#* sorrowful stone ( study . )

[fcllen-star]

Tag dump: Mariona Cross

[warnersister]

Oh, how you’d changed him

Tom Riddle x Reader

Summary: how you’d changed Tom and his life for the better, and how ridiculous his previous plans seemed after that.

Tom had carefully planned out his world domination, created his alias Lord Voldemort and the horrors that would go with him. He decided that he would single-handedly take over the wizarding world by any means necessary and reek havoc amongst the weaklings that surrounded him. This; a plan he had created since he was merely a boy, determined to return what this cruel world had forced upon him - sorrow and pain.

Until he met you. To Tom, you were like a breath of fresh air, an unbeatable presence with bright and hopeful features that offered a sense of peace in his life. You had been acquaintances since first year, however had become more familiar in sixth-year potions, just as he was plotting his first horcruxes along with the basallisk attack, you had been assigned as station-partners in the early September of that year.

When your names had been read Tom quirked a brow, however was not disappointed with the testily - having duly noted your previous achievements in the subject and feeling as though you could come in handy later down the line when his domination was more of a priority than his studies, but his world came crashing down when you turned in your seat to examine him.

Tom was lead to believe that he was incapable of love. A monotone psychopathic freak lacking human emotions, yet obtaining alien abilities. It when your eyes looked him over and your hair swayed behind your shoulders, he was unable to ignore the way his heartbeat quickened and breath faltered, in Tom’s eyes you were unfathomably gorgeous and he was unable to look away, a Medusa incapable of stoning her victims.

You held your hand out calmly and he admired the way your posture was straight and head held in a confident stature. “Y/n,” you said, lips soft and plump and voice soothing and gentle. “Tom,” he replied, voice failing him as he fumbled over his words with a stutter - something having never happened to him previously. You giggled at his mistake and he found himself enjoying the sound, instinctively making it his mission to hear it once more, unable to stop the smile appearing on his lips.

Tom also appreciated your knack for perfection. Your potions never failed to exceed beyond perfection and your applause was always deserved, taken with a humble nod to your peers before you set out defying the next odds in your path.

Naturally, Tom began to gravitate towards you outside of lectures, also. He’d find himself on the path to walk you to class or accompany you to the dinner table, or beside you in the library studying beyond the librarian’s patience and working hours. Tom found comfort in your presence and allowed himself to indulge regardless of what ‘Lord Voldemort’ told him to do.

Eventually, he’d offered his arm to stroll down with you to Hogsmeade on a chilly autum day, a few weeks before Christmas celebrations would commence and the winter solstice would turn the Scottish highlands surrounding you into an awe-worthy winter wonderland. “May I accompany you to Hogsmeade?” Tom asked with a small smile, holding his arm out to you while you friends giggled and pushed you towards him. You’d laughed with him as you threaded your forearm alongside his, joining you both at the hip while you replied: “yes, you may Tommy.”

Strangely, he never felt any kind of resentment to any nickname you’d give him other than his name. He welcomed your names with open arms and answered to nearly any plausible noun that passed his lips. He even bought you butterbeer to warm your frostbitten lips, sipping simultaneously while the barmaid offered a few obvious knowing glances.

You shivered as you walked on, the many layers you had adorned on top of your skin no match for the ever-growing cold attacking Hogwarts and found yourself struggling with chattering teeth. Tom immediately removed his long coat and wrapped it around you, admiring both the chivalry of his actions and the satisfied smile on your face when your body temperature started to rise. “No, no, Tom. You’ll get cold.” You said, a reluctant whine passing your lips to which he shrugged. With anyone else, he would’ve let you freeze to death, but not you. He would die for you, freeze to death if you will. “I’m fine, I’m more concerned about getting you back to the castle without hypothermia.” He says with a small chuckle, pulling you into his side by the waist. “I guess you aren’t so cold-hearted as you make yourself out to be, Tom Riddle.” He looks down at you and considers your words for a few seconds.

“You confuse me, y/n. I’ve never felt so warm and gleeful around a person yet you never fail to bring a smile to my face. Teach me how to do that.” I instructs but you shake your head no gently. “I cannot do that simply due to the face that you do it to me, also.” You reply, each exchanging knowing glances between each others eyes and lips. He leans down and traps your lips with his own, warming your body through a simple yet sophisticated gesture and from that day forward you were referred to as his girlfriend.

Of course, however he had also come clean about his upbringing and eventually the chamber and the basilisk. He had told you he was conceived under the influence of a love spell and believed that he was incapable of loving until he had met you. You laid on his bed as you talked; his head on your chest while you weaved your fingers thought his chestnut locks and listened to him. “I read a while back now about a recently investigated muggle issue called autism and it has occurred to me that you’re not incapable of love, you have asbergers Tom. I’ll read the passage to you later.” And all of a sudden all of his unjustified emotions and troubles made sense and he could finally find an unknowingly lost sense of peace within himself knowing what truly made him into the Tom Riddle he was.

When he took you into the chamber he’d told you all about his plan for domination and his large magical snake and how he had a few followers and you never judged him once. If anything you thought it was impressive that he yearned for revenge instead of acceptance but reasoned that perhaps an oversized snake and a killing spree were not the solutions he was searching for. The basilisk lived shrunken to normal size in a glass cage beside his bed after that.

And as the time went by and your relationship flourished, Voldemort seemed more like a past phase than a goal and was more focused on the life he going to create with you. He called his ‘followers’ pathetic and told them to get a life when they questioned his authority over their devotion.

Eventually, it came time for you to graduate and Tom’s hand was tightly clasped in your own as you looked at the castle for a final time. You were silent, acknowledging the end of this era and slowly coming to terms with it. After a while, Tom scoffed. “World domination.” He said with a smile shaking his head. “Who’s ever heard of such a thing?” He turned and picked up your bags along with his own. “Ready to go, darling?”

The two of you had shared your own compartment on the train ride home, others finding their own cubbies as Tom scared them off from sitting with you. Your head was rested on his shoulder as he read a muggle book to you that you had bought the previous summer ‘the great gatsby’. It was a deep and considerate book and made you think about your future, also.

“What’re we going to do now?” You ask out of the blue, interrupting his sentence as he simply closes his book and looks down at you, your face deep in thought. “Well,” he hummed, thinking for a moment. “We’ve booked that cottage in the Peak District for a few weeks, how about we think it all out then?” And you nod. “Sounds like a plan then.”

The next few weeks were spent waking together in the high peaks of the muggle countryside, simply talking and appreciating one another’s company and plotting your lives.

“Is it bad that I want to stay here forever?” You ask him, looking out at the sunsetting one warm winter evening. Tom thinks thoughtfully before saying “if it is then it’s bad that I want to stay here too.” As a pureblood witch you were born under the believe that muggle life was pointless and undeserving, and as had Tom - but together you realised you preferred the quiet and solitary, and not needing to use magic to do everything all of the time. It was a change. And it was nice.

One morning mid-august Tom was reading the newspaper and you were making you both toast. “Someone’s selling the property up the street.” He says and you sip on your drink and look out of the window. “What? The old farmhouse.” “No, the one with the long drive and vines up the side.” You sigh dreamily. “Oh, if only.” You say with a chuckle. “Darling we can afford it.” Tom says and you stay in silence for a moment, sharing the thoughts weaving through your minds. “It wouldn’t take up a large chunk of our savings.” He drops his reading glasses to the end of his nose and smirks. “We’re rich in muggle terms.” You laugh and shake your head at him. “You’re so humble, Riddle.” He stands up and slides his hands around your waist to hold you close as you share the view of the house in question. “We’re buying it.” He spoke after a while, finalising his decision. “What happened to the ‘I hate muggles and never want to be amongst them’?” You ask, turning to him with a cocked brow. He just shrugs. “They were Voldemort’s views. Not mine.”

Matter several months going back and forth with the previous owners and settling on an asking price, you were standing in front of the house- your house, beside tom, exactly how you had when you were leaving Hogwarts. “This is our house.” You say, not taking your eyes off of the scenic view before you. Tom takes you into his side and rubs your arm comfortingly before kissing your temple. “Our home.”

Tom became an Auror, acting as an undercover wizard in the muggle setting catching and reporting any source of dark or unrightfully used magic. You took up being a healer, training in the wizarding world but practising in your home village, being known as a respectable young doctor who all the elderly or adjacent citizens resided in to get treatment - and anything you gave them always worked.

It was a spring morning when you were down at the bakery picking up a loaf of bread for your dinners. “How’s that fella of yours?” The lady asked with a smirk. “Oh Tom’s fine, just left for work.” “Popped the question yet?” The old woman asks, elbowing you slightly. “We’re only twenty Agatha!” You say with a laugh. “Well, Arthur and I were married when we were nineteen.” She crossed her arms. “I thought you were telling me how much you hated him?” You laugh. “Oh he gets on my wire, but we were still married!”

That left you with the thought in your mind for the remainder of the day - you’d decided that Tom Riddle was the man you wanted to spend the rest of your life with and then some.

In February you both took a trip down to the Lake District and rented a boat house with a large lake, your jobs and ‘trust funds’ inherited from family members allowed you to do this rather frequently and easily, nothing out of the ordinary to take a trip for a long weekend.

It was at sunset, rather early due to daylight saving hours when you rowed out onto the lake to just sit in tranquility for a little while, appreciating the quiet time together. You’d rose to your feet, sure that you had seen an owl fly by and when you turned around, Tom was on one knee, box in hand. In the box, the ring of Salazar Slytherin himself with a bunch of roses in the other.

“Agatha told me today is Cupid’s holiday.” He say, voice just beyond a whisper as a smile grew on your face and tears formed. “You know, until I was sixteen I was asphyxiated with the idea of taking over the world, finding a victim to take the pain that I felt. But those silly little thoughts were gone when I met you, the only person I live and breathe for. I never thought I could, however I love you, yn ln. And it would do me great honour if you would be my wife.”

You’d kissed and hugged him and wept into his shoulder as you happily embraced - ready to start the rest of your lives together. There were no other young women in the village and your parents had practically alienated you when you went to live with muggles so the ladies who attended your doctors practise took you shopping for your wedding dress - Tom insisted on paying.

Dolly was brutally honest and Susan started crying, Agatha kissed you and called you her daughter and it was certainly a day to remember - a gorgeous fitting dress, white and highlighting your features gracefully.

You’d gotten married in the village church, an audience of your neighbours and close friends and a few companions from school, Agatha was your maid of honour and Greta your flower girl, gleaming smile on her face while her husband rolled her down the isle in her wheelchair while she sassily threw rose petals. And Dumbledore was sat in the front row, a smart suit on while he smiled at the man the little evil boy turned out to be, and the gorgeous woman you had flourished into.

It was a beautiful ceremony and a beautiful day. And you were now the beautiful yn Riddle.

In September, Abraxas Malfoy and his wife wanted to celebrate their wedding anniversary and asked if they would drop their son, Lucius off for the week so they could go away. You and Tom decided to take the week off work and look after him, after all, the young lad needed to be accustomed to his god parents!

One evening Lucius had pleaded with you to go sit in the garden and paint together and of course you complied, taking the supplied and the young boy on your hip, and headed for the grass to make a mess. And make a mess you did, there was red in your hair and blue on his white libel shirt, and hardly anything on the page. Tom watched from the window sipping on a cup of tea, watching as you interacted with the young boy so naturally, tickling his stomach and laughing as you played hidey-boo. It created an odd twang in his stomach, the same he had felt when he had first laid eyes on you.

One day when the boy had been reunited with his parents, Tom had been sent on a mission to retrieve an escaped boggart. During his time at Hogwarts, his biggest was recognisably his own dead corpse, but when he approached the creature, it’s form was your grave with him sat looking deathly ill beside it weeping. Your headstone read ‘a loving wife and doctor, no children’ his stomach dropped when he realised what he needed. What he needed right now.

He got home that night and held you close and cried, feeling you warm and full of life. You caressed his shaking body as you soothes him, and when he had calmed he had taken your face into his hands and cradled it, telling you suddenly “yn I want a baby.”

Throughout your pregnancy, Tom was tender and reluctant to let you move without him being beside you. He became more protective than he already was an even took an extended paternity leave just before your due date.

Prior to that however, he worshiped you like a goddess. He would make you decaf tea - something you grumbled about but he refused to listen. He stopped smoking his pipe inside the house, instead taking it to the end of the garden while he and Mr Garson next door chatted about his wife and you. He made you lay on the settee and sat on the floor beside your growing stomach while he read old wives tales from a book inherited from his mother. He even sang to it once or twice. After the sixth month mark when your belly was becoming noticeably plump to the point you could rest your tea cup upon it without it falling off, he began carrying you everywhere. Regardless of how far the distance, and the fact you were carrying another human, he acted as though you were a feather that needed assistance and carried you the way he did on your wedding night.

When you took your own maternity leave, he was even more pleased - before he’d sit beside you in your doctors office and never took his eyes off of you, now he needn’t a reason to why. In his eyes, his love was pregnant and needed tending too. He’d shower with you and lift your stomach until he saw the face of satisfaction he knew well and loved. And he’d be lying if he said the breasts you were growing didn’t make his mouth water, as well as the fact there was a possibility that he could impregnate a pregnant woman - a thought that drove him wild but alas after many attempts, it was eventually an unsuccessful mission.

And in the next July, Tom was sweating as he held your hand and felt a great pain as you cried in agony beside him. You were in a muggle hospital, Agatha had awoken in the middle of the night and heard your pained cries and ordered her husband, Mr Garson to drive you to the hospital which he did, adjusting his thick-lenses on his glasses and having to be awoken a few times at the wheel from Tom’s furious barks, but you made it on one piece, and at quarter to ten, you produced him a son, deciding on naming him Mattheo Riddle.

After giving him a bath, the midwife’s tried to take him away ‘give you a break’, but you refused. Groggily saying “I’ve only had him ten minutes why would I need a break.” And Tom soon shooed them off, getting into the bed beside you and holding your son skin-to-skin as he slept on his fathers chest, and you on his shoulder. When you drifted off he kissed the top of your head gently and whispered sweetly “well done, mummy.”

Tom was determined to be the father he didn’t have. And a good one at that.

Mr and Mrs Garson cried when you asked them to be the godparents, you would’ve appointed the role to everyone in this village if you could - your own little family larger than it seemed.

The newborn stage went by awefully fast and you and Tom self with every hurdle and hiccup together, all the nappies and sick, and the 3AM walks when baby Matty would not settle. It was gone and soon you had a walking talking toddler of whom you were both awfully proud of.

The chilly autumnal eves suddenly turned into even colder winter morns, Christmas was making its rounds in the muggle world and you and Tom had became accustomed to it. You decorated the tree, hung candles, sung carols, gave presents and ate specialty meals on the 25th. Tom sat in his armchair, Mattheo on lap, reading glasses down to the end of his nose as he read A Christmas Carol to him.

You were making dinner, Mince Pie was on the menu that night in particular, and you smiled as you notice the snow falling. You wiped your hands and leant against the doorframe watching your two boys in awe, just memorising the picture for a moment. “Are you alright, my love?” Tom asked, smiling up at you. “Just admiring the picture.” You say, mirroring his grin. Then you turn to your son. “I’m awfully sorry to interrupt, master Riddle. However, so I do believe it is snowing.” He gasped dramatically when he heard the news. “Snow! But we’re reading! But snow!” You both laugh at his dilemma then suggest “how about we eat dinner, then we’ll read out in the snow and make a snowman.” The young boy squeals in delight and runs to the dining room to eat, sitting ever so patiently yet with an impatient smile on those cheeky lips.

That evening you built a snowman, read the last part of the book, and put your son peacefully to sleep in his bed after singing ‘Silent Night’ to him. You and Tom basked in the sight for a moment, just taking in the calmness of the setting.

And as Tom looked down at you, he thought of how you’d changed him.

*scoff* Lord Voldemort, who’d ever heard of anything so ridiculous?

[frehyun]

Cursed Eyes

medusa!hyunjin x fem!reader

warnings: mention of murder, petrification (hyunjin's really sweet i promise) (if I missed anything lmk!)

word count: 2,4k

divider by @kawaii-lau

author's note: this is the first full thing I've written in years and the first time I've published something, so I'm really nervous! i really wanted to get back into writing and actually put myself out there so i guess this is it! i hope someone out there likes this and feel free to let me know what you think :) also not really edited much lol

masterlist | Part 2

Ever since you were a child, the elders in your village weaved incredible and awe-inducing stories about the Gods and their benevolent deeds to those who chose to worship them. Stories of how a child miraculously survived an illness that the village doctor deemed as lethal and incurable, of how a farmer who had lost all his sheep to wolves instead found his fields growing the biggest and most luscious vegetables and fruits that would not only feed his own family but also anyone he chooses to trade with.

All these stories always fascinated you. You found comfort in them, believing that if you were as devoted to your Gods as the other villagers are, you could experience a miracle yourself.

As you grew older, the elders would also entrust you with much darker stories, telling of wars, demons and monsters that could even live amongst men.

There’s humour to be found in thinking about your childhood story times in a moment like this, desperately hiding amongst the broken pillars and bushes that scratched your knees up.

The warm midday sun shone through the crowns of the trees, making the tears streaming down your face glimmer in the light. Your eyes squeezed shut as you heard the hissing of snakes slowly creep closer.

One story was particularly popular amongst the elders and was retold many times over in the years you’ve spent alive. The story of an ethereally beautiful man residing in the nearby woods that could seduce both men and women alike to dare themselves to come closer to his domain. When they came closer however, they would soon realise that there was no new muse or lover to be found, only their demise, as the hissing of snakes swallowed any sound they could make before their entire body was encased in solid stone.

“You’re the first one to hide for so long, I have to say I’m impressed” – the sultry voice somewhere behind you said.

The delicate steps atop the shattered stone tiles came ever closer before halting. You’re sure he must be directly behind your pillar, your ears precise as ever.

“Unfortunately, I’m in no mood to hunt for an awfully long time today. Playtime’s over, sweetheart.”

A surprisingly warm hand snaked its way around your arm, yanking you upwards and into a solid body.

“It’s always the same with you” – the creature whispered before two strong, but slender hands cupped your face, yet you made no effort to defend yourself.

A long sigh left his lips as he gazed into your eyes, waiting for the curse to set in and turn you into a statue he could add to his collection. You would be one of the prettiest he had in his garden.

Yet even as the minutes passed and the sun started to set, nothing happened.

No stone that would slowly destroy and take over your delicate skin, starting from your eyes and outwards. No last words that were whispered into his embrace as his gaze slowly shifted from anger to sorrow.

You stood solid but softly against him, keeping your eyes locked on him but unfocused, he noticed.

The man’s brows furrowed and his grip on you softened.

“Tell me”, he broke the silence suddenly, making you jump in his hold, “is this a test? Has the village concocted something to counter this curse?”

His tone was curious, maybe a bit irritated, yet his voice wavered. It was almost as if the creature that everyone in your village was scared of whatever answer you would give him.

His eyes flitted between yours nervously, studying your face for any sort of sincerity, a sign for him that you were not here to ultimately bring him to his demise like all the others. He was tired. He didn’t want you to be just like all the others. The gorgon did not know how many more statues he could look at every day before his heart finally broke apart and the strength to continue on with this life would leave him.

You were confused at the question. Why did he sound so…sad? Was this really the monster that your village was so afraid of? If he was, why didn’t he kill you already?

It was true that your village had unceremoniously dumped you into the woods and gave you the mission of finding out whether you were immune to the monster’s curse. Seeing as you are still alive, you think you accomplished that mission. However, you didn’t drink any potion or ate anything extraordinary that could counteract whatever this monster was capable of. For some reason, you didn’t want to lie to him.

“Yes”, you breathed and you felt him tense up, his fingernails digging into your arms again, so you quickly continued, “but I don’t know why I’m… I didn’t want to.”

“You didn’t want to?”

You shook your head.

“I’m different from them, so they wanted to test their theory that I might survive an encounter with you and, I guess, use that knowledge against you.”

He let go of you, taking a few steps away from you to create a protective distance between the two of you. His soft footsteps resounded throughout the ruins you were standing in. He was pacing, you noted.

“I don’t want to hurt you. I really don’t”, you had hoped you could soothe his nerves – preserve your own life a little bit longer. Your panic from earlier had already dissipated and was replaced with an uncertainty as to how to deal with this situation. The monster that had plagued your village for years, terrified children, urged parents to strictly tell their offspring to never go near the woods, was pacing nervously in front of you, because you were a threat to him.

Hyunjin was too busy thinking of every single possibility, every single choice he could make and every consequence that could come from it to notice you approaching him. When your hand collided clumsily with his bicep his eyes flitted back to you.

That’s when some of the things about you made some sense, he thought as he looked into your eyes properly for the first time.

You weren’t really looking at him. You haven’t been for the entire time he’s been talking to you, but he was too consumed by his own weird mixture of fear and anger to notice anything about you.

Huh.

You were blind.

Is that what made you practically immune to him? Whoever gazed into his alluring eyes would slowly turn to stone. That’s how it’s always been. But you were clearly different. A threat. Someone he should take and destroy before anyone else finds out how to circumvent his curse and hurts him again. And yet he wavered as your soft fingers curled around his arm not to possess, hurt or take from him but simply holding him as if he would break if you dug your fingers too deep into his flesh.

Something in his fragile heart shattered.

You weren’t really planning on staying with him. Not really. But something shifted in his demeanor towards you, he seemed softer when he gently took your hand and told you to trust him as he guided you inside of the ruins.

“You know”, he starts, and you startle a bit, “you’re the first one that doesn’t try to run. Or hurt me.”

Your heart aches at the admission. For some reason that goes against your survival instincts, you squeeze his hand in silent support, too afraid to speak up and say something wrong that would put him back into a frenzy.

“Are you not afraid?”

“Not anymore.”

He hums and it’s a pleasant tone. Soft and melodic and you want to hear more of his voice.

“What’s your name?” – you cautiously ask.

“Hyunjin.”

“Hyunjin”, you test his name on your tongue and decide it’s a good one. “That’s a pretty name. Mine’s Y/N.”

He lets out a soft ‘oh’ as if he didn’t expect you to tell him your own name or the compliment. Or both.

Hyunjin is aware you cannot really see what he’s showing you, but he would like to do it anyway. That’s how you two find yourselves wandering around the garden that he so meticulously kept near the ruins where you first found him. He tells you of the flowers and vegetables that grow in certain areas that he takes care of. But he also tells you, in a much more careful and anxious tone, about the statues of people who tried to take his home or his life in the past.

It should scare you. He’s essentially killed all these people. You should run. But where would you even run to? Where could a blind girl whose village decided she was expendable go? And even if you did make it back to the village unharmed – you’re sure Hyunjin would not harm you, even if he knew where you were fleeing to – you would either have to make them believe the monster did not show up to take the willing sacrifice or sell Hyunjin out and lead him to his eventual death.

The gentle monster in front of you broke you out of your thoughts with a sigh.

“I also take care of all the statues… the people here. It’s not easy to keep the stone clean but it’s the least I can do for them until someone finds out how to break them free. I hope they like where I placed them.”

At his words you cautiously reached out a hand towards where Hyunjin was speaking to and were soon met with warm stone. It was pleasantly warm. The kind of warmth you experience on a beautiful, sunny day.

“I’m sure they do. I hope they know you’re not entirely at fault for what happened to them. You were only trying to protect yourself.”

A soft hissing sound came from Hyunjin’s direction, and he slightly jumped, murmuring something in a scolding tone seemingly directed at no one.

The man sighed again.

“Do you mind meeting someone else?” – he finally whispered.

You tilted your head at the question, wondering if he had someone like him living here.

At your hesitant nod, he leaned slightly towards you and soon after something you were entirely sure was a snake softly touched your cheek.

“This…um, is my hair...?” - he sounded as if he wasn’t quite sure of that himself as he said it. “They’re friendly, though!”

You giggled at his panicked state, reaching out to to gently pet the snake that had braved its way towards you. It was surprisingly warm and friendly. Maybe from his own body warmth?

Experimentally you lifted your hand to reach towards Hyunjin himself, reaching out to lay your hand against the side of his neck and although he jolts at the sudden touch, he soon relaxes in your hold and lets you caress him. A soft sigh escaped his lips as you cradle his cheek and he chases your touch as you move to lift your hand away, so you decided to keep it there, holding him. A small smile appeared on your face and Hyunjin thinks in this moment that you were the most beautiful thing to grace his cursed eyes.

Does he even deserve this kind of gentleness? Someone to pick up the pieces of his scarred and shattered heart and put it back together until he could allow himself to feel safety and softness?

Maybe he deserved to be selfish like this.

It had been a couple of days since you and Hyunjin started spending your time together, having decided that keeping you around was safer for the two of you. When you voiced your concerns over other villagers trying their best to take him down again, and potentially you by extension, he waved your concerns away, assuring you that he was more than capable of protecting the two of you, given his already existing track record of living through every single encounter with one of the so-called ‘brave warriors’.

Living with Hyunjin was better than you could’ve imagined. The forest was vast, and your hometown wasn’t the only village that resided at the ends of it.

Hyunjin eventually decided to tell you that there were only two villages that were actively trying to take down the evil that he was. The other two revered him and regularly gave him an abundance of food and other things as sacrifices, so they could continue to live in his good graces.

He was incredibly thankful to them, he told you as you two sat upon one of the stones that made up the broken temple that he lived in, the two of you enjoying a late lunch made up of a variety of fruits and cheese.

“I don’t really need to hunt for myself or think about stealing to sustain myself. I’m really glad that not everyone runs after me with spears and bows in hand just because of the way I was born” – his hand came to rest near yours on the sun-warmed stone and you desperately wanted to stretch your fingers to touch his.

“Did nobody ever offer to take you in? Or accept you as one of the villagers? They do seem to at least care an awful lot about you if they give you this much food every week.”

“No.”

“Oh.”

Your hand eventually came to rest over his. You weren’t sure if it was for your comfort or for his. When he didn’t move away and simply hummed under his breath, you became emboldened and properly took his hand into yours, tracing idle patterns into the back of it.

He moved his body around so that your legs were touching and Hyunjin wished for nothing more than to grab you by your waist and have you sit on his lap to hold you close.

“You’re a lot prettier than the flowers I keep here.”

“Oh yeah?” – you giggled, also taking his other hand into yours.

“Mhm. The prettiest girl I’ve ever seen.”

“Have you seen many?”

“Does it matter?” – he grinned boyishly, tucking a stray lock of hair behind your ear, his fingers lingering a second too long by your cheek.

You pouted at him for his vague answer, your jutted lips a perfect invitation for a kiss that Hyunjin doesn’t feel like refusing. He leans forward while his snakes purposefully start reaching out towards you as well, snuggling against the sides of your head. His plump lips touch yours in a shy chaste kiss, his arms encircling your waist as he pulls you closer against his body.

In the warm afternoon sun, you held a monster’s heart in your hands and promised to keep it safe.

