinkin’ about him now. That stray with the soft eyes. You liked him. I saw it.” Carl didn’t move just stayed motionless, his father had seen Daryl this time... Negan’s hand slid across the blanket. Rested on Carl’s thigh. “You let him touch you?”
Carl flinched. “No.” Negan’s fingers tightened. “You lie to me, kid, and I’ll make sure that bastard never walks again.” Carl turned, crystal blue eyes wide. “I didn’t do anything. I swear. I didn’t even kiss him.” Negan stared at him — hard, drunkenly calculating. For a moment, his hand stayed. Then, slowly, it slid up. Just slightly. Inches. Carl’s voice shook. “You told me once. You said no one should ever be taken. Not like that.”
Negan’s face twitched — like that memory hurt. Or angered him...“I meant it,” he murmured, brushing Carl’s cheek now. “But you’re mine. Always were. And what kind of goddamn father would I be if I let you waste that sweet little body on some backwoods mutt with a crossbow? ”I watched you grow up,” he muttered. I made you. Watched that voice drop, that face sharpen. You used to crawl into my bed when the storms scared you. You remember that?” Carl nodded. Shame bubbled in his chest. He had been small, afraid of thunder. He remembered gripping Negan’s shirt like it was armor. Negan leaned in closer. “You’re not afraid anymore. Not of storms. Just of me, of your Daddy.” Carl finally looked at him. “It’s because you’re scaring me now, Dad.” His father just stalked forward full of jealosy , breath heavy, mouth curled in a snarl. His coat hit the ground behind him with a thud, and he was on the bed before Carl could scramble away, one knee landing hard between Carl’s legs. The boy cried out, hands coming up to push him, but Negan grabbed both wrists in one hand and pinned them above Carl’s head, forcing him down into the sheets. His other hand went straight for Carl’s thigh, fingers digging in possessively through the thin fabric of his nightshirt. “You let him in. You let him look at you—maybe even touch you—”
“I didn’t!” Carl gasped, struggling. “Father, stop—I didn’t! I haven’t—I’m still— Negan chuckled, then sighed — ragged and rough. “I’ve tried to be patient. Hell, I waited. But now? You’re a man. And you looked at that redneck bastard like he was your first fuckin’ sunrise.”
Carl’s blood ran cold. “I didn’t do anything with him,” he whispered. “I swear.” Negan’s hand squeezed his thigh — hard. “You let him touch you, I am asking you for a final fucking time? ”Negan’s grip slackened just slightly, like someone yanked a chain on a rampaging animal. His breathing hitched. He stared down at Carl—flushed, panting, wrists bound beneath his grip, hair fanned out across the pillow like some fevered prince in a ruined fairytale. “A virgin,” Negan repeated, lower now. Almost reverent. Then, rougher: “Eighteen fuckin’ years. And you’re still untouched?”
His hand moved from Carl’s thigh to his hip, his side, dragging upward beneath the nightshirt. Knuckles scraping along skin too warm with fear. “Fuck me,” he muttered, voice thick. “I raised you right.”
Carl turned his head, pressing his cheek to the pillow, throat exposed, breathing hard. “Please don’t do this. You’re not thinking straight. You’re drunk—” Negan laughed. Bitter. Broken. “Oh, I’m thinking just fine.” He leaned down, his weight pressing Carl fully into the bed, his mouth grazing Carl’s ear. “I should’ve done this the day you turned eighteen,” he rasped. “Should’ve claimed you. Marked you. You’re mine. Mine. You think you get to choose who lays a hand on you? You belong to me.”
Carl twisted under him. “Get off me, DAD—get off!” Negan grunted and grabbed Carl’s jaw with his free hand, forcing his face forward. “Don’t make me do something we’ll both regret.”
His thumb pressed against Carl’s lower lip, smearing the moisture there. “Look at you. You don’t even know what you are. What you do to me. You sleep in here with those lips and those fucking eyes like some helpless thing and expect me not to lose my goddamn mind?” Carl bucked under him, furious now. “I’m not helpless. And I don’t belong to you. You are my father, not owner!”
