#Casting your burdens upon the Lord

[heliosunny]

A twisted fate

Yandere!Ayato x Reader

The day you met Kamisato Ayato was anything but ordinary. You had stumbled upon his younger sister, Ayaka, in peril, cornered by a group of hostile individuals while wandering through Inazuma. Without a second thought, you intervened, defeating her attackers and ensuring her safety. Ayaka’s gratitude was immediate, but her elder brother’s reaction was far less welcoming.

From the moment Ayato laid eyes on you, suspicion clouded his sharp gaze. He was a man who trusted few, and the idea that a stranger had “conveniently” saved his sister reeked of ulterior motives. Though Ayaka vouched for you, his skepticism remained. To his credit, he didn’t cast you out entirely. Instead, he insisted you stay within the Kamisato Estate under the guise of “monitoring you for further investigation.”

It wasn’t easy. Ayato’s cold demeanor and sharp tongue made it clear that he doubted your intentions. Yet, despite his hostility, you stayed. Ayaka needed time to recover, and you couldn’t abandon her—not after what you’d witnessed. Gradually, your genuine care for Ayaka chipped away at Ayato’s walls. You weren’t the enemy he had convinced himself you were. In fact, you were nothing but kind, patient, and selfless.

When Ayaka fully recovered, you quietly left the Kamisato Estate, believing your part in their lives was over. But the universe had other plans.

Not long after, a larger threat emerged—one that had the Kamisato Clan in its crosshairs. Strange disappearances, sabotage, and threats plagued their estate. It wasn’t a coincidence, and Ayato knew it. What he didn’t expect, however, was your return. This time, you weren’t alone.

You revealed yourself as a detective working alongside Shikanoin Heizou. It had been Heizou who assigned you to investigate the earlier incident with Ayaka, and now he had sent you back to aid Ayato with this new case. Though Ayato was initially taken aback by the revelation of your profession, he couldn’t deny the relief he felt at your presence. He trusted no one, yet you had already proven your loyalty once before.

As the case unfolded, you became Ayato’s anchor. Whether it was unraveling cryptic clues, protecting the estate, or simply listening when the burden of leadership weighed heavily on him, you were always there. You were sharp, resourceful, and unyielding in your determination to help. Slowly but surely, Ayato found himself drawn to you in ways he couldn’t explain—or resist.

The realization hit him like a storm. He didn’t just appreciate you—he needed you. You were his equal, his match, the one person who could stand by his side through anything. When the case finally came to an end and the culprits were brought to justice, Ayato wasted no time in confronting you.

“I have a proposition.” he said one evening, his calm mask betraying nothing of the emotions swirling beneath. “Stay by my side—not as an associate, but as my partner.”

You blinked, taken aback by the suddenness of his words. “Wait… are you saying—marriage?”

“Precisely.” His tone was unwavering, as if he were stating an undeniable fact.

You laughed nervously, unsure if he was serious. “That’s… a bold offer, Lord Kamisato. But I’m afraid I can’t accept something so sudden.”

Ayato’s smile didn’t falter, though there was a glint of something unsettling in his eyes. “I understand your hesitation. But I assure you, my feelings are genuine. You’ll come to see that, in time.”

Little did you know, Ayato wasn’t one to take no for an answer. The more you resisted, the more determined he became.

After finishing a case at Narukami Shrine, you were invited by none other than Yae Miko for a private meeting. Her playful smirk never left her lips as she gestured for you to sit down. “You’ve been busy lately, haven’t you?” she teased, her sharp eyes gleaming with curiosity.

When she offered to tell your fortune, you couldn’t exactly refuse. It was Yae Miko, after all, she was rarely wrong about anything. But when the results came in, her expression turned unusually serious.

“Your love line” she began, her tone far softer than you were used to, “is a complicated one. A dangerous one, in fact. Be careful, dear. The one who holds your heart might not let go so easily.”

Her cryptic warning left you unsettled. You tried to brush it off as another one of her enigmatic tricks, but her words lingered in your mind. Yae Miko wasn’t one to say such things lightly.

Days later, you found yourself visiting the Kamisato Estate. You had heard that Ayato had just returned from a major mission assigned directly by the Shogun, and part of you wanted to check on him. He had been unusually quiet after your last encounter, and though you didn’t want to admit it, you were worried about him.

When you arrived, Ayaka greeted you warmly and led you to the training grounds, where Ayato was recovering from the aftermath of a fierce battle. His usually pristine appearance was slightly marred by cuts and bruises, yet his expression was as calm as ever. However, the moment he saw you, his eyes lit up with something unmistakable—relief.

“I didn’t expect to see you here” he admitted, his voice carrying a warmth that made your heart skip a beat.

“I heard you just got back from a case.” you replied, crossing your arms. “Figured I’d check in. You look like you could use some help.”

He smiled faintly, his exhaustion evident. “Your timing is impeccable, as always.”

As it turned out, your instincts were correct. What Ayato hadn’t told anyone was that his case wasn’t quite over yet. The Shogun’s orders had uncovered a deeper conspiracy threatening the stability of Inazuma, and Ayato was at the heart of it. Once again, you found yourself by his side, aiding him in unraveling the mystery and standing by him in yet another perilous battle.

The fight was grueling, pushing both of you to your limits. But together, you triumphed. Your unwavering determination and skill had earned you not only Ayato’s deepest admiration but also the respect of the Shogun herself. As a token of her gratitude, the Shogun personally rewarded you for your service.

What you didn’t expect was Ayato’s next move.

Standing before the Shogun in all her commanding presence, Ayato bowed deeply. “Your Excellency, I have one more request, if I may.”

The Shogun raised an eyebrow. “Speak.”

“I humbly ask for your blessing in marriage,” he said, his voice steady yet filled with conviction. “With them.”

The words hit you like a lightning strike. You stared at Ayato, stunned, as he turned to meet your gaze. His eyes held nothing but sincerity, as if he had planned this moment all along.

The Shogun considered his request for a moment before nodding. “Very well, Lord Kamisato. If they are in agreement, you have my blessing.”

Your head spun. This couldn’t be real. Ayato, always composed and calculating, had just asked for the Shogun’s approval to marry you in front of everyone. You opened your mouth to speak, but no words came out.

“You’re not saying no, are you?” Ayato asked, his voice soft yet laced with an undercurrent of possessiveness. “I meant every word, and I won’t retract my proposal.”

You felt the weight of Yae Miko’s words return. A dangerous love line. Her warning rang in your ears as you looked at Ayato, whose calm mask had slipped just enough for you to see the intensity lurking beneath.

Despite the intensity of Ayato’s feelings, you had come to understand that beneath his possessiveness was a man who valued respect and devotion. While his obsessive nature could be overwhelming, he had never crossed a line, always treating you with the utmost care and reverence. Refusing his proposal seemed pointless—he was a man of his word, and as long as he didn’t tire of you, there was no harm in accepting his love.

And so, the preparations for your wedding began, with the Shogun herself granting her blessing. The ceremony was nothing short of a spectacle—luxurious, elegant, and befitting the head of the Kamisato Clan. Nobles, diplomats, and high-ranking officials filled the grand hall, marveling at the union of Ayato and the detective who had earned their place beside him.

Among the attendees were old friends and colleagues from the detective office, including Shikanoin Heizou. They greeted you warmly, reminiscing about past cases and your shared adventures. It felt like a moment of reprieve amidst the overwhelming grandeur of the event.

But Ayato’s sharp eyes were never far from you. From across the room, he watched as you laughed and chatted with Heizou and your other colleagues. The sight of you smiling so freely with others, particularly Heizou, ignited a storm within him. He didn’t say a word during the festivities, maintaining his usual composed demeanor. Yet, as the night wore on, he indulged in more wine than usual, the jealousy simmering beneath his calm façade.

By the time the wedding concluded and you returned to the privacy of your chambers, Ayato was visibly tipsy, his usually refined movements slightly unsteady. You helped him remove his outer robe, gently guiding him to sit. But as you turned to fetch water to sober him up, his hand shot out, grabbing your wrist and pulling you toward him.

“You seemed awfully happy tonight” he murmured, his tone low but laced with jealousy. “Laughing with them, reminiscing like old lovers… Did you forget whose name you now bear?”

His words caught you off guard, and you turned to face him fully. “They’re just friends, Ayato. You know that.”

His lips curled into a smile, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Do I? Because watching you with them made me think otherwise.”

You frowned, recognizing the edge in his voice. “You’re drunk, Ayato. Let’s talk about this in the morning.”

But Ayato wasn’t listening. Before you could pull away, he stood, towering over you as he backed you against the wall. His usual restraint seemed to waver as his arms caged you in.

“I’ve waited too long for this night to let anyone else steal your attention” he murmured, his voice low and commanding. “You’re mine to cherish, Y/N. And I’ll make sure you never forget it.”

That night, Ayato’s jealousy manifested in a way you hadn’t expected. His touches, though fervent, never crossed the boundaries of respect—he was still the man who cherished you, even in his drunken state. But his possessiveness was undeniable as he marked you as his in every way imaginable, whispering promises and warnings against anyone else daring to take your attention from him.

As the first rays of dawn peeked through the curtains, you found yourself lying beside Ayato, his arms wrapped around you even in sleep. The night’s events still lingered in your mind—his jealousy, his drunken insistence, and the way he’d poured his emotions into his actions. Despite everything, you couldn’t deny that a part of you understood his feelings, even if they were overwhelming at times.

When he began to stir, his eyes fluttering open, you gently reached out, brushing a stray strand of hair from his face. He blinked up at you, his expression soft but guarded, as though unsure of how you felt after the night’s intensity.

“Ayato…” you murmured, leaning down to press a feather-light kiss to his forehead. “I’m sorry for not being more mindful last night. I didn’t mean to make you feel insecure or neglected. I’ll do better at respecting your feelings—and our boundaries.”

He stared at you in silence for a moment, his usual composed mask cracking just enough to reveal a flicker of vulnerability. For a moment, you thought he might accept your apology and let the matter rest.

But then his lips curled into a sly, mischievous smile, and he tightened his hold on you, pulling you closer. “Boundaries?” he repeated, his voice still tinged with a huskiness that made your cheeks warm. “Darling, I don’t recall any boundaries between us. Especially not after last night.”

“Ayato, you were drunk” you countered gently, trying to pull away. “You weren’t yourself—”

“I’m perfectly sober now,” he interrupted, his gaze locking onto yours with an intensity that made your breath hitch. “And I think it’s only fair that you make up for the… distress you caused me. After all, you were quite close with your friends last night.”

You sighed, realizing he wasn’t going to let this go so easily. “I already apologized. And I kissed you just now to show I meant it.”

He chuckled, the sound low and teasing as he tilted his head. “A kiss on the forehead? My, how chaste of you. But don’t you think I deserve a little more than that, my dear spouse?”

Your face grew hotter as he leaned closer, his lips brushing against your ear. “How about another kiss? Here.” He tapped his lips with a finger, his eyes sparkling with amusement. “And perhaps… elsewhere, if you truly want to make it up to me.”

You groaned softly, torn between exasperation and fondness. “You’re impossible.”

“And yet, you married me” he quipped, his tone smug as he leaned back against the pillows, waiting expectantly. “So, what will it be? Will you grant your husband his ‘redemption,’ or shall I continue to lament my cruel, neglectful spouse?”

Despite his teasing, there was a warmth in his gaze that reassured you he wasn’t truly upset. Reluctantly, you leaned in, brushing your lips against his in a soft, lingering kiss. When you pulled away, his arms tightened around you again, keeping you close.

“Better” he murmured, his smile softening. “But I think I’ll need more time to forgive you properly. Perhaps… a day in bed together would suffice.”

You sighed, hiding your smile against his chest. Ayato might have been possessive and dramatic at times, but you couldn’t deny that he had a way of making you feel loved—even when he drove you absolutely crazy.

[merakiui]

[0] 𝔭𝔯𝔬𝔩𝔬𝔤𝔲𝔢.

yandere!twst x (female) reader cw: yandere, unhealthy behaviors/relationship, non-consensual touching, power imbalance, abuse of power, descriptions of religious imagery, attempted non-con, hypocrisy, solitary confinement, rollo is immensely creepy, archaic mindsets and logic masterlist // prologue (you are here) // one

Without a shred of sympathy, discarded like dross, you are thrown before Father Flamme’s feet.

You have enough grace and dignity to resist the urge to grasp at his robes and beg for forgiveness. Instead, you condemn yourself to silence, allowing his piercing stare to stab through you with a judgment so precise it might just slice the skin from your skeleton. Your tongue darts out to wet your dry lips, and you can almost taste his disapproval, much like a snake might parse chemical witchery in the air.

“Lift your head, if you would,” he commands gently, and you do as you’re told. He folds his arms over his chest and looks on, cold as winter’s frost. You watch his finger tap out a soundless rhythm. “I must ask of you, Sister, to provide reason to your recent absences. As a child of God, you have taken oath to follow His wise teachings and devote yourself to serving this church. Am I wrong?”

“You speak wise and true.” You rise to your feet and, ignoring the brutes who so rudely cast you forward in the first place, bow your head in apology. Father Flamme waves them out without sparing so much as a second glance. “You are right that it is my duty to serve the church. I ought to be doing just that and yet I have failed to do so. Undeserving I may be, I ask that you pardon my negligence.”

Father Flamme hums. Standing in front of the altar, backdropped by a stained glass depiction of the crucifixion, he is bathed in a colorful, angelic array. He strides towards you, covering the short distance in just a few clicks, and places his hand upon your shoulder. You’re led from the steps and down the aisle. It feels more like you’re being brought away for slaughter, a lamb primed for punishment.

“There is no doubt you are genuine in all that you do,” he notes, sliding his hand down your arm. Those slender, spidery digits curl into your woolen sleeve. “You are impartial and well-bred, a woman of impressive patience and virtue. Qualities of which arouse an admiration most potent.”

You know the rest of your convent is much the same, which is why it puzzles you that Father Flamme should praise your humble name in such a sickeningly fond manner.

“You are too kind, Father,” you acquiesce. “As a modest servant of God, it’s my pleasure to devote myself to Him, the church, my fellow sisters, and the community.”

“Hmm. A laudable outlook.” His lips quirk up in a smile. Strangely, it looks sharp and predatory. It does not reach his eyes.

Father Flamme steers you in the direction of another stained glass window. This scene is of The Resurrection of Christ. You gaze at His face and wonder if there truly is something up there, watching over the world’s sheep as they live out cyclical days in their pastures.

Immediately, you realize you should commit yourself to writing lines to chase that doubtful notion away.

Father Flamme rests his hand on your other arm to hold you in place. “A quote paraphrased from the Gospel of Matthew, chapter twenty-two, verses thirty-six through thirty-eight, if you’ll listen: ‘When asked which is the great commandment of all in the law, Jesus would reply, ‘You shall love the Lord, your God, with all your heart, with all your soul, and with all your mind. This is the first and great commandment.’”

You nod mechanically, only half-listening. After observing you closely, he frowns.

“What troubles you, Sister?”

“It is hardly a burden worth shouldering. I assure you I’m of sound health. My recent habit of absence is most unbecoming of a sister. I should sooner confront the great shame of my actions than let it fester within.”

“There is still time to atone. You must seek counsel and, having taken it in your arms just as God embraces all, you will know forgiveness.”

You rest your hand upon Father Flamme’s, which has somehow found its home at your hip. “And how do you suppose I do that?”

He smiles that empty smile again. “If He is to provide for you, you must first lay yourself bare before him. I am no fool, Sister. There’s something you’re not telling me.”

“I have been truthful, Father. I would never lie under this sacred roof, nor would I have the gall to do so in your presence. It would be an offense so beastly I could not bear to let it weigh heavy on my heart.”

“Yet, rather than scorch your tongue with a dissolution of the truth, you evade the simplest of queries.” His fingers toy with the knots of your cincture. “What manner of tale will you spin to mystify me next?”

Reacting on instinct, you rip yourself from his immoral grasp. The nave is as silent as the grave, so stuffy it’s suffocating. Father Flamme narrows his eyes at you. His gaze cuts through you like blood swirling through the cracks in ice—like a scalding brand pressed onto flesh.

A thick tension blankets the air. You merely stare at him, and he levels you with the same calculating intensity. Both of you are searching the other’s face, hoping to find an explanation for such polar opposite behavior.

You’re courageous enough to break the quiet first.

“If it would please you, Father, I will graciously offer myself up for confession. There is no reason or need to circumvent the Lord.”

“Sister (Name), if you may spare the time, I entreat you to take a short stroll with me.” Before you can object, he offers his arm. “All children are lost lambs who will soon find their way when following the path illuminated by God’s brilliant light. You are no different. It is my duty to see that you are no longer led astray by temptation and the litany of filth propagated by the fiend.”

Sensing no other option, you link arms with him and subject yourself to his whims. “I’ve a frightful feeling. Most frightful indeed.”

“By all means, confide in God and trust that He will provide shelter. Under His sacred roof, He will lend an ear just as I am doing now.”

You inhale a steadying breath. At this moment, Father Flamme is all you have. In the depths of your heart, you’re aware he’ll never understand. He will never know the morbid secrets that dwell in darkened corners, swept expertly away. And if he knew, you would never be welcome in the church again. Your fellow sisters would certainly turn their noses up at you, loathing the sin of your very existence.

Even as you walk alongside the righteous bishop, you feel an overwhelming itchiness.

“Recent events have led me to believe—though I pray it isn’t true—that my heart has been possessed with a ghastly malady. Umbras waltz in my peripheral—no trick of the light, I assure!”

“Perhaps it is merely a case of wicked dreams?” he posits, leading you through the aisle like a father might accompany a bride on her wedding day. You shake your head insistently, and so he holds his hand up to soothe your frazzled disposition. “Peace, Sister. The songs of night are naught but whimsical folly weaved from the silk of zealous minds. You would do well to shake yourself free of their deceitful shroud.”

“I shall do so most ardently.”

“To rectify this trouble, might you consider attending evening mass? It can only do you good.”

You step up towards the altar, keeping pace with Father Flamme’s casual gait. “Oh, I couldn’t. As of late, I’ve felt uneasy in my solitude. I fear my shadow is not my own…”

His verdant eyes are so stark against the pallor of his face that it reminds you of coins placed over those of the dead. His arm slips away from your waist and, gathering your hands in his, he assesses you more carefully. Under the watchful stare of both Father Flamme and a crucified deity, you feel as if someone has taken a spoon to your soul and scraped it out. And then, for extra, unnecessary measure, they’ve flattened it out on a table for dissection in hopes of picking apart each of your dirtiest secrets.

“Oh? Do elucidate.”

Hazarding a glance at the cross situated grandly in multicolored glass, you lower your voice so as to not be heard by any outside parties. Paranoia grips you in a clenched fist.

“Something—what it may be, I could not begin to form ample conjecture—is hunting me.”

He does not grace you with a reply, and this only incenses the unrest bubbling within you.

“How say you, Father? What is it that causes me such nocturnal torment?”

His features are set in perfect neutrality; it’s impossible to glean any sort of emotion from the way he acts. He coaxes you closer, pulling you along towards the altar. 

“It is with great devastation that I must behold you as you are,” he says, breaking the suspense. “Tainted with the despicable sins of the world outside, young and promising as you are… I shall remedy that.”

You open your mouth to voice concern, but in one swift motion he shoves you against the altar. You land with a thud, your back colliding against sturdy mahogany. It happens in a flash, like the final expulsion of breath from your lungs in the wake of the end. He’s between your flailing legs, pushing you up and onto the cloth-covered surface. Brass candlesticks scatter in a haphazard clatter. Globs of wax bespatter stone floors.

In the quaint tranquility of the church, the struggle is louder than a newborn’s cry.

Your chest heaves in a panic. 

Gracious God above, I implore you—save me from this wretched devil!

Your pupils flit wildly, assessing every area within your range. There must be a means to escape! Above the ornate display, his head hung, your god looks on silently. He does not offer a whit of protection.

“Father—”

Frigid fingers crawl upon your legs like a flurry of scurrying rats. You blink up at him, helplessly hopeful.

He inhales a long, steadying breath and shuts his eyes. “God, have mercy. Have pity on this wayward soul. May she be cleansed beneath my fingertips, pure as freshly fallen snow, and may you forgive her every transgression.”

You sputter an incoherent noise.

He opens his eyes and smiles serenely. “Amen.”

Squirming beneath him, you resist his touch like it’s flickering flame. “Father, I beg of you… Quell your frustrations and release me at once. I am innocent.”

He sighs, unconvinced. “You are exquisitely venust, Sister. As sweet as the first buds of spring. You must know it is impossible for beauty to exist freely when there are fiends who wish to tarnish it—who will trample upon the virtuous garden in which you bloom and pluck you by the root, rough as barbarians. Thus, it is my duty to see that you are scrubbed of their detestable influence. May God pardon my iniquity.”

His hands slide up your calves beneath your habit. You watch, prickled with horror, as he parts your legs. 

“Belle chose, unfurl your petals so that we may make feet for children’s stockings.”

He leans over you, reaching to secure your wrists with one hand. The other climbs higher in its rapacious pursuit of a place most sacred. In the midst of your ferocious thrashing, you espy His divine eye once more.

I adjure you, Lord��� Save me from this demon. You must. Please, Lord…

Silence. A haunting, engulfing silence. 

There is no salvation to be found beneath the cross. None for you, as it appears so disturbingly clear.