[eldrith]

i literally just thought abt this ajehbsha but like what if the reader was jace's bethrothed that was "killed" by the greens during the dance, but was actually captured and brainwashed her to be an assasin ksjwbsna

think of it somewhat like bucky barnes

safe flight on ur trip!:)

BABE YOUR MIND…. also i haven't seen the marvel movies in ages so im kinda going off what i can recall . and i took this in a bit of a diff direction i hope thats ok but i love this i could write a whole fucking book about this omfg. your mind is beautiful id love to keep it in a jar warnings: mentions of torture, death, assassinations, angst, allusions to smut if you squint, targcest bc its implied you are aegon's sister/of valyrian blood, brief allusion to suicidal thoughts, fluff mostly at the end and is a bit canon divergent. and yes i know this is 3.1k words but it's still a headcanon ok. its just a great concept

you and jacaerys are betrothed when you are young.

despite this, you remain close; shy smiles, kind whispers and youthful awkwardness that blossoms into a strong, devoted friendship. you're to be queen - and he, king. indeed you study for your future duties side by side, with prideful grins - and along the way, you find time for yourselves.

in youth, it is in teaching jacaerys to sew and read tarot, painting, or maybe even showing him the game you used to play with your brothers; it is in him teaching you to wield a sword, studying high valyrian together, him showing you how to climb the castle's ramparts, and inviting you along with he and luke to throw stones at the sea.

as you grow old, it is in jacaerys giving you rides on vermax, dancing with him any chance you can, exploring nature - mountains with caves and tall waterfalls that he pulls you under with feverish kisses, finding ways to sneak to each other's chambers; it is in you kissing his cheek and teasing him when his face grows pink, bringing lucerys along with the two of you when you begin to sneak out of the castle, in sharing too many cups of wine and stumbling to your quarters, in hands weaving through each other's hair.

it is nice.

but then, the war.

things are as okay as they can be for a while- duty is a blessing and a curse for you both. tensions mount. jacaerys feels like everything is falling apart, but he has you; his best friend, his lover, his favorite person in the entirety of the seven kingdoms. you cry with each other, train with each other, sneak off when things become too intense in court. you begin to whisper about a secret wedding, a traditional valyrian one; intimate, quiet.

he just wants to call you his wife, and you just want to call him your husband. but duty has a way of interfering with even the sweetest plans.

the evening jace leaves to treat at winterfell, you clasp a chain round his neck, one you strung your favorite ring through; a keepsake, perhaps. or as he likes to think, a reminder of you during the cold nights in the north.

despite it all, things are okay.

until he loses you.

you are killed with your dragon, defending a crucial line of passage for their men; vhagar and aemond are the last ones to see you as your dragon spirals beyond a hill, wings singed and aflame. you vanish.

jace is overwhelmed with grief.

the news comes just as he's beginning to find himself in a new world - a world without his younger brother - and he, an empty pit of grief and despair, isolates himself from others. consumed by sorrow and rage, his emotions spiral out of control - snapping, yelling, unable to contain his emotions even at council.

his days are marked by a deep mourning that he's unsure will ever be mended. life continues in its droll capacity - the war rages on, and jace becomes more bitter, and more like his great uncle daemon. bloodthirsty, demanding revenge.

and then, you return from the dead.

the day you come back to him is rainy and drowsy. he had foolishly, or in a bout of grief, not noticed the sounds of dragon overhead the caste; a dragon whose screech he had not heard in many moons.

his mother is the one to find him - alone, staring at the hearth in his quarters, eyes filmed with the glossy haze of sorrow.

rhaenyra's face is ghostly, sickly - and he grows immediately concerned as he sees her expression, rising to grasp her arms. "mother, are you well?"

he is shocked when he hears her whisper out: "she's alive."

his worry for his mother vanishes, blinded by her words. you. you're...

and despite being ordered to remain, his legs carry him out - to you. his mother's own footfalls follow behind him, her voice begging. he does not listen, even when she warns him - there is something that isn't right.

when he finally finds you he's elated, heart nearly stopping when your eyes meet.

but there's something missing.

when he takes you into his arms, you're cold; barely blinking, you are not who you used to be.

his own tears distort his vision as he cups your face, pressing a kiss to your full lips - and perhaps that is why he does not notice the sullen, empty look on your face. but he feels it in the way your lips do not kiss back.

jace tries to ignore it, at first.

as you are nursed back to physical health, you avoid telling the court of the truth. all that is revealed is the harrowing tale of your mangled body, put back together by the maester in the red keep; your mutilated dragon, whose health was dangled over your head by your own brother, the one whose head bears a crown that is not his.

you do not speak of your time, but the nightmares you wake from, screaming your throat raw, speak for themselves.

you heal.

you begin to show some signs of humanity after the initial shock subsides; and when you begin to seek his touch, he is glad for that semblance of what you used to have.

but it isn't the same.

you flinch at the slightest movements; your face, once expressive and joyful, is rarely lax of the straight, icy stare you send mostly towards walls. he knows he must be patient; you've endured something he could not imagine - but he cannot help his unease.

you do not speak as you used to - lapse in memory, seemingly unfamiliar with jacaerys; as if you did not grow up together, running down halls, whispering secrets, notching each other’s heights in the frame of your chamber’s threshold.

he can't help when he begins to turn away from your lips, avoiding the mechanical feeling of your mouth upon his, the coldness of your eyes when you attempt to unlace his tunic.

he feels as though it is a different person that tries to kiss him each time. he grows incredibly lonely.

in time, he is suspicious of you. you're... different. during conversations, you forget important details, you cannot recall milestones or memories you used to cherish.

the way your palm fits oddly into his, the way you no longer brush his hair back when it falls into his eyes. you call him jacaerys, or your grace - that, indeed, is the first seed planted in the suspicion of his mind. always jacaerys, never jace - and when he asks you what you do with all the time you spend alone in your chambers, you lock up as if mute.

when performing certain duties around the queen, your eyes would slide to odd objects, or pay close attention to cupbearers and how the queen enjoys her wine.

and he begins tracking your walks when you think you're alone: he discovers you sending ravens with a cloak pulled low over your head, visiting odd alleys in town and disappearing into the lower bowels of peculiar shoppes.

jace goes to daemon, of all people - daemon, first. he knows his stepfather's reputation—ruthless, cunning, and fiercely protective; if anyone can help him discern the truth, it's him. "something is not right," he tells him, worried daemon would somehow turn it into something it's not.

even worse, though, is that daemon is quick to agree. and when jace tells his mother, she confesses her own concern.

"that isn't her," his voice warbled when he tells his mother - lip, trembling, tears tracking down his cheeks as she pulls him into her embrace, her own fear poorly concealed.

when it finally happens, it is a shock to his entire body.

a mere word; murmured, off-hand at a council you happened to be attending - of which you often no longer attended, your trauma and recovery from the kidnapping having sequestered you to your quarters most days.

"Usurper," he'd said.

and then your head had snapped up.

a change in your face - as if no longer human, you’d leapt, ripping out a dagger that had been concealed in your bodice.

and then you'd lunged at him; slicing like a hound rabid for a piece of meat.

he does not remember much besides his reaction: striking you across the cheek and disarming you- kicking hard, your body being thrown to the stone. four swords at your throat. daemon holding you down with a look of disbelief at your heaving frame.

you were relentless, ready to kill - but you are too small, and the rest too many.

a stinging pain, throbbing at his neck as he watches you in shock.

but that was not you - a statue, some sleeping beast that'd been awoken in your tortured brain at the trigger of such a word. it had nearly been worse than when you'd died.

brainwashed, maester gerardys tells them.

it is not until after you have been thrown into the cells below and a bandage sealed around jace's neck.

the blade was one of green and black hilt; intended, likely, for the queen herself - in hopes that she'd have been the first one to utter the word.

likely, maester gerardys says, you were led to believe you'd been abandoned by them, and subsequently tortured for all the time you'd been held at the red keep.

and of course, there was the threat of further maiming your dragon, perhaps, or other similar threats - and physical torture, if the scars on your body are anything to go by; this twists a raw agony in jace's gut and he has to shut his eyes to ward off the thought of you, in pain.

it is a miracle you did not lose your head for nearly slitting the throat of the crown prince; he contests while still lying abed with the open slice of red across his throat, relieved when his mother informs him you are still among the living. she is a merciful queen.

he does not weep until he is alone that night.

breaking the brainwashing is the hardest part.

nights, falling asleep in his brothers or his mother's quarters where your screams of anguish or anger could not be heard - days walking past your heavily guarded chamber to reach his own, swallowing thick as he imagines you on the other side.

isolation is key, he's been told, but it makes it so much worse.

it takes so long that jacaerys nearly forgets what your voice sounds like, how your eyes shine in the sun. he forgets how your smile, beautiful and uneven, makes his heart flip; the taste of your lips, the cadence of your voice.

he even finds himself praying to the seven for the first time since he was just a babe.

slowly, as you begin to heal, you are permitted to see others. he is not allowed, nor is his mother - daemon first, then baela and rhaena with their grandmother. servants and maids.

he begins to hear you again. walking past the chambers which lie near his own, he'd hear your voice, conversing quietly with maester gerardys. when he dozes off over a strategy tome at his desk, he is jolted awake by your gentle, haunting humming; a tune he used to love.

his mother tells him it is not healthy to keep it in.

but he cannot bring himself to speak of it.

shame, pain, anguish, embarrassment - heartbreak. he has grieved you twice over, seen you become a ghost. he has lost you and lost you again.

herbs, potions, guided discussions and meditations. solitary confinement, exposure to the word - all of this, and you begin to shed the skin of whatever person they had made you into.

he pretends that he does not endure nightmares of that day every time his eyes close - of the glint of your knife, the soulless stare of your eyes. the swelling bruise on your cheek - in the shape of his own fist.

there is a thin scar, a puckered pink line of fresh skin across the apple of his throat the next time he sees you.

it's an accident; he walks past just as a maid leaves your chambers, and he naturally glances over. your eyes meet him, hair wet and fresh from bathing; wide as a sweet doe, pain and regret laced through your gaze. "jace."

his throat is tight when he hears your voice - gentle, laced with remorse. jace, you'd called him. he hides the tears in his eyes when he continues briskly past your chambers. he thinks about you ceaselessly the rest of the day.

he's told you do not sleep. you eat only when it becomes impossible not to, you cannot make meaningful eye contact nor hold steady conversations without breaking down in guilt. it eats away at him.

but as you begin to show signs of improvement, jacaerys is finally allowed to visit.

they're brief, supervised; he brings paintings, books, and anything they believe could help stimulate your memory of life before your change. he tries to ignore the sting of pain when you barely meet his gaze, voice stuttering, hands shaking.

you’re still not you; flickering eyes, quiet voice. but soon, after moons of quiet conversation, stunted by the armored guards standing between you and observing your every move, it changes.

little by little, he sees glimpses of you again. you laugh like you used to. you recount stories of your shared youth - with a grin, you remember the day he'd fallen from an apple tree trying to pick you a fruit, and you'd had to snap his arm into correct place.

you brush flecks of dust and lint from his shoulder with shy looks, you share the books you’ve been reading; one day, you ask him to braid your hair - a task you'd taught him in youth. you fall asleep when he's halfway through.

and yes, there are bad days - days where your grief and guilt eat your stomach and you refuse to even look him in the eye; when you sob into your hands and curl yourself on the chaise longue and jace is stuck, heartbroken, watching you push him away.

you do not forgive yourself, you will not let him forgive you - but you soon let him hold you, and you soon begin to hold him back with a desperate grip.

it takes a while for jace to accept help.

but soon, he undergoes his own healing process; he knows he must reconcile the grief of losing you with the joy of having you back, albeit changed.

eventually, he speaks openly with you about the death of lucerys and about your own assumed death as well. you stroke his hair when he cries into your chest, you kiss his nose and cheeks to rid the tracks of tears.

during quieter moments, you find solace in each other's presence. you walk together in the gardens, hand in hand, your steps in sync as you talk about the future; you sit by the hearth in the evenings, your heads close as you share whispered conversations and stolen glances.

you broach the subject one stormy day, your beautiful hair loose and whipping around your head.

he watches your mind churn behind those eyes, the ones that have regained their expressive nature - the eyes he's loved since before he knew such a word.

"i would have killed you." it's a whisper into the wind. "and yet, you saved my life."

your voice is not grateful - to his horror, it is pained - as if you believe such repentance could only be achieved through greeting the stranger.

he shakes his head, "it was not you who did it." but you've heard it countless times, and you still find it hard to accept - guilt swims in your beautiful eyes.

"i love you." he whispers it.

tears drop from your eyes as you look at him. "why?"

eventually, the fog clears fully.

you remember the details of your manipulation, the torture, the indoctrinating, the conditioning. you confess it all to queen rhaenyra and the dragonstone court - voice shaking and body bent with shame, you apologize for your weakness. jace has to look away when you begin to cry, when you beg for forgiveness, for another chance.

it is given without hesitance.

one evening, you sit by the fire with him.

something upon him catches your eye; with a tentative reach, your fingers brush his chest. jace looks down, breath catching as he realizes what you've found; gently, you pull the necklace from his tunic - a ring upon it, untarnished. your smile is sad, sorrowful - "you kept it," you whisper.

he can only nod, eyes never leaving yours. "i never took it off."

it is that night you tell him about a dream you had; you were both young again, carefree and in love. his eyes glisten with unshed tears just as yours do, and he takes your hand, pressing a kiss to your knuckles. "we'll get there," he promises, his voice unwavering. you both believe it.

you come back to him in ways he doesn't expect.

longing glances, eyes holding on his lips when he speaks to you - short teases that release your sharp tongue and quick wit. you are given some old duties back. kept to the castle, you mostly held draw efforts from within, but he can see the fire in your eyes return as the guilt subsides.

when the word usurper is accidentally used in conversation, eyes still flicker to you. there will remain wariness - conscious or not - for the rest of your days. but you prove yourself loyal and trustworthy, and you soon begin to forgive yourself.

nights you spend in jace's arms, fingers brushing against the scar you'd given him. tears are replaced with soft kisses upon lips, and eventually upon flushed, sweat-laced skin.

he is terrified each time you ride into battle - even when he and vermax are alongside you.

perhaps it is a weakness - to worry so, during a war; he cannot help it. but to his relief, you always come out unscathed, as does he - and you always slide off the wing of your dragon and pull him to you, murmuring into his neck, soothing over his back with your palm once you return.

you love him, and you tell him as much any chance you get. you begin to stop wincing when he tells you he loves you, too.

you still wake sometimes with a hoarse throat, but now you are soothed back to sleep when jace, bleary eyed and heart pounding, crawls into your bed alongside you. your cries turn into soft puffs of breath as he braids your hair until you fall asleep.

you still sometimes flinch when someone raises a hand, jace sometimes watches with wariness when he sees you wielding a knife.

but eventually the war ends.

you and jace marry.

a traditional, valyrian one; dragonglass sliced into lips, palms. a kiss that tastes of metal, of loyalty, of love. you whisper the words to each other, no echo of ghosts nor fear in your minds.

one flesh, one heart, one soul. now and forever.

you become prince and princess of dragonstone, first in line for the succession to the iron throne.

you show to be just rulers; fair and kind, strong willed and bright. ceaselessly, fiercely in love.

your firstborn son is named lucerys.

he has jace's eyes and your hair. you sing him the song jace remembers you humming those days after you came back to them - and when the queen visits to give her congratulations and to meet her grandbabe, the heir to the heir, she calls you daughter.

the scar upon his neck fades away, until you can scarcely trace it with your finger as he pulls you to him in the late hours of eve, wrapped in furs and the soft flicker of candlelight.

you do not hear the word usurper again.

requests open, or talk to me <3 taglist/mutuals; @bitchydragonparadisee @lukehughes43 @rhea-ripley @jottositto @chloe-petrichors @softspiderling @dipperscavern

[rosyblooom]

blooming season🌷 (1) | ln4

"grief is just love with no place to go”

PAIRING: lando norris x fem nepo!reader WORD COUNT: 2.6k WARNING(S): mentions of death & blood, swearing SUMMARY: four years after she fled monaco, y/n is back on the anniversary of her father's death. however, an unexpected encounter with an f1 driver disrupts her plans. A/N: my first time doing this, so probably has errors. if you've got any thoughts or requests pls let me know xoxo hope u enjoy! :)

part 1 <- | part 2

The scent of salt still lingers in the air, but now it feels different, not as welcoming as it used to be. It's a painful reminder of days gone by, days filled with joy and warmth that now seem distant and unattainable. No matter how hard you try, you can't shake off the memories, replaying them in your mind like a scratched vinyl record that refuses to play properly.

Today marks four years since your father's passing, and four years since you left Monaco. You were just eighteen then, fresh out of high school, when the news of your father's tragic car accident hit you like a ton of bricks. In a desperate attempt to escape the overwhelming sorrow, you packed your bags that very night and left before the weight of it all drowned you.

You couldn't bring yourself to attend your father's funeral, clinging to the hope that maybe, just maybe, it wasn't real. But deep down, you knew the truth—your father was gone, and nothing could change that. Even as you threw yourself into your studies, pursuing a nursing degree, the pain never truly went away.

And now, here you are, sitting alone on this deserted stretch of beach, watching the waves crash against the shore in a steady rhythm.

This spot holds a special place in your heart, known only to a handful of locals—a fact you couldn't be more grateful for. Here, away from the watchful eyes of tourist crowds, you find solace as you simply listen to the earth rotate.

You exhale slowly, leaning forward to brush the sand from your palms before reaching into your bag for the bottle of red wine nestled inside. It takes a bit of effort to uncork it completely, but the satisfying pop is worth the wait. With careful precision, you fill a wine glass to the brim with the rich, maroon liquid—something to take the edge off.

"Welcome back, Y/N," you whisper to yourself, lifting the glass in a silent salute. "Thank you, thank you. I can't imagine anything worse."

A bitter chuckle escapes your lips, a stark contrast to your usual composed demeanour. It's been 1,460 days, yet it feels like your world only just came crashing yesterday.

Needing calm now, you take a sip of the wine, savouring its sweetness, when the sound of approaching footsteps catches your attention, pulling you back to the present moment.

"Seriously?" you think to yourself, feeling your heart plummet like a stone sinking into deep waters. You took every precaution to keep your return under wraps—after all, you paid good money for that privilege.

Arriving just last night, you made it a point to rise at the crack of dawn, a time before the world awoke; a time when it's just you and no one else. You couldn't bear the idea of facing the prying eyes that would surely accompany the day ahead. For once, you didn't want to be known as the daughter of one of Monaco's wealthiest families; you simply wanted to be yourself, stripped of titles and expectations—a daughter mourning her father.

Feeling like a trapped animal, you become acutely aware of every sound and movement, your gaze locked on the figure approaching.

A man.

His brown curls bounce with each step until he comes to an abrupt stop just a few feet away from you.

With a small wave and a nod, he greets you with a simple "Hey."

It takes a moment for you to register that the greeting is directed at you, causing you to tear your gaze away without a response. Your eyes flit between the gentle ripples of the sea and the man settling down uncomfortably close, prompting an annoyed grunt to escape your lips.

“Fuck spatial awareness, huh…,” you mutter under your breath, though not quiet enough to evade his notice. He slips off his black headphones, eyebrows raised in curiosity. "Sorry, what?"

You clear your throat, then sit up straight and gesture expansively. "All this space, and you have to sit right next to me?”

He smiles.

Your gaze narrows.

"But I'm not right next to you," he retorts with a playful grin. "You're all the way over there." He points towards you and then at himself. "And I'm right here."

"Well, it's still too close," you snap.

"Sorry, did you buy this beach or something?" he counters, his grin widening. "Last time I checked, it's open to all members of—."

Growing increasingly frustrated, you interject, "No, I didn't buy anything. I just want some personal space. But clearly, that's lost on you."

With a scoff, you spring to your feet, snatching up your towel and cramming it into your bag, sand and all.

"Wait, you don't have to leave," he insists, his footsteps drawing closer. But you pay him no mind, tossing your phone into your bag and hastily gathering the rest of your belongings from the ground.

Once everything is crammed into your bag, you snatch up your half-empty glass of wine and stand upright, only to feel a foreign warmth enveloping your hand and glass. The man now stands directly in front of you, invading your personal space completely; you have to tilt your head back slightly to meet his piercing green gaze.

"Look, I'm sorry if I did something wrong, but—" he begins, but you cut him off sharply.

"Way too close now," you snap, attempting to pull your hand away, but he refuses to release his grip.

"You do realise I'm trying to apologise, right?" he asks, confusion evident in his eyes.

"I don't care."

His grip remains firm. "There's plenty of space for both of us here."

"It doesn't matter anymore," you respond, your patience wearing thin.

The struggle continues, your voice growing louder with each tug. "Let go of the fucking glass!"

Suddenly, a sharp yell pierces the air, followed by the hollow thuds of broken glass hitting the ground. Shock washes over you as you barely register the sticky liquid trickling down your hand and onto your toes.

"Ah, shit," he exclaims, snapping you out of your daze. You quickly assess the situation, noticing the shattered remnants of the wine glass scattered on the ground, staining the sand crimson.

Panic sets in as you frantically check your hand and feet for any injuries, your eyes wide with fear. After several anxious moments, you breathe a sigh of relief.

I'm okay.

The tranquillity is abruptly shattered by deep groans echoing through the air, drawing your attention to the man's slumped figure with his back turned to you. His face remains hidden from view.

Though he's clearly in pain, you're tempted to slip on your shoes and make a hasty escape. Today is already burdened with its own weight; you're not sure you can handle any more. You even take a step back, ready to flee, but then something stops you.

A pang of guilt washes over you, weighing you down like heavy bags strapped to your legs. With a heavy sigh, you reluctantly admit to yourself, "I can't believe I'm about to do this."

"Okay, fine. How about you put on your big boy boots and let me take a look at that?" you say, crossing your arms expectantly.

There's no reaction from him, not even a response.

Rolling your eyes, you drop your bag onto the sand and cautiously circle around him until you're face-to-face with his unruly brown curls.

"Hello?" you tap his shoulder, frustration creeping into your voice. "Earth to the stranger who doesn't understand personal space?"

"Seriously?" he retorts, his tone sharp.

His eyes meet yours as he straightens up, his expression guarded, but you simply shrug, maintaining a neutral demeanour, and extend your hand.

"Let me see," you say calmly.

For a moment, he simply stares at you in bewilderment, but then he tentatively extends his hand towards yours.

"I see," you breathe, examining the large cut in his palm with care, mindful not to dirty it with your fingers. Despite the blood seeping from the wound, you release a relieved sigh after a thorough inspection—it's not as deep as it initially appeared.

"Alright," you announce, dropping his hand and clapping your hands together. "Go home, make sure nothing touches that hand, clean the cut, and bandage it. Keep it dry for a couple of days, and then reassess."

Without waiting for a response, you turn towards your bag, sling it over your shoulder, and shoot him one final glance.

"This has been... unpleasant," you remark dryly. "I really hope our paths don't cross again. Goodbye."

"Wait!"

You shake your head and ignore him, determined to continue onward.

"Wait!" he calls out again, desperation evident in his tone. "I don't have any bandages!"

You stop walking, considering his words, but still don't turn around.

"And... I don't have any sanitising stuff either," he adds, his voice trailing off slightly.

Slowly, you turn around and wave your hands dismissively in the air, shouting back, "That's what supermarkets are for! I guess it's time for a shopping trip!"

Just as you're about to spin on your heel and leave again, his voice cuts through the distance.

"Look, you seem like you know what you're doing. Can't you just help me out here?"

Shielding your eyes from the harsh glare of the sun, you squint at him as he begins jogging toward you. "That advice," you shout back, "was me helping you out. Trust me, I wanted to leave way earlier."

For a moment, neither of you speaks as you watch him closing the distance between you. When he finally comes to a halt in front of you, you instinctively take two steps back—you need your personal space.

"So?" he says between pants, waiting for your response.

You furrow your brows, deep in thought. "Well, I don't have anything on me, sorry to disappoint. But like I said, there are shops around here."

You resume your walk, but to your dismay, the guy falls into step with you almost immediately.

"So, what? You have nothing at home?" he presses, his gaze burning into the side of your face.

Refusing to meet his eyes, you increase your speed.

"Right, because I'm just going to invite a stranger," you emphasise, "who I didn't want to be around in the first place, into my home."

His hand suddenly grips your arm, causing you to instinctively rip out of his grasp, both of you coming to an abrupt halt.

"What?" you bark, irritation seeping into your tone.

"You can google me," he offers, his voice calmer now. "Lando Norris, Formula One driver. Search my name up. You'll see pictures—every single detail about me, you'll probably find on the internet. Now I'm not a stranger anymore, right?" he suggests, his gaze pleading.

You remain silent, shifting your focus toward the calm waters as you breathe in and out. It feels as though the world has paused, waiting for you to come to a decision, to reach a conclusion.

Today, the anniversary of your father's death, is a day you've been dreading yet anticipating for so long. Its disruption unsettles you, but deep down, you know you can't simply ignore it. As much as you wish to skip over this chapter of your life, tear out its pages, and never look back, you can't. It's not healthy.

Still, that doesn't mean you can't delay it for a little while longer.

"Fine," you sigh, relenting to the situation, and begin rummaging through your bag until you locate your phone.

Quickly, you extract it and raise it to Lando's face, snapping a photo of him with the flash on.

"What the hell?" he exclaims, blinking rapidly.

"For my protection," you state matter-of-factly. "Just because you're famous doesn't mean you can't be a bad person."

Once his gaze meets yours again, he runs a hand through his hair and offers a sheepish smile. "Fair enough."

You nod, acknowledging his words, and continue your walk toward the car park.

"I'm not a bad person, though," he adds quickly, catching up to you.

"Colour me convinced," you reply dryly.

*********

As you approach the car park, annoyance bubbles within you at the sight of it: filled with cars and swarmed by dozens of people.

"You said you're a Formula One driver, right?" you ask, tilting your head up at Lando.

"Yeah, why?" he responds.

Instead of answering, you grab the hood of his jacket and pull it over his head.

"Why did you do that—" Lando begins, but you cut him off.

"The last thing I need is a mob of your fans, okay?" you interject firmly. "The quicker we get this done, the sooner we can go our separate ways."

Lando chuckles as he adjusts the hood. "I'm really that bad, huh?"

"Worse," you deadpan.

"...Right."

With your raven car in sight, you quicken your pace, relief flooding through you. The last thing you want is for people to realise you're back, especially not today.

However, as if your luck has run out, a woman steps in front of you, blocking your path. You immediately turn your focus to Lando, motioning for him to take a picture with his fan and hurry up.

But instead of the attention falling on him, a weight suddenly falls onto your shoulder, catching you off guard. You clear your throat, preparing to speak, but the woman beats you to it.

"Oh my goodness, Y/N. It's you, isn't it?" the woman exclaims, her voice filled with recognition and sympathy.

You can't reply; your mouth feels dry, your tongue heavy with unspoken words.

No, not today. Please, not today.

"I'm so sorry for your loss, Y/N," she continues, her expression radiating pity. It's uncomfortable—the way she looks at you, the way she touches your shoulder so gently. It feels like you're being burned alive, yet you're immobilised, just as you were four years ago when you first heard the news.