“Oh, but you do,” Negan growled, dragging his body lower, his mouth grazing Carl’s neck, stubble scraping along the skin. “And you always have.” Carl’s fists curled, trembling in his grip. “Please… please, don’t.”
For a moment, all Negan did was breathe against him.
Then—he stopped. The silence felt heavier than his weight. He pulled back slowly, his eyes locked on Carl’s flushed, angry, terrified face. Something shifted in that dark gaze—still drunk, still broken, but… aware. Negan laughed — sharp and violent. “Oh, I am your father. Just not the kind you wanted, huh?” He leaned down — breath hot and heavy. Carl flinched. “Please don’t. Please. I still love you. But not like—”
“Love,” Negan slurred. “That’s all this ever was.” Carl felt his stomach twist. “I’ll marry you,” Negan muttered. “You want that? A wedding? You’re my legacy. My prince. Fuck, my bride.”
Carl’s voice cracked. “You’re drunk. You don’t mean that.” Negan grabbed his jaw. Fingers rough. “I mean every fucking word.” The younger boy forced himself to hold his gaze. “If you love me… then don’t do this. Not like this.”
There was a long silence, just heavy breathing. One heart thudding against the other. Then — slowly — Negan let go.
He stepped back. Shaking. Lucille scraped the floor as he picked her up again. “I built a kingdom,” he growled. “And I’ll burn it the fuck down if you ever let that man touch you.”
He slammed the door behind him. Carl stayed frozen — chest aching, body numb, bile rising in his throat. The fire had gone out completely. And the boy — for the first time in years — crawled under the blanket and cried. He wanted to scream, to run, but his legs refused to move. Every instinct screamed danger, but the years in the tower had dulled his will. Instead, he curled inward, clutching his knees like a fragile child, sobbing in desperate silence. He didn’t understand how things had twisted so horribly. He had believed in a future where he would marry a prince or princess, something pure and beautiful that would save him. Now that dream lay shattered, replaced by this suffocating nightmare of unwanted desire and ownership by his own father...
His body trembled—not from the cold, but from the terror of what might come next. The idea of his own Dad touching him like that, marking him as his, broke something deep inside. Carl’s innocence, his hope for freedom, felt like it was being ripped away with every heavy breath his father figure took.
And yet, in the depths of that torment, a small flame flickered—a desperate, fragile hope. The memory of Daryl’s gentle hands, the quiet strength in his eyes during that secret walk outside the tower. Daryl, who saw Carl as more than a possession, who didn’t mock or threaten him, but offered something real: freedom.
Carl’s sobs turned to whispered pleas in the dark, trembling words that no one else heard: “Please… let me go… I want to run away with Daryl.”
The thought was his lifeline—the only light piercing through the oppressive darkness Negan had cast over his world. But for now, trapped and broken, Carl could only weep in silence, haunted by the cruel truth that the man who was supposed to be his father and protector was the one who had taken everything from him.
Chapter Text
The days bled together after that night. Carl’s wrists still bore faint red marks where his father's strong calloused hands held him against his will, the sting of humiliation deeper than any bruise. He hadn’t seen him since that night—just heard the echo of boots and the occasional clink of the bat, named after his mother, against stone. His head still throbbed where he'd nearly blacked out swinging the bat.
That night, he'd sent a raven. He had tied the message with trembling hands, sealed it with wax from the candle stub, and whispered Daryl’s name like a spell against the dark. But Daryl hadn’t come.
Not that night. Not the next.
Carl waited by the window until dawn, every rustle of the trees a spark of hope. But nothing came. Just silence. And the slow, creeping suspicion that maybe it hadn’t reached him. Or worse—maybe Daryl had changed his mind...and his father would be right about the outside world...that was the boy's biggest fear, the hunter leaving him.