“Unhand me! Unhand me at once!” you snap, tearing your arm free. “You would allow yourself to fall lower than the ground you trod upon—to so flagrantly commit sacrilege in His hallowed home?!”

“It is not I who is to be scorned so. I am guiltless,” he sneers. But then he smooths his scowl into that of pristine, practiced patience, and he speaks in a soft, pitying tone. “Oh, Sister, you have allowed them to tip poison into your precious ears… Your perception is clouded with the cobwebs of that uncouth crowd.”

“To stand at his feet and reveal your malice in such a grotesque manner… You are no better than swine!”

“You shall see there is no better solace to be found than with me.” Tenderly, he fits his hand, cold and skeletal, in yours. “I shall shelter you from all that is cruel and unjust. You need only take my hand.” His fingers flicker at your inner thigh, waltzing in circles. His incessant petting sends a shudder wracking through your body. Paralyzed as you are, you recognize the monster lurking just beneath human flesh. A demented desire flashes in his eyes. You’ve never felt more lost. “And your sins shall be forgiven.”

Father Flamme leans down, chancing to catch the scent at your neck. You reach between your bodies, searching for the garter secured around your thigh, and unsheath the dagger from beneath your habit. It’s thrust at his throat, the sharpened edge pressed close enough to pierce through the collar of his alb and draw the slightest pinprick of blood. Clasping the ivory handle in a trembling fist, you face him with a fire burning in your fear-filled visage.

Perhaps it is his own disbelief that prompts the rattle in his chest—an ominous chuckle. 

“You are a bride of Christ, yet you dare turn a blade on me?”

“You’re a man of God, yet you besmear His holy name with the sin of your incorrigible lust?”

“You are mistaken, Sister.” He grabs hold of your fist with both hands and folds his fingers over yours in mock prayer. As if intending to stoke your ire, he tilts his head in taunt. “Let my blood run red on this altar and you shall know of my humanity.”

“Defile the Lamb of God and you are no shepherd but, rather, the wolf who adorns himself in woolen mendacity.”

Before he can utter a response, the doors burst open. Father Flamme releases your hand and climbs off of you, brushing the wrinkles from his robes. An icy gale claws at the interior, and with it two men arrive in a whirlwind rush.

“Your Excellency, forgive our intrusion!”

Your arm falls to your side and, with a mounting sense of defeat, you gaze at the ceiling. You don’t feel soothed, but you must compose yourself. And so, shoving your frenzied emotions to the side, you sheath your blade and scramble to make yourself presentable once your feet are back on the floor. Brightening at the sight of the two villagers, you cradle your rosary and pray silently.

Dear God, may you smite he who spreads abhorrent rot with his fingertips and, in witnessing a most magnificent death flail, gralloch him without mercy.

“Ah, gentlemen, what fortuitous timing,” Father Flamme greets them, smiling. “Do come in. I’ve a task for you, if you would be so inclined.”

You linger behind, cautious like a gare-fowl often is when at the receiving end of a hunter’s rifle.

“Your Excellency, you need only ask and we are at your service.”

“Before that, you must accompany us to the hogs,” the other interjects. “Death has soiled these grounds, Your Excellency. A sight so barbarous it forebodes only the worst! You must come—come and behold the infernal darkness which has cursed this village!”

Father Flamme glances between the both of them, assessing the urgency of the situation that has been so cryptically illustrated.

“As you have described, the present circumstances appear dire. Oh, but I do require your assistance before that, gentlemen. It shan’t be too arduous a task.” He turns on his heel and indicates you with an outstretched hand. “Sister (Name) totters at the precipice with her fickle faith. As it is my duty to ensure all are well in the arms of God, I must take…caution—you might say—in sorting such a sensitive matter.”

The men exchange bewildered looks.

“You imply…punishment, sir?”

“Nay, I think not!” you interrupt, striding forwards. You’re stopped by Father Flamme’s arm, held just in front of your chest to keep you in place. “Father, I am steadfast in my faith. I have—”

“If such were the truth, you would not speak nullifidian filth.”

Pushing past him, you plead with the men: “Sirs, he knots his tongue and utters dishonesty! You know of my virtue—my loyalty to Him. And of my father, who has provided comfort and care, the means by which I was raised into the woman you see before you, I am justly proud. As the daughter of (Last Name), I sicken with the thought of bringing dishonor to my father, my faith—all of which I hold true in my heart. Sirs, you must believe in—”

Father Flamme lifts his hand to silence you, but you’re aware of his cunning machinations. “I ask of you this, good sirs. When sailors set out at sea, do they allow themselves to fall prey to the song of the siren? Just as those wretched sea-beasts sing, so, too, does honey pour spoiled from the mouth of a sinner. Her words serve to chart a course for ill-founded temptation.”

“Sister, your virtue I do not question.” The villager addresses Father Flamme next, disregarding your presence entirely, as if you are naught but a worthless speck. “What shall we do, Your Excellency?”

A smile curls on his lips. “Take her to the tower just beyond the village. She shall remain in solitude for seven days. That shall provide her with ample time for contemplation.”

The men approach you without a hint of remorse on their lips. Cornered, you look to Father Flamme for guidance.

“Father, I beg of you—you mustn’t send me away! I shall repent! I shall do so before you now.”

“It serves me no satisfaction to subject you to solitary confinement.” He folds his hands in front of him and observes the spectacle of your resistance. “You have proven to me your doubt in the capabilities of the Lord. It is my right to correct your contumacious thoughts. I’m certain your father would share this sentiment. No daughter should empty her mind of His valuable teachings.”

“Do not speak as if you have dined with my father,” you hiss, wriggling in the firm hold of both men.

Father Flamme steps closer and smiles. “Let us away.” 

You are dragged, struggling all the while, out of the church and down the steps. There is a ferocious bite to this year’s autumnal weather. Father Flamme is gracious enough to drape his cloak over your shoulders just before you’re lifted onto a horse. He mounts his stallion and, with the crack of a whip, the four of you are off towards the decrepit tower at the rugged foothills of the mountains. No words are exchanged. You’ve said more than enough and you still remain the accused, guilty due to distorted logic.

The tower, which had once appeared so distantly out of your mind, gains striking clarity as you approach. You gaze helplessly at the man transporting you. He offers nothing of substance, his gaze focused squarely on the dirt footpath ahead.

When you were but a babe, the tower served as a warning for all children in the village: Those whose souls are stained with the sins of their atrocities shall wither away in silence.

There was once a raving madman who was imprisoned there in your youth. A heretic, he was called. Driven to his end, his sanity thin as a hair, he scraped at the walls and pulled loose bricks free until his fingernails cracked and blood trickled down his hands in rivers. When he had created a sizable opening for himself, at the peak of his derangement, he climbed out to meet the sun’s soft rays, a singular blessing owed for years of captivity. And then he threw himself from the tower, landing in a broken spattering at the very bottom.

In the years following, the tower housed numerous prisoners. It is a cold, unforgiving place, existing solely for the ugly and the crooked. And, now, the misunderstood. The wrongfully accused.

As you’re helped down from the horse, you ponder how many have been sent here to live out time for unfair accusations.

You’re joined by the second villager shortly, and they flank you like soldiers as they shove you along.

“Have you no sympathy, sirs!” you snap, shaking yourself from their grip. “To treat me so callously when my devotion is fervent and true! I am no fabulist.”

The men say nothing and amble onwards, pushing you closer to the tower. One of them attempts to seize your wrist; you evade him gracefully. Father Flamme observes your outright stubborn refusal and hums his disapproval.

“Unhand me! I’ll go of my own accord. I’ve feet for a reason, and thus they shall work as God intended. I need not the assistance of fools. My legs shall be the ones to carry me.” Punctuating that with an indignant huff, you stride ahead.

What brutish handling… These doltish fiends sit under the tree of knowledge and yet not a single fruit falls into their laps. To think this is how they would treat someone sworn to the church—and a lady, no less!

The latch is weather-worn, and it creaks a discordant note when lifted. You peek into the shadowed entrance and frown. Before you are subjected to the impatience of the men at your side, you step into the dimness. It is alight with the red-orange slivers of a setting sun.

“You shall wait here. I will accompany this misguided Sister to the very top. After which, we shall return to the village and I shall accompany you to the hogs.”

The men nod and stand at attention.

If you’re so dedicated to foolish play, you would be wise to salute, you think with a sardonic tut.

Father Flamme offers his arm. “Shall we?”

Ignoring his attempt at chivalry, you lift your habit so as to not trip on it and begin the lengthy ascent up the spiraling staircase. He chuckles and follows your lead. Every wooden step creaks under your weight. Something brushes your face—dust, perhaps. You swat at your face, grimacing. The scent of mold and rot clings to the bowels of this tower like maggots on a corpse, impossibly redolent in ways you shall avoid giving thought to.

I must not breathe so deeply, lest I wish to savor the taste of decay and bitter rage.

You carry on, ignoring the creeping revulsion and the stench of death as it clouds the air, accompanying you on your journey. A door waits for you at the top. You note it is without a lock.

“A bird will not fly in captivity,” Father Flamme advises, pushing it open to reveal a sparsely furnished room. It’s equipped with the essentials a common prisoner would need. You can’t help feeling less than human the moment you pass through the threshold.

It is enough of a sight to wear on my eyes and render them woefully sore.

He meets you at the door and offers an embroidered reticule. “I shall retrieve you in seven days’ time.”

You eye him dubiously and, upon sensing no additional malevolence, swipe the reticule from him. “May you rest guilty on your bed of lies.”

He leans in close, his voice as faint as a phantasm. “May you reflect on what it is you hold dear, for I assure you it is well within my reach.” He pivots and begins his descent, his footsteps tapping out a resounding rhythm. “You will learn a glorious lesson here. Treasure it as you would a child.”

Minutes later, the door below shuts and the latch is dropped into place. The noise races up the stone spiral in echo, filling your ears with its haunting reverberation.

Now you’re truly alone.

“How boorish he must be to condemn me to this prison!” You slam the door in your anger and drop the reticule onto the bed. In an effort of appraisal, you feel the lumpy mattress. It’s packed full of straw. “I am not nameless, nor am I a harlot. Yet I am gifted the opulence of peasants. I can scarcely accept such generosity.”

Alas, this is your new misfortune.

To busy your idle hands, you open the reticule and peer inside at its contents. A thumb Bible rests beside a bulk of misshapen cloth. Gingerly, you unwrap it to find bread, cheese, and salt pork. Somehow—and you have every right to be fastidious—you doubt this modest portion will be enough for seven days.

“And not a drop of water!” you announce to the empty room. “He has an astounding amount of faith in me if he thinks I will surrender so simply. One day he shall get his gruel. I’ll make sure of it.”

Until then you will never know peace.

Bundling the rations, you place them within the reticule alongside the Bible. Perhaps you should have requested writing implements or a book—anything to preclude the impending accidie. 

Beyond the window, which is sized perfectly for the smallest bird, the sun disappears below the horizon. Ink spills across the sky, darkening the surroundings outside the tower and leaving room for stars to speckle the vastness. You sit at the edge of the bed and wrap your fingers around your rosary.

“Dear God, you know I am faultless and so I ask that you guide me in understanding your ways. Father Flamme speaks of protection in your home and yet when danger is knocking you are not there to answer.” You tug anxiously at the beads. “If you are there, show me… Show me that you hear my prayers. Show me that I am not alone. That even I, imperfect as I may be, am deserving of your sanctuary and forgiveness. Amen.”

Shrugging the cloak off, you fold it into a neat square and set it at the end of the bed. Your veil and coif are next to go, and you take immense care in handling both. You slide your dagger out of its sheath and set it on the bed. The night is cool and so you resolve to remain dressed as you are, in your robes and chemise.

“I will endure these seven days. Each one, night and day, I will be strong. My faith will never falter. I will never waver,” you whisper, repeating this oath like a mantra. You settle into bed, sparing a final glance at the square cut into the brickwork, where a starry sky wraps the world in a celestial counterpane. “Perhaps then you might acknowledge me.”

Clutching the rosary close to your chest, comforted with the weapon at your side, you drift into dreamless slumber.

[novaursa]

The Golden Oath (to take a chance)

- Summary: The lion falls in love with the daughter of the Mad King, which starts a domino effect that eventually collapses the realm onto itself.

- Pairing: targ!reader/Jaime Lannister

- Note: Timeline is slightly altered to fit the plot of the story better. Also, this story doesn't have a place in my schedule, as it's still being written. But, I may continue to drop a new chapter here and there unexpectedly. Thank you everybody for your support. ❤️

- Rating: Mature 16+

- Previous part: closer

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @oxymakestheworldgoround @thegirlwiththemostcake3 @joyfulyouthlover @viyannaiya @mortallyblueninja @nestvrn @wuluhwuhmaster @loafersrs @annoyinginfp-t @simpsonsam @barnes70stark @angel6776 @mrsnms @butterfl1ies @lordofthunderthr @idenyimimdenial

The morning light crept through the heavy curtains of Rhaegar’s chambers, soft and amber, painting long streaks of warmth across the cold stone floor. The embers in the hearth still smoldered from the night before, casting the faintest glow into the dim room. The air was still, quiet, save for the rhythmic breathing of two figures lying beneath the canopy of the great bed.

You stirred first, slowly surfacing from sleep, the warmth surrounding you pulling you from the depths of dreams that had been light and untangled. The fabric of the sheets was smooth against your skin, the weight of the covers familiar, but it was the presence beside you that kept you still, kept you lingering in the delicate haze of morning.

Rhaegar.

His arm was draped across your waist, heavy and unmoving, his warmth seeping through the thin silk of your nightgown. His breath was slow and steady, his chest rising and falling in a rhythm that was too peaceful, too unguarded, for the man who carried the burdens of prophecy and expectation. The silver of his hair spilled across the pillows, strands catching in the early light, gleaming like woven starlight.

For a moment, you simply watched him.

It was rare to see him like this—without the weight of the world pressing upon him, without the distant look in his indigo eyes that so often betrayed how lost he was in his own mind. Here, in the quiet of the morning, he looked nothing like a prince and everything like the brother you had known your whole life.

You shifted slightly, the movement stirring him. His breath hitched for just a moment before he sighed softly, his hold on you tightening instinctively before his eyes fluttered open.

He blinked once, adjusting to the light, his gaze still unfocused from sleep. Then his eyes found yours.

For a long moment, he did not speak. He simply looked at you, his expression unreadable, as if he were still caught between dreams and waking. Then, slowly, the corner of his lips curled into something soft, something so rare that you almost felt the need to preserve it.

"You’re still here," he murmured, his voice rough from sleep.

You let out a small breath of laughter. "I said I would be."

His fingers traced absent patterns against your back, slow and unhurried. "I almost thought you were only a dream."

You tilted your head slightly, watching him. "Did you dream?"

His gaze drifted, thoughtful for a moment before returning to you. "I did," he admitted. "But they were pleasant."

You studied him, searching for signs of exhaustion in his face, but the deep shadows that usually lurked beneath his eyes were fainter, his features more at ease.

"What did you dream of?" you asked softly.

His fingers stilled against your back for a moment, then resumed their slow, absent tracing. "Of a place far from here," he murmured. "Somewhere quiet. Somewhere without kings or lords, without prophecy or war." His voice dipped lower. "Somewhere it is only us."

A slow warmth spread through your chest at his words, but you said nothing. You only reached up, brushing a stray silver strand from his face.

His eyes flickered at the touch, something unreadable passing through them before he exhaled, turning onto his side to face you fully. His fingers, which had been resting so lightly against your back, traced upward, brushing against your shoulder before curling around the edge of your jaw.

"You should stay," he said, quieter now, as if the words were a secret meant only for you. "Not just tonight. Always."

You let out a soft breath, your fingers resting lightly against his wrist. "You know I will always be where you need me."

His gaze held yours, searching, and for a long moment, he said nothing. Then, slowly, he leaned forward, pressing his forehead against yours. His breath was warm against your skin, his touch grounding.

"I do not deserve you," he murmured.

You closed your eyes, exhaling softly. "You do."

His fingers tightened slightly against your jaw, his other hand sliding up to rest against your waist. "Then tell me," he whispered, "that you will not leave me."

You opened your eyes, meeting his. "Never."

The morning stretched between you, golden and unhurried, the world beyond the chamber doors momentarily forgotten. Here, in this quiet place, Rhaegar was not a prince, not a warrior burdened by prophecy. He was only your brother, holding onto you as if you were the only thing keeping him tethered to the earth.

And you would let him hold on for as long as he needed.

The sun had barely begun its climb over the towers of the Red Keep, its light spilling across the training courtyard where the morning drills were already underway. The sound of clashing steel rang through the air, sharp and rhythmic, accompanied by the occasional grunt of exertion or the dull thud of a body hitting the dirt. The scent of sweat and oiled leather mingled with the cooler morning breeze, a contrast that Jaime had long since grown accustomed to.

He moved with practiced ease, his sword a natural extension of his arm as he pivoted, parried, and struck. His opponent—a knight of the Kingsguard, Ser Gwayne Gaunt—was a seasoned fighter, his strikes swift and calculated, but Jaime was faster. His youth granted him an edge, his movements sharp and deliberate, honed from years of training under some of the finest warriors in the realm.

Their blades met in a rapid exchange, the ringing steel echoing against the stone walls. Ser Gwayne was strong, but Jaime was relentless, pressing forward with a series of calculated strikes that forced the older knight onto the defensive. Then, with a well-timed feint and a swift pivot, Jaime knocked the blade from Ser Gwayne’s grip, sending it clattering across the courtyard.

A brief silence followed, broken only by the heavy breathing of the gathered knights.

"Seven hells, boy," Ser Gwayne muttered, shaking his head as he wiped the sweat from his brow. "Your father wasn’t lying when he said you were quick."

Jaime smirked, lowering his sword. "My father says many things. Some of them even happen to be true."

The knights around them chuckled, and Jaime stepped back, running a hand through his damp golden hair. He had always felt at ease here, amidst steel and sweat, surrounded by men who spoke with their swords rather than empty words. This was where he belonged. Or at least, he had always thought so.

Another knight, Ser Harlan Grandison, leaned against the pommel of his sword, watching him with an appraising eye. "You’ve come a long way since your days as a squire," he noted.

Jaime exhaled, rolling his shoulders. "Squires learn quickly when their knights make them do all the hard work."

That earned another round of laughter from the men.

Ser Oswell Whent, who had been watching from the sidelines, smirked. "Tell us, Lannister, which poor bastard had the honor of training you?"

Jaime wiped a bead of sweat from his brow, his smirk widening. "Ser Sumner Crakehall," he replied. "And if you think I’m quick now, you should’ve seen how fast I had to move to avoid his boot when I didn’t clean his armor to his liking."

The men chuckled again, some nodding knowingly.

"Crakehall," Ser Gwayne mused. "A good knight. Hard man, but fair. He must have seen something in you early on."

Jaime shrugged. "He saw someone who needed discipline. And he made sure I got plenty of it."

Ser Harlan tilted his head. "And now here you are, training among knights, already better than half of them. Soon enough, you’ll have your white cloak, just as you always wanted."

Jaime hesitated.

Just as he always wanted.

That was the plan. That had always been the plan. From the moment he could hold a sword, he had envisioned himself among the Kingsguard—a knight of legend, a warrior bound by honor and duty. It had been his dream, his purpose.

But now…

Now, he felt something uncertain creeping in again.

A white cloak was a lifetime of service, of celibacy, of loyalty to a king he could not choose. A white cloak meant giving up everything else.

And when he closed his eyes, he did not see the grandeur of the Kingsguard.

He saw her.

He saw the way her indigo eyes glowed beneath the lantern light in the gardens, the way her voice had softened when she spoke his name. He saw her smile, the quiet understanding in her gaze, the way she had looked at him as if she truly saw him.

A Kingsguard could not have that. A Kingsguard could not have her.

And the thought unsettled him more than he was willing to admit.

"You’re quiet, Lannister," Ser Oswell noted, studying him curiously. "Is that not what you still want?"

Jaime forced a smirk, shifting his stance. "Of course," he said smoothly, though the words felt strange on his tongue. "What man wouldn’t want to be remembered among the greatest knights in history?"

Ser Harlan chuckled. "That’s the right attitude. A man should always aim for greatness."

Jaime nodded, but his grip on his sword tightened.

He had spent years believing this was greatness. That nothing could be better than knighthood, than honor, than glory.

But now—now, as days pass by, he was not so sure.

And the doubt burned in his chest like a brand.

Jaime moved through the halls of the Red Keep with an ease born of familiarity, his cloak trailing behind him as he passed through the winding corridors lined with torches flickering in their iron sconces. The midday air had grown heavy with heat, the scent of warmed stone and incense lingering from the septs below. Servants scurried past, their heads bowed, hands full of scrolls and goblets, their presence barely acknowledged by the young Lannister as he made his way toward the chambers where he expected to find his sister.

He had not seen Cersei since the morning meal, but he knew her well enough to predict where she would be. She was no fool; she understood their father’s wishes as keenly as he did, and she had always been far more eager to play her part. If she was not in their apartments, there was only one place she would have gone.

The princess’s solar.

Jaime exhaled, a sharp breath through his nose. Cersei was relentless when she wanted something, and right now, she wanted to be at the princess’s side. She had spent years imagining herself as the future queen, and even in the face of uncertainty from Aerys, she would do everything in her power to ensure Rhaegar saw her as the only logical choice.

