#Black Sword Hack

[vintagerpg]

Black Sword Hack: Ultimate Chaos Edition (2023) is a beautiful little system derived from David Black’s Black Hack of D&D. The obvious literary touchstone is Elric and Moorcock’s larger cosmic conflict between Law and Chaos. There are many other clear influences, though — Jack Vance’s Dying Earth, Lankhmar, Kane, Poul Anderson. I suspect that is Jirel of Joiry on the back cover, flanked by Fafhrd and the Gray Mouser. Perhaps they’re a trio of entirely different people — Goran Gligovic’s art vibrates on strange frequencies, as if you’re looking at archetypes from a parallel universe.

The core systems work essentially as they do in Black Hack, so I won’t go into them here. The additions contribute to the doomful atmosphere. These amount to a set of different sorts of pacts — demons, evil swords, fairies, and so on. There are a varieties of powers to draw on and be consumed by.

The rest of the book is given over, mostly, to tools for collaboratively creating a world and a central city for players to inhabit, explore and, eventually, ruin and destroy. Goes with the territory, really. A couple scenarios round things out. A fantastic appendix lays out a method to create adventures using your favorite paperback fantasy novel.

Black Sword Hack touches on many of the same themes as Chaosium’s Stormbringer, but in a more minimal, smoother sort of way. It’s more direct, really. It’s also its own thing, and every game is unique, thanks to the world generation. I’m keen to see it develop further.

[dreamsrecurring]

[evlynmoreau-blog]

I am busy working on a big commission so not much updates to post.

Here is the world my RPG group generated for our new campaign of the Black Sword Hack, a RPG inspired by the Saga of Elric. But instead of playing in the Young Kingdoms you created your own world to doom. Will the group be able to find the Rune weapon and save this world? We will see...

It was fun to map what we rolled on the random tables. :)

[cannibalhalflinggaming]

"The Old School Renaissance is a microcosm within the RPG world. Although many (including myself) refer to the OSR as a whole, cohesive thing, the reality is that the movement is more the result of at least half a dozen origins that random-walked into game preferences which, to an outsider, look similar. The broad preference towards the genre establishment of Dungeons and Dragons (or at least Appendix N, if not the system itself) bounds the definitions we work with; other retroclones and revivals like Cepheus and RuneQuest aren’t included, even if they too are ‘old school’. No, the main thing that all vectors of the OSR have in common is that they are trying to recreate the time when the roleplaying game was new. And when RPGs were new, either literally or in the eyes of the designer, the new thing that they first touched was (almost always) D&D." - @levelonewonk

[the-east-art]

There’s aren’t really anything but do you understand my vision. The reason I haven’t posted art in four days is cuz I’ve been playing nier nonstop

[kaznaths-thoughts]

Hermits: Playing RPGs Alone

I personally enjoy one-player RPGs. They can be a little weird for some, certainly, but as a Goblin in a world of elves and men, it is nice to sit down now and again, flex my creative storytelling muscles, and match them against fate in a game of singular minded striving. 

Now, you can play Sword & Backpack as a singular player. It is quite easy. You split your D20 into 10 and 10, rolling 11 or above as a success and 10-below as a failure. You have to create your own setting and your own obstacles, but that is all part of the freedom of it. 

But as a RPG Hermit, I have played a few other systems I would like to recommend. Each has its benefits and drawbacks, and depending on what you want in your Hermit games, each might suit your desires. The ones I find most helpful are “the Basic Fantasy RPG 3rd Ed,” and “The Black Hack” - “Stormbringer” and “Ironsworn”. 

“The Basic Fantasy RPG” is an Old School Renaissance game, emulating the mechanics of older Dungeons & Dragons editions. It is free online, which is fantastic, and has a number of online adventures to run in various settings [it is also easy to run Old D&D adventures that are often free online as well]. It has the simple four iconic classes and races, spells to use for spellcasting in its Vancian system, and a series of tables to create random encounters. Mechanically, you roll your six D&D stats, then when you perform a check, you roll under the number on the stat to succeed; while maintaining the combat mechanic from D&D of overcoming an Armor Class to hit an enemy. Its clearly defined numerical lines make it possible to play alone, with its drawback being rolling for the monster and tending to have more of a mechanical “video game” feel than a “story crafting” feel. I recommend for anyone who wants to have a quick adventure all to themselves with minimal hassle and maximum “huzzah!”.

For those uncomfortable with rolling for the enemy, I recommend “The Black Hack”, which is also free online. The Black Hack was put together by David Black and has the same “roll under” mechanic as the Basic Fantasy RPG; but replaces the combat mechanic of D&D with its own Black-Hack Roll-Under system. The mechanics become more uniform in the Black Hack and make it easier to arbiter your own games. The Black Hack also comes with its own miniature bestiary, spells, and mechanics for various classes; and for the most part, it can be easily run with the supplements and adventures of the Basic Fantasy RPG and older D&D adventures. 

“Stormbringer” is a little bit more complicated than Basic and the Black Hack, but for those looking for a more Dungeons & Dragons sort of experience, it is a good choice. It runs off of the Basic Role Playing System, currently in use by Runequest. Character creation is a bit complicated, dedicated to dolling out various statistics for various feats - but those who want something more D&D adjacent won’t feel out of place. Each stat falls within a percentage scale - essentially denoting the odds of success on a one-hundred point scale. The player then rolls a d100 to try to roll under the necessary stats for a particular action. Stormbringer is easy to convert over other old adventures and even Basic adventures, simply taking the 20 point stats of D&D or Basic and multiplying them by 5 to get the percentile. Once again, the roll-under mechanic enables single player play, and with a little Black Hack mixed in, one need not even roll for villains. Its drawback is its statistically heavy nature and the need to prepare materials ahead of time; even with short cuts, character creation took me 2 hours my first try. The benefit of Stormbringer though is in its setting, which comes pre-stocked with content and challenges based on the Stormbringer Novels; with adventures online for free. I recommend this for those looking for a more comparable game to that of Dungeons & Dragons in statistical heft, intentionality, and long term play. 

Lastly, there is Ironsworn. Ironsworn is truly unique in that it involves its own mechanics, its own world, and its own special tables for generating an adventure. It even comes with instructions on single player. Ironsworn has taken the hermit community by storm, and rightly so. It is the most comparable experience to the feelings, thought processes, and striving of playing Dungeons & Dragons with a group. It has a three dice system, in which two d10s are rolled against a d12 - how many of the dice roll above whatever the D12 rolled determines a full success, a partial success with consequences, and a complete failure. Its character stats are used to boost the d10 rolls when completing a task related to a stat. It is used for all actions, including combat - paired with an interesting combat mechanic involving momentum, allowing a player to continue striking so long as they succeed. I recommend Ironsworn for anyone who is looking to have a genuinely holistic “one-player” RPG experience, with all the detail and intense thought that comes with that. 

Hermit play can be very fun. We are lucky to live in an age when the internet transports free adventure content right into our homes and creative people craft ways for us to enjoy ourselves when we are apart from the adventure team we love. And for those of us struggling to find a group to play with, Hermit play offers a lot of opportunities to continue honing our storytelling and game playing. Lastly, to all of my Hermits out there, please know you are not alone in playing alone - and so in that sense, we are playing together. 

[miryum]

Don't Pity Me, My Princess (Azriel x Reader)

With Azriel as your personal knight, it's getting harder and harder for both of you to ignore your feelings.

Warnings: whole lotta angst. Talk of children and childbirth because royalty need heirs, you know? Az doesn’t have his shadows (even though it was so hard to write him without them) but is still called Shadowsinger. Azriel's mother was abused and there's like, one sentence about it

Word Count: 5k

Azriel had lived at the palace since he was a young boy. His mother had knocked on the servant’s quarters one dark night, begging for someone to take her son. She could handle an abusive husband, but she couldn’t bear her baby boy to suffer the same fate as she did. An old maid took pity on the new mother and agreed to house, clothe, and educate the child. Just before the new mother left, she kissed Azriel’s cheek and whispered his name. “You’ll do good things, my dear. I am so sorry.”

Coincidentally, a couple months later, the Queen gave birth to an infant girl. Princess Y/n was heralded with parades and celebrations, the new heir apparent. Meanwhile, in the servant’s quarters, a baby with a thick head of black hair and small little wings was just learning how to lift his head, staring up at the maids and butlers who saved his life.

Azriel grew up preparing for the life of a knight. He remembered growing up watching the knights train as he played with his own wooden sword. He remembered beating his still-developing wings to try and see over the wooden barrier of the jousting arena. He remembered when the knights first caught sight of him, trying to hack away at a dummy. They teased him at first, but then, just like his entire life, they took pity on him. The next week, Azriel began training as a squire.

It was a long time before he earned his leathers and then his siphons, but the Shadowsinger became a name that was both respected and feared throughout the kingdom. The King sent him on missions all over the continent and Azriel always returned successful. He would fight in the jousts and consistently win. He had maidens and ladies swooning over him, but they weren’t who he yearned for.

That’s why he volunteered, almost a bit too hastily, when the King asked for extra protection over his daughter, Princess Y/n. 

Azriel’s mind was filled with you, almost every moment of every day. It couldn’t be healthy, that he was aware of, but having grown up next to you, even if from the shadows, he had forged a deep connection to you.

When he was young, he had hardly noticed the little princess completing her studies. He couldn’t remember a time when he saw her in the halls or at the training ring — which is where he most frequented. But one day, a year or two after he had turned a teen, Azriel had fought in his first joust. In any joust, it was customary for a knight to be sponsored by a lady of the court. A lady usually had a favourite knight she regularly sponsored, so Azriel’s stomach was in a pit when it was time to trot by for potential sponsorship. Who would ever cheer for the newest, youngest knight? Azriel sure could beat a village boy in combat, but he was still the smallest and scrawniest of all of the palace’s knights — if you could even call him that. He could recall his anxiety as if it was yesterday. The way the crowd was cheering, the way his horse’s hooves kicked up dirt underneath, and the way he began to sweat as he tried to sit straight. 

And then, as he passed the royal box, you stood. Azriel almost kept his horse trotting by, sure it was a mistake, but when he saw you extract your blue handkerchief, he pulled on the reins. By some fortuity or fortune, your handkerchief was the same colour as his siphon. He had just earned his first one the week prior. Through his metal visor, he stared, wide-eyed, as you reached down and tucked your handkerchief into the folds of his armour. The rest of the court was watching too, but Azriel didn’t see them. He could only focus on the way his heart sped up when you whispered, “good luck.” 

You were an utter vision. Azriel was sure that you had chosen him to be your champion because of the closeness in your ages, but your support, even if it was just a piece of cloth you had embroidered, meant the world. He hadn’t won his first joust, or his second, but you kept sponsoring him. Azriel became accustomed to stopping under the royal box and bowing to you before heading to his starting position. Sometimes, especially if it was an important event, you would have a new handkerchief for him, or even some whispered encouragement, but Azriel didn’t need those things as long as he could keep making eye contact with you. And then he started winning. He could still hear your excited screams as his javelin hit his opponent straight on, which gained Azriel the championship. It wasn’t unusual for members of the court to get invested in the jousting, but others found it humorous that you were jumping from your seat to see better. However, you were only a teenager, and they knew you would soon be able to control your emotions. 

You had not-so-patiently waited for Azriel to bring his horse back around to the royal box after doing a lap of the stadium. People had thrown flowers and kisses and Azriel had shed his helmet, his cheeks hot from both the exertion and attention. When he saw you, he bowed deeply and handed a flower that someone had thrown to him. It was a small red rose. Your gloved fingers brushed his as you took the flower. His black hair hung over his face as he ducked his head. You made a mental note to have the barber stop by the barracks. “My Princess,” he muttered, head still bowed. “Thank you for choosing me as your champion, all those months ago.”

“Well, Sir Azriel, it certainly paid off, didn’t it?” you replied, smiling down at him. “It’s an honour to have you wear my colours.” You nodded to one of your handkerchiefs that was tucked in the chink of his armour, right above his breast. 

That was the past. And now, Azriel had the glorious opportunity to stand in front of the King and Queen, multiple siphons displayed proudly as he suggested his own name for the position of your bodyguard. Your childhood knight was retiring, something everyone thought was best as his wit, speed, and strength declined. That opened up the position. The King and Queen had called for the Shadowsinger’s opinion and he gave it, however biased he was with his feelings. “Your Majesties, I believe that the best thing for this kingdom and your daughter would be if I offered my services.” 

“And why is that, Shadowsinger? Wouldn’t you rather be sent on missions and participate in protecting our kingdom?”

“With all due respect, my King, the princess is the face of the kingdom,” Azriel said, a knee pressing against the floor of the throne room. It hurt, yes, but he could handle it if it meant sparing you the pain. “The people love her, but that also means many hate her. There are too many dangers, especially with other kingdoms threatening to encroach on our borders. I would be able to protect the princess, and you and the Queen, more efficiently if I was her personal guard.”

The two monarchs exchanged a look before the Queen nodded. “Very well, then. You’ll assume the position effective immediately. You shall accompany Princess Y/n to events and daily excursions. You’ll be briefed more extensively later this week.”