"Your father was such an amazing man. And you, I mean, you've been missed. My daughter loves you—"

Suddenly, you're being pulled forward, jolting you out of your trance. You struggle to keep your balance as you try to comprehend what's happening—the woman is gone, and Lando's hand is firmly clasped around yours, pulling you closer to him.

Your personal space has been completely invaded, yet you don't feel the usual urge to pull away. Even if you did, you're not quite sure Lando would let you.

"Your car's the black one, right?" you hear him ask, but the words don't immediately register.

"Huh?" you mumble, still reeling from the encounter.

"That black car over there," Lando points and leans in close, his gaze locked with yours, "that's yours, right?"

You nod, still not quite ready to speak.

Lando releases your hand and holds out his palm to you. "Okay, car keys, please?"

"What? No," you shake your head, rejecting the idea. "There's no need for that."

"Come on, I'm a Formula One driver, remember? I won't crash it."

"It would be irresponsible of me to let you drive in this state," he adds, his voice firm.

"And what about your hand?" you nod toward the injury.

"Like I said," Lando smiles slyly, cocking his head to the side, "I drive race cars; I think I can handle driving with one hand."

Rolling your eyes, you relent, "Okay, fine."

With a sigh, you fish out the car keys from your bag and hand them over to him.

4:05 ───────────ㅇ─ 4:28

[dogw1tch]

Escapism 🍂

18+ Minotaur x Gender Neutral Reader

(Size difference, Breeding, reader has afab anatomy)

DogWitch Notes: Thank you guys for the love on my last story! It makes me so happy to know people are enjoying my work :) this one has a little more build up but it might call for multiple chapters?

Summary: The library is off limits after dark but knowledge waits for no one. Besides, reading mythology is much more immersive at night. So immersive, in fact, that the breath on the back of your neck feels very, very real.

You had been crouching behind the bookshelf for so long now your legs were starting to loose feeling. Finally, though, the university librarian had finished making his checks and began turning out the lights. He was an anxious looking man in his thirties and you felt a little bad deceiving him like this- after all, it was him that had given you the book in the first place. But the tome was a relic that couldn’t leave the library to be read in your dorm room and you were so desperate to finish it. So, since stealing seemed a bit dramatic, you would have to settle for trespassing. You heard the large wooden door echo closed and dragged yourself from your hiding place, book still clutched to your chest. Your eyes took some time to adjust to the darkness as you dug around in your pocket for your lighter. Slivers of moonlight through the window seemed to die in the shadows of the towering book cases. They looked almost identical to the grand towers of the university in the darkness and the chill in the air gave you the feeling of walking through the streets at night.

Lighter in hand, you slowly navigated the corridors to find your much beloved reading corner and lit the candles you had left there. The little corner of light looked so cozy and you smiled as you gathered yourself up in the blanket you had bought and settled down in the old armchair with your book. The title ‘Portentum Complexus’ was embossed in gold into deep red leather. Much of the writing was still in the original Latin and you had been taking your time to carefully translate. However there were passages written in English, seemingly added by a scholar years later as well as beautiful etched illustrations. From all of these pieces, you had managed to put together a tale of a strange beast, roaming the land to find his lost lover. There had been a great war between worlds and the beast was trying to bring life back to his realm. Though the creature was described as being a hulking monster, triple the size of any man, covered in corse hair, obsidian black horns and pointed hooves; he still had a gentle feel about him. There was a sadness in the Latin passages that didn’t seem to properly translate into English. Perhaps that was why previous scholars hadn’t bothered to do so. But you poured over them, wanting to find the words to understand this creature who everyone, bar the monsters of his realm, was so afraid of. Your heart hurt for him a little; after all, he was looking for his love, he must feel so alone.

So this was how you intended to spend your night, curled up on the moth bitten armchair reading about lamenting fictional creatures. University was certainly the right choice. You flicked to the last English passage you had been studying. The beast had been captured by a human army and, not wishing to harm them by fighting back, had ended up bound by thick ropes in the king’s dungeon.

‘The corse binding bit into his soft flesh as he cried out into the empty corridors. He cried for his love, for his mate. He cried for them to find him in this cold and lonesome maze. His sorrow echoed from the cold stone and surrounded him.’

A sudden noise broke you from your immersion. It sounded like the lowing of cattle, strange since you were in the city centre. It was quickly replaced by the constant groaning of the ancient building before you could pay it much mind. The library was surprisingly noisy at night.

‘The beast cried until his throat was horse and even the reflection of his own voice left him alone. He feared he was to die here in the darkness. He spoke a silent prayer to the gods that his love might be safe. His chest heaved against its restraints as the monster resigned himself to his fate.’

Again came that noise, closer now, and sounding more laboured. You looked around but saw nothing in the darkness. Your mind must be playing tricks, you knew you shouldn’t really be here after all.

‘Movement. Movement in the darkness. The beast stirred and strained to see who approached him. Staring, wide eyed and loving through the bars of his captivity there stood…’

The words cut off back into Latin. You sighed and contemplated packing in for the night, translating seemed a tiresome chore at this hour. But something kept you going, call it intellectual curiosity. You needed to know what happened to the monster you had grown so fond of. Slowly but surely, word by word, you uncovered each sentence.

‘His love. His love had come to rescue him. They picked at the lock and made their way inside. The beast stared in disbelief. After all this time, all this searching, his love had been the one to find him. They approached with caution, unsure whether they recognised their mate after all these years. “Please, do not be afraid my heart, it is me.”’

The voice startled you. You read the words but they seemed to come from behind you. You turned again but again saw nothing but empty corridors through towering shelves. Perhaps your love of escapism had just left you with a very vivid imagination.

‘His love came forward, running their hands over the restrains that bound their lover. With a deft hand and a sharp blade, they began to cut through the rope. The beast sighed in relief as the pressure on his chest was released.’

The back of your neck tingled as a warm gust of air blew through the library. You could not shake the feeling you were being watched now but the story had you too gripped to care.

‘Like felled serpents, the ropes lay limp on the stone floor and the beast rose up from his stupor. He towered above his lover but they were not afraid. They knew he could not hurt them nor anyone else. They were bound together by fate and they would always find their way back to one another.

“My love. My heart. Please, I have craved for you endlessly. Let me hold you and make you mine once more.”’

Without warning you were pulled into a sudden embrace that knocked the air from your lungs. In your confusion, you did not even scream as large hands pulled you bodily from your chair. You were suddenly being held against a wall of corse fur, inhaling the bitter sweet of hay and sweat. You look up to see, towering over you in the candle-kissed half light, a great Minotaur.

He held you flush to his soft, strong chest as though you weighed nothing at all. His breath was hot on your skin and as a rough, black tongue ran up your neck making you shiver. “My mate…” The creature’s voice was low and surrounded you just as fully as his embrace, “How I’ve longed for this.” With one sweep of his arm, the Minotaur sent your books and papers fluttering to the ground. You had to crane your neck to gaze up at him as he placed you down on the desk; his dark eyes bore into you with such deep lust that you couldn’t help a pang of arousal coursing through your body. Nobody had ever looked at you this way. The great beast stood tall over you, taking in your body like he wanted to consume every part. You felt then, something hot and heavy resting next to your thigh. Your face flushed red and you had to look away for a moment, suddenly finding yourself embarrassed as the obscenity of the situation dawned on you. The creatures cock was longer than your thigh and just as thick. It made sense with the rest of his towering form but you were suddenly feeling very exposed under the beast’s hungry glare. He seemed to notice your hesitation and cupped your face in his palm, tilting your head to look at him. “Do you fear me?” Despite it all, you shook your head. Embarrassed? Yes. But not afraid.

“I shall endeavour to be as gentle as I can. You are to bear my calfs after all, it is my duty to treat you well.”

Before his words could register, the creatures head was between your thighs. He had ripped away the fabric there and his thick, rough tongue was lapping at your folds like a man starved. A cry of pleasure escaped your lips as you threw back your head. Your thighs clenched around his head, seemingly spurring him on. His tongue began to push deeper, curling inside you and igniting every nerve in your body. A single finger, large enough that you could wrap your hand around it, began to toy with your clit, rolling in gentle circles as you struggled to hold back wanton moans. He seemed to revel in the sounds you made, thrusting his tongue deeper inside with every whine of pleasure until you were rocking your hips desperately against his snout.

You were sure you were about faint from the overwhelming sensation of it all when the creature finally pulled his head back to see his work. You were a drooling mess against the table, slick and stretched open all for him. Still not open enough to take him inside you. A chuckle echoed above you, as though he had read your panicked look. “No, not here. Once we are home, my love, I will have you completely. But for now…” He picked you up with one hand around your waist, the other positioning his cock beneath you. “For now I have other ways to fill you.”

He began pulling you up his length, fucking in between your thighs and coating himself in your slick. He groaned deeply as he used your body to pleasure himself as if you truly belonged to him alone. You couldn’t help but let out your own whimpers of pleasure as your clit rubbed against his rough skin, getting wetter with every thrust. You found yourself wishing he were inside you, his scent, his growls, it all seemed so right, so familiar and you wanted to belong to this great beast that had captured you. You pressed your thighs together as tight as you could as he man-handled like you were nothing more than a toy made just for him. “That’s it, just like that..” he groaned. The muscles under the creature’s soft belly tightened and you knew he was close. “When we’re home I’m going to keep you full every minute of the day. I’ve spent too long without you. I’m going to hold you on my cock and fill you with my calfs until you’re stretched and moulded to my shape. No one else will be able to have you. You’re mine.” Without warning, he pinned you back to the desk and pressed his engorged tip against your entrance, stretching you around him. He let out a deep, echoing growl as he released inside you, filling you so much that you felt his cum leaking out of you and down your thighs.

The Minotaur didn’t seem satisfied to let this happen. He ran his fingers over your thigh and pushed the residue back inside you, fucking it deep into your stomach. You cried out with each thrust of his fingers, rocking your hips and riding out your waves of pleasure. It felt so good to be full of him.

You stayed there a while as he kissed and lapped at your skin, nuzzling into your neck and plugging you full with his fingers. He mumbled under his breath sweet nothings about how he would take you home, back where you belong. How he would keep you full and satisfied in every way. How you would give him such strong and beautiful young. How life would be so sweet now that his mate had been found. You tried to focus on his words, but they bought such a familiar peace that you found yourself lulled into sleep, breathing him in as you snuggled into his warm fur.

“That’s it my love, rest now. I will find you again soon”

***

It was the librarian who found you in the morning. He had gotten some idea of what was going to happen that night but was honestly surprised by the sheer amount of fluid involved. He tried his best to keep his eyes shut as he threw your blanket over your body and placed you back in your reading chair. The book he had lent you was open on the floor, displaying an etching of the Minotaur and his lover in an intimate embrace. The librarian quickly pushed it shut, not wanting to be anymore invasive into your private life. He thought about waking you, there were so many things he needed to tell you before the creature came back to claim his mate. But for now, you looked so peaceful.

He locked the library door, flipping the sign to closed and letting you get your rest.

DogWitch notes: a part two may be in order if you like??

Part two <3

[vivwritesfics]

No Need To Ask

Chapter Twenty-Two - Saying Goodbye

The Norris' were a notorious crime family in the UK. One of many. With Norris, the head of the family, running operations with his son, Lando, they work to keep Y/N Norris, Norris' daughter protected. Life in a crime family wasn't something they wanted for her.

But with tension with one of the Spanish crime families rise, Norris and his now deceased wife come up with only one plan, offer their daughter to the Sainz's or risk an all out war.

1.6K words

Warnings: smut

Series Masterlist

Once they landed in the Netherlands, Carlos rented them a car. Under normal circumstances he would have called upon Verstappen and his son to pick them up or arrange them a car, but everything had to be done off the books. It had to be kept secret.

The drive to the Verstappen stronghold was in silence. Carlos's eyes darted around the road, keeping an eye out for any sign of danger. If it wasn't for that, the trip would have been peaceful. But neither of them could stop the way they felt. The anxiety that ran through their veins.

"I'm really craving some lemon water," muttered Y/N as she drummed her fingers against the door of the car.

Carlos drove along an empty road that seemed to be forgotten to all over drivers. "Then I'll get you some lemon water, mi amor," he said, pulling up to a lovely, grand house.

Well, it would have been lovely if it didn't have two high stone walls in front of it, the gates made of iron.

Two men stood in front of the gates with huge guns. The gestured for Carlos to stop, and he did, breaking just in front of the gates. He rolled down the window and said to the man that approached, "tell Verstappen that Sainz has arrived and he is seeking shelter."

The man said something into a walkie talkie, something in Dutch. They waited a few minutes before the iron gates swung open, allowing the car through.

But they didn't get very far before they were stopped in front of another set of iron gates, with another two men standing guard in front of them. The men waited for the gates before them to shut before approaching the window of the car.

They went through the same process again. And, again, there was a short wait until the gates opened and Y/N and Carlos were driving towards the magnificent house.

Verstappen and his son, Max, were waiting outside of the house, surrounded by their men. They all had huge guns as they stood, protecting the head of the family.

As soon as Carlos drove through those second sets of gates, Verstappens men pointed their guns at the car. But Verstappen held out his hand as he identified the driver to be Carlos, the new head of the Sainz family.

The men lowered their guns as Carlos opened the door and walked over to the other side to open the door for Y/N. Their expressions were sorrowful as they walked up the steps, approaching the Verstappen family.

"Sainz," said Verstappen, shaking his hand. Carlos swallowed. It was incredibly hard to hear that, another member of another family calling him Sainz. He shouldn't have been Sainz; he wasn't ready.

"Verstappen," said Carlos as he stood straighter to wrap his arm around Y/N. "I'm sorry to just turn up like this, but my wife needs sanctuary."

Verstappen nodded his head as they walked into the house, Max behind him as Carlos and Y/N followed. "Your wife will be safe here," said Jos. "I will be leaving her in the hands of my son." He gave them a nod before retreating into his study. Jos was never very sociable, Carlos knew as he turned his attention to Max.

Max, who was his friends. Max who was bred to be as ruthless as his father. Max, who Carlos trusted with his life.

"I'll show you where you'll be sleeping," said Max as he looked at Y/N. He turned on her heel and led her through the house, up the stairs and through to one of the many guest bedrooms. "We haven't properly set up the guest room for your stay, but I'll have that sorted as soon as possible," he said, sitting on the bed that still had the old sheets on it.

Carlos swallowed. "This is a little bit awkward, Max. But, do you think I could say a goodbye?"

Max nodded his head, but he didn't move.

So, Carlos tried again. "Max? We meant a different sort of goodbye."

"Oh," Max said and quickly stood from the floor. "Sure, but only if you name the baby after me."

"How do you know about the baby?" Carlos asked suddenly.

"What baby?"

"What?"

Max walked out of the bedroom and Carlos quickly shut it behind him, twisting the lock to keep the world out.

He turned to his wife. His gorgeous wife. The wife that was carrying his child. He strode forward,taking her into his arms and kissing her slowly.

It wasn't hot. It was sweet. It was loving. It was his way of saying goodbye. Carlos pulled away, pressing his forehead against hers with his eyes closed. "I love you," he whispered.

"I..." Y/N looked at him. At his stubble, the lines of his face, his eyelashes against his cheeks and his full lips. "I love you too." Because she did. She really did. She really loved him. "I love you. I love you, I love you, I love you."

Carlos walked her backwards, gently playing her onto the bed. He continued to kiss her, his body laying over hers.

They exchanged 'I love you's' between kisses. It wasn't heavy and bruising, but it was insistent, Carlos making sure she couldn't forget it.

He sat her up to pull her shirt over her head and kissed down her sternum and to her stomach. Kissing her stomach, not yet far along enough to form a bump. She would have one when he next saw her, though, Carlos knew when he pulled away to look up her her.

He rid her of her sweats and threw off his own clothes.

Carlos climbed back on top of her, kissing his body. It wasn't something he could take his time with; he had to get back to Spain, to make things safe for her and their baby.

He entered her and Y/N squeezed her eyes shut. She'd never get used to the feeling of him, to the size of him. It was feeling she'd never get bored of.

Carlos thrust into her, his grunts filling the room. Y/N let out cries and whines, writhing on the bed beneath him. "I love you," he said between grunts, holding her close. "I love you, my wife."

Y/N couldn't speak between her gasps. But, if she could, she would have said she loved him too. Because she did. She loved the man she was married to.

His thrusts grew slow and sloppy as he tried to prologue things. But the way she was squeezing him as she came, walls closing around him, Carlos couldn't last much longer.

He came with a cry, his body tensing.

Carlos kissed her face as he pulled out of her. He laid beside her, holding her close as he kissed the back of her neck. "I really do love you," he said, keeping his eyes closed.

"Carlos," Y/N whispered as she played with his fingers. "Say something happens to you while you're taking care of things in Spain, what would you like to name our baby?"

"Valentina," Carlos answered instantly, confidently.

Y/N let out a giggle. "You think it's gonna be a girl?" She asked as he kissed her shoulder blades.

"I'm hoping, " he answered. "What if its a boy?"

Y/N had thought of this. It was all she'd been speaking about on their way over from Spain. "Oscar," she answered, wrapping her arms around her stomach. "Little Oscar Sainz."

It wasn't long before Y/N fell asleep in Carlos's arms. He pulled away from her gently, kissing the top of her bed before he pulled his clothes back onto his body.

He was exhausted, his movements sluggish. If he had the choice, he would have gotten into bed beside her, holding her close while she slept through the night.

He didn't want to leave, but he had to make everything safe for the child they were bringing into this world.

He kissed her forehead one last time and slipped out of the room, leaving his wife in a foreign country, under the care of another family.

A horrible feeling settled in his gut.

***

Oscar wandered through Spain. It was becoming too much of a reoccurring situation, him blindly trying to seek shelter.

This time, he had some sort of direction. He knew he at least needed to get to Alonso's territory and he knew that was back past Carlos's house.

For days he walked. Every time he needed to eat he put himself in danger by shooting his dinner, the sound of the gun giving away his location.

It was a full three days before Oscar happened upon the familiar Alonso house. Fernando's house hadn't been raided as bad as the Sainz house and it was easy for him to get things back into order, along with extra security.

But, of course, Alonso didn't have a pregnant wife to think about. It would have been a surprise to everything of Fernando one day turned up with a wife; he was the one head of family who was never going to get married. It was a mystery to everyone who Alonso was going to pass his empire down to, but he always claimed to have a succession plan.

Oscar approached the first men he saw, informed them who he was, proved his loyalty to Webber and was allowed through the gates.

He was led into Alonso's house, led up to his office.

There Alonso was sitting, not quite concentrating when Oscar walked him. Beside him he had Señora Sainz, pointing at the papers in front of him as she spoke to him in quick Spanish.

When the doors opened and Oscar walked in, they both stared.

He held out his hand in an awkward wave. "Uh... hi."

Taglist (CLOSED): @multi-universe21 @formulas-bitch @gills-lounge @weasleyswizarding-wheezes @carlossainzwho @f1lov3r @samaib11 @charli123456789 @queenofmanydreams @ironmaiden1313 @vellicora @glitterf1 @80sloverry @lightdragonrayne @moonayu @bellsalabanccini @topguncultleader @handsupforamiracle @cmleitora @jenniferrvsesi @barcelonaloverf1life @sbella13 @nicolettecallednikki @darleneslane @thehufflepuffavenger1 @champagneproblems17 @aespie @yukheizcigarettes @rewmuslupin @hollie911 @ashy-kit @ririgy @stqrgir1 @zaynzierulez @minkyungseokie @rafaaoli @carolinesainz @ashies-ln4op81aa22 @measimp @mizelophsun11 @eviethetheatrefreak @andydrysdalerogers @formulaal @graciewrote @biancathecool @evans-dejong @sparklyperfectionstranger @venusesworld @goldenharrysworld @cassie0sstuff @gracielukey @watermelonworries @celesteblack08 @shobaes @chonkybonky

[thegreenleavesofspring]

This is a shout-out to all the 'unwanted' Christians. The ones who turn to the the Church and find no help, no support, and only a shallow and conditional welcome - which is no welcome at all. The ones who sit through message after sermon after Bible study which is entirely irrelevant to them. The ones who mess up the church's picture-perfect image.

This is for the Side B Christians, the divorced Christians, the single parents trying so desperately to fill the role of two people. This is for the Christians who have never taken Communion, or who have - for whatever reason - never been baptized. This is for the Christians who must choose between food and rent this month, or tithing. This is for the quiet Christians, the shy ones, the ones who'd rather hide under the table than volunteer for helping with the fellowship dinner.

This is for the Christians who admit something in shame and repentance and sorrow and are drawn away from and ostracized. This is for the Christians condemned by their 'brothers' and 'sisters' for things beyond their control. This is for the fatherless children who are not orphans but abandoned by their parents, for the widows left struggling while the local assembly hall is remodeled. This is for the children shut out of the friend groups and pushed away from their peers because of their parents.

This is for the Christians who are blamed for being abused. This is for the Christians who are trying to escape abuse and finding only platitudes and closed doors. This is for Christians who are trying to learn new behavioral patterns and find only condemnation for the old ones and no help. This is for the Christians struggling with mental illness who are told to pray it away. Christians struggling substances. With addictions. With anything. For the Christians who have gone to their pastor or the elders or their peers and found no help.

This is for all the Christians who have no home and no shepherd and no church to nourish them because they are inconvenient. The Christians who mess up the optics. The members who are least in honor.

This is for anyone who has ever sought the comfort of the Church and found instead stones and snakes.

I see you and I love you. Even more than that, God sees you and loves you.

You are not alone.

[gaysindistress]

Never Love an Anchor

Pairings: gn!Tav x Zevlor

Summary: a ship can never love an anchor so Zevlor cut you loose but kept the love he held for you in his heart, hoping that maybe that might change.

Warnings: talks of cannon violence in bg3

Word count: idk man I wrote this in my notes and it’s more than a Drabble but not a fic so somewhere between? 🤷🏻‍♀️

I highly recommend listening to ‘never love an anchor’ by the crane wives. I read something from @gnomishcunning awhile back about the things that Zevlor deserves and that’s what inspired this so give them love too 💕

Bg3 mastlist

The great Hellrider Commander. The new leader of the exiled Tieflings. An old and broken paladin with no faith to draw strength from. A man who’s been charged with the protection of his people and expected to do right by each and every one without fail.

Commander Zevlor.

Or simply Zevlor as many of his people call him.

You’ve heard many stories about this famed man but never have you laid eyes on him. Elturel isn’t far from Baldurs gate so it wouldn’t be completely unimaginable to say that he somewhat of a hero to you. What happened to the city struck both fear and sorrow into your heart. The worst part, however, is knowing that the tieflings would be the ones to suffer the consequences of actions they had no part in. It takes a selfless soul to take on the duty that Zevlor has and this only adds to the respect you have for him.

The first time you meet is during the fight in front of the Grove. Arrows and spells are flying around as you battle the goblins with people you don’t even recognize. One goblin in particular has evaded your attack almost every time and has moved into a lethal position. Their arrows are landing successfully every time on the tiefling guard above the stone door, nearly sending him to an early grave.

Vaguely you hear someone shout his name as he stumbles backwards when an arrow lands in his shoulder,

“Zevlor!”

Shadowheart is doing what she can to protect you as your world seems to slow. Lae’zel ’chk’s at you when she notices your faltering movements and cuts down a worg coming for you while Astarion sneaks behind the remaining 2 goblins. The one that shot at Zevlor and has been dodging you also notices this and makes to attack you next. Your blade is faster than their bow.

They fall to the ground as you throw your last healing potion at the fallen tiefling and order Shadowheart to use her last spell to heal him.

The battle is won soon after and you’re finally able to meet this hero of yours for the first time. Rather than reducing to a star struck mess, you keep yourself composed as you approach him arguing with Aradin. Somehow you manage to convince them to stop fighting before yet another battle breaks out. You direct Aradin back with a simple point of your finger before turning to the Hellrider. It’s then that you realize there was one important detail missing from his legends; his striking beauty.

His horns stretch and bend far beyond most tieflings indicating both his age and wisdom. The infernal ridges that line his cheekbones and forehead bring attention to his entrancing eyes. Glowing like the enteral torch, Zevlor’s eyes study you with caution as you marvel at his appearance. Moving from his face you take in the worn but cared for chain mail armor that sits upon his strong shoulders that carry the burden of thousands. His chest, board and equally strong as his shoulders, seems to move in time with your own breath; adrenaline filled but calming all the same. It’s a testament to the seasoned paladin that lives within him, his reassuring strength that does not waver in the face of danger. It’s proof of the well trained commander within him that strategizes his every move as well as others.

Whatever words you thought might aid you in introducing yourself seemed to disappear and all you can offer is a half smile. Zevlor thanks you for your help but it’s not without a lingering gaze that cuts through your confidence. It seems he’s mistaken your shyness for indifference towards his people. Regardless he still asks for your help in getting his people to Baldur’s Gate. Your immediate acceptance causes several of your companions to be upset with you. Frankly Shadowheart is the only one who has an inkling about what’s truly going on. That night at camp, she brings whatever wine she could find to your tent and slowly drags the truth out of you.

“I couldn’t help but notice your fascination with Zevlor,” she muses from behind her chalice before adding, “well I could but there’s no fun in that.”

You chuckle at her as you take a sip of your own wine. It’s bitter and foul but it’s something to sooth your nerves no less.

“My fascination? And what exactly did I do for you to notice such a thing?”

“You stared at him as if he were the most beautiful piece of art work you’d ever seen. That or he was a feast after starving for weeks on end.”

“I did no such thing!” You try to defend yourself but it fails horribly when neither of you can stop laughing. “Fine maybe I did but can you blame me? He is a beautiful man.”

Rolling her eyes, Shadowheart finishes her chalice and turns to face you. It’s startling to have her full attention on you like this but the wine has lessened your concern.

“Tell me truly; do you have feelings for him?”

You stare back at her and hope that her goddess might have mercy on enough to smite you where you sit. Alas you have no luck and are forced to answer.

Your eyes find the empty chalice in your own hands as it dangles from your fingers between your knees.

“I think..,” you start with a sigh, “I think that my feelings are irrelevant in our current situation. A relationship, a romance has no place among the fight we’re facing. Matters of the heart have no relevance when making decisions the lives of many.”

Your strangely beautiful yet sobering confession renders the cleric speechless for once. She glances to between the moon and you before nudging you with her shoulder.

“Do not be so quick to cast your feelings aside. You never know when matters of the heart may take precedence.”

Some months later after the nether brain fight, everyone has settled into their lives and gone their separate ways. Wither’s gathering has already passed and this would be maybe a few weeks later. lakrissa and alfira have gotten married and theres to be a small reception in the city at the Elfsong. Of course the heroes of baldurs gate are invited seeing as without your party, the couple wouldn’t have survived this far.