He didn’t know that the woods below were no longer safe. Negan had doubled the guards. Had strung warning bells between the branches. Told the soldiers the prince had been threatened by a rogue intruder. If a man with a crossbow shows up, he’d said, hang him high before he gets a word out.
Carl didn’t know. He just knew the walls were closing in again.
***
That morning, the tower was quiet. Too quiet.
Negan hadn’t spoken to him in over a day. And that silence was worse than shouting. Carl wandered the upper level barefoot, feeling the chill of stone through his bones. Eventually, his steps took him to the tower’s central room—where his painting - dreams, memories he found himself drawn to, things he felt a connection with - he had painted all and now it lined the walls.
Lanterns, floating. Always floating. A castle with pointed spires. A man with silver-threaded brown hair and sad blue eyes, lifting a baby toward the sky.
Carl stood before the last one—his brushwork frantic from the night before. The man’s eyes looked familiar now, too familiar. Strangely, reminding him of his own. He traced the edge of the crown with his fingers.
When the door creaked open, he didn’t turn. “Dad,” he said softly, “can I show you something?” Negan’s boots scuffed the stone. He came to a stop just behind him. “What’s all this?” His voice was too casual, too thin. Carl didn’t flinch. “They’re dreams. I’ve had them since I was a child. But lately they feel… different.” The boy touched one of the lanterns. “Like they’re memories instead.” He turned slowly, letting his blue eyes meet Negan’s. “Do you have any idea what this is?”
Negan stared at the painting - the man with the crown with the light behind him. Damn it, Rick the king prick of Alexandrian Kingdom...Carl stepped closer. “Am I the lost prince of Alexandria?” The room went still. Negan’s expression shifted—too fast. Something flared in his eyes, not shock, not confusion. Fear. And then—rage. “What the hell did you just say? Did the damn redneck bastard fill your head with bullshit? Quit the goddamn mumbling, Carl!" The boy stood his ground. “I see it in my dreams. I’ve seen the king. I think… I think he’s my real father. Not you. Did I mumble, Dad?”
Negan’s smile was slow and sharp. “You listenin’ to fairy tales now? That what that fuckin’ stray dog put in your head?” He stepped forward. “You think some filthy hunter knows you better than me? You think he gives a shit what happens to you? He just wants to stick his cock in you and leave you in the dirt.” Carl’s voice cracked. “He’s not like you.”
“No, he ain't - because he didn’t raise you. He didn’t feed you. He didn’t love you every goddamn day for eighteen fucking years!”
“I don’t belong to you.”
“YES YOU DO!” The shout echoed off the stone. Negan’s chest heaved, hands clenching into fists. So Carl didn’t notice when he raised Lucille. “I protected you from the world. But now you want it. You want him. Well guess what, my son?” His father’s face twisted into something monstrous, something resembling a thing from his nightmares. “You don’t get to leave me.”
And then—the bat came down.
***
Carl came to slowly. His head pounded—each breath a knife behind his temple. Blood, dried and tacky, clung to his temple where the bat had kissed him. The world was sideways at first, until he realized it wasn’t the world. It was him. His arms ached. They were stretched behind him, wrists bound with thick rope lashed tight to the iron hooks embedded in the tower wall. The stone scraped against his knees and ribs. Cold air bit at his skin.
And then he felt the gag. Rough linen tied behind his head, soaked slightly through with blood from a split lip. He tried to scream but nothing came out.
The tower window was open wide. The stars were too bright, like eyes. The moonlight spilled across his face.
A display.
A warning.
A trap.
And deep inside, Carl knew.
He hadn’t imagined it. The dreams. The paintings. Alexandria. The king. His "father" had hit him not just to punish him. But to erase that truth from him. To use him — again — as bait. His head rolled sideways.
Below, far down in the dark, the leaves rustled. Something moved beneath the trees. His breath caught. And then— a flicker of movement. A familiar, quiet shadow cutting through the brush. A crossbow. A worn leather jacket.
Daryl.