Azriel nodded and stood. He thanked the King and Queen and hurried out, trying to conceal his budding smile.

“Do you remember all the signals?” you called from your dressing room. 

Azriel was standing outside, content to just listen to your voice, but he replied, “yes, my princess.”

“And you’re wearing your dress uniform?”

“Yes, my princess.”

“Are all the other guards as well?”

“Yes, my princess.”

The door then opened and you peeked out. “And are you sick of me asking you senseless questions?” you asked, an apologetic smile on your lips.

“Never, my princess,” Azriel answered softly, eyes holding yours. “Are you almost ready?”

You ducked back into your dressing room, voice floating out again. “Almost. I believe we just need some more hairpins, yes?” Your maid responded in an affirmative and a couple minutes later, the door opened once more. There you stood in a cobalt gown that cascaded down to the floor, hair all done up, and jewellery proudly displayed on your knuckles and upon your collarbone. It didn’t escape Azriel that your dress was the same colour as his siphons.

Azriel had spent years serving under the King and Queen, honing his emotions to be the stoic force he needed to be. But, with you in front of him, he found his resolve cracking. His eyes widened and his Adam’s apple bobbed up and down.

“Do I look that horrible, sir?” you teased.

The guard immediately shook his head. “No, my princess. Quite the opposite, in fact. You…” his jaw tensed. “Those princes and dukes will be tripping over their feet.”

As much as Azriel would love to pretend that you were his and he would be the only one accompanying you tonight, he knew that this ball was for a very specific reason, and one he did not like. Your parents needed you wed, and it couldn’t be to him.

Nobility and court members alike knew to avoid Azriel when he was watching you. You were on your fifth dance with the fifth man and Azriel made sure to walk around the dance floor as you moved, always being as close as possible.

The moment Azriel had known he was to be your new personal knight, he had created a series of hand signals for you to use covertly. He was always on the lookout for your well-being and thankfully, there had only been a few times when you had needed to use the hand signals.

Months prior, your parents had held an anniversary ball for their marriage. You were a bit younger, more naive, and Azriel had only been your personal knight for just under a year. He had loved every moment of it, but he couldn’t help but feel a budding sense of anticipatory fear as he saw you twirl around the dance floor carelessly. You had one of your younger cousins in your arms and was spinning them around to their delight. While Azriel wanted to imagine a smaller child in the stead of your cousin, perhaps one with dark hair and your eyes and little wings that replicated his own, he was more focused on the older man that was watching you.

A measly Count from further South, the man looked twice your age and three times as intoxicated. He stayed on the outskirts of the celebration, but the Shadowsinger was not one to miss something.

When the Count approached you after your dance with your cousin, Azriel didn’t intervene. He couldn’t act only on a suspicion that the Count was malicious. And he wouldn’t act without your express approval.

But then he saw you twist the ring on your pointer finger.

When Azriel had first become your bodyguard, you were unsure if you could remember all the signals he had wanted you to memorise. A deeper fear, admittedly, was that he wouldn’t be watching and then unintentionally leave you to your own devices. Azriel was determined, however, to never waive your trust. He immediately came marching in, whispering something meaningless into your ear under the guise of matters only you, the princess, could attend to, and swept you away. A dirty look was thrown to the Count and Azriel made sure never to let you near him again. In fact, the Count was barred from any and all future events.

Meanwhile, you had finished your dance with the nameless suitor and Azriel already had an arm stretched out for you. You took it gratefully, needing a respite from all the men giving you unabashed stares. “I really do hate this,” you said to him as he guided you away. “I don’t see why they’re even letting me choose my husband if he will be from this very specific pool of men. At this point, it would be easier to simply betroth me to whomever they see fit.”

“You know my feelings on that, my princess,” Azriel replied. “And I’m sure your parents feel the same. They wish for you to have some sort of semblance of choice and happiness.” Even if it is not with me, the man who would worship you.

You sighed and looked down at your feet. “I know, good sir. But it’s tiring, as I’m sure you can realise. I’d much rather be in my room, engaging in the arts or taking a nap.”

Azriel couldn’t help but let out a deep laugh, one that drew your lips up into a brilliant smile. “Yes,” he agreed. “I’m sure you would.” He paused and then looked down at you. You looked so perfect on his arm and there wasn’t anything he wouldn’t do to keep you there. “Here’s a proposition: if you survive the rest of this evening, I will dance with you.”

Your eyes immediately light up and Azriel swore the stars themselves burned brighter, pledging their allegiance to you. God, you were like ambrosia in his veins and how he wished for it to keep flowing. “Really?” you gasped. Azriel had been very conservative in his dances, even though, unbeknownst to you, he would dance on forever if you asked. But whenever he held you in his arms, it was too intoxicating. Too dangerous. He was still the Shadowsinger, even if he was sworn to protect you. The hands he held you with had been the notorious cause for so much pain. The thought of telling you about his past missions… It scared him more than imaginable. Those memories were ones best kept locked away within the shadows. He didn’t want you to think of the people he’s hurt – of the suffering he had caused – when you looked at him.

So all he did was nod back, smiling the soft look only you could bring out.

The night slowly wore on, the candles flickering over the walls, bidding the departing guests farewell. And still you stayed. Even as the moonlight rose above the windows and the maids and butlers slowly began cleaning up, you stayed. Only the musicians remained as Azriel led you to the middle of the floor. There was an unspoken trust between you and the musicians, knowing they wouldn’t tell your parents (who had already gone to bed) about your singular, last dance with your knight.

Easily, you placed your hand on his shoulder and Azriel’s palm flexed on the small of your back. The way your dress swished softly was a small distraction from the thoughts swirling in Azriel’s mind. He drew your joined hands closer to his chest as he thought back to how you danced with those other men. As if you knew he needed comfort, you stepped closer to Azriel, resting your head on his chest and eyes closing with exhaustion. His arms automatically wrapped around you, holding you tightly – almost protectively – as he let his cheek rest on your hair. His eyes softened and he murmured, “tired, my princess?” 

“Over a multitude of things,” you replied. 

Azriel tucked a strand of hair behind your ear, his hand lingering on your cheek. “A multitude of things?”

“I almost wish I didn’t have to marry,” you admitted. “It’s not as easy as it seems in the stories. I need to take alliances into consideration and the happiness of my people. Along with wealth, resources, and good blood. My feelings hardly add into the equation, even though I want them too.” You then shook your head and changed the subject, a teasing smile on your lips. “Has anyone complimented your wings before?”

There’s a beat of silence. 

“No,” he responded, a bit hoarsely. “No one has.”

You hummed and shook your head. “They should.” Your eyes trailed down to your intertwined hands before giving his palm a small squeeze. His burn scars marred his skin, contractures stretching over his hands and arms and small keloids by his wrists and creeping up to his elbows. Azriel winced slightly at the pressure of your hand on his scarred skin, memories of the pain flooding back. He tried to hide it, not wanting to ruin the moment, but a flicker of discomfort crossed his features. You instantly lifted your hand slightly to give him reprieve. Azriel wished for the contact back, but he knew he was the one to blame for the lack of touch. He was the one to make you flinch away.

“Thank you.” He cleared his throat, trying to bring the conversation back to his wings. "You’re the first.”

“I’m privileged then,” you murmured as he spun as the music lilted. “Though it truly is a pity.”

As you spun around, Azriel's wings extended instinctively, the iridescent membranes catching the moonlight. He held you close, ensuring your balance, and for a fleeting moment, he allowed himself to revel in the beauty of his own wings. They were a part of him, and something he couldn’t imagine living without. He watched you longingly as you twirled in his arms. His eyes followed the movement of your gown as you twirl. When he had you pressed close to him once again, he replied quietly, “is it really a pity, my princess?”

“They should’ve been complimented — all of you should’ve been complimented a thousand times before now,” you corrected yourself quickly, thumb sweeping over his hand where yours was placed on top of his. “You don’t see how amazing you are because you hide behind your scars and memories. But you’re the best knight I’ve had.”

The words carved him open deeper than any blade, striking into the insecurities he held. The sincerity in your voice and the gentle touch of your thumb on his hand made something in his chest ache. No one had ever said anything like that to him before. The idea of all of him being complimented, rather than just specific parts or aspects, such as his fighting ability, was a foreign concept. He glanced down at you, eyes filled with sereness. “All of me?” he asked quietly, his voice rough.

You nodded with a caring, hopeful smile on your face. Maybe he would finally see how sensational he was.

Eventually, you came to a stop, standing in the middle of the room. The musicians finished their song and quietly packed up, leaving. Yet, you and Azriel were still in each other’s arms. Azriel continued to hold you, savoring the moment. He relished being able to hold you like this, without anyone else around. 

“Do you truly pity me?” he wondered.

You shook your head. “No,” you whispered out. “I would never be able to pity the man who devoted his life to me. I would never be able to pity the man who devotes himself to me. And I don’t think I have it in me to pity the man whom I truly care for.”

For a brief moment, he stood rigid, unused to such easy affection. Then, his wings unfurled slightly, wrapping around you both like a cocoon, shielding you from the world outside. “As I you, my princess,” he allowed himself to say, scared that if anything more were to come from his mouth, it would be a declaration of unwanted love.

“Will you ever call me anything else?” you couldn’t help but tease, looking up at him.

Azriel smiled back down at you, hazel eyes warm with love. “No, my princess.” The night was silent, but Azriel didn’t want to be. His lips parted to tell you something, but when your eyes darted down to them, he found himself asking, “have I yet praised your dress?”

“You have,” you laughed. “But it’s kind of you to do it again. I wanted to match you, you know?” You reached down and pulled your dress to the side to reveal a glittering sheen of fabric under the thick cobalt fabric.

Azriel’s eyes widened in appreciation. “Beautiful, princess,” he admired sincerely once again. “It’s an honour to have you wear my colours.” He repeated the words you had said to him all those years ago.

“I’ll always wear your colours,” you replied. “You’re my knight, after all. Ever since I was young.” Your hand slid up his chest and wrapped around his neck, thumb brushing against his skin and along the hair by the nape of his neck.

The Shadowsinger couldn’t contain his shiver. “Must you, my princess?” he breathed out, voice rough.

“Must I what?”

Azriel’s eyes fluttered shut and his head dipped down, nose brushing against your forehead. “Must you marry some duke or prince?”

It took you a while to respond and Azriel’s heart only beat faster each second that passed. “No,” you admitted quietly. “But my parents would like it. They won’t have me marry a commoner, but… I could very well marry a knight.”

“Princess…” Every part of his soul seems to be reaching out, grasping for you. His grip tightened slightly, holding you against him as if he feared you would be ripped. His hands trembled slightly as they remained on your waist. There was a vulnerability in his eyes – a desperate need for confirmation that the words you said were real. “Do not give me hope if you plan on tearing it away. It is too cruel of you.”

“So it’s true,” you muttered. “You have feelings for me?”

“I am not brave like you,” he instead said. “I’ve been your loyal knight for years, my princess. But I couldn’t bear to make myself a liability to your heart. I couldn’t do that to you. I care what others think of me, as much as I hate it. They cannot pity me, I cannot have it so.”

You shook your head sadly. “Sir, they do not feel sorry for you. No one does, especially not me. You’ve protected me for so long, you’ve more than earned your place here by my side. This isn’t some fanciful notion born of youthful indiscretion. You and I both know that. This is a mature, considered love that, hopefully, you feel too.” Your voice cracked as you continued and tears shone in your eyes. Oh, how Azriel hated to be the one to cause you such pain. “My love for you, as you are, flaws and all, is why I adore you so deeply.”

The man couldn’t bring himself to say anything. What did one say when the love of their life confessed feelings?

You couldn’t see the way he gazed down at you, almost lovingly. You stubbornly kept your cheek on his chest, trying to minimise the way your cheeks heated up. Why wasn’t he saying anything? But you were already so far in, so you couldn’t help but whisper, “you would do most anything for me, correct, good sir?”

“Within a heartbeat.”

“Do you mind if I demand something from you?” you asked.

Azriel chuckled softly at your question, the sound rumbling through his chest where your head rested. He tilted his head curiously as his fingers traced small circles on your lower back. “What did you have in mind, my princess?” he asked, his voice low. “I'm curious now... What could possibly entice you enough to make a deal with the devil himself?” 

“Oh, the devil himself?” you repeated, shaking your head as you laughed softly. Somehow, he always managed to make you feel better, no matter the embarrassment that coursed through you. “Is that what you truly think of yourself?” You smiled up at him, not answering his question as you tried to find the courage to do so. Finally, you whispered out, “a kiss.”

Azriel's breath caught in his throat at your whispered confession. For a moment, he was stunned into silence, hardly believing what he heard. He could feel his heart skip a beat, like a leaf in the wind. You looked so small in his strong arms, so hopeful. “Is that all you would ask for?” he finally managed to ask. His wings twitched a bit.

You gave him a weak smile. “Yeah. That’s what I would demand.”