Zevlor and the tieflings have made amends following the finale battle so he’s in attendance as well. He’s still cautious and honestly probably a little scared that they will change their mind and shun him for what happened at Moonrise so he’s a wall flower. He makes his rounds and keeps up polite conversation but he doesn’t want to overstay his welcome so he plans to leave pretty early on. The rest of the party has arrived; Karlach and Wyll are the current stars of the hour as they tell fabulous tales of their time in Avernus. Gale and Lae’zel have sent their regards while Astarion and Shadowheart keep their chalices full and their gossip hushed. The only ones missing are you and Halsin.

Everyone knows that the two of you had something special but no one could ever figure out what. Shadowheart swore herself to secrecy and Astarion charmed the conversation to something entirely different. As for the others, no one knew why you chose to follow Halsin to the former shadow lands, only that you had and seemed to be content. Zevlor hasn’t seen you since the last fight and it created a deep rift within himself to think about it.

On one hand, he had nothing more than your conversations and the one near kiss to use as evidence of your affection for him. On the other, he remembered your tears when you found him the mind flayer colony and how you whispered a promise of forgiveness to him before you left to fight Thorm. He recalled in excruciatingly vivid detail the feeling of your tear soaked lips pressing to the corner of his as you pulled away and the utter devastation that filled your eyes.

“They will understand and they will forgive you if you give them the chance, Zevlor. You are their commander, their leader, their champion. You are not at fault for this and they will see that if you let them. Promise me that you will try. Promise me that you will not forsake yourself.” You whispered to him in a cracked and pleading voice, “promise me you’ll try. You deserve it.”

His heart pounded against his ribs as he forced himself to look at you in the eye. His knees buckled as your lips brushed against his. His voice wavered as he agreed to your promise. His strength cracked as you smiled at him and left to face almost certain death.

Zevlor isn’t so foolish to believe that you would’ve chosen to follow him after the finale battle but his heart yearned to think about that possibility. The chance, no matter how small, still felt real even as he anxiously waited for your arrival.

Like a goblin’s arrow, the sight of you walking into the Elfsong arm and arm with Halsin pierces Zevlor’s heart. You do in fact look content; your skin is glowing from being able to eat your fill and sleep as long as your desire. Your hair has been released from its strict hairstyle; bouncing around your face back in soft waves and shines in the pale evening light. Your eyes, while they’ve always been stunning, have a new spark of warmth and joy. No longer are you clad in armor but instead you’re wearing a white and blue patterned outfit that flows around you like water. Your figure has also changed but in this new attire, it becomes even more apparent that you are healthy, happy, and a feast yourself. The smile that blesses his dreams widens as you begin to notice your companions and former allies.

Zevlor casts his gaze to the ground when Halsin presses a kiss to your hairline. This confirmation is too much for him to bear and he finds anything to occupy his mind.

As the gathering quickly turns into a celebration, Zevlor attempts to make his exit. He quickly bids the couple farewell and congratulates them before trying to slip out without being noticed. A deep sigh leaves him as soon as he’s outside the doors and it’s not one of relief.

Frustration maybe.

Anger perhaps.

Or is it shame that forced him to leave without even acknowledging you?

“I knew you were not one for crowds but this I did not expect.”

He halts and squeezes his eyes shut. He’s been caught.

“The city has been treating you well, I take it. You look…” you trail off as you allow the tavern doors to close behind you, “good. Not that you didn’t before but… a life of ease agrees with you.”

Zevlor doesn’t face you, a choice that pains you more than you’d like to admit. He’s almost frozen in place as you approach him.

Coming to stand just beside him, you murmur his name and all but beg him to look at you.

With great effort, he does. A hint of blood woven pain flashes in his infernal eyes as he gazes down at you.

“But how have you been treating yourself, hm? Have you forgiven yourself or have you forsaken yourself to a life of solitude?”

He says nothing but it’s an answer enough; he’s not kept his promise to you. He crosses his arms over his chest and attempts to look more casual about the whole situation.

You begin to say his name but he cuts you off, “go on and enjoy the celebration. There are many people who have been waiting for a chance to speak with you.”

“what about you?”

His thick brows knit in confusion, “me?”

“Is there anyone else out here?” You tease for a moment, “I did mean you, Zevlor. What about you? Were you one of them?”

He wants to pretend that he wasn’t but he can’t, not when he’s been agonizing over this moment for months now. A particularly loud shout draws your attention back to the tavern and when you’re not looking, he can’t help his gaze. Almost immediately he finds himself staring at your revealed chest and the way your shirt does little to conceal the vast plains of your torso. A lump grows in his throat at the thought and he barely swallows it before you look at him again.

“I’ve thought of little else but what it would be like to see you again these last few months,” you say after taking a deep breath, “Halsin finds it difficult to not tease me about how ‘preoccupied’ I seem most days. On our way here, he told me that I better say the words I’ve been pondering all this time or he would do it for me.”

At the mention of Halsin, Zevlor unintentionally stiffens and looks over your shoulder towards the tavern. You follow his line of sight and step in front of him once more. It’s a bold move but no bolder than what you’re about to do.

You place your hands on his folded arms and gently pull, asking him to step closer and to give his attention.

“I know of the rumors about Halsin and I. I’d hoped that you hadn’t heard of them but it appears that you have and now I fear you won’t hear what I have to say.”

Zevlor stares at your hands for a moment before letting his eyes flutter closed. “Speak plainly, y/n.”

His words are uncharacteristically short and cold, a stark contrast to the person you’d come to know. You go to drop your hands and step back but one of his shots out and grabs your wrist, keeping you in place.

“I need you to be clear and precise right now. There cannot be any doubt or confusion from this moment forward.” he tells you in a low tone, one of authority and of a Hellrider Commander.

The hand on your wrist shifts to grip your bicep and pulls you impossibly closer. Your own breathing quickens when your feel your chest press against his and you find yourself leaning into his grip, relying on his strength to keep yourself upright.

Your voice, usually strong and confident, wavers as you whisper, “Halsin and I….we are no more than friends.”

Zevlor stays silent, only searches your face for any tell that you could be lying. The hand on your bicep flexes and his claws press into your skin. You hold back a hiss from the sting, pushing aside the pain to become fully absorbed in his presence. He goes to apologize however your lullaby words silence him, “He is not the one I’ve longed for since we first met.”

His hand tightens and tries to hold you in place but his strength fails him. Your hands drift from his arms to his chest and come to rest on his jaw. The tiefling’s eyes flutter closed at the contact and he takes a deep, sharp breath.

“Y/N,” he warns.

“I’ve admired you from the moment I first heard your story. I’ve known that you were going to be someone deeply important to me from the moment we fought side by side in the grove. I’ve yearned to learn everything about you since you reject my advances at the celebration, claiming that I could have anyone I desired. I’ve cared for you since learning of your fate in the Shadowlands. I realized that I loved you when I found you in moonrise in that awful colony but I’ve loved you far longer. I’ve loved you all of this time but yet I couldn’t find it within myself to tell you for fear that you wouldn’t feel the same.” Tears begin to flow from both of you as you whisper your confession to him and he keeps his eyes closed, “Zevlor I’m in love with you and I want nothing more than to be with you if you’ll have me.”

His tail wraps around your waist, keeping you close while his hands slid up onto your neck and tilt your head up. With a shaky deep breath, he musters the strength to open his eyes and look at you. The old paladin has forsaken his forgotten god many months ago and promised to live in your honor. He’s swore an oath to you that you know nothing about but it would seem that you have done the same.

“My love for you knows no bounds and no rivals,” he whispers as his lips brush against yours, close but not close enough. “I’ve waited long enough to hear that you feel the same. Promise to me that this is not some cruel joke, a drunken confession but the truth. Promise to me that you truly mean that you love me.”

“I love you,” you hastily whisper before finally capturing him in a passionate kiss. A groan slips from him at the feeling of your desperation to convey your feelings but it’s returned tenfold.

It seems that Shadowheart was right all those months ago.

[normatural]

Echoes of Souls | A.T

Pairing: Aemond Targaryen x f!reader

Summary: In the old, abandoned castle, she found a love letter addressed to her, written by someone who died a century ago.

Word Count: 2.328

A/N: It's been a while since I wrote something and my writing is a bit rusty so please bear with me :) Feedback is always welcome. I love to know your opinions and questions. English isn't my first language so excuse any mistakes but feel free to point them out to help me improve.

Aemond's masterlist

Chapter Two: Back to the Fire

As the first light of dawn filtered through the broken windows, you roused yourself from sleep. The dream's vivid fragments lingered in your mind, each scene suffused with an inexplicable emotion. A longing that you couldn’t quite understand. Determined to uncover more of these echoes of the past, you decided to explore the mansion's grounds. The repairs could wait another day.

The garden, though now overgrown and wild, still held a certain beauty of its past. Weeds mingled with the remnants of perennials that had once been meticulously tended. Ancient statues stood silhouetted against the rising sun, their stone faces weather-beaten but still graceful. You wandered through the garden, trying to trace the paths from your dream.

Every step seemed to draw you closer to something just out of reach, a secret waiting to be unveiled. You reached a wrought iron gate, barely hanging on its hinges, and carefully pushed it open. Beyond lay what seemed to be the castle's graveyard, shrouded in a somber stillness. Moss-covered statues stood as silent chronicles of lives long past. Like ghosts in a forgotten house. 

Your heart began to pound as your eyes scanned the names at the bottom of the figures. Graves. You moved through the rows, pausing occasionally to read a name or a date. Most of them passed really young. Just as expected when a war is looming. The royal name appearing over and over again. And then you saw it—an elaborately carved white stone, still pristine despite the years. The name etched into the stone made your breath catch in your throat: Aemond Targaryen.

You’ve studied in college that the royal family used to be burnt in pyres by their dragons so it was odd to see those statues in the field as some sort of graveyard. Perhaps it was a way to honor the royal family, just like a museum. A reminder of the past.

Overwhelmed with a mix of sorrow and wonder, you knelt before the grave. The inscription was simple but profound, speaking to a life of duty, passion, and an untimely end. You traced the letters with your fingers, feeling a sudden, overwhelming wave of emotion and recognition. The statue was almost a carbon copy of the man you had seen in your dream.

A rustling sound caught your attention. You looked up to see a black bird perched on Aemond’s shoulder, its dark eyes reflecting a startling intelligence as it seemed to stare deeply in your eyes. The bird regarded you for a moment, then took flight, its inky feathers stark against the morning sky. You watched as it flew to a massive tree, the only one still vibrant with life, its leaves a deep, blood-red hue. Unable to ignore the goosebumps in your skin.

Drawn by an invisible force, you rose and walked towards the tree. It seemed similar to the one you had seen earlier. Its red leaves stand proudly against the soft breeze. The tree's bark was rough against your hand as you gently touched it, feeling a strange energy pulsating beneath the surface. Like blood pumping in veins. Such an ancient piece that endured time way better than its surroundings. Suddenly, the world began to spin. Colors blended and swirled, and your vision blurred. You tried to hold onto the tree, but your strength waned, and you succumbed to the overwhelming dizziness, collapsing to the ground.

When you opened your eyes, the first thing you noticed was the sky, clear and blue above you. Pushing yourself up, disoriented, you looked around, touching your throbbing head. The once-overgrown garden was now meticulously manicured, the statues restored to their former glory. The world around you was vibrant and alive, brimming with the sounds of life. It was like being pulled back to that dream again.

Heart hammering, you realized you were no longer in the abandoned castle’s grounds. You were… in the past, in the Targaryen age. If that was even possible. Maybe you were going crazy but the castle loomed majestically behind you, its towers and walls gleaming in the sunlight. 

Voices and the sounds of bustling activity drew you towards the main courtyard. You blended in surprisingly well, your attire somehow fitting in with the period. As you moved through the crowd, your mind buzzed with the realization of where - and when - you were. The Targaryen age.

Everywhere you looked, there were signs of the looming strife. Soldiers in armor, courtiers whispering urgently to one another, and the dark, foreboding presence of the dragons, their cries echoing in the skies above. Something was about to happen and it didn’t leave a good feeling to your guts.

Your thoughts raced as you tried to comprehend your situation. You had somehow traveled back in time, to a world that had existed centuries ago. A world where Aemond was alive. Where dragons flew in the sky… When one of the greatest wars was unfolding.

You made your way back to the garden, the same spot where you had seen the man with white hair. It was exactly as you remembered it from your dream - vibrant, full of life, and breathtakingly beautiful. As you walked, your heart skipped a beat when you saw Aemond in the distance, speaking with a group of knights as they walked in the out the gates. He seemed just as you had seen in her dreams, every bit the imposing and mystery figure you had come to know… somehow.

As you watched from a distance, trying to hear anything that wasn’t your thrumming heartbeat, a voice broke through your racing thoughts.

"Lady Vaela!" Startled, you turned to see a maid hurrying towards you, her expression a mix of concern and urgency. "My lady, you are not yet ready! The ceremony will begin soon."

"What ceremony?" you asked, voice shaky. The maid seemed taken aback by your furrowed brows but recovered quickly.

Fear of being caught and hanged for wandering around the castle was the only thing keeping you from tripping on your feet as you followed the maid through the dark and imposing halls. She had recognized you, or better, who she assumed you were. And that may be something good. They’d hang someone known by staff.

"Your wedding, my lady. To Prince Aemond Targaryen. Come, we must make haste!"

The world around you seemed to spin again, but this time with a dizzying revelation. Her dream, her memories - it was all falling into place. They were your memory. You were Vaela… Or perhaps, you were in another dream. You followed the maid in a daze, questions swirling in your mind. How did you end up here? Why did they recognize you? 

The maid led you through the bustling corridors of the castle, and you took in the splendor of the surroundings - the rich tapestries, the gleaming armor, the hurried preparations of the household. It all felt surreal as if you were walking through someone else's life.

They arrived at your chamber - you supposed-, and the maid quickly set to work, helping you bathe and change into the elaborate wedding gown that awaited. It was a breathtaking creation of silks and lace, embroidered with the sigils of House Targaryen. As the maid adjusted your veil and added the final touches, you caught a glimpse of yourself in the polished metal. The reflection looking back at you was both familiar and strange, a mixture of your past self and the woman you had become. It was you and yet it wasn’t. 

"You look beautiful, my lady," the maid said with a warm smile. "Prince Aemond is a fortunate man."

The words brought a flush to your cheeks, and you took a deep breath to steady yourself. This was happening. Your heart raced with a mix of fear and excitement. When would you wake up?

As the preparations concluded, the maid guided you towards the grand hall where the ceremony was to take place. The hall was filled with guests, a sea of faces you did not recognize but who seemed to know you. High lords and ladies, knights, and nobles, all turned to watch as she made her entrance.

The hall itself was a marvel of Valyrian architecture, adorned with dragon motifs and glittering chandeliers. Some of them you had the luck of seeing in museums, others in your history books but most of them were never seen in your century. At the far end, standing tall and regal, was Aemond Targaryen. His white hair gleamed under the chandeliers, and his one good eye fixed on you with a burning intensity, making your stomach do black flips.

Your heart skipped a beat at the sight of him. Every step you took echoed through the hall together with your heartbeat or maybe that was just your nerves. Your mind racing with a multitude of emotions. This was the moment you had dreamt of since childhood - to wed in a palace-, yet it was more real and overwhelming than you could have imagined. You didn’t know that man and still, you haven’t tried to run away since you awoke there.

As you approached, Aemond stepped forward to take your hand. His grip was firm yet gentle, his touch sending a shiver down your spine. For a moment, time seemed to stop as their eyes met, the connection between them sparking and palpable. It was as if their souls were recognizing each other, despite the chasm of time that had separated them. Could he know that you weren’t his beloved Vaela? If so, he didn’t let it show.

The ceremony began, a blend of Valyrian rites and Targaryen traditions. The words of the officiant washed over you as you stood beside Aemond, your hand still clasped in his. Somehow it was the only thing keeping you from fainting right there. 

"Sȳndor bē naejot māzigon hen ñuha prūmia, ao issi ñuha ēngos, ñuha prūmia, se ñuha gevives. Nyke daorūbagon ao va īlva gīmigon, īlva vūjigon, se īlva ānogar. Iā vala mēre, ȳdrā ēdruty. Zaldrīzes buzdari iksos daor, sepār iksan sȳndroro gūrogon." Aemond purple’s eye was focused on yours, the words leaving his lips seemed to held a deeper power to it. "As we come together from my heart, you are my light, my heart, and my strength. I bind you to our love, our life, and our future. As one man and one woman, always together. A dragon does not bow, yet I am humbled by your love."

The vows were spoken in High Valyrian, their meaning both ancient and profound. 

"Sȳndor bē naejot māzigon hen ñuha prūmia, ao issi ñuha ēngos, ñuha gevives, se ñuha bantis. Nyke daorūbagon ao va īlva gīmigon, īlva prūmia, se īlva rhaenagon. Iā valar mēre, ēdruta va gevie. Zaldrīzes ōños iksā, se nyke ēdrur ao va gevivys.” Your mind only raced further with innumerous thoughts as the supposedly foreign words slipped so easily out of your lips. “As we come together from my heart, you are my light, my strength, and my night. I bind you to our love, our heart, and our dreams. As two souls, bound in strength. You are a dragon of shadows, and I honor you in the darkness."

 With each word, the bond between them seemed to grow stronger, as if the very fabric of time was weaving their destinies together. Again.

When the moment came to seal their union, Aemond leaned in, his lips brushing against yours in a soft yet powerful kiss. Awakening something long torpid in your chest. The hall erupted in applause, but for you, the world had narrowed to just the two of you. Love and passion radiating from him, a promise of what was to come.

As the ceremony concluded, the people were led to the grand banquet hall where the celebrations would continue. The hall was filled with the sounds of laughter, music, and the clinking of goblets. You found yourself surrounded by well-wishers and congratulations, yet your focus remained on Aemond, who surprisingly stayed by your side like an anchor in the storm of emotions.

As the evening progressed, you took the chance to accept every goblet of wine that was offered to you in hopes it’d control your mind. You sat down on the chair, eyes quickly finding your.. husband as he spoke to whom you assumed was his brother, King Aegon. It was as if you had known each other for lifetimes.

When they finally found a moment alone amidst the revelry, Aemond took her hand and led her to a quiet alcove. "Vaela," he whispered, his voice filled with emotion. "I know this may feel overwhelming, but trust in our love. We are destined for each other, no matter the challenges we may face."

You looked into his eye as the crease between your brows deepened, seeing the sincerity and passion there. But there was something else there. Knowledge. He knew. "I’m back, Aemond," you replied, your voice surprisingly steady. "And I am ready to face whatever comes our way, as long as we are together."

He smiled a rare and genuine expression that made your heart soar. "Then let us embrace our destiny, my love. Together, we shall conquer all."

His words seemed to strike something on you. Unlock whatever your memory was keeping from you as pages of books and illustrations flashed in your mind. The name Targaryen is in all of them. Your heart sank as you looked at Aemond. You’ve read about his death. What if... That was the reason you were sent there? To avoid it.

As they stood there, hand in hand, the world around them seemed to fade away. They were no longer bound by the constraints of time, but rather united by a love that spanned centuries. At that moment, you knew that no matter what challenges or trials awaited you, your love was eternal, a flame that would never be extinguished. You had a purpose there. You’d save your lover’s life.

+

Taglist: @donut-seam @strangersunghoon @teasweeter @darktrashsoulbear @m00n5t0n3 @rosey1981 @kniselle @rebloggerist-extraordinaire

[kristisbookland]

ACOFAS

Ch7

“Send Lucien, then. As our human emissary.”

I studied the tenseness in Azriel’s shoulders, the shadows veiling half of him from the sunlight. “Lucien is away right now.”

Az’s brows rose. “Where?”

I winked at him. “You’re my spymaster. Shouldn’t you know?”

Az crossed his arms, face as elegant and cold as the legendary dagger at his side. “I don’t make a point of looking after his movements.”

“Why?”

Not a flicker of emotion. “He is Elain’s mate.”

I waited.

“It would be an invasion of her privacy to track him.”

To know when and if Lucien sought her out. What they did together.

“You sure about that?” I asked quietly.

Azriel’s Siphons guttered, the stones turning as dark and foreboding as the deepest sea. “Where did Lucien go.”

Ch12

Azriel emerged from the sitting room, a glass of wine in hand and wings tucked back to reveal his fine, yet simple black jacket and pants.

I felt, more than saw, my sister go still as he approached. Her throat bobbed.

in time to see Elain say to Azriel, “Hello.”

Az said nothing.

No, he just moved toward her.

Mor tensed beside me.

But Azriel only took Elain’s heavy dish of potatoes from her hands, his voice soft as night as he said, “Sit. I’ll take care of it.”

Elain’s hands remained in midair, as if the ghost of the dish remained between them. With a blink, she lowered them, and noticed her apron. “I—I’ll be right back,”

...

 “Wait,” Azriel said, nothing but command in his voice.

...

and Azriel … It was pity on his beautiful face. Pity and sorrow as he watched my sister.

...

But something in me eased at that laughter, at the light that returned to Elain’s eyes.

A light I wouldn’t see dimmed further.

Ch16

Azriel strode to the lone window at the end of the room and peered into the garden below. “I’ve never stayed in this room.” His midnight voice filled the space.

...

“No,” Azriel said, not turning from the window.

...

Azriel remained at the window

...

Azriel said, turning from the garden window at last.

Ch19

I found Elain studying it, beautiful in her amethyst-colored gown. I made to move toward her, but someone beat me to it.

The shadowsinger was clad in a black jacket and pants similar to Rhysand’s—the fabric immaculately tailored and built to fit his wings. He still wore his Siphons atop either hand, and shadows trailed his footsteps, curling like swirled embers, but there was little sign of the warrior otherwise. Especially as he gently said to my sister, “Happy Solstice.”

Elain turned from the snow falling in the darkness beyond and smiled slightly. “I’ve never participated in one of these.”

Ch20

Elain turned from where she’d been speaking to Nesta. “Oh, that’s from me.”

Azriel’s face didn’t so much as shift at the words. Not even a smile as he opened the present and revealed—

“I had Madja make it for me,” Elain explained. Azriel’s brows narrowed at the mention of the family’s preferred healer. “It’s a powder to mix in with any drink.”

Silence.

Elain bit her lip and then smiled sheepishly. “It’s for the headaches everyone always gives you. Since you rub your temples so often.”

Silence again.

Then Azriel tipped his head back and laughed.

I’d never heard such a sound, deep and joyous. Cassian and Rhys joined him, the former grabbing the glass bottle from Azriel’s hand and examining it. “Brilliant".

Elain smiled again, ducking her head.

Azriel mastered himself enough to say, “Thank you.” I’d never seen his hazel eyes so bright, the hues of green amid the brown and gray like veins of emerald. “This will be invaluable.”

[pupkou]

✧ No Lights To Tell Us ✧

✦ Zagreus (Hades 2018) x Gender Neutral Reader. ✦ Warnings: slight mentions of gore (mention of beheading), mention of blood, mention of swords/blades. ✦ Word Count: 900. ✦ A standalone one shot, set within my "Blood and Darkness" universe (but not yet somewhere specific in that story's timeline). ✦ Link to part one (parts are not yet connected).

Zagreus is nothing if not devoted.

That sentiment applies to everything he's interested in-- but really 'obsessed with' is a better way of putting it, because he doesn't lightheartedly ponder or enjoy anything. He's too intense for any lighthearted observation and studying because he connects too deeply with the stories of others and the worlds that they live in, his heart too big to live without sorrow. Despite his attachments, he lives to find a place of his own, to feel like he belongs, and his ambition to complete this quest has not been strained.

While living in the Underworld provides him with so much inspiration for adventure and reasons to dash around, defeating friends and foes alike, Zagreus can say that his favorite adventure has been knowing you.

Before you, Zagreus trained with Achilles for as many hours as the great hero allowed-- starting their sessions back when it was revealed to him in a dream that there is a world outside of the house of Hades. Zagreus obsesses about his trainings, the way he moves is careful and planned because one wrong move could send him plunging back into the depths of red blood that always seem to greet him eventually-- warm, but not kind. His movements matter because you can only get beheaded so many times before it gets old, and Zagreus prefers to spill blood with a slash of his blade than to be the one lying cold and hard against the stone floor.

But he's also devoted to you, his most beloved (as he calls you).

He did all of the outdated courting rituals, like inviting you over for a grand feast, gifting you ambrosia won in battle, and demonstrating the best way to remove the sweet beads of fruit from a pomegranate (as any good prince would do for a prospective partner) but Zagreus didn't need all those formal actions to be sure of how he feels.

Zagreus, since the moment he laid eyes on you, was obsessed with you. Like a hunting bird watching its soft, warm-hearted prey from above as it flies steadily above, Zagreus set his sights on you, and needed you more than anything. His desire for you outweighed any other, so strong that he lent Orpheus a few words on longing and tenderness. He didn't need time to love you; because his devotion to you was formed in an instant, rendered unchangeable and strong within the blink of an eye like a blacksmith plunging a sword into dark, cool water.

You are his main devotion, his beloved, his favorite shade, and it is through Zagreus' obsession with you that you learn what it is to be loved by a God.

One night, under the living stars and lying on the plush earth of his mother's garden, he rests his head in your lap as you comb your fingers through Zagreus' dark locks of hair. His laurels are set to the side, simmering with crimson and glittering with gold, and he is at peace in your embrace.

"Zagreus?", you say softly, pulling him out of his trance and drawing his bicolored eyes toward you. His eyes of garnet and emerald shine at you inquisitively as his mouth smiles, pleased at hearing his name from the mouth of his lover, the sweetest song he knows.

"Yes, beloved?", he answers, kind and warm.

"Did you hear that the villagers of your mother's hometown have built a temple in your honor?"

"I did, love," he beams, proud of their efforts and appreciation. "Their offerings were quite impressive, I need to remember to reward them with a bountiful season of hunting for their efforts."

"That's kind of you," you muse, petting his hair still as he leans into the soft press of your hand against him. "They're lucky to have someone who is as generous as you, Zagreus."

"You flatter me, darling. I just.. try to give everyone what they deserve," he says, sighing as he looks up at the stars dancing through the night sky, "and to be someone they can believe in."

"I know it isn't easy, my love. After all, if all Gods are worshipped, who is left for the Gods to believe in? Who is there to guide those whose hands mold mortality?"

"It's a bit late to get philisophical," he jokes, although it is without much humor behind his voice. "But I believe that the answer is that we are left with only what we cherish. For me, you are cherished-- so I have you to believe in, to lean on, and to worship in this infinite strand of life. You love me even when I have no offerings, and not even any blood to spill into your cup, and it is not because of my power. You know better than anyone that Gods only have what they have been given-- we have no lights to tell us our fates, only stars."

"I do love you, Zagreus," you affirm, leaning down to kiss his forehead. So many thoughts swirl within his mind, and your kiss helps to soothe his celestial thoughts of life and love. "And I thank the stars that they have led you to me."

Above your heads, in silver and gold, the stars sparkle brighter in their carefully planned formation, as if they are content with the way the scroll of fate has unfurled perfectly.

lmk what you think plz <3 love you

@allright @transchainsawman 💜

[asumofwords]

Smoke, Fire and Ash

Warnings: This fic includes noncon, dubcon, manipulation, violence, death, forced marriage, and inc3st. Tags will be added as the fic goes on.