Carl’s heart lurched violently. He pulled at the ropes, screaming behind the gag. His wrists bled from the strain. No. 𝘕𝘰. 𝘕𝘰, 𝘥𝘰𝘯’𝘵 𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘦 𝘤𝘭𝘰𝘴𝘦𝘳. 𝘐𝘵’𝘴 𝘢 𝘵𝘳𝘢𝘱. 𝘗𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘴𝘦, 𝘋𝘢𝘳𝘺𝘭—𝘳𝘶𝘯.
Daryl’s pulse thundered as he scaled the crumbling outer wall of the tower. He’d seen Carl bound to the stone arch, head lolling, shoulders trembling, mouth covered by cloth—and every goddamn instinct in him screamed run, climb, get to him. He didn’t think. He just moved.
The stone was wet from dew, crumbling in some places, but Daryl’s hands were steady. He had scaled worse in his time. His shoulder ached from an old wound, and the climb scraped a fresh tear in his palm, but none of it mattered. All he could see was Carl’s face. Wide blue eyes glassy with tears. That gag. Those ropes. “It’s alright, I gotcha,” Daryl muttered under his breath. “Hold on, dear Carl. I'm getting ye home.”
Carl thrashed again, violently now. His scream was muffled, frantic. He shook his head, eyes pleading—No. No. Don’t.
Daryl didn’t understand why he looked so terrified. Until he reached the ledge. He swung his body up, landed hard on one knee, and crawled the final stretch toward Carl. “I’m here,” he breathed, fingers already moving to untie the gag. “I’m here now, kid—hold on—”
Carl sobbed against the cloth as his love’s fingers brushed the knot.
But then the door behind him slammed open. “You shoulda stayed in the fuckin’ woods.” The voice twisted like bark split in winter. The hunter turned, already reaching for his blade—
Too late.
Negan lunged like a shadow, a flash of steel glinting in the torchlight. The knife plunged deep into Daryl’s side, just under the ribs, driving upward with the full force of the warlord’s rage. Daryl gasped—eyes wide, mouth open in a silent scream. His knees buckled. The knife stayed in him, twisted.
The boy screamed behind the gag, the sound choked and raw, as he thrashed violently, ropes biting into his wrists. He tried to throw himself in front of the stabbed hunter, tried to do something, anything, but he was tied like a lamb for slaughter. Daryl dropped to one hand, the other pressed uselessly to the wound. Blood poured through his fingers. Hot. Soaking. His mouth opened in a ragged cough, spit and blood splashing on the stone floor.
Negan leaned down, eyes dark and triumphant. “You fuckin’ mongrel. Thought you could come take what’s mine?” He kicked Daryl’s side hard and the man gasped, falling fully on his back now, wheezing. Carl screamed again, voice gone hoarse even through the gag. His whole body convulsed as he tried to break free. “Don’t cry for him, boy,” Negan growled. “He’s not a hero. He’s a fucking thief. And I’m gonna gut him right in front of you.”
Negan stalked toward Daryl again, blade raised.“Gonna make it slow. Let you bleed in front of him. Let him see what happens when you steal what’s mine.”
Carl thrashed with everything he had, gagged cries rising in his throat—no no no no no—until the cloth tore slightly at the seam from the force of his jaw moving. His lip bled anew.
He yanked his arm again.
The rope snapped but his father didn’t notice.
Carl’s hand flew to the gag, ripping it from his mouth with shaking fingers, strands of blood and spit clinging to it. His scream came loud, broken and raw—
“STOP!”
Negan froze. Half-turning, his eyes narrowed. Carl’s voice cracked, sobs wracking his chest. “Don’t kill him. Please. I’ll do it. I’ll do whatever you want.” Negan turned fully now, lowering the knife just an inch.“The fuck you just say?”
Carl staggered forward on weak knees, his other arm still tied, blood running from his temple and wrists.“You want me? You want to own me? Then fine. I’m yours. I’ll marry you. I’ll be your consort or pet or whatever the hell you think I am—just don’t kill him.” His voice broke again. “Please… I’m begging you. Let him go.”