When he arrived at the entrance to the solar, he did not even need to step inside to confirm his suspicions. Laughter and quiet voices drifted through the open doors, and amid the soft lilting tones of the princess’s ladies-in-waiting, he recognized Cersei’s voice—measured, honeyed, full of carefully chosen words designed to weave her seamlessly into their circle.

Jaime smirked to himself. She was tireless.

But it meant she was occupied—and that left him without a purpose for the moment.

He turned, stepping away from the doorway, but he had barely gone a few paces before a soft voice—smooth as silk and just as unsettling—cut through the warm air.

"A fine afternoon, young man. You look as if you were seeking something… or someone."

Jaime stopped in his tracks, rolling his shoulders slightly before glancing toward the source of the voice.

Varys.

The man stood in the shadow of a marble column, his hands tucked neatly into the wide sleeves of his lavender robes, his pale, hairless face betraying nothing but quiet amusement. His presence in the Red Keep was still new—a recent addition to the king’s court, a foreign shadow that had settled itself neatly into the folds of power.

Jaime had never liked him.

Not for any particular reason. Perhaps it was the way the man seemed to know things he had no right knowing, or the way he spoke without ever truly revealing anything of himself. There was something slippery about him, something untouchable, and Jaime had never had patience for men who did not speak plainly.

"Lord Varys," Jaime greeted, his voice smooth but guarded. "I hadn’t noticed you there."

Varys’s lips curved slightly, though his expression remained unreadable. "Few do. Until they must."

Jaime let out a breath of amusement, tilting his head slightly. "And what must I notice you for today?"

Varys regarded him for a moment before stepping forward, his movements as fluid as ever, his gaze flickering toward the solar where Cersei’s laughter still rang lightly through the air.

"Your sister is quite… persistent," he observed. "She is wasting no time in placing herself where she wishes to be."

Jaime smirked, glancing back toward the door. "Cersei does nothing by halves."

Varys chuckled softly. "Indeed. And neither does her father."

Jaime turned his gaze back toward him, his smirk fading slightly. He did not ask what the spymaster meant by that, because he already knew.

Varys tilted his head, his voice dropping into something quieter. "No one at court is blind as to why Lord Tywin brought his golden cubs to King’s Landing." His expression was mild, his words carefully spoken, but the meaning beneath them was clear. "There are… expectations."

Jaime exhaled slowly through his nose. "There are always expectations."

Varys’s lips twitched into something like amusement. "And yet, some expectations are more pressing than others." He studied Jaime for a moment before adding, "And some ambitions… more personal than political."

Jaime’s eyes narrowed slightly. He did not like the way Varys watched him, did not like the way his voice curved around his words as if he already knew everything Jaime had yet to admit to himself.

He straightened his shoulders. "I would think you have more pressing matters to concern yourself with than where I spend my time."

Varys hummed, tapping his fingers lightly against his robes. "You would think so. And yet, the affairs of princes and princesses tend to shape the realm far more than we care to admit."

Jaime exhaled, shaking his head slightly. He would not play games with this man, not now.

"Do you know where she is?" he asked, his tone shifting, more direct.

Varys did not even feign confusion. "The princess?" He smiled slightly. "She is preparing to ride out with her brother. They leave before midday."

Jaime frowned slightly. "Ride where?"

"To the ruins of Summerhall," Varys said, his voice light, as if it were merely idle conversation. "A place of memory. Of loss."

Jaime tilted his head slightly. He had heard the stories, of course—of many tragedies there and those who perished in its flames, of how Summerhall had been left as little more than a burned ruin, standing as a monument to what had been lost.

And Rhaegar, he knew, had always been drawn to it.

Jaime considered this, rolling the information over in his mind before turning back to Varys. "And you think this is of interest to me?"

Varys smiled again, but there was something knowing in it. "I think many things are of interest to you. Some of them, you have yet to even admit to yourself."

Jaime exhaled sharply through his nose. He would not entertain this man’s games. Not now.

He gave a curt nod, stepping past the spymaster. "Enjoy your riddles, Lord Varys," he said over his shoulder. "I’ll leave you to them."

Varys chuckled softly, his voice floating after him like a whisper. "Oh, I always do."

Jaime did not look back.

The stables of the Red Keep were alive with movement as the small procession prepared for departure. The scent of hay and saddle leather lingered in the morning air, mingling with the sharper tang of oiled steel and the faintest trace of damp earth. Horses shifted impatiently, their breath curling in the crisp air, their hooves clattering softly against the stone floor as stable hands moved between them, adjusting straps and tightening girths. The sunlight streamed in through the arched entrance, catching on the polished armor of the knights who stood ready, waiting for their prince and princess to mount.

Jaime approached at an easy pace, though his presence did not go unnoticed. Ser Barristan stood near the entrance, adjusting the leather straps of his gauntlets, his stern gaze flickering toward Jaime the moment he stepped inside. Further ahead, Ser Arthur Dayne was speaking quietly with one of the attendants, his sword—Dawn—strapped securely to his back, a silent promise of its legend. Neither knight spoke to him as he passed, but their presence alone was enough to remind Jaime that this was no simple ride.

And then he saw her.

You stood beside your dapple grey mare, Moonveil, the delicate silver braiding in your hair glinting in the light as you adjusted the reins. The violet riding cloak draped over your shoulders made you look more like something from a painting than a woman of flesh and blood, an image woven from the very fabric of the old songs. There was a grace to the way you moved, each gesture smooth and unhurried, as if you belonged in this moment—as if this had all happened before, and you already knew how it would end.

Beside you, Rhaegar stood with his hands resting lightly against Darkfyre’s neck, his silver hair catching in the golden light, the black destrier shifting slightly beneath his touch. He did not speak, did not move—only watched as Jaime approached, his gaze unreadable.

It was you who broke the silence.

"Jaime," you greeted, tilting your head slightly, your expression calm but curious. "What brings you here?"

Jaime exhaled, rolling his shoulders back as he slowed his steps. "I heard about your journey," he said, his tone easy, though the weight of Rhaegar’s gaze did not go unnoticed. "And I wanted to ask if I might join you."

There was a beat of silence.

Rhaegar’s fingers twitched against his horse’s mane, but his face remained still, unreadable as stone. Then, slowly, he turned his head slightly—toward you.

A silent exchange passed between you. Nothing was said, but the weight of Rhaegar’s glance was unmistakable, a look that lingered, expectant. It was not his decision, and yet, there was an undeniable expectation in his silence, a question unspoken but heard all the same.

Jaime watched as your lips parted slightly, then pressed together, your fingers tightening around Moonveil’s reins before you turned back to him.

"You wish to ride with us?" you asked, your voice carefully measured.

Jaime nodded, shifting his weight slightly. "If you will have me."

Another pause.

Then, a soft breath.

"You may," you said simply.

Jaime did not look at Rhaegar, though he could feel the prince’s gaze like a blade at his back. Instead, he focused only on you, on the way your expression remained poised, unreadable, yet not unkind.

You gave a slight nod, turning back toward your mare as the stable hands finished securing the last of the riding gear. "We leave within the hour," you murmured.

Jaime exhaled slowly.

Then he smiled.

"I’ll be ready."

Jaime moved swiftly through the corridors of the Red Keep, his boots echoing against the polished stone as he made his way toward his chambers. He had little time—less than an hour—to ready himself for the journey to Summerhall, and though he was more than capable of preparing quickly, his mind raced with thoughts far removed from his saddlebags and armor.

He had not expected her to agree so easily.

He had braced himself for hesitation, for a glance toward Rhaegar seeking approval, for some delicate refusal that would force him to retreat with little more than a polite excuse. But there had been none of that. No reluctance, no delay—only a quiet, measured acceptance, as if she had already decided before he had asked.

It made something tighten in his chest, something he was still trying to make sense of.

His fingers curled into fists at his sides as he moved, his pace quickening. He had wasted too much time already, caught between his own thoughts, between the weight of a future that had never felt uncertain until now.

And in his haste—he almost did not see them.

He rounded a corner, moving too fast to stop in time, and came within an inch of crashing directly into his father.

Jaime skidded to a halt, his breath sharp as he pulled back just in time, his heart hammering in his chest.

Tywin Lannister did not so much as flinch.

His father stood tall, his golden cloak draped over his broad shoulders, his expression severe as ever, though the stern glint in his green eyes spoke of irritation more than surprise.

Beside him stood King Aerys.

Jaime’s breath caught, his entire body going rigid as he processed the scene before him.

The king was dressed in deep crimson robes, his silver hair slightly unkempt, curling against the high collar of his garment. His violet eyes flickered toward Jaime, stern and assessing, but they were not yet clouded with the wild unpredictability that had begun creeping into his presence in recent years. There was lucidity here—fragile, but present.

Around them stood several of Aerys’s closest advisors—Grand Maester Pycelle, his hands clasped before him; Lord Chelsted, his face lined with quiet tension; and, standing just a step back, Varys, his ever-present, unreadable expression as smooth as the silken folds of his robes.

For a heartbeat, the air felt thick with expectation.

Then Tywin exhaled, his voice steady.

"Jaime."

Jaime straightened his spine instinctively, his jaw tightening. "Father."

Tywin’s gaze flickered over him once, noting his disheveled state, the faint sheen of sweat at his brow from moving so quickly. Then, slowly, his expression darkened.

"You are in a hurry," Tywin observed, his tone neutral but edged with something dangerous.

Jaime opened his mouth to reply, but before he could speak, Aerys let out a low hum, his fingers twitching against the crimson fabric of his sleeve.

"Where is the young lion rushing off to?" the king murmured, tilting his head slightly, the movement almost predatory.

Jaime chose his words carefully.

"I am preparing for a ride, Your Grace," he said, dipping his head in a slight bow.

Aerys’s lips curled, but it was not a smile. "A ride?" he echoed. "And where, pray tell, does the cub ride to?"

Jaime forced himself to remain still.

"Summerhall," he admitted.

The shift was immediate.

The very mention of that place changed something in Aerys’s face. His fingers stilled, his lips pressing together, the muscles in his jaw tightening. He did not speak right away, but his silence was heavy, pressing against the air like the moment before a storm.

Tywin’s gaze sharpened. "With whom?"

Jaime hesitated.

And in that pause—Varys spoke first.

"With the prince and princess, my lord," he murmured, his voice smooth as silk. "It seems young Jaime has been invited to join them."

Jaime flicked his gaze toward the spymaster, irritation curling at the edges of his mind. Of course Varys already knew. The man knew everything, and worse—he enjoyed revealing what he knew at the most precise moments.

Tywin did not move. He did not shift, did not exhale, did not betray even a flicker of reaction. But Jaime could feel the weight of his scrutiny, the cold calculation ticking behind his unreadable gaze.

Aerys, however, laughed.

It was not a pleasant sound.

"With my son and daughter," Aerys murmured, shaking his head slightly. "How fortunate you are, boy, to be given such favor."

Jaime said nothing.

Aerys studied him for a moment longer, then turned his attention back to Tywin, his lips curling slightly. "Your cub is eager," he mused. "Perhaps I should have him stay. The court needs good men, does it not?"

Tywin’s expression did not shift. "Jaime will serve where he is most valuable, Your Grace."

Aerys smirked.

"Yes," he murmured, eyes flickering toward Jaime once more. "I suppose he will."

Jaime clenched his jaw, fighting the urge to let his hands tighten into fists.

Tywin turned back toward him, his gaze hard, unreadable.

"You should not keep them waiting," his father said smoothly. "A knight should always be punctual."

Jaime held his gaze for a long moment, then nodded stiffly. "Yes, my lord."

With another quick bow to the king, he turned sharply on his heel and strode away, forcing himself to keep his pace measured, controlled.

Even as the weight of his father’s gaze bore into his back.

Even as Aerys’s laughter echoed faintly behind him.

Even as the doubt in his chest only grew heavier.

The road to Summerhall stretched before them, winding through wide fields and low-rolling hills, the morning light filtering through the dense canopy of trees that lined the pathway. The sound of hooves against packed earth filled the air, steady and rhythmic, accompanied only by the occasional rustling of leaves stirred by the breeze. The small procession moved in a quiet formation—Rhaegar riding a few paces ahead, his silver hair gleaming under the sun as he spoke in hushed tones with Ser Arthur Dayne, while Ser Barristan rode at a measured distance behind them, his sharp gaze ever watchful. The rest of the guards flanked them, keeping a respectful distance, their presence more an assurance of protection than an intrusion upon the journey itself.

Jaime rode close to you, his cloak trailing slightly in the wind, his fingers loose around the reins of his chestnut stallion. His posture was relaxed, but his mind was anything but. He had spent the first stretch of the ride watching—watching the way Rhaegar carried himself with that effortless, almost melancholic grace, watching the way you moved with the same quiet ease, as if the saddle had always been a natural place for you.

It was different, seeing you outside the Red Keep. Away from the court, the whispers, the expectations. Here, you were something else entirely.

Jaime cleared his throat slightly, drawing your attention as he turned toward you. "Why Summerhall?" he asked, tilting his head just enough to catch your gaze. "Why now?"

You glanced toward the front of the group, where Rhaegar was still deep in conversation with Ser Arthur, before turning back to Jaime. "My brother likes to visit it," you said simply. "It brings him a sense of peace. Helps clear his mind."

Jaime arched a brow, shifting in his saddle slightly. "Peace?" He let out a quiet breath, glancing toward Rhaegar. "I would not have thought a place of such tragedy would offer much peace."

Your lips pressed together, thoughtful. "Most would think the same. But for Rhaegar, it is different." You hesitated for a moment, then continued, your voice softer now. "He was born there, you know. On the very night it burned. He says he does not remember it, but I think…" You paused, your fingers brushing against the reins absentmindedly. "I think some part of him still feels connected to it."

Jaime considered this, his gaze flickering between you and the prince ahead. "And you?" he asked. "Do you find peace there, too?"

You exhaled slowly, your gaze drifting toward the horizon. "No," you admitted. "Not the way he does. But it eases him. And that is enough for me."

Jaime studied you for a long moment, taking in the quiet certainty in your words. There was no hesitation, no doubt. You understood Rhaegar in a way few others did, and more than that—you bore his burdens as if they were your own.

"You and the prince seem close," Jaime remarked, his voice more thoughtful than questioning.

A small smile ghosted across your lips, though your gaze remained on the road ahead. "We always have been."

Jaime hummed, his fingers tightening slightly around the reins. It was true, then. The way Rhaegar had looked at you in the stables, the way his presence had hovered so closely around you in court—it was more than mere sibling fondness. It was something deeper, something unspoken but ever-present.

And it unsettled him.

You turned your head then, your gaze meeting his with quiet amusement. "I imagine you and your sister are the same," you mused.

Jaime blinked at the sudden shift, but he did not falter. "Cersei and I?"

You arched a brow. "Are you not close?"

Jaime exhaled, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. "I suppose we are."

"You do not sound certain," you observed.

Jaime tilted his head slightly, considering. "Cersei and I have always understood each other," he admitted. "We were born together. We grew up as reflections of one another." He hesitated, his gaze flickering toward you. "But I think being close to someone does not always mean knowing them."

You regarded him for a long moment before nodding. "Perhaps," you murmured.

Jaime let out a slow breath, shaking his head slightly. "Still, I doubt my sister would ever say she carries my burdens."

Your lips quirked upward. "No, I do not think she would."

Jaime chuckled softly, but the sound faded quickly as his gaze returned to Rhaegar, watching the way the prince moved with that quiet, unreadable grace. A man made of songs and prophecy, of burdens only he seemed to understand.

And for the first time, Jaime wondered—did she ever tire of carrying them for him?

The road stretched long and winding beneath the late morning sun, the golden light slanting through the trees that bordered the path. The air smelled of warm earth, of pine and distant salt carried from the sea, and the steady rhythm of hooves against the dirt was a constant murmur beneath the conversations that ebbed and flowed among the riders.

At the front of the group, Rhaegar rode in silence for a time, his hands light on the reins of Darkfyre, his expression calm but distant. His silver hair moved with the breeze, catching in the light, though he seemed unaware of the way it fell across his shoulders. His gaze contemplative, flickered toward where you rode beside Ser Jaime Lannister.

Arthur Dayne, who had known the prince longer than most, had been watching him carefully.

They had been speaking in low voices, their words lost to the wind beyond their own hearing, but Arthur recognized the subtle shift in Rhaegar’s posture, the way his fingers had tightened slightly against the leather of the reins. To most, it would seem nothing. But Arthur knew better. He had spent years at Rhaegar’s side, had fought alongside him, had watched him bear the burdens of expectation with a quiet resolve that many mistook for detachment.

But Arthur knew when something troubled him.

"You have been quiet, my prince," Arthur murmured, his voice low enough that only Rhaegar could hear.

Rhaegar exhaled slowly, his gaze still lingering toward where Jaime and his sister rode. "Have I?"

Arthur smirked faintly. "You are rarely anything else."

Rhaegar did not smile.

Arthur followed his gaze and let out a thoughtful hum. "Ser Jaime is an impressive rider. I have seen few his age who handle a horse with such confidence."

Rhaegar made a noise in his throat that could have been amusement or irritation. "You have always admired skill in battle, Ser Arthur."

Arthur arched a brow. "It is my duty to recognize talent where I see it."

Rhaegar was silent for a moment before finally glancing toward him. "Do you admire him, then?"

Arthur studied him carefully, hearing the undercurrent beneath the words. "I respect him," he said after a pause. "He is young, but he is capable. A fine swordsman, should he continue on his path."

Rhaegar’s lips pressed together slightly. "And should he choose another path?"

Arthur tilted his head, considering. "There are many paths for a man like Jaime Lannister."

Rhaegar exhaled sharply through his nose. "Yes," he murmured. "It seems he is testing each of them."

Arthur followed his gaze once more, watching as Jaime leaned slightly toward you, murmuring something that drew a quiet laugh from your lips. It was not particularly intimate, not overly bold, but Rhaegar’s gaze lingered too long, his expression too carefully schooled into nothingness.

Arthur smirked slightly. "He seems to enjoy your sister’s company."

Rhaegar’s fingers tightened briefly around the reins before he forced them to relax. "Yes," he said, his voice carefully neutral. "I have noticed."

Arthur glanced at him sideways. "And you disapprove?"

Rhaegar was silent, his expression unreadable. Then, quietly, he said, "I do not trust Lannisters who return where they are not wanted."

Arthur chuckled softly. "You speak as if they were exiled. They are not Maelys Blackfyre and his men, my prince. Lord Tywin simply took his leave when your father no longer valued his counsel."

Rhaegar’s gaze darkened slightly. "Tywin Lannister takes nothing lightly. And he does nothing without purpose." He tilted his head slightly, watching as Jaime lifted a hand to adjust his horse’s bridle, his golden hair gleaming in the sunlight. "I have no doubt that he brought his children here with one in mind."

Arthur considered this. "Perhaps. But Jaime is still young."

Rhaegar did not look at him. "And yet, he is already learning how to place himself where he will be most seen."

Arthur was silent for a moment before nodding slowly. "You dislike him."

Rhaegar exhaled, tilting his head toward the sky for a brief moment, his expression unreadable. "I find his presence inconvenient."

Arthur smirked. "Inconvenient? That is not the word I expected."

Rhaegar’s indigo gaze flickered toward him. "Then you are not listening closely."

Arthur chuckled, shaking his head. "You forget, my prince—I know you better than most."

Rhaegar exhaled through his nose. "Then you should know that I do not enjoy distractions."

Arthur lifted a brow. "And you think Ser Jaime is a distraction?"

Rhaegar was silent for a long moment, his gaze steady on the road ahead. Then, in a voice quiet and unreadable, he said, "I think he would like to be."

Arthur hummed thoughtfully, but said no more.

Because for all of Rhaegar’s careful words, all of his subtle deflections, Arthur could see the truth as clearly as if it had been laid bare before him.

The prince had never cared much for Lannisters, but this was different.

This was not about Jaime Lannister’s ambitions.

This was about you.

And Rhaegar had never been one to relinquish what he considered his.

The fire crackled in the still night air, its warm glow casting flickering shadows against the trees that surrounded their small encampment. The night was clear, the sky above stretched wide and endless, pinpricked with stars. The low murmur of conversation carried through the camp, punctuated only by the occasional rustle of leaves or the distant howl of some unseen creature in the woods.

Jaime sat near the fire, his cloak pooled around his shoulders, his fingers idly tracing the rim of his goblet. The scent of roasting meat lingered in the air, the remnants of their evening meal still fresh, though most had already settled into the quiet routine of the night—some speaking in hushed voices, others tending to their horses, a few already bedding down in their tents.

Across from him, Rhaegar sat in perfect stillness, his expression composed, his hands resting lightly on his knees. He had spoken little since they had left King’s Landing, answering when necessary, but offering nothing more than what was required.

Jaime had expected this.

Still, it irritated him.

He had spent the better part of the day watching the way Rhaegar carried himself—the way he moved through the world as if he belonged more to the legends whispered in court than to the men who walked beside him. He was distant, always slightly removed, as if his thoughts existed in some faraway place none could reach.

Jaime was beginning to understand why people adored him.

And he was also beginning to understand why people found him so frustrating.

He shifted slightly, rolling his shoulders back as he glanced toward the prince. "You’ve been quiet," he remarked, his voice light but pointed.

Rhaegar lifted his gaze slightly, meeting Jaime’s with that same unreadable expression. "I often am."