This is a dark!fic. 18+ only. Read at your own discretion. Please read the warnings before continuing.

Summary: You are the eldest daughter of Rhaenyra and Daemon Targaryen. You are forced to navigate the difficult surroundings of your upbringing and the eventual disintegration between your family and the Hightower's relationship. What will happen when your older and estranged uncle suddenly takes a more sinister interest in you? (Dark!Aemond x Reader)

Masterlist

Characters: Aemond Targaryen X Reader, HOTD characters.

Note: Thank you all for being so patient for the next chapter, I have had a lot of life things going on in the background and I am utterly exhausted! BUT in saying that, I have written to the VERY END of Smoke, Fire and Ash, and oh boy.... I cannot wait for you all to read it. So updates should be particularly frequent now! Can't thank you enough for all the support and love you have shown me and this fic <3 I don't know what I'm going to do when its done, probably cry in a corner for a while LMAO... Anyway! Enjoy!!!

Chapter 94: Sway 

It was difficult to explain the place where you and Aemond were together. 

The space that you had both meticulously crafted to house the two of you despite all circumstances. The space that was built on rocky foundations, cracks in the walls hastily filled to preserve the structure, and yet despite this, the two of you continued to place more and more stones upon it. But the beams were bowing under the pressure and weight of the stones you continued to pile on top.

And as you sat in the Library together, the dust of the weeks past settling around the both of you, the pair of you were embarked on a new journey together.

Do you continue to build upon the foundations you already had? With the crumbling being inevitable and looming over the two of you?

Do you start again? Work your way back up to the top, no doubt taking time and patience, which it seemed neither of you had? Ignoring the crumbling structure left behind which shadow would forever more be cast across the new one?

Or do you reinforce the foundation you already had with bricks, and mud, and anything that would stick?

Aemond sat on the chaise opposite you, nose buried in a large tome that he flicked the pages of every so often. One hand on his knee, rubbing a thumb and forefinger together in thought, a nervous habit that he seemed to inherit from his mother, bar the picking of skin. 

There was no denying that he had changed.

The man who you saw for the first time in years, before Viserys had passed, was not the man who sat in front of you currently.

The man you saw at Storms End, the man on the night of your wedding, the man the day you were taken to the throne room, was not who sat before you. 

Since your confessions, since your anger, and fear and sorrow had bled out of you in a stream of words that you could not stop, Aemond had changed.

He had become more doting towards you, spending most of his time with you, his violet eye almost constantly on you, or a stray hand, elbow or any part of his body would find some way to be in contact with you.

When he performed his duties, the countless hours of reading and writing, he opted to do it more and more within your chambers or the large wooden table of the Library. On occasion you would even join him in his study, where he would attend to meeting with Lords and heads of Houses, never once dismissing you, and allowing you to sit in the background and listen. 

But today, he sat and read, and you opposite him, though your eyes trailed over the words on the page, you found that you could not focus upon the story in your hand, eyes straying to look at the man in front of you. 

What you had said, was true.

You knew that now.

Everything that you said was straight from your heart. The same heart which bled for the circumstances of your life. For your losses, and for the pain that you endured and would likely continue to do.

It was a daunting thing. To admit to someone who had taken so much from you, to admit to someone who had hurt you so much, that you loved them. 

But these small confessions, these small offerings of truth and honesty seemed to pull Aemond closer to you. Even in your bouts of cruelty, even in your anger which boiled over, and the blade of your tongue pointed sharply at him, he still allowed you this anger.

He allowed you to feel it. 

“Is it not to your liking?” Aemond commented, eye not straying from the page he was upon. 

You cleared your throat, shutting the tome and placing it upon the small table in front of you, “I find I cannot concentrate on anything Law related.” You stood from your seat and moved across the Library floors, Aemond’s eye lifting to watch you as you came closer.

You sat down beside him, your hands in your lap as he took one in his own, the other resting atop the browning page of the tome.

“Will you read to me?” You quietly asked, squeezing his hand back in yours.

The Prince wore green robes today, though they were such a deep green, that if you had not been sitting at his side, you would have mistaken them for a black.

His violet gaze rolled over your face before he dipped his head, returning to his reading. 

“It is the duty of the Crown to care for its subjects. Trade upon the Narrow Sea will aid the economy of the realm, and prevent such times in when the vaults become empty. Any gold that is not spent wisely can be counted as a loss to the people and their trade.” His voice was soothing and deep, and he read slowly for you, pronouncing each word with care as he kept his hand in yours, thumb stroking over the skin of your knuckles. 

“If in the case a King is in need of the Prince Regent, there may be certain actions that can be taken. A Prince Regent, or in some cases, a Princess Regent, is a Prince or Princess who, due to their position in the line of succession, rules a monarchy as regent in the stead of a monarch. This is always the second in line for the throne, or third if the second is unable. If the heirs of the monarch are too young to rule, incapacitated by illness or ailment, or have been sworn in as a knight of the realm, then the kin of the King may take his place. They shall rule on the throne as the King would, treating with Lords, Small Council meetings, and caring for the state of the realm and its subjects. He or she may be required to settle petty grievances from smaller or lesser Lords, or land rebuttals from common folk. The Prince or Princess Regent may only rule as a result of the sovereign's incapacity, be this illness, injury, state of mind, or their absence from ruling by distance, exile, voyage.”

“Why are you reading this?”

Aemond clicked his tongue, “I need to know what else I am responsible for.”

Your eyebrows creased, “But you have not been named Prince Regent.”

The air around you was static, and the hand in your lap stopped smoothing the skin of your knuckle.

“Despite Aegon not naming me Prince Regent, it is known by the Lords and Small Council that I act as one. It is my duty to treat with the Lords who come to Kings Landing, and know the comings and goings of our small trading fleets.”

You scooted closer to Aemond, resting your head atop his shoulder as you looked down at the old and worn pages.

“My mother had named me her Hand before I wed you.” You told him quietly.

Aemond hummed, pressing a kiss atop your head, “She was wise in doing that.”

“She did not name me her heir.”

“No.”

A gentle quiet wrapped itself around the two of you as you waited for Aemond to continue his reading, eyes having found the line he was up to. The warmth of the fireplace had nothing on the warmth that radiated from your uncles body beside you.

“Lord Corlys Velaryon’s fleet has resumed their trading again.” Aemond informed you, your eyes blinking from the information, “They are no longer anchored around Dragonstone or Driftmark.”

“That is good news. They will need the gold for my mothers Kingdoms.”

Aemond hummed and resumed his reading, thumb starting its ministrations against your knuckles once more. 

It was easier like this.

The calm.

The quiet between the two of you.

The bickering and fighting, anger, and rage of the both of you devouring each other had taken its toll. It was as though neither of you wished to disturb the peace you had finally settled into. Unwilling to disturb the dust that had settled after long last.

You watched the log of the fireplace slowly crumble away beneath the flames that ate it, little bursting crackles of fire rising to the top of the hearth and disappearing beneath the chimney. Each time you watched the flames, you thought of your dragon. 

How you missed him. 

It felt wrong to not be with him, or see him, or ride him. It was as though a part of you had been ripped away from your body. Like a limb that you still felt the phantom sensations of.

Because in truth, you still felt him, at the edges of your bond, angry, irritable, impatient.

Once Aemond had finished reading from the tome, he escorted the both of you back to your chambers where you had a quiet dinner, and an even quieter evening, settling amongst the pillows and sheets in his arms as you slowly drifted off to sleep.

The next day, Aemond was to be in his study, and had insisted upon you joining him there. Before you left your own chambers, he told you to bring a book from the pile of your favourites with you to spend you day, and had even dared to ask if you wished to have the embroidery loom that Alicent had gotten some maids to deliver to your chambers be brought with you. 

You decided upon a book and the loom, and walked beside him to the study, which was in the same wing of the castle the throne room was.

The walk was quick, and soon Aemond was sat behind a large mahogany desk, quill in hand, parchment spread across the table, with three to four tomes open on the desk at varying pages. 

You sat in the chair opposite him, where Lords would usually be seated, and watched him as he worked, the loom on your lap, needle and thread pinched between your fingertips.

Deciding that it was best to leave him to his work, you began to attempt to embroider something. 

It was not for a lack of trying, it was more to do with a lack of practice or will, and if you were to be honest with yourself, the fact that you were particularly distracted by the man who sat before you, eye narrowed upon the parchment he was writing on, his long fingers wrapped delicately around a quill. 

It was the way his fingers held it, the way it moved it, such deep, quick, strokes from fingers that knew you most intimately. From fingers that could bring you to your peak quicker than your own could. 

You straightened yourself in your seat, the wood of the chair creaking slightly as you crossed one leg over the other, attempting to alleviate the sudden ache that had settle between your thighs.

Aemond’s violet and sapphire gaze flicked up to yours, watching as you shifted before they dove back down to resume their writing, the needle of your loom pricking the tip of your finger. You hissed, and brought the finger to your lips to suck, leaving the needle and thread to dangle carelessly in your lap.

It was as you were sucking the small bead of blood that leaked from the tip, that you felt the heat of Aemond’s eye. 

You looked up at him, so see that the grip on his quill was no longer a delicate one, but had tightened, and the lid of his violet eye, hooded. You sheepishly gave him a smile, dropping your hand back into your lap as you readjusted yourself again. 

“What are you writing?”

Aemond’s held your gaze for a beat, his eye boring into your own intensely before he looked back down at the parchment, quill scratching roughly into the paper with more edge than it had done before.

His hand lifted, dipping the quill into the ink pot, “Lord Redwyne of the Arbor has begun trade with your mother and Lord Corlys’ fleet.”

You frowned, “But House Redwyne swore and oath to your brother.”

Aemond’s pink lips pursed, “They did. Though it would seem that gold may be a higher incentive for such loyalties.”

You felt giddy, but kept your face placid, “Sailors need their wine. Do they only trade? If it is only trade, then they have clearly not declared for my mother as their Queen. Gold is gold.”

“Gold is gold.” Aemond hummed, “And we have plenty. I am making offers to give them more than what Rhaenyra has offered.”

“An incentive for loyalties.”

Aemond hummed in agreement. 

As you watched him continue to write, you could not help but notice something you had known for some time. Something you had voiced before, but not seen in action until now.

“You are a better fit for the throne than Aegon.”

Aemond’s sharp gaze met yours, and you watched as his eye narrowed upon your form, cheek twitching.

“You already act as King. You make informed, calculated, educated moves.” You opened your mouth again to continue, but the way Aemond was looking at you, told you to stop.

And so you did.

“Apologies.” You said meekly, looking back down at the loom in your lap, picking up the needle and thread that had been forgotten as you move to press it into the material.

“You would be a better fit than Jacaerys.”

A sharp sting settled in your chest, and a weight in your gut. Now you knew what Aemond had felt in that moment. Not a sense of loyalty, or blind rejection. 

Bitter resentment.

Because despite it being the truth, despite it being a compliment most assured, it was the reality of it that cut deep.

The chambers were quiet, and you felt your husband staring at you for some time before the scratching of his quill began again. And in no time at all, to fill the space, he began to tell you about the Redwyne House, as though memorised word for word from a tome.

Most likely memorised word for word from a tome, if you knew anything about your husband.

“The seat of House Redwyne is the Arbor. It is an island located off the southwestern-most part of Westeros. One day I will take you there on dragonback. It is beautiful, if not for the heat in the summer. They make the best wine in Westeros, and have been serving it to the Targaryen dynasty for hundreds of years. Though I know you have a taste for spiced Dornish wines, and on occasion the honeyed wine we get from Essos.” Aemond spoke to the pages, your eyes watching his lips as he spoke.

Each word, each piece of knowledge that he revealed to you, only made the insides of your thighs grow wet with your slick. You didn’t know what was happening to you, but the intelligence of your husband was a refreshing change to the idiocy of the rest of the King’s men. 

“The Redwynes control the Redwyne fleet, the largest fleet in Westeros, which could rival Lord Corlys’ but they have no thirst or desire for war and fighting. Lord Redwyne has informed us that they have two hundred warships and as much as five times as many mercheant carracks. Not including the wine cogs, trading galleys and whaling ships they have at their disposal.”

You squeezed your thighs together, watching as Aemond moved the full parchment to one side of the desk and picked up another, “They would seem to be a formidable foe if they had the thirst for power. Gold is their power. Much like the Lannister House. Though they are lions, I would say their scratch and bite has been reduced to that of a kitten.”

You body felt as though it was burning up, loom long forgotten in your lap as your squeezed the edges of the wood for grounding. Aemond, not even looking up from his page, must have noticed your predicament.

“Come here.” He mumbled, quill scratching into the parchment, not even looking up at you as he commanded you to him. 

You all but jumped from your seat, walking around the table to stand beside him, looking down at him as he continued to write, the parchment and his words far more important than the needs of his wife in that moment. 

The One-Eyed Prince shifted to lean back in his chair, opening space for you to crawl into as he dipped the quill into the ink pot again. Gathering your skirts in your hands, you crawled onto his lap and straddled him, facing him as your knees rested upon the large wooden seat beside his hips.

One hand came to hold the meat of your side as you settled your core against him, feeling the hardness of his length beneath you. You inhaled sharply and moved to roll your hips, but Aemond's hand tightened on your hip, and with his other hand, he began to untie his breeches, eye coming to watch your face. 

You bit your lip as you waited, hands coming to rest on his shoulders, nails digging into the material of his tunic. The desire that rolled through you multiplied as his hands reached into his pants and pulled out his cock, the tip slightly pink and leaking with arousal.

He held it up for you as you rose on your knees, lining himself up with your dripping core before you slowly slid down on his length. Aemond hummed deeply as you slid down him, feeling his girth stretch you open.

When your hips met his, and the delicious fullness overwhelmed you, you sat for a moment, shifting your knees forward so that he could reach you deeper. 

A small mewl fell from your lips, and the hand on your hip tightened. You moved to rise on his length to begin riding him, but Aemond's hand on your hip kept you down on top of him. The Prince leant forward, the shift causing his cock to brush against the spongey spot within. 

“Please.” You whined, rutting your hips forward, core fluttering around his cock.

“In a moment. I need to finish my work.” He grunted, picking up his quill to begin writing again. 

“Aemond.” You griped, grinding your hips down on him, the hand on your hip bruising your skin.

A puff of air passed Aemond lips, “Sit there, look pretty, and do as you’re told." He grunted, "You be good, and you will get what you want after.”

You grumbled, clenching yourself around him to try and satiate your need and lure him in, which only amplified your want.

“Be still.” He growled, resuming his writing, “Aegon has plans to clear the poverty of Flea Bottom.”

You huffed, trying to keep your hips still as you felt his length throb inside of you, “I don’t want to talk about Aegon right now.”

Aemond, ignoring your complaint, continued, “He has plans to demolish the poorly built shacks in the slums.”

You shifted slightly before giving up, sinking down onto Aemond's length with a huff as you rested your head against his chest, his arm circling around your waist to keep you against him, “But what about the people who live there?” You mumbled against his tunic.

“Exactly. He has no plans for them. Said they’ll ‘find some other hole or dwelling to squeeze into.’” The soft scratching of the quill stopped, waiting for your response.

You turned your head and let your eyes stray to the page behind you.

He was waiting for your response. 

“But Flea Bottom is overcrowded as it is, it-“ You swallowed thickly, feeling Aemond shift his hips up slightly into you, “It would start fights amongst the small folk there and rise to the top.”

Aemond thrusted up into you again, the head of his cock brushing against the sensitive patch inside of you. A soundless sigh fell from your lips, slick coating the base of his cock, “Clever girl. And what else?” He asked, voice smooth and even.

You licked your lips, wrapping your arms around his neck as you sat up straighter, looking over his shoulder at the wall behind, “A revolt could start. The small folk could turn against us.”

Aemond’s hand on your hip guided you down onto his length as he pushed himself into you deeply, the hair at the base of his cock rubbing against your sensitive bud, “And that would not be good for public relations, would it?”

You moaned softly, hands winding their way into his hair to grip tightly, “N-no. It would fray tensions even further, bringing more support for my mothers rule despite the treaty.”

Another thrust, yet this time he stilled, smoothing the skin on your hip with gentle fingers. You felt like you were going to implode, the tension already winding rapidly, and yet his movements not quite giving you what you needed. 

“And what would you do about Flea Bottom?”

You tried to shift your hips again, to find that you could not move with the hold he had on you. You whined into his neck.

“I asked you a question.”

You huffed, “I would build proper foundations in the slums, offer new housing. It would create trust and graciousness with the common people to the Crown.”

Aemond’s hand slid from your hip as he wrote with his other, his long fingers dipping beneath the skirt of your gown, brushing against your inner thighs teasingly, “That is the smart thing to do. But where do we get the gold, or stonemasons?”

Your hips thrust forward, trying to chase his hand, “You have plenty of gold.”

His hand slid to the meat of your inner thigh, resting heavily against it, “Not what I asked you.” 

“Aemond.”

“Y/n.” He mocked you, “We both know you are clever, unless you are cock dumb. Tell me what you truly think. Tell me what you would do in my position. Then, I will reward you.”

You thought for a moment, cunt throbbing around him, “Raising the taxes would only create more stress upon the people who do not have the coins to spare.”

“Good.” He encouraged you, hand sliding back up to your core, hovering just over your pearl.

Emboldened, you swallowed thickly and continued, “And if you were to raise the taxes upon Noble born, it would also cause for troubles. Gold is gold, and their allegiance would be swayed.”

“Yes.” Aemond’s long finger pressed down onto your pearl and you jerked in his lap, a small grunt falling from his lips, Aemond slowly rolled your bud beneath his fingers in gentle circles, “So what can be done?”

Pleasure wound its way up your body as he waited for your response, your mind going slightly fuzzy as you tried to reason with your thoughts.

“If you raise the taxes, but only slightly with Noble born, make it almost unnoticeable. Even if it is by one or two more gold dragons, it is still more gold in the Crowns hand. But don’t raise taxes on the common folk,” Another swirl around your bud, but harder, “There are more of them than us, and despite most Lords believing their worth and word to not be worth what they have at their disposal, you’ll find that ruling with a love from your people is far better than with fear.”

Aemond continued to write behind you, dipping his quill into the ink pot, loudly and slowly scraping it, tapping the metal nib against the glass loudly. His fingers increased their speed, your walls tightening around him.

“We live g-gluttonous lives in the Keep. If we were to cut back, ah!” Aemond fingers sped up their movements, gathering the slick that had pooled into his lap to bring back to your pearl, the coil in your stomach winding, “If we c-cut back on our supplies then we could, -ngh, we could-“

“Yes?”

“We could cut costs there, and use gold in the vaults for said things on-ngh the infrastructure of Flea Bottom. It could in turn create new b-businesses, which means-ah-more people paying taxes, more gold-fuck-in the vaults and more gold to spend. Masons are easy to come by, give the-oh Gods-small folk the tools and means, and-“ You moaned loudly, feeling the coil begin to snap.

“Keep going, come on.” His fingers sped up, his cock firmly seated inside of you, stretching you and pressing against your walls in all the ways you needed.

“They could b-build themselves, or-or you could ask loyalists to offer their hand.”

Aemond dropped the quill into the holder, eye finally on you, “Good girl.”

His fingers pressed into your pearl sharply, and the coil snapped. 

You writhed atop his lap as your release shot through you, walls clamping down on his length as you moaned in the chambers. Your limbs tingled with sparks of pleasure, wetness seeping onto Aemond’s robes below. 

Your eyes scrunched tight, and Aemond moved forward to kiss at your temple as his hand begin to soothe your back. You slumped against him, cock still inside of you, hard and wanting as you breathed heavily, the world spinning on its axis.

“Olvie sȳz.” Very good, Aemond purred, your eyes blinking drearily against his chest.

You swallowed again, feeling Aemond lips press into your hair, “You could cut back on imports of apples from Cider Hall. House Farroway often sends extra anyway, and I see the apples rot and go to waste here. If we cannot give them to the people, then we should not spend so frivolously.”

“I shall write to House Farroway and notify them of our change in barrels needed.”

Your brows furrowed. 

He had listened to you?

You shifted in his lap again, feeling Aemond still very much hard and deep within you.

Pulling back to look at his face, you placed your hands on his shoulders, "Let me help you.” You whispered.

But to your surprise, Aemond took one of your hands from him and kissed the open palm as he shifted his hips, hard member slipping from your core. You whimpered, feeling each ridge of his cock brush against your overstimulated centre.

“Later.” He murmured, before pulling you back against him. 

The sound of parchment and quills was all that was heard for the duration of the day, with you seated still flush on Aemond lap.

“There have been rebellions in the Riverlands.”

The words made you come alive.

Thanks so much for reading along with me, if you wish to be added to the tag list please let me know :) Likes and reblogs are greatly appreciated ! Enjoy <3

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[nectardaddy]

best friend's demon - okkotsu yuuta

synopsis: is it normal to have a best friend who has a demon attached to him? is it normal that you know it's there?

cw: talk of the occult, demons/ghosts, paranormal happenings, reader is a little strange

notes: non curse au but with a spooky twist, plantonic relationship, I listened to the beetlejuice soundtrack while writing this, this idea seemed perfect for my sweet baby yuuta, og thoughts here

He's not normal. Far from it. So sick, so twisted, so naive, that it made you want to vomit. The dreadful wave of wretched emotions washing over and you succumbed to the wave and slipped under. You heaved for air, but were granted none, lungs gnashing in your chest just for the slightest bit of oxygen. You couldn't - you wouldn't. It stung, it burned, it created an overwhelming sense of dread with every breath. The air was thick and dense, dizzying as you choked under the pressure; and you wondered what in the hell could create such a powerful presence.

A pale face, with dark eyes, and dark hair was your only prognosis. Okkotsu Yuuta was the only reason why the tone of the room was flipped on its head. A foul, loathsome, choking feeling upon entering any room; he was none the wiser.

You just had to know what on earth was wrong with him.

Tick. Tick. Tick.

The second hand of the clock moved painfully slow, drifting past the face all the while the minute hand hadn't seemed to move. Your eyes glazed over, encapsulated by the fluidity of the clock hands, you had completely tuned the world out. It was an odd feeling to be so calm, so secure, without worry of the outside world - or the world beyond. You couldn't remember how long you remained like this, so enthralled by the movement and a moment of peace.

A gentle tune hung in the air, humming to yourself absentmindedly as you stared stone faced. It wasn't a specific melody, but one that you knew of, a familiarity within the soft drone from your lips. A haunting scene really. Staring into the void all the while humming appealing chords. But your musings ceased as a tightness entered your chest; blinking, and letting a sigh pass your lips, you came back to reality.

There had been a shift, a significant one, within the room you occupied. A thick, malevolent presence taking you by the throat and squeezing relentlessly. A crumbling feeling that made you feel completely overwhelmed, a crushing sensation on your shoulders as they dropped. An eerie silence replaced the soft tick of the clock, one could hear a pin drop if they chose, and your skin crawled at the sudden change.

"You're late," you breathed out, raising your voice only slightly. Eyes flickering over the vacant room, a quant study room with only a table and two chairs, you watched as the door handle swung downward. Door opening only to reveal a sorrowful expression on tired, sickly pale, features.

"I forget every time you can tell I'm here before I even open the door," the voice was frail, an almost feminine twang. "Sorry I'm late," the man gushed, giving you a sorry smile as he joined you at the table. "Today has been terrible," he added. Dark eyes finally met with your own, swirling with a peculiar emotion you could never quite put your finger on. Guilt? Hatred? Self pity?

"It's pissed off today," stating so nonchalantly it made his smile falter. "More than usual," you tagged on to which he softly groaned. "That's probably why your day is shit."

A nervous chuckle fell from the man's lips at your words, truly not knowing what to make of them. "Wonderful," he sighed. A pause fell between the pair of you, noticing all too well that the clock's repeatative tick failed to hit your ears anymore. It was worrying the amount of control whatever was attached to the man had within, its hellish claws sinking deep well beyond the veil. It wasn't normal. It was dangerous. "Do you ever get tired of it?"

His question caught you off guard, coming back from within your own mind to register what was spoken. "Huh?" You posed, furrowing your brows in confusion, "tired of what, exactly?"

"Sensing things you can't see?" He corrected, eyes looking into your own for even a hint of an answer. "I don't know how you do it," letting a sigh pass his lips once more, he leaned back into his chair. "Constantly feeling like someone is there, watching and waiting."

"I'm used to it," you shrugged. "But," you began, letting out a small breath before continuing, "your's isn't normal. Usually demons want to hurt, try to possess, or at least traumatize their benefactor. It's like it's protecting you, in a fucked up sort of way." Your explanation made his features fall, now holding a neutral expression. "I've never felt so off put by some else's attachment. It's like it doesn't want anyone around you."

Tick. Tick. Tick.

It answered you. By means of the clock starting up again - it agreed with you. The notion caused your stomach to churn, flicking your eyes towards the device and turning your head to look past the man in front of you. The quick, fluid motion caused his breath to hitch in his throat, swallowing hard as he knew your reactions were never in vain. It was strange how comfortable, or rather desensitized, he was with your off putting reactions; though he was concerned with the amount you had around him.

Although nauseous from the presence, and frankly the revelation as well, a small smile tugged at the corner of your lips. A chilling smile, unnatural for the situation you found yourself in. "I'll be damned," you mumbled to yourself, leaving the man before you baffled and confused. "Greedy little thing, your attachment is."

"You're making that face again," he spoke with a tense chuckle. He was all too accustomed with your frantic mind, wry smiles, and dark chuckles; a familiarity he found within himself that he was absentmindedly drawn to. At first, he was well too uninformed as to why he found himself occupying your presence. But you toed the line of peculiar and macabre, as did he, and he found solace in the fact you were just as sane as him - which your sanity in itself was very thin. To him you were an absolute treasure of a comrade. A friend he wished he had sooner in his life.

"Of course I'm making this face!" You laughed, a cackle that made him sink in his chair with a small breath. He rather enjoyed your tangents about the paranormal and the occult, but being as his day was already wrecked; however, made him refrain from speaking ill of the very thing that havocked it. Slinking down in his seat as a means to make himself smaller, hoping that the entity attached to him would perhaps feel pity on him. "Yu, does it ever talk to you?" Utterly ignoring his dainty complaints and physical reaction, once you were on a roll there was no stopping.

Pale hands that once rested on the table in front of him, now moved to his lap. Grabbing at the side seam of his pants as his mind began to race, "not explicitly?" A questioning tone as his voice raised a twinge at the end. "I get weird dreams about it, but it never really talks to me."

"What kinds of dreams?" Your eyes flicked back to the man sitting at the table, finally taking in his anxiety riddled form. Far too intrigued by the clock only moments ago, you felt a pang of guilt wash over you. "Too much?" You asked shyly, a sorry smile creeping on your features to replace your wild one, retreating from your latter statement and shoving it to the back burner of your mind.

"Too much."

Two words, simple enough, leaving your skin less prickled, a bit more oxygen filling your lungs, and the crushing weight easing its clutches on your shoulders. Was this all it took? A caring word to the man?