He stared down at you, taking in every detail of your face - the slight parting of your lips, the wide-eyed gaze, the flush creeping up your neck. He could feel the tension between you, thick and electric, like the air before a storm. His hand slid up your back, coming to rest at the nape of your neck. Gently, his fingers tangling in your hair. “Just a kiss,” he repeated, his voice a low rasp. “Nothing more?” 

“Ignorant knight,” you whispered out once, laughing.

“Is that still what you want?” he asked again desperately. His heart hammered in his chest so hard it made him dizzy. His eyes traced over your face over and over again. 

“Oh, Shadowsinger,” you muttered, shaking your head in amusement. You reached up and cupped his face in your palms. “Why won’t you kiss me?” You reached up on your tiptoes before slowly connecting your lips. 

Azriel had been struck by lightning. Every nerve ending in his body came alive, sending sparks of pleasure through him. He stood frozen for a heartbeat, scarcely able to believe what was happening. Then, with a low groan, he melted into the kiss. His hand came to cup your face tenderly, his thumb brushing over your cheekbone as he deepened the kiss. He poured all his pent-up longing and affection into it, trying to convey without words just how much you mean to him.

From the sheer intensity of it, your knees weakened under you, but Azriel quickly wrapped his arm around your waist to hold you securely against his chest. You tilted your head and it felt like a dream. But he didn’t need to wake up because you were real. You were there, loving him fully and kissing him sweetly.

Azriel laid in bed, body and wings curled around the smaller form. His eyes blinked slowly, gazing down reverently at the infant. The baby had small wings that were almost exact to Azriel’s own. They had made the birth difficult and Azriel had been about ready to break down the door when he heard your screams. He hadn’t been allowed in the room, even though you had begged for him. Your cries had brought him to his knees and replaced the nightmares about his past missions with ones of your sobs.

Nevertheless, you had accomplished the horrible feat and Azriel had rushed into the room. He had first checked up on you, hands and anxieties flying about, kisses being placed on the skin that he could reach. Then he saw his little son, whom he now held in his arms. 

You had recuperated over the months, but it never got old to Azriel to hold his child. It never got old to hold you either. The moment he had gotten his child in his arms, so unbelievably worried about doing harm to him as he had done harm to so many others in his past, Azriel had asked for another. 

You had almost thrown him out of the room.

That first night, Azriel had held both you and child close to his bare chest, for the midwives had said that skin-to-skin contact was best. For the next few weeks, Azriel hardly put on a shirt (which you didn’t complain about), so it got normal to see the ex-knight pressing his son against his chest as he walked around the castle, as if giving the newborn a tour. The baby’s head fit perfectly in Azriel’s palm and more often than not, he would look up at his father with wide eyes that were so much like his mother’s, reaching out to grab at Azriel’s chin or wings.

The Shadowsinger had yet to be thrust into the life of King, for your parents hadn’t passed on, but for that he was grateful. It gave him more time to spend with his wife and child.

There was the creak of a floorboard and Azriel looked up to see you entering your shared bedroom. A smile instantly broke out on his face. “There’s my wife,” he murmured, reaching out with his hand that was adorned by the perfect ring. Its twin sat on your own finger. “My princess.” The words had such a sweeter connotation now.

“Husband,” you replied, having yet to get used to that word. You took his hand, and with a smile of your own, crawled into bed next to your son. “How are my two favorite Shadowsingers doing?”

“Oh, he shall not need that title,” Azriel hummed. “It’s much too dangerous for our little boy.”

“And what would you rather propose?”

Azriel gazed down at the small child, a hand ghosting over the boy’s thick patch of dark hair. “That’s for him to decide,” he finally said. “He will be able to make his own name and title and we will love him whichever path he chooses.”

After some blissful moments passed, you allowed some words to tumble from your mouth. “Are you happy, my love?”

“Of course.” He looked up at you, concerned eyes snapping away from the babe. “Why do you ask? Do you doubt my love for you?”

You shook your head, smiling. Your voice was quiet, worried about stepping over a line. But if almost two years of marriage had taught you anything about Azriel, it was that he never held secrets from you. “No, never. I just remember how, before we were wed, you were certain that everybody pitied you. I was wondering, do you still think they do?” 

“No,” your husband replied, eyes soft as he looked over at you. “Why would they? My entire world is here with me now. I hardly need anything else.”

Thank you so much for reading! This is my first ACOTAR fic so I hope I did Azriel justice. 😊 I wanna thank @pellucid-constellations for writing amazing Azriel fics and getting me into ACOTAR in the first place and just being amazing. (Also @illyrianbitch for posting today and giving me the excitement to post for Az) 😁

[missisjoker]

Since HBO only gave us 4 minutes of Cregan Stark this season, and we likely will have to wait at least 2 years, if not all 4, to see him again, I'd like to bring to your attention some facts from canon to remind you just how BADASS canon Cregan is.

Fought his own usurper uncle for control of the North at the age of 16 and WON.

Fought the best sword of the 7 Kingdoms at that time, Dragonknight Aemon Targaryen to a DRAW and got praised by Aemon as the "finest swordsman Aemon has ever faced".

Marched South to uphold an oath he gave to a man he only saw once in his life to restore the monarchy- even though the said monarchy didn't give any help or care when his own seat was usurped by his uncle.

Installed so much fear of his own and his men's ferocity in battle in everyone south of Trident that when his main forces finally crossed the Riverlands, the Greens panicked and offed Aegon just to sue for peace.

Got pissed that by the time he reached Crownlands, the war was almost over. Took Kings Landing, wanted to go and take Castely Rock, Storm's End and Old Town (in no particular order). When Lord Tully rightfully mentioned that Cregan's men would die if he goes on to attack other kingdoms, Cregan replied " They died the day we marched, boy."

Became the Hand of the King and de-facto the ruler of the Seven Kingdoms for 2 weeks.

Dispensed judgment upon traitors, both the greens and the blacks. Hacked a few heads himself with his ancestral sword Ice, sent the rest to the Wall.

When Baela Targaryen begged him to show mercy to men who freed her from captivity, he refused. Not even the tears of a dragon could melt the frozen heart of Cregan Stark. But when lady Baela brandished a sword and declared she would cut off a head of any man who thought to harm the men who saved her, the Wolf of Winterfell smiled for all to see, and allowed that if her ladyship is so fond of those dogs, he'll permit her to keep them.

Made sure the new king is safe and sound.

Seeing that there was no Targaryen bride to take back to Winterfell to fulfill the Pact of Ice and Fire, released the Throne from the Pact and got himself a new bride.

Resigned his station and went back to the North, leaving half of his men to repopulate the South.

All of that at the ripe age of 23.

[spirit-meets-the-b0ne]

God I love Dustin Henderson so much man, I know Will is in love with Mike because only a deeply down bad homosexual would be able to say Mike “is the heart” when Dustin is alive and in the party. Dustin is the one constantly mediating in S1 between Mike and Lucas, he’s even insecure of his own newness to the group when he conciliates. Because even though the party are all HIS best friends he is able to rationalize why they might have a hierarchy based on seniority. Mike makes it clear that isn’t the case. It’s partly why Dustin is quicker to accept Eleven and partly why he’s so open to including Max “as the new kid” because that was him once. Dustin’s iconic “she’s our friend and she’s crazy!” Dustin and Lucas having parallel deviations from their code of honor in ST2 and Dustin being (so dramatic ik) literally ready to fall on the sword for his misdoings. Dustin basically involving Steve out of necessity but then cultivating that relationship to make Steve a good friend, Steve who had the shittiest friends in high school and attention for all the wrong reasons. Steve never had a true friend in his life and then some 12 year old basically gave him a crash course. In ST3 when Dustin earnestly challenges Steve’s socially conditioned need to be seen as cool only for Steve to become bffs with a band geek. A band geek who is also a lesbian that Steve would rather be seen as a rizzless hack of a womanizer than out her to anybody, even Dustin. All of Dustin and Steve. Dustin going from calling Steve a douchebag, to Eddie saying the kid worships him and thinks he’s a total badass. Dustin who in ST4 is once again demolishing social norms of high school vs middle school because FUCK, his friend is in middle school! His friend Erica, his comrade Lady Applejack, is a black girl in junior high and he dgaf what anyone thinks about it. ALL OF DUSTIN AND ERICA. Dustin teaching Erica to embrace her inner nerd, to Erica staunchly declaring “I’ve bled with him!” When asked if she knows Dustin. Dustin who is the FIRST person that Max goes to when shit hits the fan in ST4 because god damn dude Dustin is the heart. Dustin’s unwavering support of Eddie even when the evidence is stacked against him, Dustin always believed in Eddie Munson. Dustin is the only one who truly offers Wayne condolences. He is the friend of all friends. Dustin is constantly carrying the party through crisis and discomfort, he’s dedicated, he’s unabashedly caring, and he’s the character that is able to socially move across the board in every direction. I fuckin love this little curly haired drama king because these geeks would be LOST without him!!! If Dustin isn’t the heart; he’s the Central Nervous System, he’s the nucleus, he’s fucking vital to not only the party but every other tertiary character of importance. He’s constantly inspiring and providing direction. He’s a goofball, he’s wise beyond his years, he’s a lover and he’s a fighter, he always has a plan and he always has a bad idea, he’s the voice of reason and the resounding falsetto alarm of things gone wrong, he’s never done anything wrong ever in his life, one time something ate his cat but besides that. He’s my heart of the show damn it!

[hisdarlingabsurdity]

Aqua Regia

Jacaerys Velaryon x fem! Reader

Tw: HOTD content. MDNI

[Chapter 1] Chapter 2 Chapter 3

⊹ ࣪ ˖﹏𓊝﹏𓂁﹏⊹ ｡° ⚔︎｡°⊹ ࣪ ˖

Summary: Jacaerys Velaryon admired you even before he met you. Sometimes, when he and the other Targaryen kids get scolded, your name would pop up for comparison. Though perhaps there is some truth to the servant gossips about you being secretly cruel beneath your perfection. His heart soared when you first met, then fell splat into the ocean of obscurity that is you, when you proceeded to ignore him whenever there were no adults around to prompt you back into your facade.

Jacaerys Velaryon often joined in on teasing Aemond. Although of indisputable lineage Aemond was, in everyone's eyes, inferior for not having a dragon of his own, at least only in that aspect. Whispers of him being outdone even by the Strong bastards are not as hushed as they ought to be. Aemond would hear them, as would Jacaerys. Jace wanted to believe that he was not a bastard. He had a dragon, unlike his silver haired half-nephew Aemond (who is also older than him). But evidences showed otherwise. Scrutinizing looks, cruel jibes, and not-so-hushed whispers loomed over him larger than any dragon. If he was to name this feeling, he'd name it after Balerion, The Black Dread.

He liked to believe that he teased his dragonless nephew out of a sense of superiority, it sounded better than what he denies even in himself. He wanted to belong. Simple as that. He was not superior in any way, in fact if it weren't for his grandsire's blind devotion towards his only daughter from his first queen, they'd all be exiled, if not dead.

He'd joined Aegon in his teasing, glad whenever he wasn't on the receiving end as he usually is, walked with Helaena in the gardens, and had a silent truce in the library with Aemond as they would read on the same table at times. He liked to think that Aemond understood, that they were both outsiders in their own home. But they never really had that kind of conversation.

Only one of the Targaryen-Hightower siblings confused him so.

You were, to everyone, the most enigmatic. Your twin Helaena was dreamy and odd, but not threatening in any way. Your other siblings were easily predictable. One knows exactly what Aegon would pick up first on the dinner table, and how he treats the women around him. Everyone knows Helaena did not do well in social situations, preferring to be left alone with her books or with the company of her tiny many-legged friends. Aemond, who wanted to be seen as mysterious, was most predictable. One knows exactly how he would react with the many different ways to prod anger out of him.

Aegon did not care for Jacaerys nor his brothers, too busy guzzling wine and pinching servant girls. Helaena certainly did not mind them, Aemond avoided them, while the adults were plainly disgusted by their existence. You, Jacaerys decided, was a pretender. Ignoring Jacaerys even when your brothers would notice him when they were in a cordial mood but acting like you were intimate friends when there are adults watching.

Jacaerys remembers vividly, the first time he met you.

They were busy hacking at training dummies. Aegon would only swing his sword in a half-assed manner. Aemond trained hard enough for both of them, anyway. You’d just arrived from Oldtown after receiving your youngest brother Daeron who was sent to be cupbearer to some Hightower Lord and train for his knighthood, and also replace you. No one at this time knows why you chose not to stay at Oldtown, especially when multiple sources say that the Hightowers adored you. ‘A prime example of purity, modesty and piety. The Mother and The Maiden in human form.’ they’d say.

“She probably got bored of being worshipped.” Aemond once said as a jest, although the apparent envy laced thickly in his voice suggested to Jacaerys that he was not in a jesting mood at all. Servants say, you were secretly cruel beneath the perfect exterior of your facade, while others see this as farce. You were only a child, not a masterful, conniving, opportunist. It is said that you were bound to command respect and adoration. Elder twin sister of Helaena, just as beautiful and gentle, but with a firmness and coldness no one would want to receive from you. But not cruel, no, you were just a little girl after all, your mother’s daughter.