Jaime smirked, taking a slow sip of his wine before setting the goblet aside. "I had noticed." He tilted his head slightly. "I had hoped this journey would allow us to speak more. But it seems I overestimated your interest in company."

Rhaegar studied him for a long moment before exhaling softly. "I have never been a man of many words, Ser Jaime."

Jaime let out a quiet chuckle. "That, I remember."

At this, Rhaegar’s brow arched ever so slightly, the only indication of interest he had given all evening.

Jaime leaned back slightly, glancing toward the fire. "Do you recall the first time we met?" he asked, his tone still casual, though there was something deliberate in the way he broached the subject.

Rhaegar tilted his head slightly, considering. "Vaguely," he admitted.

Jaime smirked, shaking his head. "You must remember something of it. It was the first time my mother brought Cersei and me to court. We were barely more than children." He exhaled, his gaze flickering toward the prince. "You were playing the harp."

Rhaegar’s fingers twitched slightly, though his expression remained impassive.

Jaime chuckled. "My mother wanted to present Cersei to the court, but all she spoke of afterward was you." He shook his head, the memory coming back with unexpected clarity. "You didn’t even look up when we entered the hall. You kept playing. My mother told us later that you had been doing so for hours, that no one could bring themselves to interrupt you."

Rhaegar was silent for a moment, his gaze distant, as if reaching back for a memory he had long since set aside.

Jaime smirked, stretching out his legs slightly. "It was the first time I ever saw Cersei… flustered," he mused. "She had always imagined herself as the most remarkable person in any room she entered. But when she looked at you, she hated that you did not look back."

Rhaegar exhaled softly, his lips curving just slightly—not quite a smile, but something close to it.

Jaime tilted his head, watching him. "Do you remember what you played?"

Rhaegar was quiet for a long moment before he finally spoke, his voice softer now. "It was a song of Old Valyria," he murmured. "One my mother sang to me when I was young."

Jaime nodded. "It was beautiful."

Rhaegar’s gaze flickered toward him, as if assessing whether he meant it.

Jaime smirked. "And dreadfully boring for a boy of eight."

Rhaegar let out a breath that might have been amusement, though it was difficult to tell. "I imagine so."

Jaime studied him for a moment, then leaned forward slightly. "You play often, even now?"

Rhaegar nodded. "When I can."

Jaime exhaled, rubbing his jaw. "I’m beginning to think your harp speaks more than you do."

Rhaegar did not respond at first, but then, quietly, he said, "Perhaps that is why I prefer it."

Jaime chuckled, shaking his head. "You truly are a man of riddles, my prince."

Rhaegar tilted his head slightly. "And you, Ser Jaime, are a man of many questions."

Jaime smirked, his eyes glinting in the firelight. "You can hardly blame me. I’ve spent the day riding with a man everyone seems to worship, and yet, he barely speaks a word."

Rhaegar exhaled, tilting his head toward the sky. "Words are often wasted on men who do not listen."

Jaime arched a brow. "And do you think I do not listen?"

Rhaegar’s gaze flickered toward him again, assessing. "I think you listen when it serves you."

Jaime laughed, shaking his head. "Perhaps. But you must admit, I have been listening quite intently to you."

Rhaegar hummed, his expression unreadable once more. "And what have you learned?"

Jaime leaned back, his smirk widening. "That you are as frustrating as everyone says."

For the first time, Rhaegar actually smiled.

It was small, fleeting, but unmistakable.

Jaime exhaled, rolling his shoulders back. "Well, I suppose that’s something."

Rhaegar studied him for a moment longer before finally nodding. "Perhaps."

The fire flickered, its glow licking at the darkness that had settled around the encampment. The night was still, save for the occasional murmur of conversation from the guards and the quiet sounds of horses shifting in the distance. The warmth of the flames was a welcome contrast to the cool night air, and though the silence between Jaime and Rhaegar had settled into something less strained, it still carried the weight of unspoken thoughts.

Then, movement.

Jaime noticed before he even turned his head, the faint rustle of fabric, the soft pad of boots against the earth. He lifted his gaze just as you approached, your violet cloak trailing lightly behind you, your pale hair catching the firelight and gleaming like polished silk. For a moment, the rest of the camp faded—the voices, the shifting shadows, even Rhaegar’s unreadable presence beside him.

You moved with that same effortless grace, the kind that made everything around you seem slower somehow, as if the world itself adjusted to your pace. Jaime sat up straighter, his shoulders unconsciously squaring, his attention wholly on you as you reached the fire and, without hesitation, settled beside Rhaegar.

Rhaegar, who had been watching you from the moment you arrived.

Jaime’s gaze flickered between the two of you, taking in the quiet way Rhaegar shifted just slightly to accommodate you, the way his posture eased—barely noticeable, but there. The way you didn’t need to ask before taking your place beside him.

Jaime forced himself to lean back, feigning nonchalance, though the truth was he felt your presence like a blade pressing at his ribs.

"You’ve been away from the fire for some time," Rhaegar murmured, his voice low but not unkind. "I expected you to retire for the night."

You shook your head, adjusting the edge of your cloak around you. "I wasn’t ready to sleep yet." You glanced toward Jaime then, your expression unreadable. "I saw you both speaking."

Jaime smirked slightly, arching a brow. "An unexpected conversation, but not an unpleasant one."

Rhaegar tilted his head slightly, but did not respond.

You hummed, glancing toward the prince. "You spoke?" you teased lightly. "I thought you had sworn a vow of silence for this journey."

Jaime chuckled at that, watching as the corner of Rhaegar’s lips almost twitched. "I must admit, he did not make it easy," Jaime mused. "I had to remind him of things he had already forgotten."

Rhaegar exhaled, shaking his head slightly. "I do not forget," he said simply.

Jaime tilted his head. "No?"

Rhaegar met his gaze evenly. "No."

The quiet intensity in his tone made something tighten in Jaime’s chest, though he did not allow it to show.

You glanced between them, your expression thoughtful. "What memories were you discussing?"

Jaime turned to you fully now, the embers of the fire reflected in his green eyes. "The first time I came to court," he said. "When my mother brought Cersei and me to King’s Landing."

You studied him for a moment, then smiled slightly. "Ah," you mused. "Our mother spoke of it often."

Jaime lifted a brow. "Did she?"

You nodded, shifting slightly where you sat. "She thought very highly of your mother." A pause. "She thought highly of you, too."

Jaime smirked, tilting his head slightly. "Is that so?"

You gave him a pointed look, amusement flickering in your gaze. "You need not look so smug about it, Jaime. You were still a boy."

Rhaegar exhaled softly, shaking his head. "And yet, he has changed so little."

Jaime chuckled at that, shaking his head. "I should be insulted, but I’ll take it as a compliment." He turned his gaze back to you, watching the way the firelight played along your features. "And what of you?" he asked. "What do you remember of those days?"

You considered for a moment, your gaze distant. "I remember feeling watched," you admitted. "Wherever I went, there were always eyes. Even as a child, I knew I was being observed. Measured." You glanced at Jaime then, your lips curving slightly. "It seems that has not changed."

Jaime felt a sharp twinge in his chest at that.

You were right. You were always being watched. Measured. Not just by the court, not just by the nobles who whispered about you behind their goblets. By him.

He had been watching you since the day he arrived at court.

And he knew now that he was not alone in it.

Rhaegar had not spoken in some time, but Jaime did not miss the way his gaze lingered on you, the way his fingers twitched ever so slightly against his knee as if restraining the urge to reach for you.

Jaime smirked, leaning back once more, feigning ease. "Then I suppose it is only fair," he said lightly. "That I take the chance to observe as well."

You arched a brow. "Observe?"

Jaime met your gaze, his smirk deepening. "To get to know you better, of course."

Rhaegar said nothing.

But Jaime could feel his gaze.

And for the first time that evening, he welcomed it.

...

The morning air was crisp, the remnants of night’s chill still clinging to the grass beneath your feet as you stepped out of your tent. The world was bathed in the soft gold of dawn, the first rays of sunlight stretching long and pale across the encampment, illuminating the slow stirrings of life around you. The scent of damp earth mixed with the last traces of smoke from the dying embers of last night’s fire, a faint warmth lingering in the air.

But it was not the light that had woken you.

It was the unmistakable ring of steel upon steel.

Your gaze flickered toward the far side of the camp, where a small group had gathered near the clearing, their forms silhouetted against the rising sun. The sound of blades clashing rang through the morning stillness, sharp and rhythmic, accompanied by the occasional grunt of exertion and the shuffling of boots against packed earth.

Jaime Lannister and Ser Arthur Dayne.

You exhaled slowly, your breath curling in the cool morning air as you took a step closer, the soft fabric of your cloak brushing against the damp grass. The sight before you was something to behold—two men moving in perfect, fluid precision, their swords a blur of silver as they struck and parried with the ease of warriors who had long since become one with their weapons.

Jaime moved with the sharp confidence of a young man who had never known defeat, his hair damp with sweat, his expression taut with focus. He was fast—quicker than most knights his age, his blade a constant, shifting threat as he pushed forward, testing, searching for an opening. But Arthur—Arthur was something else entirely.

The Sword of the Morning stood poised and unshaken, his movements calculated, unbothered by Jaime’s relentless assault. Dawn, his legendary greatsword, gleamed like pale fire, moving with impossible grace as he met each of Jaime’s strikes with an almost effortless deflection. Where Jaime was quick, Arthur was precise. Where Jaime struck with strength, Arthur countered with control.

It was like watching a dance, though the stakes were far greater than mere performance.

A small crowd had gathered—Ser Barristan stood with his arms crossed, watching with a faint nod of approval, while a few of the guards observed from a respectful distance, murmuring quietly amongst themselves. Even Rhaegar was present, standing with his hands loosely clasped before him, his expression unreadable as he watched the battle unfold.

You moved closer, coming to a stop near Rhaegar’s side, your gaze never leaving the fight.

Jaime feinted left before pivoting sharply, his sword swinging in a tight, controlled arc toward Arthur’s side—but Arthur anticipated the move before it even happened. He twisted, catching the strike against Dawn’s gleaming edge, the force of the impact sending a shockwave of sound through the clearing.

"Better," Arthur remarked, his voice calm even as their blades locked. "But predictable."

Jaime gritted his teeth, shifting his stance as he pressed forward. "Then I’ll have to be unpredictable."

Arthur smirked, the smallest flicker of amusement dancing behind his eyes. "You are welcome to try."

Jaime did.

He moved faster this time, abandoning the measured strikes of formal combat for something more reckless, more instinctive. He pressed Arthur hard, forcing him back a step, then another, his strikes growing more aggressive—not careless, but driven by something deeper.

Arthur narrowed his eyes slightly, his amusement fading.

Then, in one fluid motion, he pivoted, shifting his weight in such a way that Jaime’s next strike met nothing but empty air. Before Jaime could recover, Dawn came sweeping down in a sharp, clean arc, and with a single deft movement, Arthur knocked Jaime’s blade clean from his grasp, sending it clattering to the ground.

Silence.

Jaime stood there, his chest rising and falling, sweat dampening his brow, his hands empty.

Arthur stepped back, lowering Dawn with an ease that spoke of absolute control, his gaze steady but not unkind. "You fight well," he said simply. "You will fight better when you learn patience."

Jaime let out a slow, controlled breath, his jaw tight but his expression unreadable. Then, after a moment, he smirked—not the smirk of arrogance, but something quieter, more knowing.

"Then I suppose you’ll have to teach me patience, Ser Arthur," he murmured, reaching down to retrieve his fallen sword.

Arthur chuckled softly, shaking his head. "That, young lion, is something you must learn on your own."

Jaime exhaled, rolling his shoulders before turning—and that was when he saw you.

His posture straightened slightly, his smirk faltering for just a moment before he masked it, his green eyes flickering toward you with something unreadable. He did not look embarrassed, nor did he seem frustrated with his loss—but there was something new in his expression, something that had not been there before.

Rhaegar, still standing beside you, noticed it too.

But he said nothing.

You studied Jaime for a long moment, your gaze calm but searching. Then, tilting your head slightly, you offered him the faintest trace of a smile.

"You woke the entire camp," you remarked lightly. "I suppose I should thank you for sparing me from my dreams."

Jaime let out a breath of laughter, shaking his head. "I didn’t realize I had such power over your sleep, princess."

You arched a brow, amused. "Only when you insist on swinging a sword at sunrise."

Arthur chuckled beside him, wiping the sweat from his brow. "There are worse ways to greet the morning."

Jaime smirked at that, but his eyes never left yours.

The morning stretched on, the embers of the fire still glowing, the weight of something unspoken settling between you.

[jesuschristtheprinceofpeace]

Remember, you can cast your burdens upon Jesus Christ, your worries and wearies. Our Lord is a compassionate God.

[thewulf]

I Choose You || Legolas

Summary: Request - Hii hope you're having a good day, is it okay if I request a Legolas x reader where reader is Gandalf's granddaughter and joined the fellowship on their quest to destroy the ring? They both slowly fell in love with each other along the way and when the incident in Moria happened where Gandalf dies, Legolas comforts her.

A/N: Thank you for the amazing request! Had a blast writing this as usual :) It's a lil long, so enjoy!

Pairing: Legolas x Female Reader

Word Count: 5.5k +

TW: Talks of war/death, war, death, orcs, general LOTR triggers

You stand silently amidst the gathered council fading into the background as best you could. The murmur of many voices echoing softly through the vaulted halls of Rivendell. The air is crisp, filled with the mingling scents of ancient scrolls and the distant freshness of autumnal leaves. Elves, men, dwarves, and even a few hobbits have come to discuss the fate of Middle-earth, their faces marked by concern and resolve.

Your grandfather, Gandalf the Grey, stands at the center of it all. His presence both commanding and comforting. You’ve always admired his wisdom and strength and today, more than ever, you feel the weight of your lineage. You are his granddaughter, gifted with a touch of his magical prowess and a deep love for the mysteries of this world.

As the debate swirls around you, Elrond, the lord of Rivendell calls for silence. His gaze settles on the small golden ring laid upon the pedestal. It’s simple form belying its terrible power. The task is clear though the path is fraught with peril: the ring must be destroyed in the fires of Mount Doom. "We must form a fellowship," Elrond declares. His voice resonant and clear. "Those who will take this burden upon themselves and walk into the shadow to see this evil undone."

A hush falls over the council. Eyes turn, some in fear, others in anticipation, seeking those who might step forward. This is the moment you’ve prepared for, not just since you arrived in Rivendell but throughout your life under Gandalf’s tutelage. With a breath that steadies your resolve you step forward. The rustle of your cloak is like a whisper against the stone floor and several members of the council turn in surprise as you move into the circle of light cast by the morning sun through the high windows.

"I will go," you say, your voice firm and clear. "For the love of my grandfather and for the safety of middle earth. I will see this quest through to its end."

Murmurs of approval ripple through the room and Gandalf meets your eyes across the circle. There’s pride in his gaze and a touch of sorrow, knowing well the dangers that lie ahead. But in this moment you see also the unspoken bond between the two of you. An acknowledgment of the shared commitment to what is right, no matter the cost.

Legolas, a prince of the Woodland Realm, nods to you with respect clear in his bright eyes. Beside him, a stout figure grumbles under his breath, yet Gimli the Dwarf gives a curt nod of assent, recognizing your courage. Beside them a young hobbit named Frodo, who is to be the Ringbearer, looks on with wide, earnest eyes. It is for him, and for all who call this land home, that you pledge your strength. As the council disperses to prepare for the journey you stand beside Gandalf feeling the ancient power of Rivendell around you and the even older strength that lies within your own heart. This is just the beginning you know but you are ready. For the Fellowship, for middle earth, for Gandalf.

You will face whatever comes, together.

As the Fellowship journeys south from Rivendell the path grows increasingly treacherous, winding through craggy mountain passes and shadowed forests. The air is crisp and the first frost of winter sparkles on the leaves. Your companions walk close together. Each step a testament to the weight of the task ahead.

Aragorn leads with a steady hand, his ranger skills essential as the terrain becomes more challenging. Beside him, Boromir of Gondor often lends his strength. His booming voice echoing off the stone trying to keep spirits high among the group, especially the hobbits—Frodo, Sam, Merry, and Pippin—who find amusement in the smallest wonders along the way. Like the frost patterns on the leaves or a particularly stubborn squirrel.

Legolas glides effortlessly beside you. His elven grace a stark contrast to Gimli who stumps along with a determined scowl, his axe ever at the ready. Despite the solemnity of your mission the elf and the dwarf have already begun what seems to be an endless competition, each trying to outdo the other in tracking skills, strength, and the telling of tall tales.

One balmy afternoon as the path narrows along the edges of a steep ravine the rivalry comes to a head between the two of them. Gimli insists he can clear a particularly large fallen tree with a single vault much to Legolas’s skepticism.

“Watch and learn, Master Elf,” Gimli grunts as he began to back up for a running start. Legolas watches with an arched eyebrow, clearly very amused by the red headed dwarf travelling beside him.

Just as Gimli begins to charge forward you step in placing a calming hand on his shoulder. “Perhaps, Gimli, it would be wiser to assist each other over the obstacle rather than compete with others. After all, the road ahead promises ample challenge for both of your strengths.” You smile warmly down at the ambitious dwarf set out to prove himself.

Gimli stops mid-stride puffing out his chest a bit as he turns to you, then to Legolas. “Hmm, perhaps you are right, lass. What say you, Legolas? Shall we make this journey a test of our cooperation rather than our competition?”

Legolas’s lips curve into a smile. His eyes sparkling with a newfound respect. “I believe our companion speaks wisely. Let us proceed together.” He offers his hand to Gimli who looks at it for a moment before shaking it heartily.

As the journey continues you find yourself often mediating and bringing lightness to tense moments. One evening as the Fellowship gathered around the campfire you recount a humorous anecdote from your days studying under your grandfather. Making sure to mimic Gandalf’s stern voice and dramatic gestures. The group erupts into laughter, the sound carrying through the trees and lifting the spirits of all including the hobbits who clap delightedly and ask for more stories.

Aragorn, sitting across from you nods appreciatively. His eyes meeting yours with a silent thank-you for the lightness you bring. Boromir chuckles, wiping tears of laughter from his eyes clearly more at ease. “You have the gift of your grandfather. Not only in magic but in spirit.” Aragorn comments, his voice warm in the chill air.

Legolas who was sitting beside you leans closer and speaks softly, “Your wisdom brings much-needed peace. And your humor is a light in dark times. It is a rare gift.”

You meet his gaze. The firelight cast dancing shadows across his features. All elves were beautiful but there was something about the Price of Mirkwood that drew you in. “We all carry our gifts, Legolas. Yours is your unerring optimism and sharp eye. Gimli’s his steadfastness and heart. Boromir’s his valor. Aragorn’s his leadership. And the hobbits’ their enduring cheer. Together we are stronger than each individual.”

As the nights grow longer and the path more daunting the bonds within the Fellowship deepen, fortified by shared challenges and your quiet efforts to understand, and support each other. In the quiet moments Legolas teaches you Elvish songs of old. And Gimli shares tales of the great Dwarven halls, their voices blending into the night creating a tapestry of friendship and hope.

As the Fellowship delves into the ancient depths of Moria the air grows thick with the mustiness of ages and the weight of stone. The walls echo with the memory of Dwarven voices, now silent. The path is lit only by the faint glow of Gandalf’s staff. Gimli moves with a mix of reverence and sorrow. His eyes reflecting a deep familial connection to the lost realm of his kin. The narrow passages twist and turn leading you deeper into the mountain’s heart. The quiet is oppressive, only broken by the occasional drip of water or the scuffle of a boot on stone. Tension mounts with each step and even the normally unflappable Legolas seems taut, his eyes scanning the shadows.

All too suddenly, the dark stillness erupts into chaos. A low growl escalates into a deafening roar as the Balrog, a creature of fire and shadow, reveals itself. The ground trembles beneath its weight and the air sears with heat. Gandalf steps forward his face set with grim determination. “Lead them on, Aragorn,” he commands. “The bridge is near. Do as I say! Swords are no more use here!” Your grandfather cries as he gives you a sharp look. Obey. You must listen to him now.

The Fellowship rushes forward driven by fear and the urgent need to escape, but you hesitate, your heart torn as Gandalf faces the monster alone. As the others cross the bridge of Khazad-dûm you watch, helpless, as Gandalf confronts the Balrog. His staff was raised, a brilliant light flaring to meet the darkness.

“You cannot pass,” Gandalf declares. His voice echoing powerfully. It sends a shutter down even your spine.

The Balrog advances and with a defiant cry Gandalf strikes the bridge with his staff. It crumbles sending the creature plummeting into the abyss. But the Balrog’s fiery whip lashes out, catching Gandalf’s leg, pulling him towards the edge. With a calm but utterly sad glance back at you, he murmurs, “Fly, you fools,” before falling into the darkness below.

Shock paralyzes you momentarily, tears blurring your vision. The others tug at you, pulling you away from the crumbling edge. As you flee Moria the loss of your beloved grandfather hits you. A deep ache that seems to echo through the empty halls. Outside, under the grey, mourning sky, the Fellowship collapses in a clearing. Each member grappling with grief. Your knees give out and you sink to the ground, overwhelmed by sorrow. Legolas is at your side in an instant, his presence a silent solace. He does not speak, but his hand finds yours, squeezing gently. A clear reminder that you are not alone.