Was it possible to play nice with your best friend's demon?

oooooh I might make a part 2 I love this

[zeciex]

A Vow of Blood - 93

Warnings: This fic includes noncon, dubcon, manipulation, violence and inc3st. Tags will be added as the fic goes on. This is a dark!fic. 18+ only. Read at your own discretion. Please read the warnings before continuing.

Summary: “You will be trapped by the obligations of love and duty, unable to escape the web of expectations others have woven around you,“ the witch said….

Chapter 93: Once in grief, heart of black but forced in green I

AO3 - Masterlist

15k words.

Aemond slipped the light undershirt over his head, the fabric settling smoothly around his torso. He ran his fingers through his hair, pulling it free from beneath the collar, and then tucked the hem of the shirt neatly into his trousers. As he adjusted his appearance in the floor-length mirror, he caught a glimpse of movement behind him. The door to his chambers creaked open, and the faint shuffle of footsteps echoed across the stone floor, signaling someone’s approach.

“Mother,” Aemond greeted, his tone flat yet gentle. He studied her reflection in the mirror with a wary glance as the door clicked shut behind her and she glided further into the room. His fingers fumbled with the ties at the neck of his shirt, his depth perception making the task cumbersome as he struggled to secure the knot. 

His mother entered with a soft frown etched on her face, her lips slightly pursed in a blend of concern and caution. Her hair was elegantly styled, adorned with a tiara of gold and emeralds that marked her regal status as Queen Mother. She wore one of her finest gowns, the luxurious fabric sweeping the floor with each step she took towards him, the beads woven into the embroidery gleaming in the sunlight that streamed in through the tall windows of his chambers.

“You make a fine groom,” she remarked with a soft hum. “Here, let me help you with that.”

Aemond turned to face his mother, allowing her fingers to deftly take over the task. He watched her with a cautious eye, his own features etched with a slight frown as he studied her tentative expression. He sensed the weight of her visit, though he chose not to address it directly, preferring to wait for her to reveal her purpose on her own. 

“I remember when you were but a babe,” she began, her voice soft and reflective. “Though you were but half your brother's size, you were twice as fierce.” A gentle, sorrowful smile touched her lips, her eyes beseeching as she looked up at him. “Even then, you were so perceptive–so attuned to the world around you. Out of all of your siblings, you were the one who grasped our position most clearly. You were the one I could trust to understand and uphold your duties.”

She finished the knot with a practiced motion, then took a step back as if to appraise him–there was a trace of disapproval in her gaze, a sentiment that seemed to linger between them ever since his return from Storm’s End. Perhaps this sense of disappointment had begun even earlier than that when he had insisted on marrying Daenera–when he had gone against her word and had already married her.

This thread of discontent now threaded through all their interactions, a silent, strained tension that pulled taut in the space between them. Aemond felt the sting of that disappointment now, the invisible wedge it drove between them as her eyes, though soft, betrayed that disapproval. It needled at him. 

With a fluid motion, she reached for the doublet that hung over the back of a chair, unfolding it before holding it out for him. Her voice was a gentle hum, “Here.”

Aemond turned, letting her help him into the garment, guiding his arms into the sleeves of the doublet. He allowed the heavy fabric to drape over him, its weight settling comfortably–it was not one of the leather doublets Aemond typically favored, but a garment crafted from thick, dark green fabric, structured to project a commanding presence with its sharp, meticulously tailored shoulders. On his chest, two dragons were embroidered in silver thread, their forms accentuated by black beads that glinted subtly amidst the dark green embroidery.

“You knew the weight of honor, duty, and sacrifice,” Alicent said softly, guiding him into the garment. Her touch was careful, her eyes trailing over her form as she adjusted the shoulders of the doublet to ensure it was perfectly aligned. Her hands glided through his hair, carefully extracting it from beneath the collar to let it flow freely down his back. “Yet, your willfulness outshone even your brothers’. You would defy my commands and brave the perils of the dragonpit, venturing deep into its shadows to find a dragon.”

 Then, with a gentle nudge at his shoulders, she turned him to face her directly. Her attention remained fixed on the doublet as she made further adjustments, meticulously smoothing the fabric. Yet, she avoided his gaze, which bore down on her with a measured curiosity. As she continued to fuss over his attire, the silence stretched between them, filled only by the subtle rustling of fabric and the unspoken questions hanging in the air. 

Her gaze then finally lifted to meet his, a note of reproach weaving through her expression, “You’ve always been headstrong, willing to risk everything to achieve your aims. You sneaked off at Driftmark and claimed Vhagar,” she said, her hand reaching up to gently cup his face. Her eyes, wide and filled with sadness, were clouded with a deep, lingering shame–the same he knew she carried with her for being unable to give him the justice he deserved. “And you paid dearly for that decision.”

As her thumb brushed over his scar, Aemond felt a sharp stab of pain surged through it, as though her touch had burrowed deep into his flesh, into his bones, to wrack around in his skull. He clenched his teeth, enduring the familiar, searing discomfort that seemed to have become a constant companion ever since Storm’s End. 

"It was my hope that you would outgrow such stubbornness," she said, her hand resting on his chest, her expression pleading as she searched his face. "that in time, you would soften your willful nature and heed reason."

Aemond regarded her calmly, his eyes sharp as he removed her hand from his face, “Is that why you’re here–to persuade me to see reason?”

Her face fell as she sighed. 

“The marriage is a reasonable decision, Mother,” Aemond answered, his voice carrying a hint of irritation as she stepped away from her. Annoyance flickered within him as he continued, “It will secure her to our cause and sow discord among our enemies.”

Alicent’s expression hardened, her voice firm as she countered, “It will sow discord among us. You could marry any noble lady,” she insisted, her voice tense as she exhaled sharply, the weight of her frustration evident. “You could choose a lady from a great house and become a ruling lord in your own right. Your children would inherit lands and titles–you’d have a legacy, Aemond.” Her words were not just a suggestion but a plea, underscored by a deep desire for her son to choose a path that would grant him honor and a lasting heritage. “It’s not too late to reconsider this–”

“It is,” Aemond interjected, his annoyance burning within him, simmering just beneath his skin. He shook his head resolutely. “We are already wed; this is just a formality, as you well know.”

With a shake of her head, Alicent turned her gaze upward, as though seeking a moment to compose herself amidst the rising tension. After a brief pause, her eyes settled on him again. She took a step closer, her hands once again reaching toward his chest, they hovered there, as if she were unsure. Her lips pressed together, and she swallowed before placing her hands on his chest once more, bridging the distance between them as she prepared to make another plea. “Please, Aemond, just see reason.” Her gaze lifted to meet his with a soft but accusing edge. “You killed her brother.”

“It was justice,” Aemond replied sharply, stepping back with a dismissive scoff. He knew it was more than that, but he would never admit to losing control–that Vhagar had acted on his rage, that she had defied his commands. Acknowledging such a truth would reveal a vulnerability he refused to expose. It was far preferable to be feared and branded as a kinslayer than to be perceived as weak, judged for his inability to control his own dragon–a dragon he sacrificed his eye for to that same bastard.

“It was murder, Aemond,” his mother said sharply, the condemnation in her reproach needling at him. 

He didn’t need the reminder of what he had done; the weight of it was ever-present. From the early morning hours to the moment he finally fell asleep, the burden was a constant companion–as the pain was. The damned boy haunted his dreams, a ghostly reminder of his guilt. Every time Aemond stepped outside his chambers, he felt the sting of judgment—condemning glances and hushed whispers shadowed his every move. The memory of Daenera with a knife held to her throat, pleading with him to end her life–the look in her eyes haunted him. These moments were a ceaseless reminder of his actions and the heavy consequences that accompanied them.

“You took his life–you murdered him, and she will kill you for it.”

Aemond’s thoughts hardened in response. She cannot, he reflected and he turned away from his mother and walked to the flagon of water on a nearby table. She has tried. He poured himself a cup and lifted it to his lips, but the water did little to cleanse the bitterness lingering on his tongue. Her words were like needles, piercing his skin and burrowing deep, the scorn searing between his ribs and the condemnation twisting cruelly. It seemed to be all she could see of him now–this image of him, tainted by his actions.

“Do not do this,” she urged, her voice firm and resolute.

Aemond gritted his teeth, a fierce indignation burning within his chest as he struggled to contain his anger. The fact that his mother would question his decision–implying that she did not trust his judgment–infuriated him. Had he not fulfilled his duties throughout his entire life? Had he not brought Aegon back to claim the throne, and defended and protected his family at every turn? 

He placed the cup of water aside and turned to face his mother again. His expression was carefully neutral, the mask of composure settling on him as naturally as a second skin–a mask of ice and steel, the measured calm of the eye of the storm. “I am doing this for us, Mother. We need her on our side–”

“Then let someone else marry her,” Alicent cut in, her face tight with indignation. “Let Gwayne marry her instead.”

A sneer twisted Aemond’s lips, a flicker of irritation breaking through his carefully maintained composure. He turned his gaze away from his mother, his jaw clenched tight as he leaned over and seized the back of a nearby chair. His grip was so forceful that he feared for a moment the chair might splinter beneath his hands. He licked his lips absentmindedly, trying to moisten them as he struggled to contain the surge of anger her suggestion had sparked within him. The possessive anger of the beast that dwelled beside his heart clawed fiercely at his chest, its teeth bared. “She is my wife–”

“She is a curse upon us all!” Alicent sneered, her voice rising. Her brows knitted together in frustration as she shook her head and moved closer, gripping his arm with an urgent intensity. “She has cursed us all–she has cursed me, your brother, and you.”

Aemond watched his mother with wary silence, his expression guarded as her grip on his arm tightened, growing more insistent, her eyes burning with fear and frustration, brow set in a firm line. 

“Lady Mertha saw her,” Alicent continued, her voice wavering slightly despite her attempt to maintain a firm tone. The indignation in her voice was now laced with a thread of trepidation, as if the weight of her words bore down on her. “She saw her curse each of us. She seeks to destroy us, Aemond.”

His gaze lingered on her for a long moment, eye narrowing slightly as his chest tightened with a flutter of emotion. A sardonic chuckle broke through the heavy silence that had settled between them. “Of course she would. I am already cursed. It hardly matters if I am cursed twice over.”

The thought of Daenera invoking such curses did not surprise him. Instead, he felt a twisted sense of pride, as if his own darkness had found a distorted reflection in hers. This notion of further damnation was oddly comforting, knitting a sinister thread of intimacy through their fateful intertwining, as if their souls were bound by the same shadowy fate.

“I did not take you for superstitious, Mother,” he remarked, his voice laced with ironic amusement. 

Alicent’s expression hardened, her lips pressing into a thin line, the corners twisting downward in clear frustration. “I am not concerned without reason. My worry lies with her intentions–what if this curse does not act swiftly enough to satisfy her need for vengeance? What if she takes matters into her own hands? Aren’t you concerned about the lengths she might go to? Already she has cursed us; what else is she capable of?”

A derisive scoff escaped Aemond’s lips in response. “Daenera would never allow herself to become a kinslayer.”

If Daenera were to kill them all, she would be branded not only a kinslayer but also a kingslayer. Such an act would seal her fate–she would face execution, and her name would be forever condemned, as his was. Her mother would have no choice but to have her executed, and even then, her mother’s reputation would be tarnished. 

Aemond did not believe she was heartless or desperate enough to pursue such a path. Despite her bitterness and the fierce flame of resentment that burned within her, he was certain she would not willingly become a kinslayer. Her spitefulness was not self-destructive enough for that; she would not sully herself by becoming the very thing she loathed–a kinslayer, like him. 

If anything, the curse Daenera cast was indicative of her calculated restraint; her furious words were less threats and more so a dark invocation, weaving her desire into the fabric of fate, hoping it would accomplish what she herself could not. In this way, there would be no blood on her hands–she would avoid the stain of being labeled a kinslayer.

If Daenera were ever to take matters into her own hands, Aemond knew she would do so subtly, biding her time and pulling the strings from the shadows, allowing the world around her to become a weapon. She would weave the circumstances of their downfall, and let the circumstances be what draws blood. 

“How can you be so certain?” Alicent implored, shaking her head in frustration. “Please, Aemond, see reason. You would be at war within your own marriage. Your enemy would be your own wife. I do not want that for you.”

Her grip on his arm slackened, her eyes dropping momentarily as she licked her lips, struggling to maintain her composure. When she looked up at him again, her expression was both sincere and soft, a blend of maternal concern and deep sadness. She continued, her voice trembling slightly, “This stubbornness of yours, in pursuing this marriage, it will only bring you misery. The path you’re choosing, Aemond, fills me with dread. I fear it will only lead to your ruin.”

His gaze narrowed as he spoke, his voice carrying a subdued but piercing edge. The frustration simmering in his chest was barely contained as he challenged her. “Have I not always fulfilled my duty to you and to Aegon?” His eyes, steely and resolute, betrayed the depth of his irritation. “Have I not met every expectation placed upon me, never faltering in my loyalty or commitment? I am well aware of my responsibilities, and I will deal with my wife accordingly.”

He stood with an air of barely restrained tension, the weight of his mother’s disapproval pressing heavily upon him, his posture, rigid and unyielding, anger simmering just beneath the surface. 

“And what if that duty requires the sacrifice of your wife?” She challenged, her voice trembling with the weight of her plea. She studied his guarded expression, her head tilted slightly, as if trying to decipher the emotions hidden behind his icy, steel-like facade. The mask he wore was firm, unyielding, as he stood resolute in the soft light that filtered through the tall windows. 

“This path you’ve set yourself upon, Aemond,” Alicent spoke, her voice calm yet unforgiving. “It will force a choice upon you–one between your family and her. You will be required to make a sacrifice, and you will have to bear the weight of it. While I trust you’ll choose rightly,” her hand settled on his shoulder, as though attempting to soothe the sting of her words, “I wish to spare you this torment. End this, now, and the choice need not be made.”

The question lingered in the air between them. Aemond felt it burrow deep beneath his skin, etching its chilling implications into his very bones. He averted his gaze, his teeth clenched tightly as he felt the familiar pain in his scar flared intensely. It drilled into the scarred flesh around his eye socket, penetrating deeper into his skull. Inside him, the beast of duty and obligation writhed, clawing at the very notion of having to possibly sacrifice his wife for the sake of his family–a duty ingrained in him since birth, the relentless drive to protect his family and see them prevail in the war. 

But what would such duty demand? Would he truly be forced to bear the blood of his wife on his hands? In the haunting solitude of his dreams, he had driven the blade through her; he had cradled her in his arms, the warmth of her blood sticky against his skin. He had watched the life fade from her eyes, wide with betrayal and fear–wet with sadness. Would he be forced to make it true?

Should he thrust his sword through her heart, it would be as though he sliced open his own chest, wrenching out his heart to lay it to rest beside hers in the cold earth. Such a deed would leave him a shell, haunted by the ghost of his own humanity, eternally entwined with the tragedy of their shared fate–he would truly become the monster then, devoid of any remaining vulnerability. 

A wretched, cold part of him wished he could spare himself the agonizing wait–wished he could seized the blade and end it now, stripping away that final shred of humanity, that last vulnerability. The sacrifice would render him indestructible, but the price was a steep one. Despite the grim allure of such an escape, he had been unable to slice the blade along the fragile skin of her neck. He could not bring himself to follow through, not when a sliver of hope remained that he might avoid such a dire sacrifice.

Aemond shut his eye, drawing a deep, shuddering breath as he grappled with the grim demands of duty. He understood the sacrifice that might be required of him, but he vowed not to make it until it was absolutely unavoidable. Daenera was his wife–she belonged to him. He would only tear out his own heart the day hers ceased to beat within his chest. He could not bear the thought of letting her slip through his grasp to another, nor would he relinquish her to another’s care. He would endure the torment of her resentment for as long as she remained his–protecting and cherishing her until the harsh dictates of duty compelled him otherwise.

“I will do my duty, Mother, as I always have,” Aemond answered, his voice steady despite the turmoil roiling within him. He met her gaze, his resolve hardening–he would shoulder the burden when it was placed upon him. “I will do what is asked of me when the time comes.”

Yet, deep within, he harbored a fierce determination to circumvent the heart-wrenching decision between his wife and his family. He would exhaust every option, deploy every strategy at his disposal to avoid having to make that sacrifice.

Once, when Daenera was a child, a renowned storyteller from the distant Qohor graced the Red Keep with a puppet play. Seated among her peers at the front of the small theater, Daenera had watched intently as the puppets brought to life the tale of the Age of Darkness. 

As the storyteller commenced his tale, the shadows flickered and danced behind the screen, brought to life by the dim, wavering light of a candle. The world, he wove with his words, was enveloped in a darkness so profound that even the sun’s rays could not penetrate the relentless gloom. The shadows danced in eerie patterns, following the storyteller’s haunting tale of an everlasting night that left the land barren, stripped of life, as crops failed and the gnawing grip of famine laid waste to everything. 

And from this long night emerged a sinister force–its icy touch spreading desolation and despair, a merciless harbinger of death.  

The background of the puppet theater was a gossamer screen where shadows mingled with light, gradually engulfing the stage as they spun a shadowy narrative into the puppet show. The storyteller then introduced the hero of the tale, Azor Ahai. The puppet that represented him made a dramatic entrance, its hair was tied back from a face modeled from a thin porcelain mask, delicately painted with the finest strokes. And clutched in the doll's hand was a hammer. 

Behind the puppet, a flickering fire cast ominous shadows onto the screen, creating the illusion of Azor Ahai standing in his forge, laboring intensely at a furnace. 

As the smith, Azor Ahai, fell for a woman named Nissa Nissa. She was said to have been a rare beauty–a solitary flower blooming amidst the pervasive darkness. Her presence was a radiant beacon of light and warmth for the man who loved her–and her love for him shone just as brightly. Together, they stood against darkness that threatened their world. the world around them descended further into shadow. 

Azor Ahai was determined to craft a sword capable of defeating the darkness and bringing light back into the world. He toiled relentlessly for thirty days and thirty nights at the sacred flames of a temple, striving to forge the finest blade he had ever envisioned. Throughout this arduous labor, Nissa Nissa remained steadfastly by his side, dabbing the sweat from his brow as he hammered the steel, and tending to the flames.

After thirty days and thirty nights, Azor Ahai plunged the newly forged sword into the water to temper the steel. However, the sword could not withstand the shock; it shattered and broke. 

Unwilling to yield to defeat, Azor Ahai set about crafting a new sword, dedicating fifty days and fifty nights to his labor. Throughout this, Nissa Nissa remained by his side, dapping the sweat from his brow and tending the flames. 

This sword, he believed, was destined to be superior–more refined and stronger than the first. 

Determined to ensure its success, Azor Ahai captured a majestic white lion. He plunged the sword into the beast’s heart, seeking to temper the steel with the lion’s strength. Yet, despite his efforts and hopes, the sword met the same fate as its predecessor. The steel, once again, shattered.

Teetering on the brink of defeat, Azor Ahai realized what he must do to forge the sword that would banish the darkness. He labored with unyielding determination for a hundred days and a hundred nights, his beloved wife, Nissa Nissa, at his side, tending to him with the same devotion he poured into the creation of the blade. 

With the blade finally completed and a heavy heart weighing upon him, he turned to his wife and beseeched her, ‘Bare your breast, and know that I love you above all that is in this world. You are the fire that forged this blade, and you are the heart that beats in my chest.’ 

He pressed his lips to hers one final time, savoring the taste of life, love, and the fiery spirit within her. Then, in an act of profound love and sacrifice, he drove the sword into her living heart. It is believed that with Nissa Nissa’s sacrifice imbued the steel with her blood and her soul, and her strength and her courage, granting it the power it needed to conquer the darkness. 

And so, Lightbringer was forged, the Red Sword of Heros. Azor Ahai had sacrificed his beloved wife, Nissa Nissa, in order to defeat the darkness that swept across the land, threatening to extinguish all life. The blade was said to retrain the warmth of his wife, and in the heat of battle, it blazed with an intense, white-hot flame. 

With Lightbringer in hand, Azor Ahai did not fight alone. He rallied a host of brave and virtuous warriors, leading them with unwavering resolve. Together with these courageous warriors, Azor Ahai pushed back against the encroaching darkness, bringing an end to the Age of Darkness and restoring light to the world. 

As Daenera had watched the puppet show unfold, her gaze had been drawn to the strings–silk thread of different colors–that danced and twisted in the flickering light. She had traced their path up to the two puppeteers perched on ladders at the sides of the puppet theater. They moved the strings with meticulous grace, orchestrating the puppets’ every move as though they were gods guiding their creations. 

The tale before her was a tragic one–a story of love and sacrifice, each act unfolding with a preordained inevitability. And yet it was the craft of its telling that ensnared her thoughts–how the puppets were bound to their preordained paths, their choices as fixed as the stars, the story told even before it played out. 

She wondered if her own life, too, was but a dance of strings in the theater of the gods, her narrative spun for their divine amusement. Were they all but puppets in the grasp of the gods, their fates preordained and their struggles mere entertainment for the gods? Was choice but an illusion, a fleeting shadow on the wall as they were led to their end? 

After the puppet show had concluded, Daenera and Aemond slipped quietly into the now-empty room where the performance had taken place, the muffled sounds of the ongoing celebration seeping through the crack beneath the door. They moved quietly through the darkness, circling the small puppet stage that still stood in the center of the room.

They approached the table where the puppets lay resting on pillows of straw, arranged with care. Intriguingly, some of the puppets were faceless, their expressions removed and stored separately. Nearby, a small box held their faces, each one turned outward, displaying a variety of emotions–some joyous, others sorrowful, all painted with delicate strokes that gave them a semblance of life even in their stillness.

Daenera and Aemond exchanged glances, a spark of mischief flickering between them, a wide grin forming on their faces. Her curiosity had been more drawn towards the art of puppeteering than the masks themselves–the faces of these dolls. She reached into the box and carefully lifted the puppet of Nissa Nissa out, her fingers brushing through its dark strands of hair–real hair. The puppet’s face bore a soft expression, with large, gentle eyes and lips painted a vivid red. She grasped the carved wooden handles at the end of the strings, allowing the puppet to dangle lifelessly from its colorful threads as she tried to bring it to life with the same effortless grace she had observed earlier. 

While she moved the strings of the puppet, Aemond had picked up one of the masks resting on the velvet pillow. He chose one that wore a wide smile, its eyes imbued with a softness that spoke of love and happiness. 

With a sense of playful experimentation, Daenera plucked the puppet's strings, coaxing it to lift an arm and then a leg. Each movement was unsteady, reflecting her novice touch, yet she was intrigued by the puppet's response to her tentative guidance. In this fleeting moment, she became the weaver of fate, delighting in the power she held over the strings–she could be a merciful god and save her from having a sword plunged through her heart. 

Daenera mused that it was better her hands leading her own fate than anyone else's. She did not wish to be a puppet–she did not wish to be the amusement of the gods. 

Suddenly, the door creaked open, and the storyteller reentered the room. Daenera’s heart skipped a beat as she fumbled, letting the puppet tumble into a tangled mess of strings and limbs. Aemond, startled, let go of the mask he had been examining. It fell to the floor with a sharp crack, its porcelain surface fracturing in a jagged line that ran from the top of her forehead, through its eye, and down the cheek. 

Her gaze had then fallen to the shattered mask and the disarrayed puppet. At her feet–a broken mask and a heap of strings–felt like a disruption of fate, as if the strings of destiny had slipped from her grasp.

Daenera stood elevated on a small dias, her demeanor almost detached from the bustling world around her. The chamber was alive with the soft symphony of servants at work–the clinking of combs, the rustling of fabric, and the occasional murmurs of direction as they meticulously prepared her for her wedding.

Earlier that morning, they had meticulously washed and scrubbed her, ensuring that every part of her was clean and soft–the bathwater infused with one of her perfumes of cranesbills, violet and rose, with raspberry and saffron, the scent lingered on her skin. Her hair, washed and prepped the night before, was now secured with delicate silk ribbons and pins, tied up while the servants dressed her.

Light streamed through the tall, arched windows, flooding the room with a warm glow. The sunlight seemed almost tangible, as if Daenera could stretch out her hand and grasp it. Golden rays streamed through the tall windows, slicing through the air with a radiant clarity. Dust motes danced and swirled in the beams, their delicate, floating patterns shifting in rhythm with the servants' bustling movements.

The semi-circle of mirrors reflected her frown from every angle. She felt little more than a doll–a puppet with invisible strings pulling her into this meticulously orchestrated spectacle. The reflection staring back at her seemed to mock her sense of autonomy, embodying an elaborate fantasy that she had little control over.

“Arms up,” Mertha directed crisply, her voice cutting through the soft din. And as though she had pulled one of the invisible strings, Daenera obediently raised her arms. The servants, with nimble fingers, eased a silken shift over her head. The fabric, as fine as gossamer, kissed her skin with a coolness that contrasted with the warmth of the room. 

The underdress that followed had been dyed in a soft golden hue that seemed to capture and reflect the sunlight itself. The fabric was both heavy and luxurious, and enveloped Daenera in its opulence, its skirts meant to add volume to the wedding dress itself. 

With utmost care, the servants presented the wedding dress, lifting it with deliberate precision and guiding it over Daenera’s head. As the heavy fabric began to drape over her, she slipped her arms through the sleeves, allowing the gown to cascade down and envelop her. The weight of the dress pressed heavily against her–a weight settling on her heart. 

Daenera inhaled deeply, her breath trembling as she fought to suppress the tumultuous emotions threatening to surge from within. She swallowed hard, the effort making her throat feel tight and strained. She focused on burying her feelings under the oppressive weight of the gown, pushing them down with each labored breath.

Mertha moved with practiced efficiency, circling Daenera as she expertly began to tighten the laces at the back of the dress. Each tug drew the fabric closer, cinching it with an almost imperceptible but relentless pressure. The gown clung to Daenera’s form, gradually closing in around her with a suffocating intensity, like a gilded cage. The constriction seemed to embody the sense of confinement she felt–trapped in the role she was expected to play, enveloped in the grandeur of a wedding she did not want.

There had once been a time where this had been a frivolous dream, but a dream nonetheless–a time where she had imagined herself as the radiant bride, eager and willing to marry him. Back then, she had envisioned a future where she would have walked down the aisle with genuine joy, where no role was forced upon her and no strings pulled her in directions she hadn’t chosen.

Now, however, those dreams lay in ruins. As Daenera stood amidst the remnants of a love that had once felt true, she could feel the weight of her present circumstances pressing down on her–could feel the stain of his touch on her, as though his touch had stained her soul as well. The dress, though beautifully crafted, felt like an elaborate cage, each tug of the laces tightening its hold around her like a noose. 

The strings that bound her were not mere threads of fabric but invisible chains, drawing tighter with every pull, constricting her freedom and drawing her closer to a fate she had never willingly chosen. 

Yet, Daenera found herself questioning whether she had ever truly possessed a choice in loving him, or if the notion of choice was merely an illusion—a shadow flickering on the wall, elusive and deceptive. If indeed they were all mere puppets in the hands of the gods, then surely the gods must find cruel amusement in the tapestry of her misfortune.