You welcomed your brothers in an embrace the moment you stepped out of the carriage. Jacaerys had never seen you before as he was born the same year as Daeron and by then, you were already sent to Oldtown. He did not know how to act. Should he greet you? Welcome you back home? Would it be impertinent of him, seeing that he was practically a stranger to you? What IF you knew him, knew him as the bastard who was stealing your elder brother’s birthright as the eldest son of the king? He expected you to turn your towards him with a sneer, maybe even a jab at his illegitimacy. ‘So this is the bastard I keep hearing about.’ He could almost hear you say.

He did not expect you to engulf him in a hug as well. “No one ever told me my nephew's an adorable one.” You laughed. He found you agreeable, warm. You ruffled his hair into a mess, commenting about how soft it was, a stark contrast with your own brothers greasy hair. He watched as your eyes flitted over to the balcony overlooking the training yard. You raise your hand to greet the king, then pushed apart Aegon and Aemond who were crowding you as you make your way to finally see your father up close.

Jacaerys was delighted at the prospect of befriending you. You were exactly as described. Beaming like a saint, bright and kind. Your voice was soothing, eyes the deepest shade of violet, silver and gold hair almost reaching the back of your knees.

Until he received from you not the warmth of building friendship, but complete disregard.

He went up to you in the library, no one else was around save you and him. He had his favorite book in his arms, eyes wide and looking up at you, as he asked if he could read by your side. He only wanted to spend time with you, maybe get to know you better. Mostly to hear your gentle voice coo at him again as you did in the training yard. But you did none of these things. You only looked down at him and gestured at a seat. He ignored the change of attitude at first, then he could not help but let his smile waver as you stood up the moment he set himself down comfortably beside you. You did not even look back as you left.

You weren’t completely ignoring his existence, nor were you pretending that you were not able to perceive him like your other siblings would often do until they got bored. You were simply tolerating him. He was confused. Had he done something to earn your scorn? Did your brothers convince you that he wasn't worth your time?

He could do nothing but watch in the distance as you laughed along with your brothers, roamed the garden with Helaena, and rode your dragon, your absurdly long hair dancing in the wind. The way you walked entranced him. Graceful but powerful, confident. When you talk, you needn't raise your voice for people to listen to you. You were almost always composed. The minutest movements controlled, facial expressions practiced. If he didn't know any better, he'd think that you were being trained to be queen. But he suspected no man here would ever approve of the queen carrying around a blade now would they?

Jacaerys was confused when you chose to ignore him in the library, then he was absolutely livid when you acted as if you've done no such thing in front of his own mother. When you finally finished with your rounds in the castle, done catching up with old friends, you finally strutted up to Rhaenyra's chamber and knocked upon her door.

He was sitting on the floor, chin propped on the couch where his mother sat, with his younger brother Lucerys reclining with his head on Rhaenyra's lap. They all stood to greet the princess, and Jacaerys observed as his mother showered this two-faced Targaryen with praises and kisses, saying she was glad for her safe return home.

Lucerys, ignorant to the feelings of his brother, leapt at the chance to make friends with this newcomer and you were absolutely smitten. Or at least that's what you wanted them to think. You acted as if you had not left Jacaerys humiliated and alone in the library. At first, Jacaerys chalked it up to exhaustion, or maybe you just weren't in the best of moods. But it wasn't the only time you'd looked down at him, blankly taking in his bright expression only to douse him in cold indifference. Now you greeted him like you were great friends, hugged his mother as if you did not despise her own sons, and played with his younger brother as if you truly adored him, like you wouldn't just ignore him when no one was looking.

Jacaerys learned to dislike you. He disliked you more than he did your own brothers because they at least made it clear that they did not care for him, whereas you would take time out of your day to act sweetly towards him only to walk past him down the corridors as if you were strangers.

He disliked you but he did not hate you. How could he, when you had such a nice disposition. You trained hard with your sword, commissioned by the King's Hand himself, surprisingly. And you had a dragon so graceful and pale that you could see the web of fiery veins in its wings, rivaling Aegon's Sunfyre in terms of beauty.

He could not possibly hate you, especially when he realized (after nights of serious contemplation) that you did not owe him friendship. It was natural for you to dislike him for reasons he himself acknowledges. You weren't a two-faced schemer who delighted in humiliating him, you were simply doing your duty as princess, by being polite and not stirring trouble for the grown ups. You ignored him yes, but also never even mentioned his questionable parentage. He also took note of the fact that your brothers never even teased him about it when you were around.

⚔️ ⋆｡°✩ ⋆ ✩ ° ｡⋆ ⚔️⚔︎⚔︎⚔️ ⋆｡°✩ ⋆ ✩ ° ｡⋆ ⚔️

Jacaerys absolutely despised the situation he was in. Aegon was much taller, older and stronger than him, he could not possibly win. Ser Harwin said he could, and he did not want to disappoint him.

When he caught your eye as you descended from the stairs to watch, he wished for respite, not just for this gruelling session in training, but this life in general. He wished for the ground to just swallow him up whole.

In the second round, he lunged first, hoping to surprise Aegon to maybe make him stumble, but the older boy only kicked him to the ground, then continuously showered upon him a barrage of blows so hard it knocked the sword off his hand. He knew his arms would be hurting after this. Then tensions arise as Ser Harwin Strong pulled Aegon off of him and called Ser Criston Cole out for playing favourites, for neglecting the Princess Rhaenyra’s sons in their training. Words were thrown about. Jacaerys hardly knew how to react, he only pulled Lucerys aside as it became apparent that blows were about to be exchanged instead of words. You stood, hands clasped behind your back, eyebrow raised as you seemingly judged these grown men struggling to contain a single furious man. Jacaerys heard you snicker when Ser Harwin successfully landed a blow on Ser Criston, knocking him to the ground.

Both men were dismissed, Ser Criston to get his wounds looked at, and Ser Harwin by his own father. You looked up at where King Viserys sat, shaking his head. You sighed, hesitating, before you decided to approach your older brother.

“That was quite a spectacle, brother.” You did not need to turn around in order to know that Jacaerys was glaring at you. But when you did, you found his glare directed at the ground instead of you. You walk towards him and Lucerys, the younger one smiling up at you, while the older brother only looked confused. You stood beside him, bringing your hands to his head, then to your own. “We are…almost the same height. I’m only half a head taller. Spar with me.” The last part you directed at your own brother.

Aegon scoffed, the corner of his lip raised in amused incredulity. “What are you on about, sister?”

“Ser Triston Pole was right. You had the advantage of height. I, myself, am learning how to wield a sword. I’d like to see how well I’d do with a taller opponent.”

Aegon glanced at the Velaryon brothers, then at you. “Right. Why exactly are you even allowed to carry around a blade with you?”

“Why, are you afraid to be bested by a much shorter opponent? Someone almost as short as the Velaryon prince. Sure I’m a little bit taller, but I’m also a girl. That should lessen your…whatever is making you hesitate to do to me the same thing you willingly did to a member of your family."

Aegon let out a laugh, although it held no amusement now. “First of all.” He shook his head. “There is a lot to digest in everything you’ve just said.”

“Perhaps you wouldn’t have problems regarding digestion if you drank less wine.”

Aegon bristled, a visible tightening in his jaw made Jacaerys nervous.

“You are absolutely right on one thing. You are a girl. And a girl has no business running around with a sword. Might cut yourself dear sister.”

You only rolled your eyes. “Queen Visenya herself used to run around with a sword. She even drew it once and slashed King Maegor across the cheek…to teach her brother a lesson.”

Aegon groaned, and pushed Aemond aside, although the boy wasn’t in his way at all. “You asked for this.” He said.

The fight made King Viserys lean towards the balcony. One might wonder why the King did not intervene and only watched as his beloved daughter took up a wooden sword against his eldest son, but one must note that the Princess might have already established a deal in order to be allowed a sword in the first place. One must also remember that it is the king's Hand, Otto Hightower himself that had a sword commissioned for the Princess, one she can wield with ease so that she could fight to defend herself. The Maiden of The Seven personified wielding a sword.

She was the one who did as Aegon had done to Jacaerys, and did not let up until Aegon was on the ground with his sword knocked out of his reach. It wasn’t a graceful fight. It included a lot of shoving, and shouting, with fiery words spat at each other. You got hit in the chin by the hilt of his wooden sword, it failed to knock you unconscious as Aegon had hoped but it did cause you to bite your tongue. You ignored the bleeding, although it unnerved you how easily he could’ve ended the fight in one blow. This only enraged you further, and the fight ended with Aegon’s defeat.

That night, you weren’t able to attend dinner, as Maesters fussed over your wound while Aegon gorged himself on your favorite food.

Back at their mother’s chambers, while waiting for their father Laenor Velaryon, Lucerys recounted what had happened on the yard that day. Jacaerys chose to keep silent, though he couldn’t help but speak up when Lucerys said something he did not agree with.

“She did it to see if she can fight someone taller than her, not to defend us or anything of the sort.”

Lucerys grimaced at him before turning to his mother. “He’s only mad because she prefers me over him.”

Jacaerys failed to suppress an absolutely offended look as his chin retracted, his eyes wide and almost bulging. “Excuse me?”

Lucerys only shrieked in glee at the bug-eyed look his brother gave him and so he did what he thought was best to do in such a situation and threw a couch pillow at Jacaerys.

Rhanyra chuckled at her sons lively energy as she grabbed Jacaerys before he could tackle Lucerys to the ground. She had been worried sick at what was bound to happen next, now that Ser Harwin Strong had snapped. Seeing her sons smile eased the heaviness in her chest.

“Honestly I’m not surprised she did that.” She simply said, more to herself than anything.

“What do you mean, mother?” Jacaerys asked.

Rhaenyra shifted, pulling at a part of her skirt that Jacaerys had sat on. “The Princess Enigmatic. She is called as such because no one ever knows what she is thinking, even what she likes, just her favorite food and even that may not even be true. At least that is what most people in the court say, even the servants.”

“I don’t understand. How can she be enigmatic? Everyone knows she is pious, devoted to The Seven. She rides her dragon a lot, she studies the histories and philosophy with disdain although she loves to read, and that she knows how to fight. That’s not so mysterious,” Jacaerys said .

Rhaneyra laughed. “She may not be a mystery to you, my dear. With such intensive knowledge about her.” Jacaerys clamped his mouth shut as his cheeks heated up.

“You see,” She continued. “Sometimes when people cannot or chooses not to understand someone, they see that person as the one at fault. The Princess is both a Hightower and a Targaryen. A dragon that people in her life have been trying to tame with the bonds of a religion she may not even truly believe in. She is called enigmatic because she adjusts herself according to the person she needs to please. And she’s learned in quite a short time how to wrap people around her fingers and how to balance the two sides of her heritage.”

She leaned close towards Jacaerys to whisper. “No one wants to say it aloud because doing so questions her devotion to The Seven, and Alicent Hightower will not have it. But you are right. People tend to exaggerate and in this case, they did so, too much to my liking. The Princess is not that much of a mystery nor does she try to pose as one. I would know. She spent more time with me than her own mother.” This she said with a bittersweet tone. “She is a wonderful girl who only wants the best for everyone, especially her twin. She is not enigmatic, she is loving.

Jacaerys looked down, deep in his thoughts, before nodding. “I understand.”

“I am glad my son chooses to observe for himself, rather than immediately believing what a person says about another.”

There was one mystery that Jacaerys wanted to be answered most. Why does she ignore him in private? His own formulated answers, although logical did not satisfy him because he cannot confirm them himself. And he did not want to ask his mother this one because it will surely make her think too much about things and might arrive at a conclusion that is far from truth. He nodded mentally at himself. Best not give his family more fuel to tease him, Lucerys was already unbearable and he won’t be able to take more without bursting into flames.

The next day, you still were not present for breakfast. Jacaerys wondered if your injuries were much more serious than he thought. For a moment, while pinching at his bread, breaking it apart and rolling it into tiny bits, he entertained the thought of visiting you. Perhaps, in the safety and privacy of your own quarters, he'd get to see the real you. He let his mind wander, daydreaming about how he'd go about asking you if he'd done anything to offend you, or if you truly were not interested in being friends with him, he'd apologize and tell you that he won't disturb you ever again. He glanced at his younger brother, Lucerys. Perhaps he could use him as an excuse to visit you. But then he won't be able to talk to you in private. He shook his head. He won't go. You were injured, he shouldn't disturb you from your rest.

For the first time that morning he raised his head, only to find that Aegon had been looking at him inquisitively. He felt his brows furrow before he could school his expression to that of indifference.

Aegon finally approached him the moment they reached a silent hall leading to where they kept the dragons. Dark stone walls seemed to be closing in, looming over him like Aegon, whose nose flared in anger, as he glared down at Jacaerys.

“Don't think you can be so smug just because of what happened yesterday.” He grabbed Jacaerys by the collar, forcing him to take a step back.

Lucerys, huffed, and without a word scampered off, running as fast as his tiny legs could carry him.

Aegon watched him go, one eyebrow raised as he snorted. “Some brother you have. What, no honor among bastards?”