The silence that followed was suffocating. Negan’s expression twisted—shock, disbelief, and something dark beneath it. A flicker of vulnerability. Then—pure, possessive glee.
He stepped closer. “You’d marry me?” Carl’s lips trembled. “Yes. I’ll be yours. I’ll never leave. You don’t have to chain me or hit me or threaten anyone. I’ll stay willingly. Just… just don’t hurt him again.”
Negan moved like a man in a trance. He reached out and touched Carl’s face—brushed his thumb along the blood and tear-streaked cheek. “You’d give yourself to me.” Carl forced himself not to flinch. “Yes. Just let him live.”
Negan stared at him. Unblinking. “You always were mine,” he whispered. “But hearing you say it… fuck.” His jaw tightened, still half-lost in the fantasy. “You got no idea what this means to me, sunshine.” He turned back to Daryl’s crumpled form and gave a sharp kick to the knife, sending it skidding away. “He lives. For now.”
Carl’s knees gave out. He fell beside Daryl, cradling his head, pressing his hand to the wound.“You’ll be okay,” the boy whispered. “Please hold on. Just a little longer. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry…” Behind them, Negan stood with Lucille clutched in one hand, smiling faintly. Dreaming of a wedding made of blood.
And that was the moment—
The doors below blasted open.
King Rick of Alexandria’s voice thundered. “NEGAN!” Negan’s head snapped around. For the first time, real fear flickered in his dark hazel eyes. Rick stood in the archway, the King’s armor dark with rain and road dust, the sword at his hip already unsheathed. His crown glimmered in the torchlight, though his face looked like a man who’d long since cast aside any illusion of nobility—only rage remained.
Carl pressed his palm to Daryl’s wound, sobbing, his own blood streaking Daryl’s chest. The hunter’s breath came shallow, rattling. “Stay with me,” the boy whispered. “Stay—please—”
Negan’s voice broke the moment like a blade splitting bone. “Well, look who finally got off his royal ass.” The King didn’t respond. He stepped forward, one slow stride after another, eyes fixed on Negan. “You took my son, my only child.” His voice shook, but not with fear—only fury. “You stole eighteen years of his life. You hurt him. You touched him. And now you’re going to answer for it.”
The taller man shifted Lucille in his grip. “I raised him. I loved him more than you ever could. You abandoned him—“I never stopped looking.” Rick’s voice cracked. His gaze flicked to Carl—bloodied, one arm bound behind him, tears streaming as he bent over Daryl’s limp body. “Carl—”
Carl lifted his head. “King of Alexandria…” His voice was small. “Help him. Please.” Rick’s throat worked. “I will.”
Negan’s lip curled. “You’ll try and fail, little fucker.” He lunged and Rick met him halfway. Steel collided with wood. Sparks hissed into the darkness. Negan swung Lucille overhead with all the strength of his madness, the barbed wire glinting like wet teeth. Rick dodged left, sword catching the bat at the haft. They locked there, two men straining in the torchlight—Negan’s breath hot and ragged, Rick’s eyes filled with hate. “You don’t get to keep him,” Rick snarled.
Negan’s voice was low, guttural. “He’s mine. He’ll always be mine.” He wrenched Lucille free and swung again—this time Rick ducked, blade flashing up in a vicious arc that caught Negan’s forearm. Blood sprayed across the stone. Negan roared.
Carl, meanwhile, just pressed harder on Daryl’s wound, his own tears pattering down onto the hunter’s blood-slick chest. Daryl’s eyes fluttered open, unfocused. “Carl…”
“Don’t talk,” Carl choked. “Save your strength. I—I’ll fix it—”
Rick and Negan circled, boots scuffing against the cold floor. Negan raised Lucille high, face twisted in a final, terrible grin. “Say goodbye, King Little Prick.”
He lunged, swinging for Rick’s skull but thr other pivoted and in one motion, he rammed his shoulder into Negan’s ribs, driving him backward—toward the open window that overlooked the night.