Daenera’s fingers lightly traced the bodice of her dress, absorbing its intricate texture beneath her touch. The gown was undeniably beautiful, its wide, delicate neckline resting precariously on her shoulders as if it might slip away with the slightest movement. This delicate design lent her an air of fragility, as if she were a porcelain doll poised on the brink of breaking.

The neckline was adorned with intricate embroidery of intertwining vines. Green silk thread wove in elaborate patterns, spiraling around her and converging at her sternum before cascading down the center of the dress. Interspersed among these vines were delicate strands of silver and gold, catching the light with a subtle, shimmering brilliance. Tiny glass beads were interwoven into the embroidery, glinting and sparkling like drops of dew on a morning leaf. Pearls were scattered like berries among the vines.

The thought of the yew berries, hidden yet close at hand, stirred within Daenera a sense of comfort in their familiarity–and yet, this comfort was shadowed by a growing sense of dread. Her heart thrummed heavily against her ribcage. 

The intricate embroidery of green, gold, and silver vines continued down the long sleeves of her dress, trailing all the way to the floor. The sleeves, heavy with their opulent adornments, weighed down her arms. The inner lining of the sleeves were the same ivory of the dress, while the soft golden hue of the underdress contrasted with the delicate embroidery that adorned them. 

And among all the vines, small dragons had been embroidered with silver thread, no bigger than dragonflies. 

Mertha, still focused on her task, grumbled as she tightened the laces. “What have you been eating today? It’s noticeably tighter than it was just a few days ago.”

“No more than what you’ve provided,” Daenera replied tersely, trying to mask her discomfort. She winced at the rough tug Mertha gave the lace, nearly causing her to stumble off the dias. 

“Has Edelin been sneaking you cake?” Mertha accused, her tone sharp and disapproving. Daenera could see the old hag through the mirror and how she glowered at Edelin, who returned her gaze with a mix of innocence and unease. 

“You look beautiful,” came a gentle voice, drawing the attention of the bustling servants. They paused their tasks and bowed deeply as Helaena entered the room. The Queen’s entrance caused a moment of stillness, and Helaena’s brow furrowed slightly, a hint of discomfort crossing her features as she hesitated at the show of deference.

Daenera turned her gaze towards Helaena through the mirror, her voice carrying a note of restrained sarcasm. “One would certainly hope so, Lady Mertha has put in a great deal of effort in making me presentable, the tailors have labored tirelessly, from dusk till dawn to finish the dress in time for the wedding.”

As she spoke, she observed Helaena’s initial unease dissolve like morning mist. Her expression softened as she moved closer, regaining her composure with each step. She smiled delicately, “I suppose you had to wear it while they tailored it?”

“Indeed,” Daenera answered, “My feet were pounding by the end of the day.” 

“It is a beautiful dress.”

“It is,” Daenera begrudgingly agreed, hand brushing over the fabric of the gown. It draped over her form in a way that made her appear delicate and soft–made her appear almost fragile. 

“I thought you might like some company,” Helaena said as she approached one of the mirrors, the light streaming in and catching the silver and gold in her hair, illuminating it. She offered a warm smile to Daenera and extended her hands, revealing a small cage with a tiny, chirping creature inside. “I’ve brought you a wedding gift–for good luck and prosperity.”

Daenera reached out, the fabric of her sleeve rustling softly as she took the cage with a bewildered, half-amused frown on her brow. She peered through the delicate bars at the small insect within. “A cricket?”

“Do you like him?”

“The cricket?”

Helaena nodded enthusiastically, her broad smile radiating warmth–blue eyes shining and present. 

“He’s a very fine cricket,” Daenera answered with an amused smile, her eyes settling back on the little creature in the cage–the cricket spread its wings and let them flutter for a moment, stamping the ground in annoyance at being contained. “Thank you.”

As she acknowledged the gift with a courteous smile, her gratitude was tempered by the reflection she caught in the mirror. A disapproving frown curled Mertha’s expression, her thin lips tightly pursed, yet she remained quiet, keeping her opinions to herself for once. 

“You’re finished here, Princess,” Mertha announced, her tone brisk as she gestured for Daenera to step down. “Let’s get started on your hair.”

Descending from the dias, Daenera’s every movement was accompanied by the whispering rustle of her gown. As she reached the dressing table, Mertha seated her in front of the mirror, promptly setting to work on loosening the silk ties binding her hair. Meanwhile, Daenera placed the tiny cage on the surface of the table; inside, the cricket buzzed briefly against its confines, its wings emitting a soft hiss before quieting. 

Helaena took a seat beside the dressing table, facing Daenera though her gaze remained drawn to the tiny creature. Leaning forward, she traced her finger along the delicate curve of the bars on the cage. The cage itself was minuscule, clearly crafted with precision for this specific purpose, and bore a resemblance to the traditional birdcages, though much smaller in scale. 

“It’s a tight fit for the little creature, isn’t it?” Daenera remarked softly, her fingers brushing over the bottom of the cage, turning it so that the cricket faced her. Its beady eyes seemed to peer up at her, and she wondered what chaos she’d let loose if she released it. 

Helaena’s head tilted slightly as she hummed in a reflective tone. “It is,” she agreed, her eyes lingering on the cricket as it fluttered its wings again angrily. “But it serves as a reminder–sometimes, even the smallest cage can be a place of comfort if it’s all one has ever known…” Her eyes shifted from the cage back to Daenera. “I didn’t think you’d appreciate a bird in a cage–I feel there are too many birds in cages already, don’t you think?” A gentle frown etched itself into her face as though something dawned on her, her gaze returning to the small enclosure. “But… perhaps it was misguided of me to bring anything that was caged at all…”

A peculiar tightness enveloped Daenera’s chest as she regarded the caged cricket, feeling an unexpected kinship with the trapped creature–a sentiment she knew Helaena shared. Despite this, she recognized Helaena’s gesture as an attempt to provide comfort, to offer a distraction from the encroaching walls of her own constraints. With a gentle motion, Daenera reached out, giving Helaena’s hand a grateful squeeze.

“It’s perfect, thank you,” she said, her smile broad and sincere.

Helaena's eyes sparkled with delight as she returned the smile. “I must admit, the cage is smaller than the ones my other crickets have,” she commented, lowering herself until she was almost reclining across the table, her foot tucked under her on the chair. She rested her chin on her arm, her gaze fixed intently on the cricket–an awkward and somewhat strange pose, but typical for Helaena, there was an unabashed ease to it. Daenera found this quirky, unguarded moment rather endearing.

“He’s quite determined to escape,” Helaena hummed, “he’s escaped more times than any other.”

Daenera let out a chuckle. “I’m sure he gives your handmaid's quite a scare.”

Helaena’s smile broadened, her eyes twinkling with amusement. “Indeed, he does. The last time he escaped, Jaehaera caught him climbing Lady Rosyn Wylde’s skirts–her screams certainly startled everyone.” Her fingers danced lightly between the bars, gently nudging the cricket as it chirped. “He’s the loudest of them all, though I think the others don’t quite appreciate him, which is rather sad. They’re bred and raised under the same conditions, but he’s unique–it's rare for a cricket to remain albino, they usually gain color after molting. I think he really wants their affection, which is probably why he sings so loudly.” Her head tilted slightly, lips curving into a soft smile. “The only one who seems to enjoy his company is my black cricket… I’d loathe to separate them; I fear they’d be lonely without each other.”

As the tension in Daenera’s chest lightened, she struggled to suppress an amused smile, feeling it tug at the corners of her lips. “I know nothing about caring for a cricket. I would be grateful if you’d look after him for me.”

Helaena lifted her chin from her arm and met Daenera’s gaze with a coy smile, as if she had anticipated the request. Her words carried a gentle teasing tone as she answered. “I mean, I’d be happy to. He’s still yours, though.” 

She tucked a loose strand of silvery hair behind her ear before reaching out to the cage once more, her gaze fixed intently on the cricket as it stretched its tiny legs between the bars. “You should name him.”

“The cricket?”

“Yes,” Helaena nodded firmly. “Everyone should have a name, shouldn’t they?”

“Even crickets?” Daenera raised an eyebrow, her amusement growing–a welcome diversion as Mertha released the final braid of hair, allowing the curls to cascade freely around her shoulders, softly brushing against the bare skin. Mertha then reached for the comb and began to work her way through her hair.

Helaena nodded again. 

“Hmm,” Daenera hummed thoughtfully. “Can’t its name just be Cricket?”

“Cricket isn’t a name; it’s a species,” Helaena countered with a slight laugh, waving off the suggestion. 

Daenera’s gaze returned to the cricket, watching as it moved within its small cage, its white body bright against the brass. Its antennae probed the bars, tracing their curves as it searched for a route of escape. Every so often, it chirped softly, its wings fluttering in futile attempts at freedom. If there was something to be said about it, it was that it was persistent. 

“How about Aemond?” She suggested, lifting her eyes to meet Helaena’s amused gaze. Her tone carried a subtle undertone: if she were to endure confinement like the cricket, she’d prefer her husband shared the same experience–even if it was only in the form of naming this cricket after him. 

“Absolutely not,” Mertha cut in sharply, her voice laden with disapproval as she briskly combed through Daenera’s hair. “You cannot name an insect after your husband.”

“Why not?” Daenera pressed, a mischievous glint in her eye as she sensed Mertha’s patience thinning–if there had been much to begin with. “Do you fear I might release him and set him upon you? Or perhaps you worry he’ll take offense to his namesake being in a cage?” 

“He already is,” Helaena mused with a frown, brushing a finger along the curve of the cage, eyes set on the cricket. 

“It’s a matter of respect,” Mertha replied sternly, her tone final.

A sharp inhalation drew between Daenera’s lips as Mertha yanked on her hair, her head tilting roughly with the pull. The sting of the tug pricked against her scalp, a deliberate punishment meant to admonish her. Mertha feigned it a mere mishap, pretending that the comb had merely become entangled in a curl as she brushed it through her hair again, this time with ease. 

Through the reflection in the mirror, Daenera’s eyes narrowed into a glare at Mertha, her resentment barely concealed.

“Lady Mertha,” Helaena’s voice cut through the tension, soft but laced with a string of reproach, “You should take care to handle her with more gentleness.” Her brow furrowed slightly in disapproval as she continued to chide her as though she were a child. “We ought to treat each other with kindness, I should think. And remember our station and the courtesy it demands…” She paused, then added in a soft, distant tone, “Or else, heads might be lost…”

Uncertainty flickered in Helaena’s reproach, yet she stood her ground, meeting Mertha’s gaze despite the slight quiver in her eyes, betraying her wish to look away. Mertha’s expression twisted in surprise, her eyes widening in shock at the reprimand, seemingly never expecting it and much less from Helaena. After a moment, she pressed her lips into a tight line, averting her gaze and bowing her head in a gesture of reluctant submission. 

“Yes, Your Grace, I apologize,” Mertha said, her voice barely more than a whisper. 

Helaena dismissed the apology with a wave of her hand, her gaze shifting to the small cricket that made a futile attempt at escaping between the bars. “Do not seek my forgiveness; it is not my hair you’ve been yanking on.” 

Daenera tilted her head, a smirk playing on her lips as she locked eyes with Mertha. Her expression was expectant, silently challenging, even though she knew such defiance would cost her later in privacy, where no witnesses could intervene. 

“Forgive me, Princess,” Mertha muttered through clenched teeth as she resumed arranging Daenera’s hair, her tone heavy with reluctance. “Your hair is just so… unruly.”

The word ‘unruly’ was spoken as though it were an insult, and Daenera was sure that it was meant as such–unruly bastard hair. Nevertheless, the smirk remained on her face as she answered her with words that carried no true offer of forgiveness, only a veiled sense of triumph. “You are forgiven, Lady Mertha.”

At that moment, Helaena, seemingly lost in thought, spoke up again, “I like the name Aemond. It’s a strong name, though I fear it may not be remembered with much fondness.”

“Aemond the Cricket it is, then,” Daenera agreed with a light laugh, the room resonating with the melodious chirping of the cricket as Mertha diligently styled her hair. Her dark hair was elegantly swept away from her face and woven into two thick braids. The braids were then intricately pinned up to frame her face, their ends merging at the back of her head, woven into the fall of curls and waves that cascaded down her back. 

From the hair falling down her back, two substantial sections of her hair were split and draped over her shoulders, cascading down the front of her chest. These strands were adorned with three golden clamps set with shimmering emeralds, adding a decorative weight to the flowing hair. 

A delicate silver circlet adorned Daenera’s head, elegantly tracing the contours of her hairline as it was intricately woven into her hair. The circlet was graced with three gold roses in full bloom, the circlets silver and gold surfaces catching the sunlight with a radiant gleam. Simple gold earrings, each set with an emerald dangled just below her ears, occasionally brushing against her neck.

Lastly, a delicate veil was arranged around her, secured by two gold rose pins. The veil flowed down her back, its soft ivory fabric curving gently around her shoulders. Almost sheer, the veil was trimmed with threads of silver and gold, and its patterned surface caught the light in a mesmerizing way. Small beads embedded in the fabric sparked like dew catching the morning light. 

“There, you’re all set,” Mertha declared, stepping back to apprise Daenera’s appearance with a look of satisfied approval. “Stay here; I’ll let the procession know that we’re ready.”

Daenera swallowed hard, her breath catching as if her ribs were constricting. Her hands smoothed over the bodice of her gown, stomach churning with a mix of nerves–whether it was apprehension or fear, she couldn’t say. Amid these feelings, a strange flutter stirred within her, one which she desperately wished to quell.

She managed to suppress those feelings and mustered a brave, though wistful, smile towards Helaena. “How do I look?”

“Beautiful, like a moth,” Helaena responded, her smile warm and reassuring. She reached out and took Daenera’s hand, holding it with a firm, comforting grip. “Do you remember what I once told you about moths?”

A frown creased Daenera’s brow as she paused, momentarily confused by the question. She shook her head slightly, her breath coming in short, uneven exhales. 

“Some moths survive by imitating their predators,” Helaena answered, her voice carrying a soft, musing drawl–one Daenera had come to recognize. “They do this to avoid becoming prey themselves.”

“You said it was a tragic fate,” Daenera recalled, her voice tinged with the effort of remembering. “That they had to pretend in order to survive.”

“And you said that moths might not see their pretense as tragic–that it’s merely their natural instinct,” Helaena continued, her fingers tracing invisible patterns on the table’s surface, her face set in a thoughtful expression. “People are a lot like moths in that way, I think. We don masks to survive, to avoid appearing weak–to avoid becoming prey. It’s tragic, really, how naturally we wear these masks to shield ourselves. The pretense becomes second nature. And sometimes, I fear we become lost behind them… Sometimes, I think, the mask conceals us even from ourselves.”

Her gaze lifted to meet Daenera’s, eyes earnest. “Yet, I also think there is something beautiful in the effort to look beyond the mask, to see the person underneath–even if it leaves us vulnerable. I think sometimes it is all we really want.”

Daenera’s voice trembled slightly as she posed her question, her chest tightening as if her ribs were constricting around her heart. “What if there's nothing beneath the mask?” she asked, the worry clear in her eyes. “What if all that exists is the mask itself? What if we become so entwined with our pretense that there’s nothing left beyond it–that the mask becomes our true selves?”

Helaena’s brow furrowed slightly as she seemed to consider Daenera’s question, lips pursing slightly as her head tilted in thought, “While we may cling to our disguises, like moths, we never truly become what we pretend to be–a moth disguised as a leaf remains a moth.”

Her expression grew more intense, as if she was struggling to translate her thoughts into something palpable for Daenera. “Some moths disguise themselves against the cruelty of life, while disguise themselves in an act of deception, devouring all in their path–carving their mark upon the world, leaving naught but hollows in their wake, often dooming the tree that gave them life. There are moths born without mouths, existing only to perpetuate the next generation. And then there are those whose lives are fleeting, consumed by their very existence.”

Daenera’s gaze drifted to the candle flickering beside the chest of jewelry on the dressing table, casting a warm glow upon the bouquet of flowers that awaited to be carried down the aisle. Her voice emerged as a contemplative murmur, trailing into the quiet of the room. “And there are those who venture too close to the flame, seeking that which means to destroy us…”

She felt like a moth irresistibly drawn to the warm, inviting glow of a flame, only to have her wings ignite, the fire consuming her as she plummeted. The light that had once seemed so alluring now enveloped her in a scorching embrace, sealing her fate. Had she truly believed that Aemond would not burn her, that he wouldn’t bring about her ruin? How naive she had been. 

“You are not the only one drawn to the allure of an open flame,” Helaena said softly, her gaze understanding and perceptive. “You too are as a flame, and he but a moth drawn to your light.”

Helaena reached out once again, placing her hand gently atop Daenera’s, her touch soft and reassuring. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to add to your burdens.”

Daenera offered a small, grateful smile in response, feeling the warmth in Helaena’s intentions. “I understand, thank you. But perhaps, just for a change, could share a tale about butterflies? Something lighter than the fate of moths.”

A sparkle of mischief gleamed within Helaena’s blue eyes as a playful grin spread across her face. “Well, I could always compare you to a dung beetle.”

Laughter bubbled up from Daenera’s chest, breaking through the somber mood–a much-needed respite. “You better not compare me to a dung beetle!”

“Why not? Helaena retorted playfully. “They’re incredibly resilient creatures, after all. They pair up and roll their ball of shit around together.”

Daenera’s laughter rang out, a genuine and heartfelt sound that, momentarily, eased the tension within her. Her laughter was mirrored in the soft, melodic laughter of Helaena, a wide smile on her face. As the laughter subsided, a gentle silence settled over the room. 

Out of the corner of her eye, Daenera noticed movement and turned her gaze towards the mirror. Her smile faltered as Alicent entered the chamber, her presence casting an immediate chill over the space. Mertha lingered in the background, a silent, watchful figure. 

“You look beautiful as a bride should be,” Alicent remarked, her voice calm and steady, her hands folded neatly in front of her as she surveyed Daenera with a composed, yet scrutinizing, gaze. 

“Thank you, I believe I resemble a beautiful moth,” Daenera responded, her eyes briefly meeting Helaena’s, who offered a wide, bright smile in return. Turning back to Alicent, she continued, “Your efforts have certainly paid off; I look the part you wanted me to.”

A slight tightening of Alicent’s lips was the only hint of her reaction. “Helaena, could you give us a moment?”

Helaena’s gaze shifted between her mother and Daenera, her expression softening as she gave Daenera’s hand a reassuring squeeze. Rising from her seat, Helaena moved towards the door before turning back around again, reaching for the small cage housing Aemond the Cricket, which chirped and fluttered its wings as the cage began to move. Daenera watched through the mirror as Helaena departed, followed closely by Mertha.

Once they left, Daenera’s gaze met Alicent’s in the mirror.

Slowly, Alicent approached Daenera, closing the distance to stand directly behind her. Her dark eyes scrutinized Daenera’s reflection, as though she were searching for flaws–as though she wished to needle beneath her composure.

“I cannot fathom what my son sees in you that blinds him so completely,” she began, her voice edged with frustration. “I never wanted this for him. I advised against this marriage–against you. But he refused my counsel.” 

She shook her head, her earrings swaying with the movement. “Aemond is determined to follow this path, and I must ensure it does not lead to his ruin,” Alicent continued, her voice steady and resolute. “This is why you must understand your role clearly.” She placed her hands firmly on Daenera’s shoulders, their weight heavy and commanding. “I fear your mother has not prepared you adequately–that you’ve inherited her obstinate and immoral nature. You have not been taught what it means to be a proper wife.”

To Daenera, the term ‘proper’ was nothing more than a tool. One wielded by men to confine women. One to allow other women to judge and shame another who do not follow those strict standards. She clenched her teeth, feeling as though the walls of her cage closed in  around her, the threads of expectation wrapping around her neck. 

“Your moral failings in your first marriage will not be tolerated here,” Alicent said, each word tightening around Daenera like an invisible noose. “I trust that Lady Mertha has instructed you on your duties as a wife, and what is expected of you. The gods themselves watch over this union, and they will judge you should you stray from your duties.”

The frown on Daenera’s face deepened into a scowl as she answered, her voice tinged with defiance. “Do you worry that I might make a cuckold of your son?”

Alicent’s grip tightened on Daenera’s shoulders, her fingers pressing with calculated force–firm but careful not to leave any physical marks. Her voice was low and laden with warning, “I will not allow you to tarnish my son’s honor.” 

“There’s no need for me to tarnish his honor; he has managed that well enough on his own.”

Alicent responded, her tone blending reprimand with an air of imperious counsel, “Be that as it may, as his wife, it is your duty not to perpetuate such perceptions but to uplift and better his reputation.” She moved with deliberate elegance, her hands gliding beneath Daenera’s veil and under her hair with a soothing touch that belied her stern words. “As his wife, you must embody the virtues of the Mother–mercy, fertility, and compassion,” Alicent continued, as she carefully draped a golden necklace around her neck, fastening the clasp at the back. Suspended from the chain was a seven-pointed star, with a deep emerald set in its center. “This is the duty bestowed upon you, and you must uphold it to honor your husband and your place within this family.”

As the necklace settled against Daenera’s sternum, just below her collarbones, she felt its weight bearing down on her, a symbolic reminder of the expectations and burdens now placed upon her. Her hands settled once more onto Daenera’s shoulders, her presence bearing down on her as she stood behind her. Her eyes were unyielding and cold as it met Daenera’s own through the reflection in the mirror. 

“And do not fool yourself into thinking his affection for you would supersede his obligations,” she added, her voice carrying a steely edge, “Should the need arise, he would sacrifice even you if it meant securing the lives and future of his family. He is a man of duty, and he would not hesitate to put the needs of his house above yours if required.”

The look in Alicent’s eyes was reminiscent of a time long past, a fierce and unrelenting expression that brought to mind the memory of her demand for retribution–a moment of brutality when she had wielded Viserys’s blade and sought justice for her son, demanding an eye in return. 

With a finality in her gesture, Alicent released her grip from Daenera’s shoulders, clasping her hands together in front of her as she stepped back. Her voice, authoritative yet dismissive, carried through the room, “Come, the litter has been prepared.” 

Daenera’s gaze remained fixed on her reflection, her eyes tracing the delicate lines and subtle fractures in her composure, as if she were peering upon a cracked mask–her eyes wide and shimmering with unshed tears that threatened to break through and trail down her cheeks. She felt a growing need to mend these fissures, swallowing thickly and drawing in a deep, steadying breath as she tired to push down the emotions that threatened to rise to the surface and pour through the cracks in her composure. Rising from the chair with a measured grace, she reached for the bouquet of flowers resting on the dressing table. Her fingers closed around the tightly bound stems, feeling the reassuring solidity of the arrangement in her grasp.

As she followed Alicent down the hall, each step was accompanied by the soft, rhythmic rustle of her skirts brushing against the smooth stone floor. The weight of the gown seemed to amplify her every movement, each rustle a reminder of the scrutiny she was under and the expectations that loomed over her. The hallway seemed to stretch endlessly before her, the stairs threatening to let her plunge to the bottom. 

As Daenera made it out of the arched doors of Maegor’s Holdfast, a joyful shout pierced the air.

“Aunty Dae!” Jaehaerys’s voice rang out clear and vibrant. At the base of the steps leading to the Holdfast, Helaena stood with the children, their faces alight with excitement as they were allowed for the first time to attend such grand affair. Jaehaerys disregarded his nursemaid’s call for caution as he scrambled up the steps with gleeful abandon. Each step echoed his hurried ascent as his small feet pounded against the stone, bringing him closer to Daenera. 

Sunlight bathed him in a warm, golden glow, turning his hair into curls of spun gold, the strands shimmering in the day’s brilliance. Today, his hair was free from its usual restraints, framing his beaming face. He wore his finest green doublet, embellished with a golden, three-headed dragon stitched proudly across his chest, marking the occasion with regal splendor. 

Daenera forced a warm smile as Jaehaerys bound up the steps and eagerly extended his hand towards her expectantly. She took it, her own fingers enveloped in his tiny grasp. Amusement danced in her eyes as the boy lifted her hand to his lips, kissing her knuckles with a ceremonious flourish reminiscent of the knights he admired so much. 

“You look beautiful–” he started with all the earnestness of a knight, but his compliment was swiftly interrupted by his sister’s enthusiastic voice at the base of the stairs.

“You look like a real princess!” Jaehaera called out, her face gaslight with a wistful smile, cheeks blushing red. She, too, had loose hair set with a small tiara of emeralds, strands like spun gold around her face. 

Jaehaerys turned towards his sister, a touch of reproach in his tone. “She is a princess.”

“But she looks like a true princess,” Jaehaera insisted, her eyes sparkling with admiration. “Like the ones in the stories!”

Alicent approached, a gentle hand resting on her grandson’s shoulder. With a soft, guiding touch, she led him back down the steps. “Come along now, the litter is ready.”

Daenera carefully lifted the hem of her skirts as she descended the steps, her movements careful. As she reached the bottom, Mertha approached her, reaching to assist with the heavy folds of the dress. The litter that carried the Queen, the Queen Mother, and the twins was already gliding away, replaced by another that pulled up to receive Daenera. 

With practiced hands, Mertha and Edelin attended to her, their hands deftly gathering Daenera’s skirts to keep them from trailing on the ground. Edelin carefully gathered the long veil in her arms, ensuring that it did not get in the way. Together, they guided Daenera up the steps and into the new litter. 

Her hands gripped the frame of the litter door firmly as she made the final step up. Her skirts rustled softly over the litter’s interior floor, the sound mingling with the gentle hum of conversation outside. She carefully placed the bouquet of flowers on the seat beside her before settling down, Edelin finally releasing her hold on the veil, allowing it to cascade softly around Daenera’s shoulders. 

A frown tugged at Daenera’s lips, her breath coming in ragged, labored bursts as she drew in air through her nose and exhaled through parted lips. The tightness in her chest was a constant, unwelcome pressure as Edelin worked diligently, making the final adjustments to Daenera’s attire, smoothing the rich fabric of her skirts and adjusting the long sleeves of her dress with meticulous care. 

As Edelin ensured every detail was perfect, she offered a soft, encouraging whisper. “You make a stunning bride,” she murmured, her fingers deftly turning one of Daenera’s chair clamps so that the emerald setting caught the light just right. “The streets are packed with people eager to see the Princess of Flowers.” 

With a final nod, Edelin stepped out of the litter, her movement swift and purposeful as she closed and locked the door behind her. The soft click of the latch seemed to echo in the small, dimly lit space as Daenera was left alone inside.

She closed her eyes and sank back against the cushioned interior, the back of her head making contact with the velvet-lined wall. Her hand rested on her stomach, which churned and roiled with apprehension–and something else she did not wish to acknowledge. Her breaths were shallow, catching unevenly in her throat, each inhale a struggle.

In the quiet solitude of the litter, Daenera felt overwhelmingly small. The confined space of the litter felt suffocating, its rounded walls enclosing her like the bars of a cage. The windows, adorned with intricately carved shutters, only heightened her sense of confinement, their ornate patterns casting delicate shadows that seemed to close in around her–enclosed, much like the cricket in his cage. 