Jacaerys pushed his hands off with a grunt. “Get off me!” He exclaimed.

Aegon only laughed before stepping back.

“I don't even know what you're talking about.” Jacaerys said.

“You're lucky I did not break your jaw yesterday. Though I wish I did…running around smiling like a cocky little cunt.”

“I'm not even doing anything.” Jacaerys all but shrieked.

Aegon leaned down on him, “Well, then why would my sister, of all people, humiliate me for you? To defend you?” His voice had risen at that last part, making Jacaerys flinch.

“She did no such thing. You heard her yourself, she did it because she wanted to see—”

“See if she could take on a bigger opponent, lies, fucking lies.” Aegon waving a hand furiously around, before running it through his hair.

“Me and my sister…we fight a lot. But only when she thinks I've done something wrong to Helaena, or when I said something ‘hurtful’ to Aemond, or disobeyed mother, or the Lord Hand. But you?” He chuckled. “She had no reason to start a fight over you. You deserved that beating! And it wasn't my fault you were weak. I hate it. I hate it when she looks at me with those eyes.” he'd started to rant.

“You're making things more complicated than they actually are. It was a coincidence.” Jacaerys said, almost in a pleading way, not wanting to receive a second beating.

Aegon paused from his spiel. Then, he turned towards Jacaerys once again. “She's mad at me because of you. I knew it, you've been following her around like a lost puppy, styling yourself a poor, innocent ‘little prince’ bullied for allegations about your parentage knowing her heart would be soft towards pathetic little cunts like you. I knew you'd try to latch on to her like the pest that you are. Leeching off of anyone who showed even a sliver of kindness to you.”

Aegon was screaming now, right at Jacaerys, the unmistakable stench of alcohol wafting to the younger's face, and in his fury, he shoved Jacaerys hard against the stone walls causing the younger to cry out.

“You knew how fond she was of your mother and thought to gain her affection for yourself, you thieving little shit.”

Aegon stumbled, nearly tripping over his own feet. A torrent of curses spilled from his lips before stopping abruptly. You stood, hands behind your back, face filled with utter disgust. You'd pulled the older boy off of Jacaerys without him even realizing you were there. Just how much did you hear?

Lucerys peeked at Aegon from behind you, his hands clutching at your skirt. Aegon suppressed a grimace at the sight of you shielding those two bastards from him, your own brother.

“Sister,” he exclaimed after a moment, smiling sheepishly. “I was just—” he swallowed nervously. “Doing as you said.

“Is this how a prince apologizes to a person he wronged?”

Aegon blinked, lips twitching. “You know what?” He started. “You were there yesterday, what happened was hardly my fault.”

Your glare softened. “I wasn't only referring to what happened yesterday, Aegon. But you're right. I'm going to have to discuss the matter with Ser Crispy Cone. You and I will talk later, in private. Now go, mother is looking for you.”

Aegon keeps his eyes on you without a word, before leaving. Not even sparing a glance to the younger boy he was terrorizing only moments ago.

You set your attention on Lucerys with a smile. “Thank you, Luke. For doing as I asked. Now, will you please go ahead of us and inform the maester that Jacaerys might be late for today's lesson? Just tell him the prince is with me.”

“My pleasure, princess.” Lucerys answered, too enthusiastically in Jacaerys’ opinion.

The two of you waited in silence as Lucerys’ footsteps were far enough away to be inaudible.

“My prince, you must allow me to apologize for my brother's behavior. What he has done to you is not fair. I am not talking only about yesterday, but about all of the times he hurt you.”

Jacaerys kept his eyes on the ground. “It's fine.” He said, straining to even force those words from his lips.

You approach him, slowly. “If…if he bothers you again, just tell me.”

You almost flinch as he finally looks up at you, glaring.

“Why are you still here?” He asks.

You knew why he asked such a thing, but you kept silent, sensing that he had more to say.

“No one is looking, Princess. Don't waste your time pretending to be cordial with me. So why, if I may ask, is the princess suddenly interested in my own affairs?”

You shook your head. “I am not ‘suddenly’ interested, I—” You caught yourself. You looked away, hesitating.

“It is understandable for you to hold contempt over me.” You said. “I've deliberately played with your feelings. I knew you wanted to be friends with me, at first. I couldn't help it, you see. Watching you become sullen everytime you are rejected is quite entertaining.”

Jacaerys took a deep breath, feeling the air he breathed fill his lungs, hoping the pressure would dull the ache in his chest as you smiled down at him. You were a sadist, he thought.

“But, really. I did it for you.”

He frowned, before giving you an incredulous look. Whatever excuse you would conjure to justify your actions, he was determined to shoot down.

“To openly express my fondness for my nephews will only give my brothers more reason to make your life a living hell. I had to ignore you and only acknowledge your presence when needed. Look at how my brother reacted when I defended you, for the first time, might I add.”

“Do not make it seem like you had no choice, you said so yourself that you found amusement in rejecting me, humiliating me.”

You paused as you listened, noticing his voice become heavy the more he bared to you with his feelings and thoughts, the direct consequences of your actions.

“What else could I have done but indulge my ego, seeing someone desire my friendship so desperately.”

“I was not desperate—”

“Like I said, prince. Indulgence. You'd be surprised at how often I decide to convince myself that I feel a certain way just to not feel disappointment at my own actions. I hurt you on purpose and you have no idea what your visible disappointment does to me. No idea that every time I have to keep myself from spoiling you with gifts and affection I die inside. And I have never, ever wanted to keep someone looking up to me as you do. Your family, I value. The way you see me, I wanted to keep pristine. I hold your whole family in high regard.” You paused, catching your breath and willing yourself to keep your voice level.

“I received so many ravens, read so many instances that my brothers gleefully reported to me, informing me of every cruel thing they did, and said to you. And when I arrived, you were nothing but a sweet, little thing. So I did my best to educate my brothers. Mother says it is not my duty to stop them from treating you and your brother the way they do but this isn't about duty. This is about family.”

You leaned down to his level to look at him straight in the eye and you knew he wanted to understand you.

“Now I know that it was a waste of effort. I should not have pretended to be indifferent when I was anything but. I will no longer play pretend with my brothers, and you. If you will let me. I am truly sorry, for treating you as I did. I was eager to be friends with you, just as I am friends with your mother. But my love for the princess Rhaenyra is…easily explained. She taught me everything I know, spent more time with me than my own mother. But to be friends with you—”

“With bastards, you mean.” Jacaerys cuts her off before he could stop himself, his emotions had loosened his tongue. A mistake one cannot truly blame a child for, even if his upbringing should have trained him in the art of rhetorics.”Allegedly,” he stammered.

“With the heirs that pushed my own brothers down the line of succession.” You clarified. Then with a shrug you added. “I care not about who gets to sit on the iron throne. I’ve no desire to worry needlessly about things I cannot control. But I still care for the people I love and I will protect them as best I can. I wish everyone cared less about it. Especially my family. My mother is convinced that Rhaenyra would immediately put us all to the sword without asking us to bend the knee to be spared. Makes me wonder if they ever were friends. But I digress.”

You paused, scanning Jacaerys’ face.

“Evidently, you are a smart boy. You see, my brothers need not be protective of Helaena, she’s rarely interested in anything other than books and bugs. They need not be protective of me either, I saw to that myself, but I know them. They’d jump at any chance to pummel you to the ground. Aegon literally nearly pummeled me to the ground when I confronted him about what he’d done to you. Granted, I all but asked for it.”

“What happened yesterday, I do not understand why you did such a thing, what point you were trying to make. Did you really just want to see how you’d do with a bigger opponent?”

You smiled as you leaned back. “Like I said back then, I wanted to teach him a lesson. I did not find it necessary for him to be so harsh to you. I mostly blame Cone, even though that may be a bit foolish of me, I still do. I'll have a talk with that man. You know, I only knew him for a couple of days and I already know he’s good at riling people up, shoving sticks up their arses so he wouldn’t be alone in being a bitter, bitter man.”

Jacaerys let out a burst of giggles, before clasping a hand on his mouth to muffle it. You laughed then, realizing that you spoke too freely.

“Forgive me, little prince. I should not have spoken so bluntly.”

“I think that was more than just blunt.” He whispered.

“Well, I won’t get in trouble if you tell no one.”

Jacaerys nodded. His earlier apprehensions vanished into thin air. “I, too, find Ser Criston Cole foul.”

You shook your head, giggling. “He is fetid, reeking of rotten self-righteousness.”

He pushed himself off the wall now, no longer shrinking into himself, eyes bright in mischief. “He is a repulsive git, a snake and a bad influence. He’s like a character in a novel where the author obviously set him up as this man that we’re supposed to root for, complete with a humble and tragic backstory, but instead just makes the readers pull out their hairs in frustration everytime he so much as opens his stinking mouth.”

You clutched at your belly, bursting into laughter. At that time. Both of you were thinking the same thing. ‘We should have done this sooner.’

Next chapter preview:

“Oh please.” Aegon scoffed, waving your words away. “Give it time, let them grow a little, puberty will do its job and show you their true colours. Seven Hells, I bet Jacaerys’s been wanking his tiny little cock to you at night,” he said, gesturing his closed fist back and forth.

Seething, you marched towards Aegon, intent on wiping the smirk off his face.

A/N: this fic will have three chapters, each one will be abt the development of their relationship during three different phases. Currently writing the next part. There will be smut so MDNI!!!

Might make this a "fix it fic" to change stuff like betrothal stuff and the you-know-what which happened in the books. So no Sara Snow here, if anything, I doubt she exists but I do wish she does so Cregan's not so alone, you know? If she does exist then I hope the show treats her well instead of just a random hookup episode like Mushroom made of her.

[novaursa]

Legacy (the last enemy)

- Summary: Tywin was the man who saved you from Robert's wrath. He was also the man who doomed you.

- Pairing: targ!reader/Tywin Lannister

- Rating: Explicit 18+ (descriptions of blood, gore, violence and death)

- Previous part: the great war

- Next part: daybreak

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @oxymakestheworldgoround @luniaxi @alkadri-layal @butterflygxril @urdxrling

The walls trembled with the force of the onslaught.

Tywin stood firm, his golden armor dusted with soot, his crimson cloak billowing as he surveyed the carnage unfolding before him. The dead had come in numbers beyond reckoning, their skeletal fingers and frozen flesh clawing up the steep cliffs and battering the gates.

The ramparts were slick with blackened blood, as the men of the Westerlands fought tooth and nail, driving back wave after wave of the relentless undead. Arrows laced with dragonglass pierced the skulls of wights, sending them crumbling into the masses below. Boiling oil and flaming pitch rained down, setting the battlefield ablaze, yet still they came.

On the eastern wall, Kevan Lannister parried a strike, his sword cutting clean through the rotted flesh of a wight, sending its head tumbling to the ground. Behind him, one of the younger knights—Ser Andros Lefford—gasped out, “They don’t stop! Gods, they don’t—” before an icy blade pierced his throat, silencing him instantly.

Kevan whirled, his blade lashing out and taking the wight’s arm off at the elbow, but the creature did not falter. It lunged at him with unnatural speed, its hollow eyes fixed in hunger, until one of Thoros’ men brought an axe crashing down onto its skull, splitting it in two.

Kevan turned, panting, his breath misting in the frigid air. He locked eyes with his brother, standing atop the main gate, his gaze like steel.

“They’re wearing us down,” Kevan called up, his voice hoarse. "The men grow tired."

Tywin did not move, his expression unreadable as he watched another section of the wall collapse under the weight of the dead.

A horn sounded, deep and ominous.

One of the bannermen, Lord Crakehall, staggered toward him, his face pale beneath the grime and sweat. “My Lord… we can’t hold forever.”

Tywin finally turned to him, his voice as cold as the air that surrounded them. “Then we hold as long as we can.”

Crakehall swallowed, looking as if he wanted to argue, but there was no point. They had been fighting for hours, the sky above them a void of endless black, the air thick with the stench of death and burning flesh.

Below, Arraxes stirred from the mines, his blood-red eyes flashing in the darkness. The young dragon let out a guttural growl, the deep rumble shaking the ground, but he did not leave his lair. The battle raged around him, but he had yet to take flight.

Kevan turned his head, wiping sweat and grime from his brow. "Why didn't she return?"

Tywin did not answer.

The question had gnawed at him for hours. Where was she? His wife, his dragon-rider lady, the only woman to ever unravel the cold fortress of his heart. She had promised to return, to bring fire and death upon the enemy before they reached the gates.

But she was not here.

The walls shuddered as another siege ladder slammed into place, the undead swarming up like insects, their fingers clawing and scraping at the stones. The men on the ramparts hacked and slashed, their muscles burning, their blades growing dull from overuse.

A scream rang out as a wight ripped a man’s throat out with its bare hands, sending him toppling over the wall, his lifeblood spilling into the darkness.

Tywin clenched his jaw. This could not go on.

He turned abruptly to Thoros of Myr, whose sword still burned with divine fire, carving through wights like parchment. "Tell me, Red Priest," Tywin said, his voice dangerously low, "where is your Lord of Light now?"