Gimli joins you. His own eyes rimmed red. “He was the greatest of us all,” he says gruffly with his voice thick with emotion. “I am honored to have walked beside him and I vow to you, we will see this quest through. For him and for all our sakes.”

The words are a balm to your spirit even as you could not reply. Words were too hard for you now. You lean into Legolas, his strength supporting you. You mourn the loss of the only thing you knew. Legolas and Gimli by your side reminding you that even in the depths of loss, the bonds of friendship and love hold firm.

You manage to whisper a weak "Thank you," before the sorrow overwhelms you once more. Tears flood your cheeks, each one a memory, a moment shared with Gandalf that you'll never experience again. Overcome, you turn into Legolas's side, seeking the comfort that only close, physical presence can provide.  Though he was not typically fond of physical touch he does not hesitate to comfort you. He wraps his arms around you, his embrace firm and unwavering. In this moment your need transcends his usual reservations, and he holds you close. A silent sentinel in your hour of vulnerability.

His hands are steady on your back, one arm around your shoulders, the other at your waist, grounding you as your grief spills forth unchecked. Legolas's heart aches for your loss and though he may not express his emotions openly his actions speak a clear language of care and adoration. As you cry into his side, Legolas rests his chin atop your head. His gaze was fixed on the distant horizon where the last light of day gives way to twilight. He feels the weight of your sorrow as if it were his own, yet he knows he must stand strong for you.

Legolas knows that the road ahead will be fraught with further trials but for now, he offers you all that he can—protection, comfort, and an unspoken promise that no matter what lies ahead, you will not face it alone. In the stillness that wraps around you and Legolas there's a respectful pause from the rest of the Fellowship. They were giving you a moment to collect yourself under the cloak of Legolas's support. Aragorn, ever attentive to the needs of his comrades, notices the depth of your grief and the comfort Legolas provides. He understands the significance of this moment, the necessity of mourning and the importance of support in such times.

Standing a short distance away Aragorn speaks quietly with the hobbits making sure everyone is ready to continue but delaying their departure ever so slightly for your sake. His leadership is subtle. His decisions shaped by a deep understanding of his people's emotional and physical stamina.

After a brief moment, Aragorn looks over, his eyes meeting Legolas’s over your bowed head. There’s a silent communication between them. A leader’s acknowledgement and a friend’s gratitude for the support given to one of their own. Aragorn’s face softens, his respect for whatever was forming between you two clear in his gentle nod.

With a deep breath, signaling both readiness and respect, Aragorn approaches. His voice is soft yet carries a necessary urgency as he speaks. His words meant to soothe but also to remind of the path ahead. “We must move on for night will not wait for us and neither will our enemies,” he spoke with his tone conveying both compassion and resolve. “Take the time you need but remember we must not linger long.”

Legolas gently helps you stand straighter his arms still offering support. As you wipe away the last of your tears, strengthened by the comfort you’ve received, you nod in understanding. Legolas gives you a reassuring look. His eyes promising continued support and then he gently releases you. He was ready to stand by your side as you all prepare to resume the journey. With a final glance at Gandalf’s last stand you and the Fellowship gather your gear and set off once more into the fading light. The memory of Gandalf a guiding light that pushes you forward through the darkness.

Emerging into the sunlight of the world again does little to lift the sorrow of the Fellowship which soon deepens with Boromir’s tragic fall at Amon Hen. His valiant defense of Merry and Pippin against the Uruk-hai, though ultimately costing him his life, marked him forever a hero in the annals of your journey. The loss of such a stalwart companion leaves a void in your heart and within the group, casting a pall over your spirits.

Driven by a fierce determination to honor Boromir’s sacrifice, you, Aragorn, Legolas, and Gimli give chase across the plains of Rohan to rescue Merry and Pippin from their captors. The pursuit is grueling. Pushing each of you to your very limits. The landscape of Rohan is vast and relentless, but the tracks are clear, guiding you unerringly toward the thick fringes of Fangorn Forest. The hope of rescuing the hobbits fuels your weary bodies onward even as your hearts ache with the memory of Gandalf's fall and Boromir’s courageous end.

As you follow the trail into the shadowy depths of Fangorn a sense of ancient watchfulness grows. The forest feels alive, old beyond reckoning, and filled with secrets. It is here among the whispering trees that the unexpected happens. A figure steps out from the shadows garbed in white, his presence bright against the dark underbrush. The shock of seeing what you believe might be Saruman stops you in your tracks. But as the figure approaches the energy changes—the air around him shimmers with a familiar warmth and power. Not the cold malice of Saruman.

"Gandalf?" Legolas breathes. A note of awe mingling with disbelief.

You squint, hardly daring to believe it to be true. As he draws closer, clarity dawns, and recognition floods your senses. Overcome with emotion you shout, "Grandfather!" and sprint toward him. Your heart swelling with joy and relief.

Gandalf opens his arms wide, and you crash into his embrace. The impact strong yet comforting. "My dear child," he murmurs. His voice warm and welcoming as he wraps his arms around you. His cloak envelops you with a familiar scent of pipe-weed and the road clinging to the fabric grounding you in the reality of his return.

"Yes, it is I," Gandalf responds gently, now looking down at you with sparkling eyes, "but as Gandalf the White. I come back to you at the turn of the tide. Stronger and renewed. Just as our hope must now be."

The grief at Boromir’s death and the shock of Gandalf's return blend into a complex tapestry of emotions. The initial shock gives way to a festive air as relief and joy wash over Aragorn, Legolas, and Gimli. They join in, their earlier despair replaced by laughter and words of amazement, forming a tight circle around you and Gandalf.

As Gandalf explains his battle with the Balrog and his subsequent rebirth his words filling the gaps in your understanding and rekindling hope in your hearts. His return not only signifies a miraculous second chance but also invigorates the Fellowship with renewed purpose and determination. With Gandalf's guidance now as Gandalf the White you all feel a renewed sense of purpose. The path forward is still fraught with danger but with Gandalf returned, and in memory of Boromir’s bravery, you are reminded that even in the darkest times there can be resurrection and hope. Together you prepare to resume the quest, stronger and more determined than ever.

"Your guidance has been sorely missed, Gandalf," Aragorn says. His voice steady but thick with emotion as he joins you. He captures the mood of the moment, channeling the Fellowship’s relief into focus. "What should we do? Frodo and Sam are gone to Mordor. Merry and Pippin are captives of the enemy." Gandalf releases you from the embrace but keeps one hand on your shoulder, grounding, and comforting. He surveys the small group with a decisive gaze and the air around you seems to thrum with renewed energy and urgency.

"We will split our efforts," he declares. "Aragorn, Legolas, Gimli, and you," he nods at you, "will pursue the orcs who took Merry and Pippin. Every second counts and your skills will be crucial in navigating this perilous chase."

You try and protest, but he shakes his head continuing along. "Meanwhile, I shall seek aid from the Ents of Fangorn," Gandalf continues, turning to look at the dense woods behind him. "Their strength will be necessary in the wars to come. We must rally all allies for the shadow from the East grows ever bolder."

As plans are made Legolas stands close by your side, his presence a silent vow of protection and partnership. You feel his hand briefly squeeze yours. A gesture of support that sends a surge of warmth through your heart that he had done so many times before.

"You have grown much, under shadow and trial," Gandalf remarks. Looking at you with a blend of pride and affection With the reunion drawing to a close and the path forward set you all prepare to leave. Gandalf’s return has not only brought back a beloved mentor and friend but has reignited the flame of hope within your heart. Together you feel ready to face the challenges that await knowing that the bonds of friendship and duty will guide you through the darkest of times.

As you traverse the expansive lands towards Rohan the camaraderie within the group deepens, each member adjusting to the rhythms of travel and the complexities of intertwined destinies. Amidst these dynamics your relationship with Legolas finds new ground. The elven prince, always serene and composed, begins to show a more attentive and tender side in his interactions with you. His glances linger longer and his conversations, once filled with tales of ancient elven lore, now often drift towards thoughts and dreams of the future, your future.

It’s during one of the long nights while camped under the vast, starlit sky near the borders of Fangorn Forest, that Gimli noticed the growing tension between you and Legolas. He decided to give you both some space. With a knowing wink and a gruff voice Gimli volunteers for the first watch, his tone unusually gentle. "I reckon the night is best shared with stars and heartfelt words, not an old dwarf's snoring."

Grateful, you share a smile with Legolas as Gimli settles a little distance away, his back to you, affording you a semblance of privacy. Legolas turns to you with his blue eyes reflecting the starlight, and for a moment he simply looks at you as if contemplating a thought long held in silence. "I have seen many wonders in my long life," he starts, his voice soft and mesmerizing under the night sky. "But none compared to the courage and kindness I've seen in you. In these trying times you have become a light guiding me."

Your heart flutters at his words, and you feel a warmth spread through you. "And you, Legolas, have been my solace. In you I find peace amidst turmoil. A joy that even the darkest shadows cannot diminish." He smiles. His gaze intensifying with affection and something more, something unspoken yet palpable between you. Then, in a move that surprises you both for its boldness and its intimacy, Legolas shifts closer and gently pulls you into his side. It's a daring gesture for an elf, particularly one as reserved as Legolas. But it feels right as if many paths had converged to bring this moment into being.

The warmth of his body against yours, the protective embrace of his arm—these are things you never expected to find so far from home. "It seems we have found comfort in one another's presence," he says softly. "Would that we might find a way to keep this light alive… no matter what lies ahead?"

"I would like that very much," you whisper as you leaned into the strength of his embrace.

The two of you sit under the blanket of night talking softly of dreams for a peaceful future and the immediate plans for the days to come. The reality of the quest remains but for now, under the stars, you both allow yourselves the luxury of imagining a life beyond the war. Both of you bound by a newfound affection that promises to grow with each passing day.

At Helm's Deep the air is thick with the tension of impending battle. The great fortress, built into the deep folds of the mountain, stands as the last bastion of hope against the relentless march of Saruman's forces. As the sky darkens and the torches flicker against the night you stand on the ramparts beside Legolas watching the sea of enemies gathering in the distance.

Legolas turns to you, his expression clouded with concern. “You should not be here,” he says softly. His voice barely above the howl of the wind. “This battle... it is not like the ones before. I fear—”

“I know,” you interrupt, understanding his fear but meeting his gaze with a resolve that mirrors the steel of the swords of your comrades below. “I know what this battle could mean for all of us. But I must stand with you, with all of you. There is no other place for me now, Legolas.”

Seeing the determination in your eyes, Legolas's expression softens and he pulls you gently against his side. It was a bold move for him, especially in such a public setting. “Then we will face it together,” he says squeezing your hand tightly as a silent promise passes between you.

The night deepens and the enemy’s drums beat a terrifying rhythm that seems to match the racing of your heart. Legolas pulls you closer. His eyes searching yours in the dim light. “No matter what happens tonight, know this,” he whispers, his voice steady despite the chaos swelling around you. “I love you. I have loved you amidst the shadows of our journey, and I will love you beyond the reaches of time.”

Your breath catches at his words. The simplicity and depth of his confession anchoring you amidst your fears. “And I love you,” you repl. Your voice strong even though you felt so weak. “Whatever may come, whatever we face… we face it together.”

As the battle commences the air fills with the clash of steel and the cries of warriors. You fight back-to-back, Legolas’s arrows finding their marks with deadly precision while you fend off attackers with sword and spell.

Gimli joins two of you, his axe a blur as he protects your flank. “Ha! I’d like to see them try to break this line!” he bellows. His voice a rumble of thunder over the din of battle.

The hours stretch. Each moment a lifetime but you fight with a clarity borne of love and the will to protect not just middle earth but the futures you hope to share. Legolas’s presence is a constant reassurance. His quick glances amidst the fray a reminder of everything worth fighting for.

As dawn breaks the tide of battle shifts. With Gandalf’s timely arrival and the charge of the Rohirrim, a new hope is rekindled. The enemy falters and breaks. Exhausted but alive, you, Legolas, and Gimli regroup, your bodies weary but spirits lifted by the victory, however costly it may have been.

Standing amidst the ruins of the battle you all share a look of relief and unspoken understanding. The war is far from over, but the strength of your bonds, the depth of your love, and the courage of your friends give you the fortitude to press on, to fight another day. With Legolas watch the sunrise, the light washing over Helm’s Deep painting the world in hues of gold and red. A daily rebirth, a reminder that after darkness there always comes a new dawn.

After the long shadow of war finally lifts with the destruction of the One Ring the world begins to breathe again. Minas Tirith stands gleaming under the bright sun, its banners waving in a joyous breeze. The streets are filled with music and laughter as people from all corners of middle earth gather to celebrate the victory. The air is sweet with the scent of blossoming flowers brought forth by a spring that signifies not just the changing of seasons but the dawn of a new era.

You, Legolas, and Gimli stand on a balcony overlooking the jubilant city with a cup of fine wine in hand. The Fellowship has been honored by kings and lords, sung by minstrels, and cheered by crowds. But in this moment, the three of you share a quiet moment that speaks of deeper bonds forged in the fires of your shared trials.

Legolas looks out over the city, his eyes reflecting the green of the fields below. “The world is changed,” he says thoughtfully. “I feel it in the earth, I smell it in the air. The darkness that once threatened to swallow us whole is now but a shadow of the past.”

Gimli nods. His eyes twinkling under his bushy brows. “Aye, and it’s time for more pleasant journeys,” he chuckles. “I promised you both a tour of the Glittering Caves, did I not? And I intend to keep that promise. You’ll find no finer sight beneath the mountains, mark my words!”

“And I,” Legolas adds turning to you with a gentle smile, “would have you both come to Mirkwood. The forests have suffered in the darkness. But they recover, much like us. There are places of such beauty and tranquility that they deserve to be witnessed with friends.”

You sip your wine, letting the rich flavors linger on your tongue as you consider the future. “And what of you?” Gimli asks, looking at you with an expectant raise of his eyebrow.

“I think,” you say slowly, smiling at the possibilities that stretch before you, “that I would like to see more of this world that we have fought so hard to save. From the forests of Mirkwood to the caves of the mountains and perhaps even beyond. There’s so much to explore, so much to learn.”

“And so much to rebuild,” Legolas adds. “Wherever we go we carry with us the legacy of those who fought beside us. Those who fell, and those who lived to see this day. Gandalf’s wisdom, Aragorn’s courage, and even Frodo’s quiet determination—they remain with us, guiding us forward.”

Gimli raises his cup, and you and Legolas do the same. “To the future,” Gimli declares heartily.

“To peace,” Legolas adds, his voice warm.

“To friendship,” you conclude. The three of you clink your cups together, the sound crisp and clear.

As the celebration continues below you lean against the stone railing admiring the city sprawling at your feet. Around you the laughter and music rise to the starlit sky, and you feel a profound sense of contentment. The road ahead is uncharted, but you face it not as a lone wanderer but as part of a fellowship that has endured the darkest of times to see the brightest of days.

With Legolas and Gimli by your side you know that whatever adventures lie ahead, they will be filled with joy, discovery, and the unbreakable bonds of friendship. This is not the end of your story but the beginning of a new chapter, one that you will write together.

As the celebrations in Minas Tirith begin to quiet down into a gentle hum of merriment and the evening deepens, Gimli, with a knowing grin and a subtle nod towards Legolas excuses himself to “inspect the integrity of the ale supply,” leaving you two alone on the quieter side of the terrace that overlooks the city’s sprawling, illuminated gardens.

Legolas watches Gimli depart and then turns to you with a serene expression. His eyes reflecting the myriad lights of the city. He reaches into the folds of his tunic and pulls out a small, exquisitely carved wooden box. “I have something for you,” he says. His voice low and filled with a tender emotion that sends a thrill through your heart.

You watch, curious and expectant, as he opens the box to reveal a pendant. It’s a delicate piece, shaped like a leaf but crafted with such intricacy that each vein in the leaf is visible. It shimmered with a light that seems to emanate from within the silver itself.

“This is a leaf from the Mallorn trees of Lothlórien,” Legolas explains as he carefully lifts the pendant from the box. “Galadriel herself gave this to me before we departed and though I cherish it... I believe it was always meant for you.”

He steps closer. His presence so familiar and yet so heart-stirringly profound at this intimate moment. “In the elven tradition,” he continues, his eyes locked onto yours, “to give such a gift is to choose a companion. To offer a token of one’s heart and soul. I give this to you not out of obligation but from a free and willing heart. I choose you and it’s you I wish to be with through all the ages of this world.”

He pauses while holding the pendant up between you. His eyes searching yours for an answer, a confirmation of your feelings. You nod gently, overwhelmed by the emotion in his gaze and the significance of his gift.

Legolas smiles, a soft, joyous curve of his lips, and delicately clasps the pendant around your neck. His fingers brush lightly against your skin as he secures the clasp sending shivers down your spine. The metal feels warm as if charged with his affection and presence.

“I cannot promise that the road ahead will be free from hardship,” Legolas says softly while drawing you close so that your foreheads touch lightly, “but I can promise that you will never walk it alone. Where you go I will follow. And where I go I hope you will be by my side.”

“Legolas,” you whisper. Your voice thick with emotion. “There is no one else I would rather have by my side. No one else I would want to share my path with. I choose you, too, today, and always.”

Without hesitation Legolas leans in to capture your lips in a kiss. It’s gentle at first. A tender meeting that speaks of mutual respect and deep affection. But as you respond the kiss deepens, becoming a profound expression of your shared love and commitment.

The world around you—the city of Minas Tirith, the sounds of celebration—fades into a blissful quiet. In this moment wrapped in Legolas’s embrace, you realize that while the war might have brought you together it is love that will lead you into your future. Beneath the stars and above the glowing city you share a promise of a thousand sunrises to come. Each one a new day to explore and cherish the world together.

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[blood-teeth]

E N T E R T H E L A B Y R I N T H

In the Labyrinth, they talk of gods.

They whisper between their fingers and sweeten their breath with the tales of titans of old who once stood so tall that a single breath would cause earth-tremors, their steps reshaping the ground trod beneath them. Their fingers were the tools that smoothed the mountains into points, shaped and carved the ridges and valleys in between. If you hike far enough, one woman claims, if you travel to a point where the oxygen is thin and your vision blacks, you can make out a partial print against the mountainside. You can run your own fingers along its length and still feel the titan’s warmth as if his palm were pressed right against yours.

The woman says, It is a thing of worship. It is a thing of devotion.

In the Labyrinth, they ask you to make your body anew before the King of the High Hills. They say that you are alive because you must suffer for the life and love of the Lord, that you must open your body and let him lick along your flesh so that he may taste the endlessness of his perpetual reign.

In the Labyrinth, there is no escape from his touch.

“You have a heavy burden upon you,” the headmaster was saying, teeth and eyes all a glitter under the amber cast candles. “I am not unsympathetic to the arduous path ahead of you—but please understand that this suffering must be experienced for the longevity of the king, for the beautiful life ahead of him. Only he is the one who can shed mortality and raise to the gods, because he is the only one strong enough, courageous enough, to count the cost of living forever. You must succeed where others have failed. You, this class, this is our last chance to mend what has been made broken. You must. You must.”

The Mouths of Elysium is a dark-academia fantasy created with Twine where your choices matter to the story. You live inside the Labyrinth, a maze that hates to become known with walls and paths that change every hour. The center of the Labyrinth sits a university that has been there since the beginning of time; its only purpose is to recruit students who can solve the puzzle of life, who can create an elixir that would allow the King of the High Hills to live past the length of forever. Failure means a fate worse than death.

You are one of those students.

Althea Callaghan - You know her in death. She has been the taste of rot against your tongue, the anger and hurt in your palms. You see the nice, beautiful lines of her teeth and become a creature of grief unfolding unto yourself. Debase yourself with the fervent want of her. Bend at your waist and beg for forgiveness.

You hate her. You want to watch her bleed. She feels the exact same about you, but what she doesn't know is that every waking moment of your life is dedicated to her.

The Princess/Prince - The forgotten child of the throne. The 405th child of His glorious reign. Divinity runs through their veins, the heir to so much power, but they will never see themselves rule the unforgiving landscape of the Labyrinth. Their fate is to die and be buried amongst the endless graves of their dead brothers and sisters. They must do this so the King may live forever.

A fully customizable MC including gender, appearance, and sexuality

A landscape of horror. A landscape that hates you and everyone who might try to understand it. Go beyond the walls and be witness to a reality worse than death

Key choices that will influence your game and experience. Will you succeed or fail?

Learn what it means to be forgiven. Learn what it means to suffer. Become devotion. Become loyalty. Make your body anew before the King of the High Hills

DEMO (updated 6/10/24)

[dxrlingluv]

oki soooooo this is akward

antinous x sensitive/kind princess reader (she could tele sister) where reader is so nice to him but antinous think she's just trying to provoke him or pitying him which ended up with him hurting her and maybe even make her cries, so now he WANT to apologize but his ego and pride us way too strong for it..

you decide the rest, thank you and i love your writing sm^^

Kindness and Pride

A/N : I enjoyed writing this so much, Antinous is such a cool character!!! Antinous art is from Duvetbox.

WARNING : Slight angst if you squint, sensitive!fem!princess!reader. Antinous is prideful.

Word Count : 1k

The scent of saltwater and myrtle clung to the air in the great hall of Ithaca's palace, a scent you had known since birth. It was a scent of home, yet recently, it felt tainted by the boisterous, unwelcome presence of your mother's suitors. You, Princess of Ithaca, sister to Telemachus, often sought refuge from their crude laughter and arrogant demands in the quieter corners of your home.