Unlike the cricket that fought against its confinement, she offered no resistance; she knew there was no escape. 

The shadows danced across its interior, shifting with the rhythm of the wheels rolling down the road as the litter jolsted into motion. It moved through the courtyards, gliding towards the bronze gate. Once through, it merged seamlessly onto the bustling city streets, the outside clamor faintly penetrating the confines of the litter, hinting at the world beyond its secluded space.

Daenera pressed her eyes shut even tighter, struggling to master the swell of emotions threatening to overwhelm her. Once, this moment had been a dream–a fervent hope, a heartfelt wish even. She had even harbored thoughts of pleading with her mother to let her marry the man she loved. How naïve she had been–how foolish.

Her thoughts drifted to him–the boy with the stars in his eyes–feeling a pang of heartache that cut deeply, as though her very heart were being sliced by the blade of his love. She recalled the witch’s foretelling: Your first marriage will be loveless, your second cloaked in betrayal. The boy with the stars in his eyes will capture your heart, but be wary of the danger that he represents. Twin flames, one soul. This is the love that awaits you.

Despite the prophecy that had once seemed so distant, here she was, ensnared by fate. She wondered if she had even resisted or merely walked the path that had been laid out for her, oblivious and foolish. 

Daenera’s mind replayed the moments of her past. She had tried to resist, hadn’t she? When she first recognized the depths in his gaze–when she learned of the stars it held–she had fled King’s Landing, seeking solace in the familiarity of home. If only she had stayed away–if only she had never returned. But return she did, only to find him there, waiting with his gaze full of stars and a mouth full of pointed teeth ready to devour her whole.  

She had married Boris, as duty demanded. She had endeavored to fulfill the role expected of her, to mold herself to his desires and meet his every expectation. She had made the effort, hadn’t she? Yet, deep down, she knew she had never truly given their marriage a chance. 

Since the night of the wedding, Daenera had subtly added poison to Boris’s cup, playing her role of wife with meticulous diligence while biding her time until she could free herself from it. The marriage had been doomed from the start–from the moment the letter of inquiry was sent to Storm’s End. Perhaps her first marriage had been doomed long before that–Your first marriage will be loveless.

Yet, she had not anticipated the affair–the thread of fate pulling her towards the boy with the stars in his eyes. How long had she deceived herself into thinking it was merely a fleeting attraction? How long had she stubbornly refused to admit how deeply he had embedded himself into her heart? 

She had even contemplated marrying him–no, she had married him.

Slowly, her eyes fluttered open, and she watched as slivers of golden sunlight pierced through the small, curved openings of the shuttered windows. The rays sliced through the dim interior. Her eyes traced the scar on her palm, a curving mark still faintly pink with a pale center. This scar was longer and neater than the others scattered across her hands–it had been deliberate. The other scars ranged from bright pink scrapes to deeper cuts that had required stitches. Each scar was a reminder of the pain inflicted by this cursed love, a tangible testament to the suffering it had caused her. 

She should have fought harder. She should have buried any lingering feelings the moment she realized that Aemond was the boy with the stars in his eyes, the one whose fate was entwined with hers–and who was destined to betray her. But could she have ever truly defied fate?

It felt to her as if they were all mere puppets, dancing on strings controlled by the gods. Each of them played their parts in a story woven with threads of tragedy and betrayal, a tale spun for the gods’ own amusement.

The suffocating pressure on her chest intensified as she neared the brink of despair, the noose of her fate tightening ever so slowly around her neck as she was driven towards the precipice, its threads threatening to suffocate her once she fell over the ledge. Her hand moved instinctively upwards, her lungs struggling against the constriction of her ribs, as if her breath was trapped in the back of her throat, stifled by the tears she fought to hold back. Her fingers touched the bare skin of her chest, feeling the frantic thud of her heart beneath, the beat harsh and unrelenting. As her had moved slightly, her fingertips brushed against the cool metal resting against her sternum. 

Daenera’s fingers trembled slightly as she reached behind the curtain of hair to unfasten the clasp of the necklace. With a soft click, she let it slacken and then gently removed it, allowing the chain to fall into her palm. The small, seven-pointed star, emblem of the Fait, glimmered in her hand, it seemed more a symbol of her confinement than anything else. 

As she stared down at the pendant, a wave of resentment surged within her. She cursed the gods–these gods who had watched indifferently as her brother was torn from the sky and consumed by vengeance. They seemed to revel in their own malevolence, like cruel children setting fire to an anthill with a shard of glass, delighting in the destruction they caused. These were the same gods who had cruelly endowed her with a heart that betrayed her–a heart that pulled her towards doom even as she struggled against it. 

If these gods hadn’t abandoned her before, they were soon to. 

Daenera lifted the hem of her skirts, reaching deep into the pocket sewn into her underdress. Her fingers brushed against the golden fabric as she searched for the small pouch of lavender tucked inside. Once found, she let her skirts drop heavily to the floor, the sound muffled by the thick material. She untied the pouch and carefully tipped it over, spilling a few white berries onto her palm amid the fragrant, dried lavender. The sweet aroma of the herbs subtly filled the air around her.

Daenera contemplated eating the berries and propping herself up against the door of the litter so that when it opened, she would tumble out in a cascade of ivory silk and sheer veil–dead and a spectacle for all to see. The smallfolk would revolt, and she imagined that her mother and Daemon would rain fire and blood down upon the Hightowers in retribution. 

Yet, as she weighed this grim possibility, she recoiled from the thought. She was not ready to surrender to death, nor would she add another child to the toll taken from her mother. 

Carefully, Daenera returned the berries to the pouch, slipping it back into the deep pocket of her underdress. Her heart pounded against her ribs, beating against will and reason, as if it were seeking to flee her ribcage as the cricket sought to flee his cage. Dread weighed heavily in her stomach like molten lead, a foreboding sense of what was to come–of the path she had chosen. 

Against her own reason, she whispered a silent prayer to any gods willing to listen, any gods beyond the Seven, seeking forgiveness for the actions she was about to undertake, though she knew she didn’t deserve such mercy. She knew she needed to be free of the sword hanging over her head, held there by the Hightowers and their willingness to kill those she cared for. 

Daenera edged closer to the window, the pungent aroma of the city seeping through the intricately carved shutters. With a spiteful defiance, she pushed the necklace through the narrow opening, letting it hang momentarily before releasing it. She heard a soft clink of metal skittering down the side of the litter, eventually vanishing beneath the wheelhouse, destined to be trampled underfoot and lost in the mud. 

As the wagon clattered over the cobblestone streets, the clamor outside the litter intensified, each jolt rattling her confined space. Peering through the small openings in the shutters, Daenera could see the crowds of smallfolk lining the streets, their eager faces glimpsed briefly as they were held back by gold cloaks maintaining order. 

She couldn't shake the feeling that she was nothing more than a conquest being paraded through the streets, a captive beast displayed in a gilded cage for all to gawk at. The grandeur of her confinement only underscored her isolation, making her feel more alone than ever before. A painful tightness gripped her throat, and a sharp pang of longing pierced her heart. She ached for her mother, for the comfort of home–wishing desperately to escape this gilded prison and return to a place where she truly belonged.

Daenera turned back to the confined space of the litter, a sense of restlessness crawling beneath her skin as they neared the Sept. Reaching for the bouquet of flowers resting beside her, she grasped it firmly, savoring the sweet fragrance that filled the small space. The bouquet, the only choice she had made for herself in regards to the wedding, consisted of red and purple roses, crocuses, violets, irises, lilies, and larkspur. Her fingers gently caressed the delicate petals of a crocus. She marveled at how they managed to obtain them out of season, but she cherished their beauty and the fleeting joy they brought her. 

Drawing in a deep breath, she tried to piece together her composure. She swallowed down the swelling of emotion threatening to overwhelm her, burying it beneath a mask of porcelain–calm, composed, and cold. 

As the litter came to an abrupt stop, the rattle of the wheels ceased, the silence inside the confined space seemed to echo, punctuated only by the pounding of her own heart against her ribs. The clamor of the outside world grew louder, filling the air with shouts and cheers of the smallfolk eagerly awaiting her appearance. The sound seeped through the shutters and crept under the door, amplifying the sense of trepidation in the small, oppressive space.  

The lock on the door clicked with a sharp finality, and the door swung open, flooding the dim interior with a blinding flood of light. Daenera blinked rapidly against the sudden brightness, a sharp pang of pain stabbing through her head. She rose from her seat, the soft rustle of fabric echoing with each movement, the beads stitched onto her sleeves brushing against the curved seats as she reached for the doorframe to steady herself. 

As she stepped into the light, the clamor of the crowd intensified, their voices swelling like a surging tide. Gold cloaks stationed around the litter barked orders, attempting to maintain order amidst the growing chaos as people clamored to get a look at her. Daenera stood at the threshold, her heart pounding within her ears, a relentless sound of crashing waves. 

In that moment, a hand appeared in her line of sight. She focused on it for a fleeting heartbeat before following the arm up to meet the soft, reassuring smile of Gwayne Hightower. 

“Princess,” Gwayne greeted warmly. Daenera gratefully accepted his extended hand, using his firm grip to stabilize herself as she stepped down from the litter. He was clad in his City Watch armor, his golden cloak pinned to his shoulders, catching the sunlight and fluttering elegantly behind him as she took her final step onto the ground. 

“Thank you,” Daenera murmured, her voice wavering slightly. She withdrew her hand and clutched her bouquet of flowers tightly, gathering herself for the moments ahead. 

The plaza before Great Sept stretched out expansively, dominated by the fountain at its center, gushing with water that sparkled in the sunlight. Gold Cloaks had cleaved a path through the throng of onlookers, their presence creating a narrow corridor amidst the sea of eager faces that had gathered to witness the royal procession–that had gathered to witness her marry her brother’s murderer. 

Daenera’s smile was a practiced curve as she moved forward, her head held high and shoulders squared. With every step towards the steps of the sept, she maintained a composed facade, even as her heart raced beneath the surface. The bustling crowd’s anticipation and the splashing of the fountain’s water seemed to blend into a distant murmur as she made her way through the plaza. 

Flowers rained down in her path, petals fluttering through the air as the crowd vyed to get her attention. Cheers and chants echoed around her, extolling her as the ‘Princess of Flowers.’ Voices called out blessings, one distinctly ringing above the rest: “The Mother bless you, Princess!”

The smile upon her face never wavered, her steps remained measured and unyielding, each footfall pressing the flowers into the cobblestones. Her gaze was drawn towards the grand structure of the Great Sept, rising before her with imposing grace–it was as much a cage as the litter had been, as the Red Keep was. The Great Sept stood only a third of the size of the Dragonpit, though its scale was still awe-inspiring and significantly larger than the Royal Sept where her first wedding had taken place. 

She felt much the same girl she had been then, yet at the same time, she was far removed from the girl she’d been. Back then, she had fulfilled her duty by marrying a man for whom she felt no affection and saw no future with. Now, she’d find herself once again walking towards a matrimonial future that felt nothing more than a cage. 

The scar on her hand seemed to throb with a bitter heat. It wasn’t a cage then; it had been a dream–a dream of a foolish girl whose heart had let her astray, whose heart had shattered into pieces. Now, that same heart lay in ruins, bearing the weight of unfulfilled dreams and broken hopes–and still it beat. 

Daenera felt it before she fully understood it, a murmur in the depths of her consciousness–a voice as cold and sharp as the edge of a blade. Princess of Poison. Your first marriage will be loveless. Princess of Curses. Your second, cloaked in betrayal. Princess of Blood. You shall not marry again. The words slithered through her mind, chilling her to the core.

Her heart lurched, a tremor rippling through her chest as her gaze darted frantically around, searching for the owner of the voice. A tingling sensation crept over her skin, as if the air itself had turned against her. The tightening grip of fear coiled around her heart, threatening to suffocate her.

The crowd surged around her, clawing hands and desperate faces pressing against the barrier of the gold cloaks that surrounded her. Their voices, once a throng of pleas and shouts, faded into a dull roar as her eyes locked onto a pair of dark, inscrutable ones. The witch.

The woman stood just beyond the grasping hands, her gaze piercing and knowing. A slow, unsettling smile spread across her lips as she lifted a single finger, a silent reminder of the unasked question that lingered between them. “You’ve yet to learn how to ask,” the witch’s voice echoed in Daenera’s mind, a taunt more than a statement.

And then, as swiftly as she had appeared, the witch vanished, leaving no trace of her presence. It was as if she had been nothing more than a phantom, a figment of Daenera’s imagination–as though she had never been there at all.

Her breath caught in her throat as she fought to swallow the rising tide of nausea. It clawed at her insides, threatening to overwhelm her. She forced it down, her trembling hands clenched around the bouquet of flowers, determined not to let the witch’s words take root in her heart. But the chill of the voice lingered, a shadow that would not be easily shaken.

She gripped the folds of her heavy skirt tightly as she started her ascent up the steps, careful to avoid stumbling over the billowing fabric or her trailing sleeves. Each step demanded her full attention, her gaze fixed steadily on the stone ahead as she reached the first landing, then turned and headed up the final flight of steps, nearing the top. 

“You seem anxious, dear niece,” A voice suddenly remarked, jolting Daenera from her thoughts. Her gaze snapped upwards, meeting Aegon’s eyes as he sauntered towards her, an amused and somewhat malevolent smile playing on his lips. She expected that he was inside of the sept, waiting with the rest of them.

Her eyes narrowed as she warily stared at him, halting on the steps. Despite the elegance of his attire–a green doublet richly embroidered with a golden dragon whose wings spread majestically across his chest and whose head lay over his heart–he bore an air of perverse disquiet. And perched atop his head, almost mockingly, was the crown of Aegon the Conqueror.

Daenera chose to remain silent. She focused intently on suppressing the urge to vomit at Aegon’s feet, finding it impossible to muster up a sharp retort. Her evident discomfort seemed to entertain him, his smile growing broad as he extended a hand towards her, saying with a reassuring tone that bordered on a command, “Take my hand.”

With barely concealed irritation, Daenera placed her hand in Aegon’s, allowing him to guide her up the final steps to the landing. His grip was firm and determined as he steered her towards the banister overlooking the plaza. The air was filled with a cacophony of shouts and cheers: “Hail King Aegon!” and “Gods bless you, Princess!”

“Smile and wave,” Aegon instructed, his voice carrying an edge of mockery. He released her hand and placed his own at the small of her back, while he raised his other hand in a grand wave to the assembled crowd. “One might think we’re dragging you to the altar against your will.”

Daenera forced a bright smile, lifting her other hand to wave at the throng below. Her voice was barely audible as she murmured stiffly, “What are you doing here?”

Aegon’s eyes twinkled with amusement. “I am graciously attending my brother’s wedding.”

“No,” Daenera said, her smile barely concealing her irritation, “I mean, why are you here?”

Aegon shifted his gaze to her, the sunlight catching in his hair and lighting up the strands of spun gold and silver. His blue eyes sparkled with unmasked amusement as he regarded her. “I am here to escort my favorite niece down the aisle, given the circumstances…” He said, his tone laced with a sardonic charm. 

His brows furrowed slightly in mock contemplation, his smile twisting into a smug frown. “Since your father is dead,” he continued, “and your other father is also dead… And your stepfather and all your other male relatives are traitors to the crown.” He paused, allowing a smirk to spread across his lips. “I thought it fitting to give you the honor of being led down the aisle by your king.”

Aegon extended his arm towards her, offering the crook for her to slip her hand into. 

Her gaze briefly dropped from his face to his arm then back up again, meeting his eyes. She managed to mask her displeasure, though a slight narrowing of her eyes betrayed her feelings. Despite her irritation, she had little choice but to comply. Reluctantly, she placed her hand in the crook of his arm, gripping her bouquet tightly with the other as he gave her a small tug closer. Her voice, though edged with sarcasm, carried a faint tremor of resignation. “How very gracious of you.”

“Indeed,” Aegon replied with a hum of satisfaction, his gaze sweeping over the crowd once more. He raised his free hand in a final, grand wave before steering them towards the sept, turning their back on the crowd. “I strive to be a gracious and benevolent king to all my subjects.”

The sun bore down warmly, its heat more intense than on the previous cloud-covered days when the city had ensured sporadic rain showers. As they approached the Great Sept, its vast shadow loomed over them, the towering doors appearing large enough to admit a giant. Daenera might have marveled at the grandeur, but today, her focus was consumed by the effort to calm her racing heart. Having Aegon by her side did little to ease the lightheadedness creeping over her. 

“And to think,” Aegon remarked with a hint of amusement in his voice, “if my mother had only seen things differently, we might have been married ourselves.”

“It would have been an unhappy and unsatisfying marriage,” Daenera stated plainly, her gaze fixed on the imposing doors as they drew nearer with each step, each one seeming to add a weight to her limbs. She shook her head slightly, a scoff escaping her lips as she continued, “I would have endured the disgrace of your whore-mongering, as I did with my first husband. The two of you are similar in that regard. We both would have been miserable–me especially, having to suffer your attentions in the marriage bed.”

Aegon’s voice toon on a teasing tone as he responded, “I think you’d quite enjoy my attentions in the marriage bed.” She could feel his gaze linger on her, its unsettling heat starting from the bare skin of her chest, tracing up the curve of her collarbone, and up her neck to settle on her face. “I have considerably more experience than my dear brother. I could show you what it really means to be well-satisfied. And unlike Aemond, I don’t have your brother’s blood on my hands…”

They came to a halt just before the steps leading down to the Great Sept’s grand doors. Daenera gritted her teeth, the sting of unshed tears pressing against the back of her throat. Her fingers gripped the bouquet of flowers so tightly that the stems creaked under the pressure.

Aegon closed the minimal distance between them, leaning in so closely that she instinctively leaned back, arching her back away from him. The scent of soap mixed with the faint hint of wine on his breath, the scent cloying and turning her stomach. An amused and slightly lascivious smile curved his lips as he murmured, his voice low and suggestive, “Should you ever grow bored and find yourself yearning for something more… exhilarating that the tedium my brother provides, know that I am always ready and willing to offer my… assistance.”

A frown darkened Daenera’s features as she glared at Aegon, her voice sharp with indignation. “I will be your brother’s wife. Do you intend to make a cuckold of him?”

“As you did with your first husband,” Aegon drawled, his gaze piercing as he studied her face. There was a dark amusement twinkling in his blue eyes, hinting at his enjoyment of the provocation. He then shrugged nonchalantly, a smirk playing at the corners of his mouth. “My brother is the embodiment of duty. Even if I were to take his wife to my bed, he would remain true to his obligations, such is his nature. He is as loyal and obedient as a hound.”

Daenera’s voice wavered slightly, despite her effort to remain composed. “I think you misjudge the extent of your brother’s dutifulness. Few men wound tolerate the indignity of being made a cuckold, much less by his brother. Even a loyal hound will bite its master’s hand if provoked enough.”

Aegon pulled back slightly, head tilting as his gaze lingering on her with a thoughtful intensity. “He had a choice, you know.”

Her frown deepened in confusion.

“He could have let me go,” Aegon continued, his free hand encircling hers where it rested on his arm, the warmth of his skin enveloping her fingers. “He could have let me disappear–I could have gone anywhere, and the throne would have been his for the taking. But he chose duty over ambition.”

Daenera recoiled slightly as Aegon lifted his hand, ostensibly to brush a non-existent strand of hair from her face, his fingers trailing down her cheek with feigned gentleness that made her skin crawl. His gaze lingered on her–something within the sea of deep blue, she couldn’t understand. Her chest tightened, her stomach turning in response to his unwanted attention. 

“I made it clear to him,” Aegon continued in a soft murmur, “that if he brought me back, I would ensure that you shared in my misery.”

Daenera leaned away from his touch, her expression set in a heavy frown. “And here I thought you were relishing your new role as king. You certainly seem to be enjoying it.”

“A king should honor his promises, don’t you think?” Aegon asked, his brow arching slightly, and the corners of his mouth dipped into a sardonic smile as his head tilted, seemingly acknowledging her remark with a half-shrug. “At the very least, I should have some fun with it and make him suffer a bit longer.”

“Do as you wish, but leave me out of it.”

“The truth of the matter, sweet niece,” Aegon said with a tone of measured amusement, “is that you are his greatest weakness.”

“You overestimate my significance to him,” Daenera interjected, her voice laced with bitterness. She shifted uneasily, feeling as if her ribs were constricting around her lungs, each breath growing more shallow and caught in her throat.

Aegon clicked with his tongue, head shaking slightly as she continued, “My brother is not one to reveal his frailties; he buries his emotions beneath a facade of icy resolve. Yet you, you’ve pierced through that armor, uncovering a vulnerability he seldom shows. I never thought to see my dutiful brother cuntstruck, but here we are.”

The throb of Daenera’s pulse echoed in her ears, the steady rush of blood quickening in her veins. Her fingers gripped the bouquet of flowers with increasing intensity, her nails digging into the stems until the delicate flesh of the blooms began to tear under the pressure, breaking off under her nails. 

“You–”

“Aegon,” Daenera said through clenched teeth, her voice strained as she opened her eyes again to meet his gaze directly. Her heart seemed to writhe within her chest as she fought to keep her composure. “If you don’t stop speaking right now, I swear I will make us both miserable by vomiting the meager breakfast I’ve had all over you.”

Something in Daenera’s expression must have conveyed her determination, for Aegon’s amusement quickly faltered, giving way to an expression of surprise and then concern. His eyes widened slightly, lips parting in disbelief. “Please don’t.”

Bile burned within her chest, threatening to spill out–onto him if he pushed further. It would make them both miserable, neither of them desire this outcome. Daenera swallowed thickly, forcing herself to focus on the imposing doors before her. 

Aegon gestured subtly to the guards stationed on either side of the massive doors. Responding to his cue, they pushed the doors open, the hinges emitting a resonant creak. As the doors swung wide, Aegon leaned closer to Daenera, his breath brushing her ear as he whispered sardonically, “Be a good puppet, and smile.”

Drawing a deep breath, Daenera adopted a mask of composed serenity, her face settling into a sweet, gentle smile that concealed the bitter anguish that lay in the ruins within her heart. As she stepped forward, a fleeting thought crossed her mind–had Nissa Nissa forseen her end? Had she felt the sting of betrayal as her husband had plunged the sword into her heart, and despite it all, had she continued to love him? Did she forgive him as her breath had left her, or was there nothing to forgive?

**Red Roses-True love, Bashful Love Purple roses-Love of first sight; enchantment Crocuses-Love, abuse not Violets-Faithfulness, watchfulness, I'll always be true Irises-Eloquence, good news, light, faith, valor, wisdom, friendship Lilies-Purity, sweetness Larkspur-Levity, lightness, fickleness, haughtiness, an open hear Here we gooooo!!! The wedding has started!! I really really loved the scene with Helaena, and we'll definitely see the return of Aemond the Cricket. Was there prophecies/foreshadowing in their conversation? Yes. Also, her taking about the moths can be linked so a lot of different characters. Anyway, next chapter will be the ceremony and the feast--I am currently finished with the ceremony scene and have started the feast, but I can't promise I'll manage to get it done before next Friday. These chapters are really long, 15k takes a long time to write and life has thrown me a little curveball in my granddad on my father's side death. He will be buried Thursday and that'll take up that day of writing + I have another or two days of writing taken my other stuff. I will try to make it till Friday but I can't promise anything. And it's likely this will continue until season 1 of the story is finished and I take a little hiatus to write some chapters to have ready so I won't stress so much--a hiatus would be a month or a month an a half, no more. That much I can promise!

[stuckinapril]

Do you have any poetry recommendations? The poem poll made me realize that I like. ONLY know Iraqi poets. Like the only non-Iraqi poet I can name off the top of my head is Robert Frost

i'm literally hooked on poetry. even on days where i can't sit down to read a book, i try to consume at least one poem a day bc it keeps me sane. it actually does. i recommend signing up to one poem a day newsletters--those have been a game changer for me. as for recommendations, my favorite poems change every week, but current faves (whose authors i regularly go back to/are a good starting point) would be:

elegy for my sadness - chen chen (Who invented the word / “ennui”? A sad Frenchman? / A centipede? They should’ve never / been born. They should’ve seen me / in Paris, a sad teenage / exchange student. I was so sad / & so teenaged, one day my host sister / gripped my hand hard & even harder / said, SOIS HEUREUX. / BE HAPPY. & miraculously, / I wasn’t sad anymore. / All I felt was the desire to slap my host sister. / See, I was angry in Paris, which is clearly / not allowed. One can be sad in Paris (I was) / & one can be in love in Paris (I was not), / but angry? Angry in Paris?")

a pity, we were such a good invention - yehuda amichal ( "A pity / We were such a good / And loving invention / An aeroplane made from a man and wife / Wings and everything / We hovered a little above the earth")

like a small cafe, that's love - mahmoud darwish ("I say to myself at last / Perhaps she who I was waiting for / was waiting for me, or was waiting for some other man / or was waiting for us, and did not find him/me.")

bible study - tony hoagland ("Who knows, this might be the last good night of summer / My broken nose is forming an idea of what’s for supper / Hard to believe that death is just around the corner / What kind of idiot would think he even had a destiny?")

mother and child - louise gluck ("Why do I suffer? Why am I ignorant? / Cells in a great darkness. Some machine made us; / it is your turn to address it, to go back asking / what am I for? What am I for?")

america, america - saadi youssef ("We are not hostages, America, / and your soldiers are not God's soldiers... / We are the poor ones, ours is the earth of the drowned gods, / the gods of bulls, / the gods of fires, / the gods of sorrows that intertwine clay and blood in a song... / We are the poor, ours is the god of the poor, / who emerges out of farmers' ribs, / hungry / and bright, / and raises heads up high...")

the duino elegies (seventh elegy respectively) - rainer maria rilke ("Not only the devotion of these unfolded forces, / not only the paths, not only the evening fields, / not only, after a late storm, the breathing freshness, / not only approaching sleep and a premonition, evenings... / also the nights! Also the high summer nights / also the stars, the stars of this Earth! / O to be dead at last and know them eternally, / all the stars: for how, how, how to forget them!")

the endlessness - ada limon ("How was i supposed to feel then? About moving in the world? How could I touch anything or anyone without the weight of all of time shifting through us?")

psalm - adonis ("Open my memory and study my face beneath its words, learn my alphabet. When you see foam weaving my flesh and stone flowing in my blood, you will see me. I am closed like a tree trunk, present and ungraspable like air. Thus I cannot surrender to you.")

the war works hard - dunya mikhail ("The war continues working, / day and night. / It inspires tyrants / to deliver long speeches / awards medals to generals / and themes to poets / it contributes/ to the industry / of artificial limbs / provides food for flies / adds pages to the history books / achieves equality / between killer and killed / teaches lovers to write letters / accustoms young women to waiting / fills the newspapers / with articles and pictures / builds new houses / for the orphans / invigorates the coffin makers / gives grave diggers / a pat on the back / and paints a smile on the leader's face.")