Thoros paused only briefly, his expression unreadable as he swung his blade, sending another wight screaming into oblivion. “He watches, my Lord. The question is—what will we do before he acts?”

Tywin narrowed his gaze.

A decision needed to be made. A desperate one.

He turned to his commander. “Pull the men back from the eastern gate. Draw them inward.”

Kevan’s brow furrowed. “You mean to let them through?”

“I mean to burn them all.”

Crakehall exhaled sharply, but he did not argue.

The new plan was in motion.

From the mines below, the ground shook as Arraxes let out a low snarl, sensing what was to come.

Tywin’s eyes remained locked on the endless horde, as they crawled and surged toward him.

The iron gates groaned as they swung open, and the dead poured in like a flood, their hollow eyes fixed on the living flesh that awaited them.

Tywin stood motionless, his green eyes cold and sharp, watching the monstrous tide surge forward. The plan was in motion—the courtyard would become their pyre.

Yet, as the first wights crossed the stone threshold, something shifted.

A sudden stillness gripped the air, a heavy pause like the moment before a storm.

The wights that had rushed forward now froze mid-step, their heads twitching unnaturally, their jaws clicking, the ice inside them humming with something unknown, something ancient.

The soldiers on the battlements who had been ready to drop torches and fire hesitated, looking down with wide, confused eyes as their undead foes stood eerily still.

Then, the air itself changed.

A deep, guttural growl resonated through the stone walls, a sound that was older than men, older than the kingdom itself. It rolled through the courtyard like thunder, a vibrating tremor born of rage.

Tywin’s breath hitched as the shadows beneath the castle moved.

Then he saw them—two massive, blood-red eyes, glowing like molten embers, emerging from the darkness of the mines beneath Casterly Rock.

A monstrous black form slithered forward, slow and deliberate, the torchlight flickering against his onyx scales, his long, serpentine body shifting with the grace of a shadow given flesh.

Arraxes.

The young dragon, no longer a hatchling, no longer a beast confined to the earth, but a living, breathing instrument of war.

The wights turned toward him, their heads twitching, their limbs jerking in response to something unseen, something ancient. The magic that bound them quivered, as if some primordial force had just been awakened.

Then Arraxes roared.

A great explosion of sound, a maelstrom of fury, the sheer force of it shaking the very stones beneath them.

And the dead began to scream.

The battlements erupted with shouts as Tywin’s men bellowed their battle cry, calling to the beast below.

“Burn them! Burn them all!”

The courtyard ignited in chaos, as Arraxes lunged forward, his jaws unhinging, his throat glowing with a furious crimson fire.

The wights moved, some clawing toward him, others stumbling back, but it was too late—

A torrent of flame erupted from Arraxes’ maw, a wave of fire so intense that the very air warped and twisted, a golden-red inferno consuming the creatures whole.

The wights burned instantly, their screeches echoing across the walls, their bodies crumbling into charred, lifeless husks.

Tywin had seen fire before. He had commanded it, wielded it like a weapon in his long reign of war.

But this…

This was something else.

This was vengeance made flesh.

Then, another roar split the sky.

A sound Tywin knew.

His head snapped upward just as a massive cream shape came plummeting down from the heavens, the force of its arrival causing the air to tremble, the winds to shift.

A torrent of pale gold fire rained down, engulfing the northern side of the battlefield, sending entire waves of wights into oblivion.

And there you were.

High above the Rock, mounted upon the beast of war itself—Viserion.

Tywin's breath left him, his mind snapping to realization.

You had returned.

The battlements erupted in a chorus of relief and war cries, the soldiers shouting your name, their voices melding with the roar of battle.

And as the golden dragon leveled her wings, as Arraxes lifted his head to the sky, something stirred in the distance.

A new sound.

A new force.

Tywin turned sharply, and in the distance, beyond the burning wights, beyond the chaos of battle, he saw it.

An army.

But not of the dead.

Not of wights.

Not of nightmares.

A host of living men, clad in steel and leather, banners whipping in the wind.

And at their head—

Jon Snow.

A second front had arrived.

And the true battle for Westeros had begun.

Jon gripped the hilt of Longclaw tightly, his breath coming in quick, visible bursts as his army pressed forward into the abyss of war. The ground beneath them was slick with ice and blood, the scent of rot and death so thick in the air that it clawed at his throat. The sky overhead remained an endless stretch of darkness, no moon, no stars—only the cold void of an unnatural winter that had swallowed the world whole.

Then, they came.

At first, it was just a whispering sound, the unnatural scrape of bone against steel, the mindless hissing of wights as they sensed fresh flesh, their movements jerky, broken, and yet disturbingly fast. Then the horizon erupted with motion, a tsunami of the dead rushing forward, wights bounding across the ice, climbing over one another, their jaws snapping, their dead eyes fixed upon the living.

“Shields up!” Jon roared, and the Northern front braced itself, shields locking into place, spears lowered.

The first impact was brutal. The wights threw themselves against the shield wall with mindless ferocity, their rotting hands clawing, scratching, tearing at anything they could reach. Steel sang, blades cleaved through frozen flesh, and the battle dissolved into a chaotic storm of bodies and blood.

Jon struck down one wight, then another, his movements swift, practiced, each strike of Longclaw sending the creatures collapsing into lifeless heaps. Beside him, Tormund swung his axe, cutting through the onslaught with savage force.

“They just keep coming!” Tormund bellowed, smashing the brittle skull of a wight beneath his boot.

Jon didn’t respond—because he had already sensed it.

Something else was coming.

A new sound broke through the howling storm of battle—a deep, guttural clicking noise, something alien, something far more sinister.

Jon turned just in time to see them emerge from the darkness.

Tall, lithe, and eerily graceful, the Others strode through the battlefield like specters from a nightmare. Their armor gleamed like ice, reflecting the dim light of distant flames, their eyes glowed an unnatural blue, piercing, unfeeling. Each carried a blade of frozen death, their weapons forged from the very essence of the Long Night itself.

The wights parted for them, shifting and retreating as the Others advanced, their movements calculated, elegant, lethal.

Jon’s stomach twisted into a knot. He had seen what their blades could do, how they could shatter steel, slice through flesh effortlessly, how they left no wound that could heal.

“Steady!” Jon called to his men.

Then—a new horror.

The ground trembled, a deep, unsettling quake that rippled through the ice. From the shadows beyond the fray, massive dark shapes skittered forward—their long, spindly legs moving with unnatural speed, their mandibles clicking, their icy exoskeletons gleaming like frozen obsidian.

Spiders.

But not just any spiders.

These were the legends given flesh, the beasts of Old Nan’s stories, the terrible nightmares that haunted the North for thousands of years—the Cold God’s children.

Their eyes burned with the same eerie glow as their masters, their limbs moving like streaks of black lightning, their webbing a frozen death trap that could ensnare even the strongest warriors.

The Northern lines buckled as the first wave of monstrous arachnids lunged forward, their legs piercing armor, their fangs tearing into flesh.

Jon ducked as one leapt toward him, its monstrous body blocking out the battlefield behind it. He rolled, barely avoiding its deadly strike, before bringing Longclaw down in a powerful arc. The Valyrian steel bit deep, slicing through chitinous flesh, sending the beast screeching in agony before it collapsed in a heap of twitching limbs.

Davos plunged his sword into another, while Tormund hacked off its legs, laughing like a madman drenched in blood.

“What in all the hells are these?!” Davos shouted, his sword slipping on the frozen exoskeleton of another spider.

Jon had no answer, only the grim realization that this was not just an army—it was a nightmare made real.

Then, a shadow passed over them.

Jon looked up just in time to see a torrent of pale-gold fire erupt from the sky, the flames licking across the battlefield, igniting the wights, turning the monstrous spiders into charred husks of burning legs and blackened corpses.

The air shook with the roar of a dragon, and Jon’s heart leapt into his throat.

Viserion.

And not alone.

The ground shook again, but this time it was not the dead that trembled. Another roar joined the first, a deep, furious sound, one that made the very air vibrate with heat and fury.

From the darkness of the battlefield, another form streaked through the sky, its wings massive, its eyes burning like molten rubies.

Arraxes.

The dragons dove together, their fire cascading down upon the battlefield, their fury unleashed upon the cold horrors below.

The Northern men roared in defiance, emboldened by the sight, their swords cutting through the wights with renewed strength, their resolve hardening in the face of the impossible.

Jon gritted his teeth, the flames illuminating the battlefield, casting the Others in stark relief.

For the first time, they hesitated.

For the first time, they looked up.

The chamber was deep within the heart of Casterly Rock, carved into the very stone that had been home to House Lannister for centuries. The thick, ancient walls muffled the sounds of battle from the world outside, but Damon and Maelor could still feel the tremors, the distant thunder of war pounding at the gates of their sanctuary.

Damon sat near the heavy oaken table, his fingers clenching the fabric of his tunic as he stared at the flickering candlelight. He knew, even without seeing it, that his father was somewhere on the walls, that his mother was up there in the sky, and that death was coming for them all.

Maelor was sitting on the floor by the hearth, his small hands clenched around the wooden lion figurine that had been gifted to him long ago. He was still too young to understand the full scope of what was happening, but he understood enough—the fear in the guards' eyes, the way the castle had gone deathly quiet despite the howling wind outside, the way everyone was whispering prayers to gods he had never truly known.

Across the chamber, Ser Barristan Selmy stood watch, his hand resting lightly on the hilt of his sword, his sharp gaze sweeping over the room like that of a lion ready to pounce at the first sign of danger. He had seen countless battles, served countless kings and queens, but nothing could have prepared him for this.

“It’s too quiet,” Damon muttered, breaking the silence.

Barristan turned his head slightly, his expression unreadable. “The worst storms are always silent before they strike.”

Damon swallowed hard. He had never been a coward, but right now, all he could think about was his mother and father, out there in the midst of it all, facing things that should not exist.

“Do you think they’ll win?” Maelor’s voice was soft, hesitant, as he looked up from his lion figurine. His large eyes flickered with worry.

Barristan sighed, stepping forward, his armor glinting in the dim torchlight. “Your parents are strong, your father is the greatest commander Westeros has seen in a century, and your mother has fire in her blood.” He kneeled before Maelor, his voice gentle but firm. “But wars are never certain, young prince. We must be ready for anything.”

Damon exhaled, his hands tightening into fists. He was seven, nearly eight, not a child anymore, not a babe to be coddled. “I should be out there.”

Barristan arched a brow. “And what would you do? Swing a wooden sword at the dead? The battlefield is no place for you yet. You will have your time, but not now.”

Damon bristled, but he knew Barristan was right. He had tried to claim Arraxes, tried to prove himself worthy of a dragon, and he had failed. The pain of that rejection still burned just as deeply as the scars the dragon had left on him.

Maelor, still holding his wooden lion, suddenly whispered, “They won’t let them take us, will they? The monsters?”

Barristan stood, his shoulders straight as a steel blade, and placed a hand on the pommel of his sword. “Not while I still draw breath. Not while your father still stands. And certainly not while your mother flies above us.”

The young prince nodded but said nothing more.

Damon’s thoughts drifted to the sky, wondering if his mother was still flying with Viserion and Arraxes, wondering if his father was still standing atop the battlements, staring down the army of the dead with that cold, unshakable gaze of his.

The castle trembled again, and from beyond the stone walls, a distant, bone-chilling shriek echoed through the corridors.

The sky above Casterly Rock had never seen a storm like this before. Not a storm of wind and rain, but one of fire and ice, of death and war, raging in the heavens like the battle of gods. The once-imposing sky, veiled in an unnatural darkness, was torn apart by flames, illuminating the battlefield below in flickering shades of gold and blue.

Tywin Lannister stood atop the ramparts, his eyes lifted to the heavens where you and your dragon fought against something beyond the comprehension of men. Around him, his men held their breath, frozen in place, momentarily captivated by the spectacle of beasts clashing in the sky. Even hardened soldiers, men who had fought in countless wars, who had carved their legacies in blood and steel, could only watch in stunned horror.

High above them, Viserion roared, her body twisting through the air as she clashed against an abomination that should not exist. The Night King’s dragon, a monstrous corpse of ice and death, let out a horrific, piercing shriek that shattered the sky, the sound echoing over the battlefield like the wail of a dying world.

You sat firmly in Viserion’s saddle, your breath fogging in the unnatural cold that radiated from your foe. You clutched the reins, your body taut with focus, the very air around you biting like a blade as you commanded your dragon to strike. The Lannister-forged armor that encased Viserion’s powerful body gleamed in the flickering light, its crimson and gold etchings striking a stark contrast against the swirling darkness around you. The lion’s sigil had been carefully engraved along the armored plating on her neck and flanks, a lion riding a dragon into war.

“Dracarys!” you roared, and Viserion obeyed, unleashing a torrent of pale golden fire, so hot it burned white at the center, cascading toward the ice dragon.

But the Night King did not flinch. He did not recoil, nor did he flee. Instead, he raised a single, frozen hand, and the fire sputtered, struggling against the unnatural cold that surrounded him. The flames licked against the ice dragon’s hide, but it did not burn—it resisted, as if flame itself could be turned to frost.