It was in one such corner, a sun-drenched alcove overlooking the Ionian Sea, that you often found Antinous. He was the most handsome of the suitors, and also the most arrogant, his words often as sharp as the bronze of his sword. Yet, you saw something else in him, a flicker of a deep-seated melancholy behind the hard gleam of his eyes. While your brother, Telemachus, saw only a rival and a threat, you saw a man burdened by a weight you couldn't name.

Driven by a compassion that was as much a part of you as the royal blood in your veins, you made it a point to be kind to him. You would bring him a cup of the finest wine, offer him a freshly baked honey cake, or simply greet him with a gentle smile that never quite reached your eyes when you were in the presence of the other suitors.

Today, you approached him with a small, intricately woven basket filled with ripe figs, their purple skins glistening in the afternoon light. He was leaning against a marble pillar, his gaze lost in the endless expanse of the sea.

"A gift, my lord," you said softly, extending the basket.

Antinous turned, his eyes narrowing slightly as they fell upon you. A cynical smirk played on his lips. "And to what do I owe this... generosity, Princess?" His voice was laced with a sarcasm that made you flinch.

"To nothing, my lord," you replied, your voice steady despite the sting of his tone. "I simply thought you might enjoy them."

He took a step closer, his tall frame casting a shadow over you. "Or perhaps you seek to curry favor? To soften the blow when your brother inevitably fails to oust us from his home?"

Your breath hitched. His words were a cruel, calculated strike at your family's precarious situation. "That is unkind, Antinous," you whispered, the basket feeling heavy in your hands. "My kindness is not a weapon."

"Isn't it?" he countered, his voice a low, dangerous murmur. He reached out and took a fig from the basket, his fingers brushing against yours. The brief contact sent a strange jolt through you. He examined the fruit with a look of disdain before tossing it back into the basket. "Or perhaps it is pity. You see a man far from his home, and your tender heart weeps for him. Save your tears, Princess. I have no need of them."

Each word was a fresh wound. Tears pricked at the corners of your eyes, blurring the image of the man before you. You had offered only sincerity, and he had twisted it into something ugly and mocking. The knot of unspoken hurt in your chest tightened until you could barely breathe.

"You are mistaken," you managed to say, your voice trembling. You could feel the hot shame of tears threatening to fall, and you would not give him the satisfaction of seeing you cry. Clasping the basket to your chest, you turned on your heel and fled, his scornful gaze burning into your back.

You didn't stop until you reached the sanctuary of your chambers, the heavy oak door shutting out the world. Only then did the tears come, silent drops of saltwater tracing paths down your cheeks. It wasn't just his cruelty that hurt, but the shattering of the small hope you had held—that beneath his hardened exterior, there was a man worthy of kindness.

Meanwhile, back in the alcove, Antinous stood alone, the scent of ripe figs and your faint, floral perfume lingering in the air. The triumphant smirk had vanished from his face, replaced by a deep, unsettling frown. He had wanted to provoke you, to test the limits of your infuriating kindness, to prove that it was all a facade.

But the look on your face when you fled—the raw, wounded disbelief in your eyes—had struck him with the force of a physical blow. He had seen your tears, the ones you fought so hard to hide. He had made you cry.

A wave of self-loathing, sharp and bitter, washed over him. Your gentleness was a rare, precious thing in his world of violence and ambition. It was a balm he hadn't realized he craved until he had so carelessly, so brutally, rejected it. He replayed the scene in his mind: the genuine warmth in your smile, the tremor in your voice, the way you clutched the basket as if it were a shield. He had been a brute, a fool.

The urge to go after you, to fall to his knees and beg for your forgiveness, was a powerful, all-consuming thing. He wanted to explain, though he didn't know what he would say. That his own life had taught him to be suspicious of kindness? That your sincerity was so foreign to him, he could only interpret it as a trick?

But his pride, a monster he had nurtured for years, held him captive. It rose like a shield, deflecting the guilt, whispering poisonous justifications in his ear. She is the sister of our enemy. Her kindness is a ploy. An apology is a sign of weakness.

He clenched his fists, his knuckles turning white. He was at war with himself. His heart, an organ he had long thought hardened beyond repair, ached with a profound regret. He wanted—no, needed—to see you smile at him again, a genuine, unguarded smile. But the path to that forgiveness was blocked by the towering wall of his own ego.

He stood there for a long time, the setting sun casting a blood-red light across the sea, a reflection of the turmoil raging within him. He was Antinous, a man who took what he wanted, who never backed down, who never apologized. But for the first time in his life, he wondered if the price of his pride was far too high.

[idkyetxoxo]

Tyland Lannister - Power Hungry

Summary - A woman seizes the throne against all odds. As she navigates power's treacherous waters, she engages an ally in a game of desire and dominance, testing loyalty. She learns that ambition demands both cunning and submission, with stakes higher than anyone anticipates.

Pairing - Tyland Lannister x Targaryen reader

Warnings - Sexual content (oral f!receiving)

Word count - 2734

Masterlist for Tyland • House of the Dragon General Masterlist

The realm had descended into utter disarray, chaos woven from arrogance, incompetence, and the sheer folly of men. And so, as if fate itself had conspired against tradition, I was left to restore it all.

Aegon, that poor fool, lies charred and senseless in his chambers, his life barely clinging to him after his reckless, fiery ambition burned too close to the sun.

Aemond? Lost at sea, swallowed by the very depths that mirror his own blind vanity. Another victim of his own arrogance, paying a dear price for it in some dark, uncharted waters.

Daeron still cloistered in Oldtown, remains far too young and unsteady to even pretend to rule. A babe among wolves, vulnerable to the shadows that would devour him whole.

And my dear sister Helaena, sweet and gentle, steadfastly refuses to take the throne, as if the burden of command would tarnish the purity she holds so dear.

So here I am, by default and circumstance, Queen of the Seven Kingdoms. 

The irony is almost delicious; the same council that once branded my half-sister unfit to rule due to her womanhood now has no choice but to place a woman upon the throne. 

They had cast us aside, declared us lesser, deemed us unworthy—and yet, it was the folly of men that paved my path to the crown.

They may sit, grumbling and watching with narrowed eyes, as if I were a usurper in my own right. But let them. 

The Seven Kingdoms are in my hands now, and I am no meek figurehead. 

For unlike them, I do not recoil from the duty they so poorly upheld. I welcome it.

─── ✦⋅♡⋅✦ ───

The council chamber was thick with tension, a somber gathering of lords clad in their finery, faces drawn and grim beneath the flickering candlelight. 

We had gathered to discuss the ongoing war, their voices rising and falling like the tides, filled with blame and despair. The weight of uncertainty hung heavy in the air, each man feeling the burden of their fractured alliances. 

Yet, I could sense the moment they turned to me, the silence that fell as I took my place at the head of the table.

"My Lords," I began, my voice steady, laced with an authority that brooked no dissent. "We can either flounder in chaos or act decisively to seize the advantage while our enemies are divided."

A murmur rippled through the assembled lords, a mix of surprise and skepticism. But I pressed on, undeterred. 

"First, let us discuss the Black's advances in the Riverlands. We cannot allow Rhaenyra's forces to gain ground. I propose we leverage our strategic resources in the Vale. Lord Redwyne, your ships are underutilized. I suggest you deploy them to cut off supply lines to her armies. A blockade in the Narrow Sea could starve her forces and diminish morale."

The lords stared at me, a combination of disbelief and grudging respect dawning on their faces. 

This was not the timid woman they had expected, but a calculating strategist, every word dripping with intent. I felt their eyes on me, weighing my words, measuring my resolve.

"Furthermore," I continued, locking my gaze with Tyland Lannister, who sat to my left, his brow furrowed in thought. 

I allowed a slight smirk to play on my lips, the corners of my mouth lifting just enough to convey both confidence and challenge. 

"We must consider a marriage alliance. Perhaps one of our noble houses could offer a daughter in exchange for troops? Lord Lannister, your kin would bring a significant number of soldiers to our cause."

Tyland's eyes narrowed slightly, his intrigue piqued as he absorbed my proposition. "And which house do you suggest, Your Grace?" he asked, the spark of challenge igniting in his gaze.

"House Baratheon," I replied coolly. "With their ambition and growing power, they would relish a chance to undermine Rhaenyra while bolstering our own strength. Imagine the chaos if we played them against her—another rift to widen her ranks."

Whispers swept through the room, a flurry of excitement tinged with shock. 

I could see the realization dawning: I was not merely an afterthought. I was a player in this deadly game, one who would not shy away from the ruthless decisions required to maintain power.

As the discussion unfolded, I navigated each topic with precision, slicing through debate like a knife. 

When a lord brought up the risk of retaliation from Rhaenyra, I shot back with a proposal that would turn their fear to action. 

"We will send a message," I declared. "An envoy, with a letter demanding her submission. Should she refuse, let her know that we will strike her at the heart of Dragonstone, a bold move that will shatter her already tenuous grasp on the throne."

Every eye in the chamber was on me, and I could feel the momentum shifting. 

They were beginning to understand: I was not just a woman who had stumbled into power; I was a queen who would do whatever it took to secure her reign.

Tyland Lannister met my gaze again, a flicker of admiration mingling with his customary shrewdness. 

The others might have been hesitant, caught up in the reverberations of tradition, but he recognized ambition when he saw it. 

A shared understanding passed between us, a silent acknowledgment of the ruthless game we were playing.

"Bold choices, Your Grace," he remarked, his tone laced with challenge yet layered with respect.

I smiled—no, I smirked. 

This was only the beginning. Rhaenyra was still out there, a thorn in my side, and while I loathed her with every fiber of my being, I knew that her claim to the throne only fueled my resolve to keep her from it. 

I would not just outmaneuver her; I would crush her spirit, a swift and merciless end to her ambition.

With each decision I made, the council transformed. The lords who had once underestimated me began to lean forward, intrigued and invested, and for the first time in a long while, I felt the power of command pulsing through the chamber, a tangible force. 

I would ensure that my reign would be marked by cunning and strength, not just by bloodlines.

And as I laid out my plans, locking eyes with Tyland once more, I knew I had them in the palm of my hand. 

How quickly fear and ambition could shift the tides; men who once mocked the notion of a queen now weighed my words like precious gold.

The throne was mine now, and I would do whatever it took to protect it, no matter the cost.

The hours dragged on as the council meeting finally wound down, the lords retreating to their own chambers, their minds undoubtedly racing with the shock of the evening. 

I lingered in my own quarters, the flickering candlelight casting long shadows across the walls, the weight of the crown heavy upon my brow yet exhilarating in its power. 

It was much later in the night when a quiet knock came at my door.

"Your Grace?" The voice was low and smooth—Tyland Lannister, as I had hoped.

"Come in," I replied, my tone inviting but laced with an undercurrent of command.

He stepped inside, closing the door behind him, and I turned to meet his gaze. I stood before him clad only in a silken robe, the fabric whispering against my skin, its weight barely a reminder of the authority I wielded. 

I took a seat in the plush chair near the fire, crossing my legs deliberately, the movement revealing a hint of bare thigh, a calculated invitation laced with danger.

"You called for me, Your Grace?" he inquired, his eyes flickering over me, a mix of curiosity and desire glimmering within them.

"Yes," I replied, a smirk curling at the edges of my lips. I leaned forward slightly, resting my elbows on my knees, the warmth of the flames casting a glow on my features. "What would you do for your queen?"

Tyland hesitated, his breath catching for just a moment as he licked his lips, contemplating the weight of my inquiry. 

The air crackled with unspoken tension, the proximity of our positions both thrilling and perilous. 

"Anything," he finally breathed, the word emerging almost as a challenge, charged with meaning.

"Anything?" I echoed, my voice dropping to a sultry whisper, drawing him in. I leaned back in the chair, feigning casualness while holding his gaze with a fierce intensity, a power play unfolding between us. 

"You're a man of influence, Tyland. You understand the games we play."

He stepped closer, the flames casting flickering shadows across his face, highlighting the sharp angles of his jaw and the intrigue in his eyes. 

"I do, Your Grace," he said, his voice steadying as he moved to stand before me. "And I recognize the strength you've shown tonight. It's impressive—unexpected."

"Impressive?" I mused, letting a soft laugh escape my lips, tinged with mockery. "I'll take that as a compliment. But tell me, what if my ambitions required more than mere words of support? What if I needed someone to act on my behalf, to enforce my will when others dare to oppose me?"

He paused, studying me, the tension in the air thickening as he considered my proposition. 

"Then I would do it," he replied, his voice firm. "Whatever it takes to see you succeed."

"And what if that meant crossing lines you'd never crossed before?" I pressed, my eyes narrowing slightly. "What if it meant dealing with those who threaten my reign?"

"Your Grace," he said, the challenge evident in his voice now, "I would face any threat to your rule. You deserve to sit upon that throne, and I would see to it that anyone who disagrees knows the cost of their defiance."

I let his words linger, weighing the implications. 

The allure of power was intoxicating, and here before me stood a man willing to bend his own moral compass to align with my ambition. 

I leaned forward again, the robe slipping slightly, baring just a bit more skin, a silent invitation woven with danger.

"Good," I said, my voice low and purposeful. "Then let's ensure that everyone understands the nature of my rule. I want them to see the queen who commands respect, not just a figurehead dressed in silk."

"I will help you, Your Grace," he promised, the conviction in his voice deepening.

I smiled, a predatory gleam in my eyes, satisfied with the understanding that was forming between us. "Then we have much work to do, Tyland. But know this: loyalty must be rewarded, and betrayal will be dealt with swiftly. Do you understand?"

"Completely," he replied, his gaze unwavering.

"Excellent," I murmured, reveling in the power of the moment. 

As I leaned back in my chair, the firelight danced around us, illuminating the path ahead—a path fraught with danger and ambition, where I would stop at nothing to secure my reign.

The room was silent, thick with anticipation as I regarded him coolly, allowing the silence to stretch. Then, with calm command, I finally spoke.

"On your knees."

He blinked, caught off guard, but I tilted my head in quiet insistence, watching as the realization settled over him. He hesitated, something between reluctance and intrigue flashing in his eyes, but slowly, he sank to his knees before me.

I leaned forward, my voice a murmur, "I heard a little whisper... something about you expressing a desire to please me in any way I saw fit. Or rather, in any position."

A flush crept up his neck as his mouth opened, then shut, no doubt recalling that careless confession, tossed out like wine at a feast only moons ago.

"Forgive me, Your Grace," he stammered, adjusting the collar at his throat. "I never meant to be so... uncouth."

I merely smiled, waving off his apology with a flick of my hand, enjoying the game.

"No need to apologize," I replied, voice smooth. "I'm simply curious if your words hold any weight. If you'd follow through."

Before he could stammer another excuse, I allowed my hands to drift down, fingers loosening the tie that held my robe closed. The fabric slipped, baring a delicate swath of skin, and his gaze dropped immediately, transfixed. 

His lips parted as if he meant to say something, but no words came.

"Don't hold back," I murmured, shifting slightly, invitingly.

"Y-Your Grace," he stammered, his breath uneven as his eyes struggled to meet mine, filled with both awe and hesitation.

With a huff, I let my knees come together, feigning disappointment. "What is it?" I asked, a hint of impatience lacing my words.

In response, his hands rose, gentle but determined, and found their way to my knees, parting them once more as his gaze grew bolder, no longer hiding behind stutters and half-finished phrases. 

"I was only... taken by surprise," he murmured, voice rasping.

A faint smirk played on my lips. "Well," I said, a note of dismissal, "you have until I grow bored."

No sooner had the words left my mouth than he dipped his head, surrendering to the unspoken promise. 

His lips found their place, warm and unyielding, and I let myself relax back into the chair, allowing his devotion to wash over me as he pressed, tasted, his mouth moving with an effortless hunger that sent sparks over my skin.

"Gods," I breathed, hands tangling in his golden hair, urging him closer as he found his rhythm. 

A desperate need drove him, his lips and tongue coaxing pleasure from me with reverence, each touch speaking to a devotion more powerful than any words he'd offered.

There was a fire building within me, his fervor meeting my desire, unspoken promises fulfilled without hesitation, and I let myself revel in it, each stroke and press, each breathless moment drawn out.

The pleasure crested, a wave of warmth unfurling within me, and yet I kept my expression impassive, cool as ever. 

With deliberate calm, I sat back, a soft sigh barely escaping my lips as I looked down at him, my fingers releasing their hold on his hair. 

His gaze lifted, cheeks flushed, eyes searching mine for some sign, some hint of approval or satisfaction.

But I gave him none.

Instead, I drew my robe together with a fluid motion, knotting it at my waist as if nothing of consequence had occurred. 

Slowly, I rose, my steps measured, and he mirrored me, standing as well, his face a mask of deference mixed with lingering want.

"You can leave," I said with a serene, dismissive smile, the formality of my tone drawing him back to his station with a gentle snap.

He dipped his head, gaze respectfully downcast. "Your Grace," he murmured, voice tinged with something close to reverence.

The fire in his eyes had dimmed, smothered by my poise and the inevitability of parting. He hesitated, almost as if waiting for some further word, a signal that he had pleased me.

But I allowed the silence to stretch until he had no choice but to turn and take his leave. 

The weight of his footsteps was barely audible as he disappeared through the doorway, leaving me alone in the hush of the room.

A satisfied smile curved my lips. Power, it seemed, held a taste sweeter than any pleasure he could grant.

I moved with steady purpose through the corridors, each step a reminder of the power that came with this throne and everything it afforded me. 

Servants and guards bowed as I passed, a current of deference rippling in my wake. 

The throne room doors stood tall and imposing ahead, gilded and echoing authority, and with a subtle nod, the guards pushed them open.

Inside, moonlight spilled through the grand windows, casting a glow over the polished floor, illuminating the throne waiting for me at the end of the hall. 

I crossed the room, each step calm, unhurried, savoring the presence of that throne in the distance—the seat of all my power, of everything I had and everything I intended to keep.

As I reached the dais and turned to face the vast, empty hall before me, I allowed myself one more private smile, a whisper of triumph.

I approached the Iron Throne, its jagged blades glinting like fangs in the moonlight, I felt a surge of fierce satisfaction. 

Each step echoed in the vast hall, the silence a reverent testament to the ancient stone walls that had borne witness to centuries of power, blood, and ambition

I had no intentions of giving up this throne—especially if it meant I could have everything I wanted, precisely when and how I wanted it.

A/n - This was acc so fun to write i'd love to turn it into a story in the future possibly with another love interest 🤭

[milswrites]

The world belongs to dreamers

~ Rhysand X Reader

Summary: Whilst struggling to cope with the loss of his mother and sister, you show Rhysand what it means to dream once more.

Warnings: Serious angst (loss of family) but a fluffy/hopeful ending?

“There you are, I’ve been looking for you.”

You spoke the words softly, afraid to startle the young High Lord as you slowly approached him from behind. Rhysand providing you with no sign of acknowledgement as you came to sit beside him on the roof of the Town House.

Rather, the males expression remained as cold as stone. His empty violet eyes free from the shackles of human emotion as Rhysand icily stared off into the vast oblivion of the night sky.

You were sat beside a broken man.

One who had lost everything; everyone. He was a male who had nothing left to live for and yet that was exactly what was expected of him - to continue living. The sweet kiss of death being a mercy that Rhysand would not be allowed to receive, not whilst he had his duty to the court.

It was impossible to know what to say in the face of grief and you were certain that whatever meagre words of comfort you could provide Rhysand would fall deaf upon his ears. Besides, what was there to say that hadn’t already been spoken?

And so you offered him the only thing you could think of; your company. A silent companion in Rhysand's time of need. You wouldn't allow yourself to be the one to lure him into a false state of happiness with empty hope and useless reassurances. You would be a grounding presence, an open ear. Silently shouldering your friend’s burden to help carry the weight of his sorrows alongside him.

It took an hour for Rhysand to notice you, a seconds glance in your direction accompanied by grunt of acknowledgement before he cast his chilling gaze back to the stars. Then another hour of silence was needed before he could find the words to speak to you and when he finally did, it was difficult to ignore the way your heart shattered at the rawness of his vulnerability.

"They're really gone, aren't they?"

It was a question with only one answer, yet it was one you couldn't speak. Rhysand needn't hear the truth because he had already seen it. Your friend having witnessed the unthinkable, having seen things that no son - no brother - should ever have to see.

Rhysand's brows knitted together at your failure to answer him, turning his violet eyes back to the stars in defeat. A low growl rumbling in his chest as he finally allowed his festering anger to consume him, the darkness which plagued his splintered soul breaking free from its constraints.

"It should have been me" he hissed, a bitter mask of fury marring his handsome features. Rhysand's usually bright eyes now dark and unforgiving. Despite the fact his wings were hidden, you didn’t fail to notice the daunting presence of shadows which commanded your attention in their absence.

All you could do was helplessly shake your head in disagreement, tears beginning to sting your eyes as you pathetically replied, "You don't mean that Rhys, not really."

An empty laugh escaped from his lips, the rolling of his eyes a stab to your heart as he retorted, "My mother is dead. My sister is dead. My Father. . . Are you going to stand there idly and foolishly believe that everything is ok? There's nothing left for me now but ruins. I have no one.”

“You have me” you answer, pained eyes meeting Rhysand’s own lost ones, a hurt whimper leaving your mouth before you continued, “And Cassian, Azriel, Mor. Rhys you’re never alone, not as long as you have us.”