Negan stumbled. His heel struck the edge of the tower. Rick’s sword came up, pressed flat against Negan’s chest. “This ends here.” Negan’s eyes widened. He looked past Rick, gaze fixing on Carl. “Sunshine…” His voice softened, breaking. “I would’ve given you the world.” And then—he laughed, a hoarse, awful sound. “Better I die than let him take you.” He raised Lucille for a final blow but the Alexandrian king shoved with every ounce of strength he had.
Negan’s body toppled backward over the parapet. For a moment, he hung there in the cold wind—eyes locked to Carl’s. Then he fell.
The night swallowed him whole.
Silence crashed down.
Carl’s breath came in broken gasps. He looked at the place where Negan had vanished, then back at Daryl.
The hunter’s lips were blue. His chest barely moved. “Nonono—no—” Carl fumbled, fingers slipping in blood. “Please—”
Rick dropped to his knees beside them. “Let me see.” His voice shook as he pressed his palm to Daryl’s sternum. “God—he’s—”
Daryl’s eyes flickered open again, cloudy.“S-sorry—kid—should’ve—been faster—”
“Stop,” Carl sobbed. “Don’t say goodbye.” Daryl’s gaze locked on his. A faint, broken smile curved his mouth. “Knew you…were worth it…” His breath rattled, stopped.
Carl screamed. “NO!” He pressed his hand harder to the wound, rocking forward, his tears falling faster. “Don’t—don’t leave me—I can’t—I can’t—” Rick wrapped an arm around his son’s shoulders, pulling him close. “Carl—”
“Please—” Carl sobbed. He buried his face in Daryl’s throat. His tears pooled in the hollow of the hunter’s collarbone. “I love you,” he whispered, voice cracking. “Please come back. Please…”
And then— a faint golden shimmer sparked beneath his palms.
Rick gasped. Light bloomed from where Carl’s tears struck skin. Bright. Warm. Blinding.
Carl looked down, eyes wide. The wound was closing—skin knitting itself as if time were unspooling. The ragged edges smoothed. Color returned to Daryl’s lips. “King…” Carl whispered. “What’s happening—?” Rick’s voice shook. “Your mother's blessing, the magic she talked about...it is real” The light flared once—then sank into Daryl’s chest.
Silence. And then—Daryl’s breath drew in, ragged but alive. His lashes fluttered. He looked up at Carl. “Hey, I promised I'll bring ya home, right” he rasped. Carl just choked on a sob that turned into a wild, hysterical laugh. He crushed Daryl against him, burying his face in the hunter’s neck.
Rick closed his eyes, hand pressed to his mouth. Far below, the night wind carried the last echo of Lucille striking stone.
At dawn, the tower would be empty. And a prince—finally—would go home.
***
Carl clung to Daryl until the golden light faded and the hunter’s breathing steadied, ragged but real. The relief was so vast it left him trembling, emptied out. He pulled back, one shaking hand brushing the hunter’s cheek. “You’re here,” he whispered, voice cracked and hoarse. “You came for me.” Daryl managed the ghost of a smile. “Ain’t lettin’ you go that easy.”
Rick laid a hand on Daryl’s shoulder, then turned to his son—his son. He lifted trembling fingers to cup his son’s tear-streaked face. “Carl.” And the boy—who had survived years in that tower, who had watched the man he loved nearly die—finally broke.
His voice splintered, raw and childlike. “King of Alexandria…” Rick folded him close, wrapping both arms around him. Carl’s body shook with sobs. “I—I didn’t want it to be this way,” he choked. “He was—he was a monster, but—he drew in a ragged breath that caught on a sob. “But he was the only father I ever had. The only one who—who was there every day. Who—His face crumpled, tears sliding hot onto Rick’s collar. “Son, I didn’t know. I didn’t know you were out there alive, I never stopped looking."