“What in the Seven Hells is that thing?” one of Tywin’s bannermen whispered, his voice trembling.

Tywin did not answer. He merely watched, his jaw tightening, his knuckles white as he gripped the hilt of his sword. You were up there, fighting a battle that no warlord, no king, no conqueror had ever prepared for.

Then, Viserion and the ice dragon collided.

The impact was like a thunderclap, two great titans crashing into one another with enough force to shake the very heavens. Viserion clawed and bit, her jaws snapping at the cold, lifeless flesh of her foe, but the ice dragon retaliated with brutal swipes of its frozen talons, gouging deep into Viserion’s armored flank.

You barely held on, your fingers gripping the saddle tightly as Viserion roared in pain, her body lurching violently. You felt the deep, aching wound through your bond, a searing pain that made your stomach churn.

“Fall back! Defend the gates!” Tywin’s command snapped through the frozen air, dragging his men’s attention back to the war that still raged around them. The dead had not stopped their assault, and now they came harder, faster, as if driven by the presence of their king.

The gates of Casterly Rock trembled, the undead hordes hammering against them like waves crashing against a cliff. Pale, lifeless hands reached over the battlements, grasping, clawing, pulling themselves up. Men screamed as they were dragged over the edge, their armor useless against the sheer numbers of the dead.

A wight lunged toward Tywin, its hollow, frozen eyes locked onto him, its mouth twisted into something like a grin. But Tywin did not hesitate—his sword flashed through the darkness, severing its head in one clean stroke.

The ground beneath them shook again, this time from above.

Tywin looked up just in time to see Viserion twisting through the air, flames and ice clashing as the battle raged on. The Night King’s dragon spewed an unholy breath of frost, a bitter, freezing wind that turned fire to mist and ice to jagged spears.

Viserion barely evaded, but the attack struck her wing, and a section of it stiffened, turning to frost-bitten crystal. You gasped, feeling the numbness through your bond, and you urged your dragon onward, higher, away from the deadly grasp of the Night King.

But the Night King did not let up. He lifted his spear—a javelin of pure ice, the same weapon that had felled a dragon before. He pulled back, his inhuman face emotionless, his piercing blue gaze locked onto you and Viserion.

Tywin saw it before it happened.

“No—!”

The Night King threw his spear.

Time slowed.

You saw it slicing through the air, its tip glinting like death itself, aimed straight for your dragon’s heart.

And then—

A blur.

Arraxes.

The young dragon—smaller, but faster—swooped in from below, his scarlet eyes burning like fire itself, his wings folding in just as the spear struck him instead.

The impact was instantaneous. The ice spear pierced through Arraxes’ chest, and for a moment, the world stopped. The young dragon let out a piercing wail, one that rattled the very bones of the earth, and then he fell—spiraling downward, blood and frost spilling into the endless night.

Your scream split the heavens.

Tywin watched in horror as Arraxes plummeted, his body twisting, his wings faltering, his onyx and crimson scales gleaming even as death claimed him midair.

But there was no time to grieve.

Viserion roared in fury, and you clutched the saddle, your mind burning with rage and sorrow. The Night King had taken something from you, and you would make sure he burned for it.

As the battle raged below, as the dead swarmed the gates, as Tywin and his men fought for their very lives, you turned Viserion toward the Night King once more.

And this time, you would not hold back.

The sky burned, and yet the cold never ceased.

You gritted your teeth, feeling the throbbing pain in your head, your body weighed down by the sheer exhaustion of battle. Viserion’s breath came ragged, her golden armor dented and scratched, dark stains of blood marking the spots where the ice dragon had struck her. You could feel her rage, her pain, the way her body ached but refused to yield.

And Arraxes was gone.

The young dragon had fallen to the depths, his lifeblood spilling like a comet through the darkened sky, but you had no time to weep, no time to scream. The Night King was still standing, still riding his monstrous undead dragon, its hollow, soulless eyes staring at you with an unnatural hunger.

“Fly, my love, fly!” you urged, gripping the reins tighter as Viserion roared, banking hard to avoid another ice spear forming in the Night King’s grasp.

Below, Casterly Rock was drenched in battle, the flames of Viserion’s earlier attacks still licking at the swarming masses of undead. But even dragonfire wasn’t enough—their numbers were endless, waves upon waves of the dead still climbing the walls, forcing the gates, their pale, rotten hands clawing at every living thing they could reach.

And at the very heart of the chaos, Tywin Lannister watched you fight a war in the sky that no army could reach.

“My lord, there is nothing we can do—” one of his knights began, but Tywin silenced him with a look sharp enough to cut steel.

His hands were clenched into fists. His breath came short and cold, not from fear, but from fury. He had fought wars his entire life, built a legacy of order and control, and yet here he stood, watching as his wife fought a battle he could not reach, one that no Lannister steel nor Westerland army could touch.

His teeth clenched as he turned sharply, barking an order:

“Bring me my horse.”

There was a pause, a moment of disbelief.

Kevan took a step forward, his brow furrowing. “Tywin, what are you—”

“Bring. Me. My. Horse.”

“You can’t help her!” Kevan snapped, frustration flaring in his voice. “She is up there, fighting a dragon, fighting something that isn’t even human! How do you plan to—”

“I will not stand here while my wife fights alone.”

His words were steel, unyielding, absolute, the kind that left no room for further argument.

A heavy silence fell upon the men around him, all of them watching the great Tywin Lannister, the man who never acted without cold calculation, now mounting a horse in the middle of an impossible battle.

It was Beric Dondarrion who finally spoke, his voice grim, but resolute.

“We’ll ride with you.”

Kevan turned his glare toward the men of the Brotherhood Without Banners. “Are you mad? This is suicide!”

Beric merely smiled, a dry, weary expression. “Death is not as permanent as you might think, my lord. And besides—someone has to watch the Lion of Lannister charge into a storm. A tale worth remembering.”

Thoros of Myr grunted, pulling himself onto his own mount, the light of his flaming sword casting eerie shadows over the blood-stained snow.

“Let it be known that Lannisters are as mad as Targaryens.”

Tywin said nothing. He merely kicked his horse forward, his cloak trailing behind him as he led the charge into the chaos.

You could feel Viserion’s wings weakening, the frost slowly creeping into her bones from the wounds she had taken. Every beat of her wings was a desperate, furious fight against the cold trying to steal her from the sky.

But the Night King did not tire.

His lifeless blue eyes locked onto you, and his dragon—a decayed, twisted horror of what once was a great beast—let out a breath of pure death.

A spear of ice formed once more in his grasp, and this time, you could feel the inevitability in the air.

Viserion was struggling.

Your body ached.

The Night King would strike again, and this time, he would not miss.

But then—

Something below shattered the battlefield.

A golden standard, burning against the night, moving through the horde of undead like a specter of defiance.

Tywin.

You almost did not believe it. He was down there, riding into the fray, sword in hand, cutting down wights and monsters alike, his men charging behind him with flaming swords and shields raised high.

“Seven hells, what is he doing?!”

Viserion stirred beneath you, her own fire igniting in response. She had always been protective, always watched over the man who had claimed you as his, and now he had charged into a battle he could not win—for you.

For you and your children.

The Night King turned his head, his gaze flickering toward the movement below.

A mistake.

“Now!” you screamed, and Viserion answered.

With every last ounce of her strength, she roared, diving toward the Night King’s exposed flank, golden fire surging from her jaws just as the sky erupted with flame and steel below.

Tywin’s men fought harder, their leader at the very front, cutting through the waves of the dead as Viserion and her rider struck the heavens like vengeful gods.

And finally—finally—the Night King faltered.

[phas3d]

Roblox W/ Them || Slytherin Boys

type :: fluff

tw/cw :: doxxing, bullying,

contains :: draco, tom, mattheo, theodore, lorenzo

summary :: how they play roblox because no way they don't play 🐍 :: masterlist!

DRACO MALFOY

Grinds the shit out of every game he plays

He cannot enjoy a single game if he doesn't become rank 1 for at least one week

Really likes roleplay fighting games for some reason

Like Bloxy Fruit and stuff

Definitely wastes a ton of money on Robux and stupid stuff

He doesn't care that it's cheating, it lets him become #1 way faster

Doesn't really like tycoons and slow games

If he can't brag, how can he show off?

His character is SOOO try hard omfg

He definitely dresses in all black

1000% HAS RAGED AND BROKE HIS TABLE

Bought a new table after and took a break from Roblox for a week

TOM RIDDLE

Plays old people games like a grandpa

A fucking beast at Bingo

Even though it's completely luck base, he wins 9/10 times

Always has like 6+ bingo cards and can easily keep up with it

Plays tycoons every once in a while

But he likes the ones where you just press a button and it's auto built, doesn't like building stuff on his own

Like, he hates restaurant tycoon and rollercoaster tycoon

Never ever spends his money on Robux, he thinks it’s cheating

His avatar is the default one too with maybe some clothes he unlocked

Bullies the shit out of little kids on roblox for no damn reason

He could have 15 missing assignments and still find time to log on and dox some 12 year old

Whenever someone beats him at Bingo he finds their mom and dad's name and then private chat's them it

Takes everything so deep for no reason

Get this man to try weed or smth man he needs a new hobby

MATTHEO RIDDLE

This man has tried every single genre of games and has beaten almost everything

He's who Draco wants to be

Definitely spent way too much money on Robux for no reason

He has the headless stuff and almost every rare item ever

Has like 20k followers as well for some reason

Grinding never stops so he literally STOLE someone's house elf and makes the elf play Roblox all day

But the elf actually likes it and has fun playing it :) So it's cute

He ends up sharing his account with the elf and they become kinda like besties, but more so Matt sees him as a little brother

1000% like Tom he bullies little kids

He insults people's outfits, rates their little drawings and outfits super low, and straight up annoys them in any form possible

Sometimes he joins tycoons that have swords, doesn't even start his own tycoon, and just uses robux to get a sword and kill people

His daily mission is to annoy as many people as possible

Even worse is that he's not scared of getting hacked or doxxed because Tom made SURE that would never happen

Sometimes Matt even joins Tom's boring games but he leaves mid way cause he starts to fall asleep

Super fun to play with and will carry you 100%

THEODORE NOTT

This man, oh my god this man is so guilty of so much

He's one of those people who pretend to be a different gender online for benefits LOL

But not people he actually is transgender or nonbinary, but because he wants to do girly things without being judged

Always plays fashion games and WINS?!???

Even when the votes are super duper rigged, he always wins in the end

Plays a bunch of family roleplay games too as a mother of like 5 kids

Starts fake drama for fun, like favoriting one kid but ignore the other

OR he plays as a teenage girl and runs away LMAO

But his favorite game is definately Total Drama Island

This man will stay on the game for like 2 hours just to win

Super good at parkour and aim since he also plays shooting games besides Roblox, like Apex and Valorant (ewwww)

When he plays with the guys, they mock him for his girly ass avatar but he doesn't care at all

LORENZO BERKSHIRE

Likes more calm games but is up to anything

Grinds tycoons a lot, like resturant tycoon and rollarcoaster tycoon

Sometimes he plays with Mattheo but they're so different

Matt finishes his level in like 2 mintues and Enzo takes an hour

Sucks at parkour, avoids it like the plague

Super bad aim as well, literally dies first every time

He likes playing with Theo a lot more since they can vibe and play a chill game

He really likes story tell games too which is fun

LOVES the games that aren't super roblox-y which is kinda cheating

Like he used to play the old Roblox Pokemon game daily until it got shut down :(

Plays those family games too like Bloxsburg and stuff

Is actually a good kid

BUT,,, he has his name has "Enzo (17) Cute, Smart, 6 feet tall, athletic, depressed"

thank you for reading ! 🐍 :: masterlist!

[riordanness]

pick up lines - [p.jackson]

pairing: percy jackson x reader

wordcount: 1.4K

warnings: none

I hated waking up.

Not that sleeping was particularly amazing, being a demigod and all, but waking up really sucked. I'd been resting peacefully (not), when I was rudely shaken from my sleep by the breakfast bell.

Unfortunately, I had never been an early riser, so most mornings, there was a mad rush, involving a lot of mess, losing everything I needed, and desperately trying, (and failing) to clean up my cabin before inspection, which was right after breakfast.

I was generally the one who had the messiest cabin during inspection.

I finally was dressed in jeans and an orange Camp Half-Blood shirt, with my h/c hair pulled away from my face. Then, I ran to the dining pavilion.

I was a daughter of Demeter, the plant goddess. Yeah, I'm sure most of you are thinking: Oh, wow, plants... But seriously, it's kinda cool. I do have some pretty sweet powers. I can grow any plants from practically nothing, control plants and stuff, and sense things in the earth. I can even use plants to travel instantly from one place to another, by just hopping through the trees, or seeds, or flowers, or weeds, or . . . whatever.

I slipped into my seat next to Katie Gardner, my elder sister. She was the counsellor for Cabin Demeter. Katie was super nice, but she was always busy at the moment, mostly hanging out with her new boyfriend, Travis Stoll, Son of Hermes.