His shaky sigh and wavering shadows gave you the confidence to continue, “This isn’t what she’d want Rhys. What they’d want. Feel, allow yourself that. But don’t allow your emotions to destroy you.”

The violet glow began to return to his eyes, the anger now seeping away as a heart wrenching wave of devastation took its place.

Rhysand’s hollow voice replied, “But we’ll never know what she wanted because of him. We’ll never know what she could have become or what she might have offered the world. Every night I look to the stars and all I can think is that it’s a sight she will never be able to see again, all because it was stolen from her, and it’s not fair.”

“It never is” you comfort, coming to rest a soothing hand on the males shoulder causing his rising tide of shadows to finally dissipate, “Rhys she needn’t look to the stars anymore because she is one. They’re up there, your family, watching over you, all you have to do is look up.”

“And what if they don’t like what they see. What if they look down and only see the broken High Lord and his broken court” Rhysand consciously asked, spitting the cursed words out as he cast his eyes to the glowing city before him.

“Is that what you see?” You questioned, wondering how Rhysand could look down upon the illuminated streets and see anything but hope, “a broken court?”

“All that’s left after the war are crumbling foundations and hollow people” he bitterly scoffed, failing to see the embers which still remained.

“Foundations can be rebuilt. . . Rhys I look at you and I fail to see how our future could be anything other than bright. Build a court of dreamers Rhys, build it from hope.” You encouraged, fighting the desire to drop to your knees and beg for the future you knew only the male had the power to deliver.

“I don’t think I know how to dream anymore” he quietly spoke, words releasing as a whisper, Rhysand afraid that his lack of dreaming made him unworthy of being your High Lord.

“You really see no future for your court?” You ask, probing eyes searching his thoughtful expression for answers.

“I used to. . . Before all this. But I’ve never had to dream of a future without my sister” he gulped, pearlescent tears beginning to run down his gaunt cheeks.

You lifted a comforting hand, gentle thumbs working to brush away each tear as they came, a sad smile taking its place on your lips as you spoke, “You really think she won’t be there Rhys? Your family will never leave you, they’ll always be right here,” your hand moves to rest against his chest, delicate fingers pressing right above the steady beating of his heart, “carry them with you and they’ll never be far away.”

“And the dreams?” He presses, seeking more reassurance from you, “when will they return?”

“You never stop dreaming Rhys, not whilst there’s still hope. . . Take a breath” you order, entwining both your hands with his own as Rhysand did as you asked and drew in a deep breath, “Then just close your eyes and dream.”

“Dream? Just like that?” He nervously queries, not quite believing in your unusual methods, yet fearing he’d break the spell by opening his eyes.

“Think of everything you’ve ever wanted to change about this court, about your life. Every stupid rule you’ve never liked, every choice of your fathers you’ve disagreed with. The world is yours to mould now, every wish, every dream, they’re yours to chase after. Dreams are the foundations for our future Rhys, you just have to have the courage to make them a reality. All you have to do is believe in yourself.”

“And do you?” Rhysand asked, opening his calm violet eyes to look deeply into your own, “. . . Believe in me.”

“The world is full of dreamers Rhys, but there's only one I’d choose to follow" you answer honestly, your reply bringing a small smile to the new High Lord's lips.

"And if I tell you I dream of building this future together, what then?" he asks hopefully, his steady gaze overflowing with anticipation of your response.

"Then who am I to deny you of your wishes? You just let me know when you're ready to start."

You grin at the familiar face smiling back at you, the face of your High Lord, of your friend. Failing to quell the fluttering which grew in your stomach as Rhysand answered you, "I think we've already started Darling, my first dream just came true."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Notes: Every time I write Rhysand I always say it’s going to be smut next and it’s always angst… anyways, smut next time?

Big thank you to @illyrianbitch and @sarawritestories for their help with this one, they saved me from describing Rhysand’s eyes like aubergines 😬

[novaursa]

Caught by Fire (the guilty)

- Summary: A story where Daemon's daughter falls from the sky. And by some strange events orchestrated by fate, Otto catches you.

- Pairing: targ!reader/Otto Hightower

- Rating: Mature 16+

- Previous part: the sinful

- Next part: the choice

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @oxymakestheworldgoround

The air in the royal solar was heavy with animosity, thick enough to smother the breath from Otto’s lungs. The torches burned low, the scent of wax melting into the warm evening air, but the dim glow did nothing to soften the steel in King Viserys’s eyes. He sat in his great chair, the weight of his crown pressing into his brow, but it was not the burden of rulership that darkened his countenance tonight.

No.

Tonight, it was you.

Otto stood before him, hands clasped behind his back, his face carefully composed, though beneath his skin, his heart beat with a force he had not known in years. He had known this moment would come—had feared it, had prepared for it, and yet, nothing could have truly readied him for the sheer fury that burned behind the king’s exhausted eyes.

“Tell me, Otto,” Viserys said, his voice dangerously low, his fingers gripping the arms of his chair. “Why did my niece tell me that she has made her choice?”

Otto inhaled slowly. “I cannot speak to her thoughts, Your Grace.”

Viserys’s fist came down upon the table with a force that rattled the goblets upon it. “Do not play me for a fool!” he roared, his voice cracking like a whip through the chamber. “She said she has chosen, Otto! And do you know what name left her lips?”

Otto said nothing.

Viserys leaned forward, his breath heavy with wine and anger, his expression twisted into something Otto had not seen since the days of Daemon’s worst offenses.

Rage.

Betrayal.

“Yours,” Viserys spat. “Yours, Otto.”

Otto did not flinch. Did not blink. But his pulse thundered like a storm against his ribs.

Viserys let out a sharp, bitter laugh as he ran a shaking hand through his silver hair. “You? My Hand? My most trusted advisor? My father by law? You?” He exhaled harshly, shaking his head. “Seven hells, Otto, I trusted you.”

Otto’s fingers curled slightly behind his back, his only outward sign of unease. He knew now that denial would be meaningless. The truth had been spoken, and there was no taking it back.

“I have never betrayed your trust, Your Grace,” Otto said, his voice measured, calm in contrast to the storm before him.

Viserys slammed his hand down again, rising from his chair so quickly that the wine in his goblet sloshed onto the table. “Do not lie to me!”

Otto held his ground. “I am not lying.”

Viserys glared at him, his chest rising and falling with barely contained fury. “Then tell me,” he growled. “How long? How long has this been going on?”

Otto hesitated.

Viserys scoffed, pacing now, his heavy steps echoing against the stone floor. “Was it when she returned from her tour? No—before that, wasn’t it? Gods, tell me it wasn’t before Daemon left.”

Otto inhaled deeply, then spoke the words that sealed his fate. “It was after.”

Viserys stilled.

The silence was worse than his fury.

The king turned slowly, his expression unreadable now, his lips pressing into a thin, bloodless line. “And you let it continue.”

Otto met his gaze. “I did.”

Viserys let out a bitter, breathless laugh, shaking his head in disbelief. “And now she stands before me, demanding that I bless this match. That I cast aside the offers of noble lords, that I set aside all expectation and tradition, all for you.” His voice lowered, but the quietness of it was far more terrifying than his shouting. “Tell me, Otto. How did you do this?”

Otto’s brow furrowed slightly. “I did nothing.”

Viserys sneered. “Nothing? Nothing?” He took a step closer, his face twisted with disbelief. “You expect me to believe that a young princess—Daemon’s daughter, no less—suddenly decided she would throw away every opportunity for a match of power and prestige to wed a man your age? A man who advises me?” He exhaled sharply, shaking his head. “No. No, this reeks of manipulation. Of cunning.”

Otto’s eyes darkened at that. “You would accuse me of seducing her?”

“What else am I to think?” Viserys snapped.

Otto’s jaw tightened. “I have served you faithfully for years, Your Grace. I have never broken your trust, never sought to betray my duty to the realm.” His voice grew firmer. “And I did not seek this.”

Viserys scoffed, turning away, rubbing his temple as if trying to rid himself of the headache this conversation was undoubtedly giving him. “And yet here we are.”

Silence stretched between them.

Finally, Viserys exhaled heavily, his voice hoarse with exhaustion rather than fury. “You should have refused her.”

Otto’s lips pressed into a thin line. “Perhaps I should have.”

Viserys turned back, his gaze searching Otto’s face, looking for something—anything—to justify his anger. But what he found instead was something worse.

Certainty.

Otto was not ashamed.

And that realization made the king’s shoulders sink with something dangerously close to resignation.

“Do you love her?”

The words were a whisper in the dimly lit chamber.

Otto’s breath hitched.

Viserys studied him, waiting, daring him to lie.

Otto inhaled slowly, then spoke the truth. “Yes.”

Viserys closed his eyes. “Gods help me.”

Otto remained silent.

After a long, heavy pause, the king finally turned away, his back to Otto as he braced his hands on the edge of the table. “You will give me time,” he muttered, his voice distant. “Time to think.”

Otto nodded, though the king could not see it. “As you wish, Your Grace.”

Viserys did not dismiss him, but Otto knew the conversation was over.

With a final bow, he turned and left the chamber, the weight of what had just transpired settling onto his shoulders like an iron mantle.

The truth was out.

And now, there was no turning back.

The Tower of the Hand was quiet in the late evening as Otto Hightower sat alone in his chambers. His desk was littered with parchments, maps, and records, but he had not touched them since returning from his audience with the king. His mind was too full, his thoughts tangled in a web of duty, consequence, and something far more dangerous—hope.

The truth was out.

Viserys knew.

And now, Otto sat in the aftermath of that storm, waiting for the inevitable fallout, bracing himself for whatever came next.

He had not expected his daughter to arrive so soon.

The door swung open with a thud, and Alicent Hightower stepped inside, her face a mask of barely restrained disbelief. She did not pause to ask permission, nor did she hesitate to close the door behind her, sealing them in the dimly lit chamber.

Otto exhaled, barely glancing up from the documents he was pretending to review. “I take it you have spoken with the king.”

Alicent strode forward, her skirts swishing against the floor, her hands curled into fists at her sides. “Of course, I spoke to him,” she snapped. “I came as soon as I heard.”

Otto finally looked at her then, taking in the fire in her gaze, the tight set of her jaw. She was angry—but not in the way he had anticipated.

“I cannot believe you actually did it,” she said, staring at him as though he were a man she no longer recognized.

Otto arched a brow. “Did what, precisely?”

Alicent scoffed, throwing her hands in the air. “You know exactly what I mean! You let this happen! You let it continue! And now Viserys—the King—knows!”

Otto let out a slow breath, leaning back in his chair, his fingers pressing together in front of him. “And?”

Alicent gaped at him. “And?” she echoed. “You sound as if this is nothing!”

Otto’s gaze darkened, his voice even. “It is not nothing.”

Alicent let out a breath of frustration, pacing before his desk. “You should have stopped it. Gods, Father, you should have never let it begin in the first place!”

Otto tilted his head slightly. “And yet, you encouraged it.”

Alicent stilled.

Otto’s voice remained calm, but his words carried weight. “You were the one who spoke to the princess about me. You were the one who first attempted to steer Viserys into considering it.” He leaned forward slightly. “You. Not me.”

Alicent’s expression flickered with something unreadable, her hands tightening at her sides. “I—”

Otto did not let her finish. “Do not stand before me now and feign outrage, daughter. Not when you planted the very seeds that have now taken root.”

Alicent’s throat bobbed as she swallowed, her lips pressing into a thin line. “I only—”

“You spoke to her,” Otto interrupted, his voice quieter now, more pointed. “You knew what she felt before even I did. And yet, you did not warn me. You did not caution her. Instead, you gave her permission.”

Alicent’s shoulders squared, but there was no fire in her gaze now—only conflict.

Otto watched her carefully. “Why, Alicent?”

Alicent inhaled sharply, looking away for a moment before she finally spoke, her voice quieter now. “Because I knew what it was to love someone and never be able to say it.” She let out a breath, shaking her head. “I saw the way she looked at you, Father. And I saw the way you avoided looking at her. It was inevitable.”

Otto leaned back in his chair, studying his daughter in the dim firelight. “And do you regret encouraging it now?”

Alicent was silent for a long moment before she exhaled, shaking her head. “No.”

Otto’s brows lifted slightly, but he said nothing.

Alicent crossed her arms, her expression still troubled, but there was no anger anymore—only understanding. “Viserys is furious,” she admitted, her voice softer now. “But not because it is you.”

Otto frowned slightly. “Then why?”

Alicent hesitated, then sighed. “Because she chose for herself.” She met his gaze. “And because it reminds him too much of what happened with Rhaenyra.”

Otto exhaled slowly, rubbing his temple.

Of course.

Viserys had spent years struggling with Rhaenyra’s defiance, with her refusal to adhere to his expectations. And now, you, another Targaryen princess, had followed suit—choosing not a lord of more noble birth, not a house to strengthen alliances, but a man of power.

Alicent shifted slightly, watching her father closely. “He will not move against you. Not yet.”

Otto’s gaze flickered. “And what of the princess?”

Alicent let out a quiet laugh, shaking her head. “She is as stubborn as her father. She will not waver.”

A heavy silence stretched between them.

Finally, Alicent sighed, moving to the chair opposite him and sinking into it. “Gods, Father,” she murmured, rubbing her brow. “How did this happen?”

Otto exhaled slowly. “I do not know.”

Alicent smirked slightly. “Liar.”

Otto gave her a look, but there was no real bite to it.

She shook her head, her smirk fading into something softer. “I do not envy you, Father. But… I support you.”

Otto stilled slightly, his chest tightening with something unreadable. “You do?”

Alicent nodded, though she sighed heavily. “You have spent your life sacrificing for duty. If this is what you truly want, then… I will not stand against it.”

Otto was silent for a long moment before he finally spoke, his voice quieter than before.

“I do not know if I can have what I want, Alicent.”

Alicent studied him for a long moment before leaning forward slightly. “Then you had best find out.”

Otto exhaled, nodding once, though the weight of her words settled deep in his chest.

There was no turning back now.

And soon, the king would decide if he was willing to let history repeat itself.

The gardens of the Red Keep were quiet under the fading light of dusk, the scent of blooming jasmine and freshly turned earth lingering in the evening air. The torches had been lit along the stone pathways, their glow flickering against the hedges and marble fountains. The city below still buzzed with life, but here, in the royal gardens, the world felt smaller—more dangerous in its quietude.

Otto Hightower stood near a carved stone bench, hands clasped behind his back, eyes fixed on the distant horizon. His mind was restless, plagued by too many thoughts, too many consequences left unspoken. The night air should have cooled his temper, should have granted him the clarity he so desperately sought.

But then, of course, Jasper Wylde had to appear.

The sound of approaching footsteps broke the silence, and Otto did not need to turn to know who it was. The distinct, leisurely gait, the air of self-satisfaction that preceded him—there was only one man who would seek him out at this hour, and not for any noble reason.

“Gods, Otto,” Jasper mused as he came to a stop beside him, his voice dripping with amusement. “When did your life become a bard’s drunken tale?”

Otto exhaled slowly, resisting the urge to rub his temple. “Lord Wylde.”

Jasper smirked, lowering himself onto the stone bench as though settling into the most delightful performance Westeros had to offer. “Oh, no need for such formality, my friend. Not when the entire realm whispers your name in scandalous awe.”

Otto turned his gaze toward him then, his expression unreadable, though his patience had already begun to fray. “The realm does not whisper my name.”

Jasper hummed, amused. “Not yet.” He leaned back, stretching his arms along the back of the bench. “But in a few moons, when word spreads of how the Hand of the King—the very pillar of law and order—has stolen the heart of a dragon’s daughter?” He let out a breathless chuckle. “Oh, Otto, they will sing about you for generations.”

Otto’s jaw tightened. “You enjoy this far too much.”

Jasper grinned. “I enjoy watching men who pride themselves on restraint fall.” He tilted his head. “And you, my dear friend, have fallen hard.”

Otto straightened, his face carefully neutral. “I have not fallen.”

Jasper raised a brow. “Then tell me, Otto, when you close your eyes at night, do you think of duty?” He leaned forward slightly, his voice lowering with mock curiosity. “Or do you think of her?”

Otto inhaled slowly, willing his patience to hold. “Is there a purpose to this conversation, Wylde?”

Jasper chuckled, shaking his head. “Ah, ever the stoic.” He drummed his fingers against the stone. “Very well, I will grant you mercy. I did, in fact, come here with a purpose.”

Otto tilted his head slightly, waiting.

Jasper’s smirk faded into something more calculating. “What will you do about Daemon?”

The garden suddenly felt much colder.

Otto’s spine straightened, his hands pressing together in contemplation.

Jasper watched him carefully, his earlier amusement tempered by something sharper. “Because as much as I adore watching you unravel, I would prefer to see you alive rather than gutted by that insufferable rogue.”

Otto exhaled slowly, his expression unreadable. “Daemon is on Dragonstone.”

Jasper scoffed. “For now.” He gestured vaguely toward the Red Keep. “But surely, you do not believe he will remain there once he learns that his daughter has chosen you.”

Otto’s grip on his wrist tightened slightly behind his back.

Jasper leaned forward, his voice dropping lower. “Daemon is many things—reckless, prideful, insatiable in his thirst for chaos—but there is one truth about him that cannot be denied.” His gaze darkened. “He does not share what he believes to be his.”

Otto knew that well.

Daemon Targaryen had spent a lifetime defying the world, bending it to his will, claiming what he pleased and destroying whatever dared to stand in his way. And now, the one thing he might have truly cherished—his own blood—had slipped from his grasp and into Otto’s hands.

It was a declaration of war, whether Otto had intended it or not.

Jasper tapped his fingers against the bench. “You must prepare for him.”

Otto’s voice was even when he finally spoke. “Daemon has no claim to her choices.”

Jasper chuckled, shaking his head. “Logic has no place in the mind of a man like Daemon.” He spread his hands. “What do you think will happen when he returns?”

Otto exhaled, his fingers curling slightly. “There will be blood.”

Jasper grinned. “Ah, now you are thinking clearly.”

Otto glanced toward the castle, its towering form casting long shadows beneath the moonlight. “The king will not wish for conflict.”

Jasper smirked and tilted his head. “Tell me, Otto, do you think the princess will let you step aside? Will she allow Daemon to dictate her fate?”

Otto knew the answer to that.

She was her father’s daughter in many ways.

But she was also her own.

“She will stand by her choice,” Otto admitted, his voice quieter now.

Jasper’s smirk widened. “Then you had best be ready to stand with her.”

Otto was silent for a long moment.

Then, finally, he let out a slow breath.

“I always have been.”

Jasper studied him, then let out a low chuckle, shaking his head. “Seven hells, Otto. You really are in love with her.”

Otto did not respond.

Because for once, he could not deny it.

And now, the storm that loomed on the horizon was no longer one he could outrun.

The halls of the Tower of the Hand were nearly silent at this hour, save for the distant echo of boots against stone as the night’s patrol made their rounds. The air was cooler now, the weight of the day’s heat fading into the stillness of the castle’s midnight hush. The flickering torches along the walls cast long shadows, stretching like spectral fingers across the corridors.

And yet, even in the silence, Otto Hightower was not at ease.

He stood near the hearth of his chambers, one hand resting on the armrest of his chair, his other curled into a loose fist against his side. His mind had been restless ever since his conversation with Jasper, the specter of Daemon’s inevitable return looming over him like a storm waiting to break.

But it was not Daemon who appeared at his door.

It was you.

The moment Otto turned and saw you slip through the door, his breath caught. You wore a dark cloak, its hood lowered, the fabric brushing against your frame as you pressed the heavy wooden door shut behind you. Your silver hair gleamed even in the dim candlelight, and the faint scent of fire and wind clung to you—remnants of your dragon, of the night’s air that had carried you here in secret.

His heart lurched with something between fear and longing.

“What are you doing here?” he demanded, his voice a sharp whisper, low and urgent.

You smiled, stepping closer as if his concern was of no consequence. “You know what I am doing here.”

Otto exhaled harshly, shaking his head. “You should not be here.” His voice was quieter now, but no less firm. He moved toward you, his hands hovering just near your arms but not daring to touch you, as though making contact would solidify the reality of this moment—the sheer recklessness of it. “If you are seen—”

“I wasn’t seen,” you interrupted, your voice a soft reassurance. “I know these halls better than the guards that patrol them.”

Otto’s jaw tightened, his fingers flexing at his sides. “That is not the point, Princess.”

Your lips twitched slightly, as though you found his formality amusing. “What is the point, then?”

“The point is that you are playing with fire,” Otto hissed, his voice barely above a whisper now as he reached for the door, as if ready to usher you back out before it was too late. “The king is already furious. He will not stand for this.”

You watched him carefully, your expression softening. “Viserys will come to understand.”

Otto let out a humorless chuckle, his grip tightening on the doorframe. “You have too much faith in his willingness to defy convention.”

“And you have too little faith in me,” you countered.

That made him pause.

You took a slow step forward, your fingers brushing against the fabric of his sleeve, barely touching, yet enough to make him inhale sharply. “Otto,” you murmured, “I do not come to you lightly.”

He closed his eyes for a brief moment, willing himself to find the discipline he had spent a lifetime perfecting. But it was of no use—not when you were standing before him, not when he could feel the warmth of your body so close to his own.

“You risk too much,” he finally whispered, his voice rough. “Your reputation, your standing, your place in this court—”

“I risk nothing that I do not choose to risk,” you said, cutting him off. Your fingers curled gently around his wrist, grounding him in the moment. “I chose this. I choose you.”

