re-bae

[re-bae]

𝙂𝙤𝙧𝙩𝙖𝙨𝙝 𝙭 𝘿𝙪𝙧𝙜𝙚

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐀𝐫𝐜𝐡𝐝𝐮𝐤𝐞 𝐢𝐧𝐯𝐢𝐭𝐞𝐬 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐭𝐨 𝐣𝐨𝐢𝐧 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐛𝐥𝐞 𝐜𝐚𝐮𝐬𝐞 𝐚𝐬 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐩𝐚𝐧𝐢𝐨𝐧; 𝐇𝐢𝐬 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐬𝐨𝐫𝐭. 𝐇𝐚𝐥𝐟 𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐫𝐨𝐬𝐩𝐞𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧/𝐇𝐚𝐥𝐟 𝐧𝐨𝐧𝐬𝐞𝐧𝐬𝐞.

➺➺➺➺➺➺➺➺➺➺➺➺➺➺➺➺➺➺➺➺➺➺➺➺➺➺➺➺➺➺➺➺➺➺➺➺➺

You have been alone with your Urges for so long that you consider his offer. 

Bhaal’s blood may flow in your veins, inclining you towards the macabre, but you are as much your mother’s son as you are your father’s creature. 

Half Bhaalspawn, half human. Your Urge demands satisfaction in blood and death just as strongly as your human half yearns for companionship. You would do almost anything for an ally that could survive your affections. And Gortash, for all his preening and fine manners, seems like a survivor. 

You are tired, bloodied and fit to drop but even now you are capable of truly monstrous deeds. What would he think, you wonder, if he saw what you did to your other allies? 

You recall their pretty corpses fondly; the most recent kill is still fresh in your mind. A pale elf with a secret. But you pried it out of him, didn’t you? Remember his skin under your nails as you opened his chest and found his stomach filled with blood? The others were much more forthcoming since him, but it had set you apart from them, made them despise you. And now here you are, abandoned by all and alone. 

Since him you have also learned some restraint. As your memories return to their rightful place in your skull it has become easier to limit the Urge. Although, that has never been an issue with Bane’s Chosen; your Urge is positively docile around him. 

It is your human desires that overtake your senses around him. Rather than seeing the potential of an agonising death offering, you have become increasingly occupied with thoughts of carding your fingers through his soft black hair. Would he sigh and turn into your touch or grip yours in turn, ever a disobedient tyrant seeking the upper hand. What if you let him? You imagine he would not settle for such a meagre victory, that he would take and take until there was no more of you left to give.

You smile unwittingly, distracted by the fantasy, and he takes this as your consent. His eyes are soft with affection when he meets your gaze, and you can’t recall ever having been the object of such emotion before. Affection and… something else. You find you don’t want to look too hard; your memories are still too scattered to entirely make sense of him.  

Gortash takes your hand between both of his, caressing his blissful warmth into your flesh. Let him take, you think, let him use you as he most certainly intends to. You would gladly be his leal hound so long as he keeps the bitter cold away. 

[re-bae]

Rhaena x Aemond

As her stepmothers’ handmaidens lace her into a gown of ivory silk, Rhaena’s mind drifts far beyond the walls of the Red Keep. She thinks of her twin and her stepsiblings across the sea at Driftmark, some part of her still aggrieved at their refusal to accompany her to King’s Landing for the wedding, and the life she had led alongside them. She will miss the clear blue seas of her childhood home, a simple and peaceful time, as she heads into the murky waters that is King’s Landing.

A thick cloak is settled over her shoulders, cream and blue, with a thin chain fastened across her shoulders to keep it from slipping. She will first be married in the customs of ordinary men, as her soon-to-be goodmother demands, so the people may bear witness to the marriage that will bring peace among the dragons. The Targaryen ceremony will be performed privately on Dragonstone, so as to not offend the sensibilities of the Seven and their followers.

How neat it sounds. Peace at so small a cost. Both factions united, and they will be the symbol of it. All Rhaena must do is smile and obey, as she always has. 

The maids gather her curls into heavy braids and twist them into the shape of a circlet around her head, securing the style with countless bejewelled pins. She stands, fully prepared, and is declared perfect by every hushed whisper in the room. Rhaenyra is loudest among them. 

“You look so much like your mother,” She says, taking Rhaena’s hands in hers, “I dare say you are too good for my brother.”

This does not, of course, stop her from leading Rhaena up the sept stairs and delivering her to her father, so that she may be given away to that same unworthy brother. Daemon looks at her for a long moment before he offers his arm. “Don’t frown.” He says, as she takes it. Rhaena feels more than hears the cheers of the common people beyond the sept doors, the force of their well wishes and blessings shake the stone floor of the sept as she is guided to the altar. She feels nauseous, and the trembles under her feet make her steps unsteady, but she tries to look pleasant.

Old septon Gerardys stands on the highest step with the teachings of the Seven laid open before him. One step below him stands Aemond Targaryen in his night-black armour accented with gold, the Valyrian sword Blackfyre at his hip. He is largely unadorned, save for a sapphire ornament in the shape of a dragon pinned to his chest, and in his hands, he holds a pale gold cloak with the three headed dragon embroidered over top in crimson. Suddenly she feels too childish and gaudy to hold his gaze, choosing instead to study her slippered feet as she ascends the steps to stand beside him. They must look like a ridiculous pair; her in jewels too fine for a bride in war times and him dressed for death.

Septon Gerardys speaks but she does not hear him. Cheeks hot with some unnameable feeling, it is all she can do to hold still as Aemond takes her hand in his as they speak their vows.

She lets out a breath when he releases his hold to lay the cloak over her shoulders. He takes a moment to adjust a corner of the fabric folded awkwardly on her neck, long cold fingers brushing against her skin as he does so. She jolts.