"You slept in again," Katie whispered to me, trying, and failing epically, to hide her laughter. "We thought it was best not to try and wake you."

That was probably smart. If someone woke me up, they'd most likely leave that situation with a black eye and seeds growing in their skin. I can be fairly lethal when I want to be.

"I stated up too late again last night," I said back, my voice also low. I didn't like when other kids were listening in on my conversations, especially those Hermes kids.

"Doing what?" Katie smirked, like she knew something I didn't.

"Um..." What was I doing? Hanging out with my best friend of course. Who also happened to be the cutest and most popular guy at camp. The only current Son of Posiedon. Percy Jackson.

"I was with Percy, at the beach. We were finding lost starfish and chucking them back in the water..." My voice faltered. I wasn't good at lying. 'At the beach' was accurate. We'd been laying on a picnic blanket, watching the stars, and just talking about everything and anything, for hours. We did that almost every night. It was the best feeling in the world, just being with him.

"Uh huh." Katie turned back to her food. "He likes you, y/n, I'm sure of it. Just as much as you like him, I bet."

"Katie!" I hissed, my face beet red, but the words pleased me. I'd had a crush on Percy Jackson since the first day he arrived at Camp Half-Blood, tired and bruised and scratched from fighting the Minotaur. He'd limped into camp, stole my heart, and became the coolest guy at camp within a month.

And yes, I was in love with him. We'd been best friends for years, and we hung out all the time. How could I possibly not fall for him, with his stupid trouble-maker grin, his dark, messy hair, his sparkling sea-green baby-seal eyes, and his voice. He was, at least in my eyes, perfect.

***

Later, I was practicing my sword-fighting in the arena, hacking arms and legs and heads off the stuffed straw dummies. I'd never been the best fighter, but I felt like I was getting the hang of my sword.

"Are you a child of Hermes?" a joking voice rang out from behind me. I spun around, and came face to face with one of the Hephestus kids. Leo Valdez, maybe?

I blew my hair out of my face, breathing hard. "Um, no? Demeter, actually. Why?"

The boy, Leo, cracked a grin. "Because you stole my heart."

I blinked, not sure what to say. I never really spoke to any of the kids from Hephestus cabin, especially not this one.

"Uh, okay... thanks, I guess?"

Leo grinned again, then ran off without saying anything else. Okay... that was pretty weird.

I decided to go for a walk, to cool down and to stretch my legs a bit, so I headed for the basketball courts, where a bunch of kids were playing a really aggressive game.

I plopped down on the grass a few meters back from the courts, and watched the game. It looked like Ares and Apollo (a strange match), against Athena, Dionysus, and a couple other kids, like Jason Grace, Nico Di Angelo, and Percy.

I found myself watching Percy more than the other players, but snapped my eyes away from him once I realised. I didn't want anyone seeing me staring at my best friend.

After a while, the players called for a break, and Jason Grace approached me. "Oh, hey (Y/N)," he smiled at me, sitting beside me and taking a swig of water from a drink bottle.

"Hey," I said back. Again, I was surprised at why Jason was talking to me. He didn't usually. Demeter kids were looked over quite a bit, and Jason was one of the big shots - a child of Zeus. Of course, Percy was a son of Posiedon, and he talked to me, but that was different. I'd known Percy for years, even before we came here at twelve years old. I'd know him since he was seven.

"Are you a child of Hades?" Jason asked suddenly.

I frowned at him. "No. Demeter, actually. Why does everyone keep-?"

I was cut off by Jason grinning and saying: "Because I'm dying to call you mine."

I swallowed. "Um..."

Jason got up and walked away, heading back to his game. I was totally confused, so I stood up, brushed off my jean shorts, and decided to go to the strawberry fields, where I usually spent most of my time, among the plants. Plants always calmed me down, and this random guys telling me pick-up lines were a little stressful. I wasn't the kind of girl who normally got guys, anyway.

After a few minutes of walking up and down the strawberry aisles, I ran into Nico di Angelo. Nico wasn't usually the sort of person you ran into in the strawberry fields, so I was surprised.

"Oh, hi, Nico," I said cheerily, waving at him. Nico and I were actually pretty good friends, so I was glad to see him. We got along surprisingly well, considering our parents' rivalry. You know, the whole Persephone getting kidnapped thing.

"Are you a child of Hephestus?" Nico stammered, blushing with embarrassment.

At this point, I was utterly confused.

"No!" I said, frowning. "I'm a daughter of Demeter, and I know you know that, Nico. And why does everyone keep trying these stupid pick-up lines on me? Besides... you like guys, don't you?"

"Well, um..." Nico shrugged and ran off, leaving me in a state of helpless confusion.

I sank to my knees in the soft grass, picking at it with my fingers. "What's happening with me today?" I wondered aloud.

"Hey, are you Aphrodite?" a familiar voice asked. "Because you're divinely gorgeous."

I glanced up, meeting the sea-green eyes of my best friend. "Percy?" I asked. "You too? What's-?"

Percy stopped me, sitting down cross-legged beside me. "Hey, I've- I've liked you for ages, but I never told you because I was scared you'd not feel the same and so we'd lose our awesome friendship, but the guys found out and so they were trying to make me jealous enough to admit me feelings today, by trying out pick-up lines on you, so, well, I- I decided that I should just tell you.”

I sucked in a breath. "Oh my gods," I managed. "You stupid son of Posiedon."

"What?" Percy chuckled nervously.

"Are you a child of the Sea God?" I asked softly. "Because I'm drowning in your beautiful eyes."

Gathering all my courage, I leaned forward and pressed my mouth against Percy's, feeling him smile against my lips, and I couldn't have wished for anything more.

[yandere-romanticaa]

I can't just let Douma be in the spotlight now, can I?

For the past few months, you'd have a secret little rendezvous every single night without fail. You never saw his face as he would always have his back turned to you but you eventually gave up on pestering him to reveal himself fully.

He stumbled upon you randomly as you were tending to your garden and humming to yourself. It was a long way until his destination so the demon decided to take a breather, just for a little bit.

Besides, to him, you were nothing more than a potential snack at the time.

Your blood was young and hot and your flesh smelled sweet - the ultimate food. However, even a monster such as Upper Moon One liked to enjoy himself from time to time. He patiently waited for you to finish humming and he would strike you down then.

Never in his wildest dreams could he imagine that you would be able to even see him let alone approach him.

Tiny specks of fear and suspicion laced your voice but other then that you were completely friendly towards him.

It was moronic. He didn't understand why he chose to entertain you and your stupid questions.

You were cautious of him at the beginning but still kept a kind and friendly air around you, an odd change of pace for the demon.

And that is how this entire thing started, him and you, together in the moonlight. His checkered black and purple haori swayed lightly with the wind as his long hair covered most of his back, except his sword. You would often remark that because of the weapon he carried you oddly felt safe around him, that if anything dangerous would cross your path he could just hack it to bits. There was a bit of truth there, he was indeed capable of slicing down anything and anyone who stood in his way.

It's simply your own fault for not realizing that he was the danger you should run away from.

Kokushibo was amazed at how at ease you felt with him, so much so that you never actually stopped to analyze your surroundings - the world would go stale and quiet the moment he made his presence known, all of the woodland beings would flee the moment they would catch a whiff of the scary demon. The eerie silence did not stop you from babbling endlessly and Kokushibo himself never actually made the effort to do so either.

He'd would often ask himself why was he even wasting time with you like this. Someone this naive, silly and carefree was a walking target, dare he even say a simple meal on legs even. Any other demon would have eaten you by now and would have savored every single bite.

He hated himself a little because of this, for wasting his time with you.

But the thought of cutting you down made his chest ache, a feeling he had almost completely forgotten.

So he settled on this, for now. He would indulge you on your little outings and, while he would never dare to say it, he indulged himself as well by simply being in your company. When he was with you he was just another ordinary person.

The truth of his nature could still be a secret for a while.

[kikker-oma]

For you :)

Based on this piece of art:

Time woke up with a jolt, peaceful sleep warping into panic. He didn’t know why he sat up, kicking off the comfortable in blankets until he saw the red looming over the room and illuminating it. The rest of the room was dark. It had to be nighttime. He looked behind him and the moon was blood red, flakes of malice visible in the air outside. He could feel his heart pound wildly, and flashes of a moon crashing down into the earth, and being too late, and running loop after loop came to his mind. He turned back around, facing the door and the wall, seeing the shadow of the full shape of the moon and he ran out of the room, finding the bathroom because he knew it didn’t have any windows.

He closed the door and slid against it, forcing his suddenly heavy breathing to die down. The sound of a gurgling roar shook the earth and he flinched. Then he made a split decision and carefully went outside the bathroom, stepping into the bare hallway and opened the door. He inhaled the malice and coughed miserably before looking up. He couldn’t see where exactly that thundering roar had come from but he could soon see monsters returning to flesh with a magenta glow, cheering obnoxiously.

He could almost make out a grin on the moon and his blood turned to ice as he saw all the monsters appearing. He clutched his head, hoping this was all a nightmare but it wasn’t. Link wanted to run back inside more than anything, escape the moon and Termina and stop rewinding time over and over but he was frozen in the crimson glare of the large, looming object in the equally as red sky. A sob wracked his body. “Navi! Please! Come back!”

Help me, he wanted to scream at the blue fairy, as tears streamed down on his face in a seemingly relentless flow. But she wasn’t there. Neither was Tatl, who would’ve darted to his side in an instant in a worry that she would easily deflect. He buried his face in his knees, clutching them to his chest tightly, like if he’d let go he’d unravel into the ground. Flashes of a dying Zora, a dead Goron, a grief-filled Princess of the Deku Scrubs and many long dead souls rising up from the ground, as Stalfos. Flashes of a woman in denial, willing to face the end of the world if her love wouldn’t find her. Flashes of so many unaware people that would be crushed by the falling moon. His wailing echoed loud in the air.

“WATCH OUT!”

Link looked up to see Wild there, holding up a broadsword, and standing over him. His cape flew in the wind. Time realized belatedly it was no longer red out. The moon was back to normal. There were monsters snarling and sniveling in front of them…and yet Time couldn’t find the strength to get up and help. He was still shaking, and sobbing. The champion launched into battle and he yelled, “Get inside, it’s not safe out here.”

“I-I’m not leaving you,” The old man drew in a trembling deep breath and summoned the courage to stand.

Wild hesitated but gave him a nod and plunged his sword into a Lizalfos’ shoulder. Time grabbed his sword and hacked at their foes alongside the champion, and there was actually something relieving about the thrill of battle, not having to worry about any other thing than winning this small fight. When the monsters had all vanished in a puff of purple smoke, with wounds dripping black blood, all Time had was a nick on the face and all Wild had was a small bruise on his head. The old man sheathed his weapon and gave a sigh, feeling awfully tired. “I’m sorry. I should’ve been paying attention to my surroundings, and it could’ve cost my life. That’s not a burden you should’ve had to deal with. You should’ve been able to get your rest.”

“I can never sleep during blood moons,” Wild said simply. “During my journey if I let myself sleep, even up in the trees, monsters would return and find me…and they are pretty terrible. I don’t blame you, and you shouldn’t either.”

It was his fault but he couldn’t burden the champion even more. He gave a nod, slipping on a mask of stoicism, and he dipped his head. “Thank you. I’ll be upstairs, but please get something for that bruise.”

“Get something for that cut,” Wild returned, but was frowning deeply.

He left and absently bandaged his cheek where a small amount of blood had been shed. He stared out the window and forced himself to breathe, remembering the red. The face—no that wasn’t right. There wasn’t really a face in this moon. Not like Termina’s at least. He went back to bed, covering himself with the blanket and putting his head on the pillow but no matter how much he tossed and turned, he couldn’t fall back into that peaceful sleep from before.

He heard the twist of the doorknob and his door was pushed open, as quietly as possible. He saw green and blonde and a familiar face enter the room, closing the door gently behind him. The captain came over and said softly, “You’re awake.”

“Can’t sleep,” He said truthfully. “But I’ll get over it.”

“You don’t have to hide around me, Mask.”

Time sucked in the icy air, turning away. Wars put a hand on his shoulder, eyes shining with nothing but warmth. “Answer me honestly, are you okay right now?”

He took a long moment to answer before he wordlessly shook his head. The captain made a soft noise and asked quietly if he could hug him and the old man let himself be wrapped in a hug, in the scarred yet warm and wrong arms of his brother. “You don’t have to tell me why, but I want you to know I’m here if you need anything. I’d go fight the moon for you.”

Time choked on wet laughter, knowing that Wars had no idea how much that would help him. He leaned into the captain’s embrace and the restless hours of the night caught up to him. He was safe. He wasn’t alone. He let warm tears fall as he closed his eyes and soon drifted into darkness.

IM SO SORRY I HAVENT LOOKED AT MY INBOX IN AGES☠️☠️☠️

This is LOVELY!!! I love that Time in his panic goes outside and is immediately surrounded by monsters while he's having PTSD flashbacks to termina! And wild and wars helping him fight and also comfort him is so sweet❤️❤️❤️

They're brothers!!

Thank you so much Uni🥰