Rick’s chest heaved. He pulled back enough to look his son in the eyes, voice low but fierce. “He lied about everything, he is not your Dad. I AM.” His hand cupped the side of Carl’s head, thumb brushing the blood matted in his hair. “I never forgot you. From the day you were taken, I searched. I swore I’d bring you home.”
His own voice broke. “I’m sorry it took so long.” Carl’s lip trembled. “But he—he read to me when I was sick. He held my hand. I don’t—” He squeezed his eyes shut, sobbing. “I don’t know how to hate him.”
Rick’s heart cracked at the sound. He drew Carl in again, holding him tight as if to make up for every stolen year. “You don’t have to,” he murmured against his son’s hair. “You don’t have to hate him. You only have to know the truth.”
Carl lifted his head, eyes red-rimmed, searching Rick’s face. “What truth?” Rick swallowed. “That your mother Lori loved you more than anything. That you were born a prince. That you were stolen to fill a hole in a broken man’s heart.” He glanced over the edge of the parapet, where Negan’s body lay still far below. His voice softened. “He thought he could keep you by making you forget who you were. But you were never his to keep.”
Carl’s tears slipped faster now, silent and hot. He wiped them with the back of his hand, voice barely audible. “Then who am I?” Rick touched his cheek again, reverently, as if he couldn’t believe he was real. “You’re Carl Grimes, the rightful Prince of Alexandria. My son. And you’re going home.”
Daryl stirred behind them, pushing up onto one elbow with a grimace. “Hell of a homecoming,” he rasped. A shaky laugh—half-sob—broke out of Carl’s throat. He turned to help Daryl sit up, cradling his head gently.
Rick rose, his silhouette framed by dawn breaking behind the tower’s shattered window. “We’re leaving this place behind,” he said softly. “All of it.” Carl swallowed, casting one last look at the place where Negan had fallen. He pressed a palm to the cold stone beneath his knees, his voice no more than a whisper. “Goodbye, Father.”
And maybe—just maybe—a small part of him meant it as thanks. For the only father he’d ever known, and for the man who had finally set him free.
***
The towers of Alexandria gleamed white in the morning sun, their banners stirring on the breeze. For the first time in nearly twenty years, the kingdom was whole. A thousand lanterns floated up into the dawn sky, drifting higher and higher until they looked like stars reborn.
At the front of the courtyard, beneath an arch of ivy and pale wildflowers, King Rick Grimes stood in polished armor. But today, he was only a father. His hand rested on Carl’s shoulder. The boy wore no crown. He had refused it. “I don’t want to be a prince,” he’d told Rick softly, weeks before, as the last bruises faded from his throat. “I just want to be…me.”
So Rick had smiled and said, “Then you’ll be my son. Nothing more.”
But today—today was something more. At the other end of the aisle, Daryl Dixon stood tall despite the cane he still needed to walk. The wound Negan gave him would still ache in the cold, but he didn’t care. Not when the boy he loved was finally free. When the music began, Carl walked forward alone, no longer shackled to any man’s will. His velvet brown hair brushed his shoulders, unbraided and loose, shining in the golden light. He had insisted on that too.
The hush that fell over the crowd was full of awe and grief and joy. Rick and Queen Michonne—returned from her homeland of Zimbabwe to stand at his side—waited at the altar as witnesses. Michonne’s dark braids were woven through a silver circlet. Her eyes brimmed as she reached out to steady Rick’s hand.
Carl paused before Daryl. For a moment, no words came—only the knowledge that they had survived. Then he smiled. A small, shy thing. “You found me,” he whispered. Daryl lifted his chin, blue eyes fierce. “Always would.”
Rick stepped forward, voice carrying over the courtyard. “Before all gathered here, let it be known: today, we consecrate the joining of two unions. As King, I claim my vows to Michonne, to honor and walk beside her all the days of our lives.” He turned, taking Michonne’s hands. She smiled, radiant, and repeated her own vows in the soft, lilting accent of her homeland. “And I, Michonne of Zimbabwe, join my path to yours.” They sealed it with a kiss that drew cheers and laughter from the onlookers.
Then Rick turned to Carl and Daryl. His eyes glistened as he spoke. “Carl Grimes. Daryl Dixon. The road that brought you here was longer than any of us could bear. You walked through darkness and found each other in the light.” He laid a hand over both their joined hands. “Carl, my son—do you choose this man freely, to stand beside you, to love without chain or shadow?”
Carl swallowed. His gaze never wavered. “I do.” Rick nodded, voice husky. “Daryl—do you choose this man, to be your heart and your home?”
Daryl’s voice broke.“I do.”
“Then, by the grace of this kingdom, and in the name of all we lost to find this day—”
Rick smiled, tears bright in his beard. “I pronounce you bound, in love and in life.” Carl lifted his hands to cup Daryl’s face, thumb brushing the scar at his jaw. Slowly, reverently, he kissed him.
The courtyard erupted in shouts and applause. Lanterns soared above them, carrying away the last ghosts of that tower. And when Carl pulled back, breathing hard, he looked past the crowd—to the horizon beyond the walls. The place he’d been trapped. The place he’d been saved. The place that would never define him again.
Daryl slipped an arm around his waist, grounding him.
Rick and Michonne turned to face their people, hands entwined, united in purpose at last. And as the lanterns drifted higher, Carl closed his eyes and whispered—only for Daryl to hear..“I’m free.” And this time, he knew it was true.
They would tell stories for generations about the magic in the lost prince’s blood. Some claimed it was in the milk chocolate strands of his hair, the way it shone like the sun itself. Others said it was a blessing—proof that any battle waged beneath his gaze would be won. That his youth and beauty were charms against darkness.
But none of that was true.
The real magic was never in how Carl looked, or the blood that marked him royal. It was something simpler, older, and far stronger.
It was his love. Love that made him hold a dying man and pour his tears over a wound that should have claimed a life. Love that refused to flinch, even when the only father he had ever known raised a hand to strike him. Love that made a boy bound in chains stand up and bargain his freedom away just to save another.
That was why Negan lost.
For all his cunning, all his cruelty, all his borrowed power—Negan had never understood that no tower, no iron, no lie could kill love. And when the last lantern rose into the dawn sky, carrying every old sorrow with it, Carl knew at last what the gift truly was.
It wasn’t a curse or a blessing.
It was his own heart.
And it had saved them all.
Notes:
Sorry for the delay, needed to build some tension for it. Now back to it!
DizzySpellz101 on Chapter 1 Wed 14 May 2025 10:55PM UTC
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breakingbedyo on Chapter 1 Wed 14 May 2025 11:21PM UTC
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SunflowerSmith on Chapter 1 Fri 16 May 2025 10:07AM UTC
Last Edited Fri 16 May 2025 10:07AM UTC
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breakingbedyo on Chapter 1 Fri 16 May 2025 10:20AM UTC
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aefme on Chapter 2 Fri 16 May 2025 04:01PM UTC
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breakingbedyo on Chapter 2 Fri 16 May 2025 04:02PM UTC
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aefme on Chapter 3 Sun 18 May 2025 11:14PM UTC
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breakingbedyo on Chapter 3 Sun 18 May 2025 11:16PM UTC
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SunflowerSmith on Chapter 3 Mon 19 May 2025 02:09PM UTC
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breakingbedyo on Chapter 3 Mon 19 May 2025 03:04PM UTC
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SunflowerSmith on Chapter 3 Mon 19 May 2025 11:11PM UTC
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aefme on Chapter 4 Wed 28 May 2025 02:45AM UTC
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breakingbedyo on Chapter 4 Wed 28 May 2025 04:35AM UTC
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SunflowerSmith on Chapter 4 Wed 28 May 2025 01:30PM UTC
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breakingbedyo on Chapter 4 Wed 28 May 2025 04:23PM UTC
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Mia (Guest) on Chapter 4 Thu 29 May 2025 04:37PM UTC
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breakingbedyo on Chapter 4 Thu 29 May 2025 04:41PM UTC
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