Otto swallowed, his throat tight. “And if it costs you everything?”

Your gaze did not waver. “Then let them take everything.”

His control snapped.

With a sharp intake of breath, Otto grasped your face between his hands, his fingers threading into your hair as he pulled you to him. His lips crashed against yours, desperate, searing, a silent plea for you to understand the war that raged inside him.

You returned the kiss just as fiercely, your arms wrapping around him, drawing him closer until there was no space left between you. It was reckless. It was forbidden. And yet, in that moment, Otto Hightower had never felt more alive.

When you finally broke apart, your breaths mingling in the dim candlelight, Otto rested his forehead against yours, his hands still cradling your face. “This cannot last,” he whispered, though there was no conviction in his words.

You smiled faintly, pressing a gentle kiss to the corner of his mouth. “Then let us make the most of what time we have.”

Otto exhaled slowly, his fingers tracing the curve of your jaw.

Gods help him.

He was already lost.

A heavy summer rain had begun to fall outside, the patter of droplets against the castle walls filling the chamber with an uneasy rhythm. The air smelled of damp stone, old parchment, and wine—the latter of which sat untouched beside King Viserys as he rested his weary head against his fingers.

Otto Hightower stood before the king, his posture rigid, his hands clasped behind his back in a poor attempt to conceal the unease curling in his stomach. He had been summoned without explanation, but Otto had spent enough years at court to know that no news summoned in haste was ever good news.

Viserys did not speak immediately. He only exhaled a long, measured breath, rubbing the bridge of his nose as though trying to ease the ache behind his tired eyes. His usual warmth, the casual leniency with which he often conducted himself, was nowhere to be found.

Finally, the king spoke.

“Daemon is coming.”

The words were simple, yet they carried the weight of a storm.

Otto’s spine straightened, his grip tightening ever so slightly behind his back. “When?”

Viserys lifted his gaze, his violet eyes dark with frustration. “In a few hours.”

A few hours.

The words sent an invisible blow to Otto’s gut. Daemon’s arrival was not imminent—it was immediate. There was no time to plan, no time to prepare for whatever chaos he would bring with him.

Otto inhaled slowly. “Has he sent word of his intent?”

Viserys scoffed, shaking his head. “Daemon does not send word, Otto. He does as he pleases, whenever he pleases.” He leaned back in his chair, his fingers tapping against the wooden armrest. “But you and I both know why he is coming.”

Otto did not flinch. He met the king’s gaze head-on, his voice even. “He comes for his daughter.”

Viserys huffed, reaching for his goblet but only turning it in his hand, making no move to drink. “He has not seen her in months. And now, the moment word reaches him that she has made her choice—you—he comes flying back like a storm brewing over Blackwater.” He exhaled sharply, shaking his head. “You should count yourself lucky he did not come the moment the rumors began.”

Otto remained impassive, though he knew the king was right.

Daemon was impulsive, prideful, territorial. He would not take this lightly. He would see your choice not as your own, but as a theft, a claim made upon something he considered his.

And Daemon Targaryen did not share.

Viserys studied him for a long moment before speaking again. “Tell me, Otto.” His voice was quieter now, but no less commanding. “Do you know what he will do when he arrives?”

Otto inhaled deeply, his answer coming with certainty. “He will demand an audience with the princess. And then he will demand an audience with me.”

Viserys let out a low chuckle, though there was no humor in it. “You are braver than most men, Otto. Or more foolish.” He leaned forward, resting his elbows against the table. “Daemon will not take this well.”

“I do not expect him to,” Otto admitted.

Viserys scoffed. “No, I suppose you wouldn’t.” He ran a hand down his face, his exhaustion evident. “Gods, Otto. Do you have any idea what you have done?”

Otto’s jaw tightened slightly. “She made her choice, Your Grace.”

Viserys exhaled heavily, shaking his head. “And now you must bear the consequences of it.”

Silence settled between them, thick with the weight of what was to come.

Finally, Viserys straightened, his voice heavy. “Daemon will land his dragon within the hour. He will come to the Keep as soon as his feet touch the ground.” His gaze flickered toward Otto once more. “You had best be ready.”

Otto inclined his head. “I am always ready, Your Grace.”

Viserys sighed. “No, Otto.” He leaned back, his expression grim. “For Daemon Targaryen, no man ever truly is.”

[the0doreslover]

Friends in the dark | m.r

In the shadowed halls of hogwarts, Mattheo Riddle, the enigmatic son of the feared Dark Lord, found himself grappling with conflicting emotions. The weight of his lineage bore heavily upon him, as did the burden of his own destiny. He was surrounded by whispers of power and conquest, yet a gnawing sense of emptiness gnawed at his heart.

Amidst the darkness, a glimmer of light emerged in the form of Y/N Potter, a witch who possessed a fiery spirit that matched her famous surname. Though they hailed from different worlds, their paths crossed one fateful evening during a clandestine encounter deep within the Forbidden Forest.

"I never thought I'd find anyone else wandering these woods at night." she said.

"Likewise. It's a place of solace for me." he replied

Their first meeting was marked by a sense of curiosity and wariness, an unspoken recognition of each other's struggles. Mattheo, accustomed to manipulation and deceit, found himself surprised by Y/N's genuine concern.

"You're Mattheo Riddle, aren't you?" she asked

“Yes, that's me."

She saw past the name he bore and glimpsed the boy within, trapped between loyalty and the longing for something more.

"You know… you don't have to be defined by your family. You have a choice."

As the moon cast its silvery glow upon the forest floor, Mattheo shared his fears and desires, confessing the internal conflict that tormented him.

"I'm torn between the path I've been born for and the one I secretly yearn for."

y/n in turn then voiced her worries

"Living up to the Potter name isn't easy. Everyone expects greatness from me because of harry."

Their conversations continued in secret, each encounter revealing more layers of their shared vulnerability. Mattheo discovered Y/N's passion for reading as well as poetry.

"You have bravery in you, Y/N. a certain type bravery I wish I could find within myself."

“maybe you just haven’t looked hard enough” the girl said giving him something to think about

Their bond deepened, and they found comfort in each other's presence.

"With you, I feel understood. I've never had that before." the boy voiced

"We're not as different as it seems. We both want something more." she replied

But their connection did not go unnoticed.

"Interesting company you keep, y/n." her friends would often say to her

hogwarts corridors became fraught with danger, and the choices they made could alter everything about their lives.

"We must be careful. Our friendship could have consequences." mattheo said one night before they sat and talked till the sun set.

In the heart of the forest, under the same moon that had witnessed their first meeting, Mattheo and Y/N vowed to support each other, and be each others lifeline.

"No matter what happens, we'll face it together." y/n made him promise one night

"Y/N, you've given me hope. Something I thought I'd lost."

the girl, in turn, found a confidante who understood the complexities of her world.

In the midst of a world torn between light and darkness, Mattheo Riddle and Y/N Potter discovered a rare and precious connection. United by their shared struggles and a shared desire for a different path, they forged a bond that would shape their destinies in ways neither could have anticipated. The love they shared couldn’t be described on paper

[fitforchrist]

A guide for Prayer

God loves us, and earnestly awaits for us to call out to Him for help.

“The eyes of the LORD are upon the righteous, And his ears are open unto their cry.” ‭‭Psalm‬ ‭34‬:‭15‬ ‭KJV‬‬

However, whenever we pray to God; we should not just belch out a To Do list, or a Christmas list that we render unto our spouse or family members.

But rather when we pray unto our Heavenly Father, we must do so in a Meek and Humble Spirit.

See God is not a Jeanie in a bottle, that comes running at our beacon call to grant our wishes and earnest desires.

No. You’re thinking of a different god, lol (there is only one God: the God of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob).

Howbeit, the Bible does say that if you Delight in yourself also in the Lord……which includes His Word, His Will, and His Way; He shall give you the desires of your heart (Psalm 37:4).

In other words, if you live according God’s Word. He will not only answer your prayers, but will also give you those things that you long for and desire.

“But seek ye first the kingdom of God, and his righteousness; and all these things shall be added unto you.”

‭‭Matthew‬ ‭6‬:‭33‬ ‭KJV‬‬

And isn’t that what happened to King Solomon?

He prayed that God would give him Wisdom, on how to lead God’s people.

Nonetheless….since his heart was right towards God, and he desired to please the Lord God above everything else.

God not only blessed him with Wisdom, making him the wisest man on the face of the earth, but He also blessed Solomon with Riches, Honor, and Fame.

And whenever we close our eyes, and begin to pray unto God:

It is not our Flesh that communes with God, by boldly coming unto the throne of grace; that we may obtain mercy and grace…

But rather our Spirit.

For It is our Spirit, the Holy Spirit, that was given to us the very second that we accepted Christ into our Hearts: that fellowships and communes with God.

This makes sense, seeing that: if we must worship God in Spirit and in Truth (John 4:24)……

You better believe that we must also pray: in the Spirit and in Truth, as well.

So what happens when our prayers seem to go unanswered or appear to be ignored by God?

We must do as 1 Thessalonians 5:17 instructs us to do, and that is to pray without ceasing.

The truth is that: God answers All prayers…….

According to Psalm 141:2 and Revelation 8:4, our prayers rise before the throne of God as precious Incense.

Sometimes God says Yes, and sometimes He says No.

Other times He may say Wait, and other times He may be Silent……….

And still there are yet other times, in which He may appear that He is asleep or away on vacation.

But God neither Sleeps or Slumbers, and neither is He away on Vacation.

Why?

Because He said that: He would never Leave or Forsake us.

So why is God Silent, at times?

To build up our Faith, and also that we may truly see what we’re made of.

Will we fall apart and blame God, when the Road gets Rough?

Or will we do like Job and bow down and Worship God, even when all Hell has broken loose in our lives?

These are questions that we all need ask ourselves.

The Bottom Line is this: we must trust God, for He is our only Help.

The psalmist in Psalm 20:7 KJV, put it like this:

“Some trust in chariots, and some in horses: But we will remember the name of the LORD our God.”

‭‭

Be encouraged……….give God all of your Burdens, Stress, and Concerns because He truly does care for you.

“casting all your care upon him; for he careth for you.”

‭‭1 Peter‬ ‭5‬:‭7‬ ‭KJV‬‬

God Bless you!

[religion-is-a-mental-illness]

https://quranx.com/2.191

And kill them wherever you overtake them and expel them from wherever they have expelled you, and fitnah is worse than killing. And do not fight them at al-Masjid al- Haram until they fight you there. But if they fight you, then kill them. Such is the recompense of the disbelievers.

https://quranx.com/3.28

Let not believers take disbelievers as allies rather than believers. And whoever [of you] does that has nothing with Allah, except when taking precaution against them in prudence. And Allah warns you of Himself, and to Allah is the [final] destination.

https://quranx.com/3.85

And whoever desires other than Islam as religion - never will it be accepted from him, and he, in the Hereafter, will be among the losers.

https://quranx.com/5.33

Indeed, the penalty for those who wage war against Allah and His Messenger and strive upon earth [to cause] corruption is none but that they be killed or crucified or that their hands and feet be cut off from opposite sides or that they be exiled from the land. That is for them a disgrace in this world; and for them in the Hereafter is a great punishment,

https://quranx.com/8.12

[Remember] when your Lord inspired to the angels, "I am with you, so strengthen those who have believed. I will cast terror into the hearts of those who disbelieved, so strike [them] upon the necks and strike from them every fingertip."

https://quranx.com/8.60

And prepare against them whatever you are able of power and of steeds of war by which you may terrify the enemy of Allah and your enemy and others besides them whom you do not know [but] whom Allah knows. And whatever you spend in the cause of Allah will be fully repaid to you, and you will not be wronged.

https://quranx.com/8.65

O Prophet, urge the believers to battle. If there are among you twenty [who are] steadfast, they will overcome two hundred. And if there are among you one hundred [who are] steadfast, they will overcome a thousand of those who have disbelieved because they are a people who do not understand.

https://quranx.com/9.5

And when the sacred months have passed, then kill the polytheists wherever you find them and capture them and besiege them and sit in wait for them at every place of ambush. But if they should repent, establish prayer, and give zakah, let them [go] on their way. Indeed, Allah is Forgiving and Merciful.

https://quranx.com/9.30

The Jews say, "Ezra is the son of Allah "; and the Christians say, "The Messiah is the son of Allah." That is their statement from their mouths; they imitate the saying of those who disbelieved [before them]. May Allah destroy them; how are they deluded?

https://quranx.com/9.123

O you who have believed, fight those adjacent to you of the disbelievers and let them find in you harshness. And know that Allah is with the righteous.

https://quranx.com/22.19

These are two adversaries who have disputed over their Lord. But those who disbelieved will have cut out for them garments of fire. Poured upon their heads will be scalding water

https://quranx.com/47.4

So when you meet those who disbelieve [in battle], strike [their] necks until, when you have inflicted slaughter upon them, then secure their bonds, and either [confer] favor afterwards or ransom [them] until the war lays down its burdens. That [is the command]. And if Allah had willed, He could have taken vengeance upon them [Himself], but [He ordered armed struggle] to test some of you by means of others. And those who are killed in the cause of Allah - never will He waste their deeds.

==

So love. Many peace.

[traumacatholic]

Prayer for overcoming anxiety

Do not worry about anything, but in everything by prayer and supplication with thanksgiving let your requests be made known to God. And the peace of God, which surpasses all understanding, will guard your hearts and your minds in Christ Jesus. [Philippians 4:6-7 NRSVCE]

Faithful Father,

I praise You for being my strength and salvation. You have been my rock for ages; you’ve pulled me out of some low places in my life.

I need your help again with something I can’t seem to shake.

I come to you today seeking your help and guidance as I navigate through the difficulties of extreme anxiety.

This burden has become too much for me to bear alone, and I need your divine intervention to heal me.

Lord, my faith in you is deep. Because of my deep faith, Satan pours out his attacks in a mighty way.

I am so frustrated with myself because I allow myself to get pulled into fear and anxiety over situations that seem out of my control.

Please help me find the strength to overcome this anxiety and find inner peace.

Help me to recognize and acknowledge the root cause of my anxiety, and guide me towards the right resources and support to help me manage it.

Today I bind the spirit of fear and anxiety–Satan has no power over me!

I ask for your healing touch to calm my mind and release me from the grip of fear and worry that consumes me.

May your light shine upon me and grant me the courage and hope to face each day with grace and strength.

I commit to memorizing and reciting out loud scriptures on anxiety. Your word tells us Satan flees at the sound of your word.

Please be with me as I begin this journey toward healing and wholeness. I trust in your power and love and am grateful for your presence in my life.

Amen.

Cast all your anxiety on him, because he cares for you [1 Peter 5:7 NRSVCE]

[shi-daisy]

Burning the Memories

Last Day 😭 This week flew by and while I am sad is over I want to thank everyone for making it such a fun event with so many unique creations from art, fic, poetry, and even games! We really went out of our way to show our Spring High Lord love, and I am forever grateful to have found this lovely Fandom where many of have even become dear friends. Thanks everyone!

(Art is made with @copypastus amazing picrew)

Okay so onto the submission

If I had a nickel for every time my favorite character in series that went downhill was villianized and written out of character for the sake of a tattooed older man that likes younger women and is presented as the hero I'd have two nickels, which isn't a lot but it's weird that it happened twice.

So the final day of this Tamlin Week, I'm mashing two bad hyperfixations together and having my faves interact. Have some Tamlin and Riya friendship! (I do not recommend watching Disventure Camp in the slightest, it has the ACOTAR effect of starting out peak and turning to mush on Season 3, but Riya and other characters are still stuck spinning in my mind like rotisserie chicken, so if you do check it you might love em too)

Hope you all like!

@tamlinweek

Tamlin Week 2025- Day 7- Crossover & AU/Free Day

Burning the Memories

He wasn't used to company, not anymore. So when a human woman stumbled upon his lands and manor he merely helped her get back home.

Tamlin didn't expect her to often return and help with his decayed manor and state.

Riya Sharma was supposedly a famous actress in this other universe where she came from. He could see it, as the woman carried herself confidently and with a dramatic flare. She was tall, had tanned skin, brown hair and expressive big dark eyes. Today she'd come dressed in what she called a 'sterile suit' and had sweeped through the manor in a matter of two hours.

"Okay, house is clean. Now it's your turn!" She said.

"Pardon?"

"Take a bath giant puppy! Your hair is matted and I already washed everything in your closet, so it's time to get you looking fine!"

"First of all, I am not a puppy, I am a beast. Secondly, I am curious as to why you're spending so much time and effort coming back here to help me. You shouldn't be wasting your time."

She frowned and grabbed his face in her hands. "Hey! I can spend my time however I damn please! Look, maybe it's silly that I keep coming back to this medieval fairydust land, but I know you need a friend.

I was abandoned by many people I loved and cared for, just because I did was best for myself.

In that case I can understand some of the farewells...I did many things I regret. But you, you did nothing but desperately protect your people and land.

I'm not letting you go through the pain alone, not if I can help it and ease your burdens."

He felt too ashamed to look at her. "Your mistakes didn't lead people to the grave."

"I wasn't in a war like you. I was just in a stupid reality show. Different sakes hon, besides, you didn't raze Spring to the ground. That was your moronic ex."

"My actions pushed her to do it! Riya, you haven't heard the story from her side! You'd probably agree with her and rightfully cast me aside!"

"Tamlin, I am not giving up on you! I know what it's like when the other side twists you into a villian!

You didn't intend for this, you fought to fix your mistakes and protected your loved ones, you're a better man than many, you're even better than me, because I would've just let that bat die and his empire crumble!"

He chuckled. "Vengeful villianess, now what would the press say?"

Riya rolled her eyes and hugged him. "They'd say I slayed."

Tamlin noticed that when Riya pulled away he was covered in dust. "You-"

The actress winked and clicked her tounge. "Gotcha! Now you have to take a bath!"

"Duplicitous woman." Tamlin muttered.

"Hey, I didn't win a season by doing nothing. Now get prettied up, puppy beast!"

Yeah, she was a little wicked, kinda like Lucien whenever he wanted to play pranks, but Tamlin did appreciate someone seeing his side.

So he stood up and headed for the bath, deciding he'd make his new friend happy.

***

Tamlin had told her everything when she asked, about the clawmarks and destroyed rooms, about the paintings that were torn to shreds, and the dresses he still kept saved up, hoping in vain she'd return.

Riya was no stranger to that fruitless hope. She once had someone wishing she'd retun to him. Unlike Feyre she left it clear that she wouldn't, not until she achieved the win she wanted and was allowed to live her life on her terms. That was not acceptable and so the man who claimed she was the love of his life cast her aside and got married a year later. 'He and Feyre would get along so well. Ugh, just grossed myself out.'

Deciding to not waste more of her time thinking of Connor she took to the former Lady of Spring's room and took out the puffy dresses she rejected. From what Tamlin said these weren't her style, and he didn't know that until much later when she'd already burned his court to cinders.

'Expecting the man with no mindreader powers to read your mind. Actually have a mouth and spine like the rest of us and say no!'

But she didn't, instead she made Tamlin out to be a villain for daring to be traumatized and perhaps protecting her too much. It made Riya sick, but she could do little now other than help the High Lord heal.

"I didn't think those were still intact." Tamlin said.

Riya was startled by his voice as she and the dresses down on the bed. "They look brand new, you got her so many..."

Tamlin looked away. The High Lord was now in his fae form, keeping only the antlers covered by small rosebuds of his beast form. He'd dressed himself in the outfit Riya coordinated for him and was in better shape now, but still utterly heartbroken.

"You can keep them. I have nose use for them anymore."

"My world seldom uses this type of dress anymore. But I will keep this yellow one. Get the rest of them out in the garden. I'll be there with you soon."

"What for?"

"Just trust me, Tam."

He nodded and did as asked. Riya took the yellow puffy dressed and changed into it. By the time she got out Tamlin and taken the pile of dressed down to the garden.

"Oh, you look lovely. It suits you." He said while magically making a flower crown for her to wear. It matched his antlers.

"Why thank you!" She said while flipping her hair. "Now, is there anything else you have kept of Lady Acheron."

"Some paintings, why?"

"We're burning it down."

"What?! Why would you suggest that?!"

"Tamlin, you're not going to heal if you keep holding on. We need to purge her from here. She's not coming back, and if she did, it would be best for you to turn her away. You don't deserve to be hurt like this! So, we must begin the healing for you."

He sighed looking defeated. "I know you're right I just...I'm not sure I can do it."

"You can, and you will. I'll do it with you." She told him as she revealed she'd taken some objects of her own.

Tamlin's eyes widened upon seeing what they were, a strand of 'pictures' of Riya and her ex, along with a bottle of red perfume.

"Isn't this the perfume he gave to you?"

"Yeah...I couldn't bring myself to throw it out. Until now. I won't let you do this alone."

Tamlin took a deep breath. "Then go get the paintings. I'll light up the bonfire."

She smiled as she went back into the mannor.

'Baby steps, Tam.'

***

Some wood and bit of magic was all it took to burn a pyre of dresses, paintings, photos and a bottle that cracked to pieces upon being thrown there, making the fire roar for a moment until it simmered down again.

Tamlin watched the flames consume the cloth until tears blurred his vision and he could only weep in silence.

Riya's eyes were misty too, but she had cried all she needed to before even meeting her new friend. So she was the strong one now and held onto Tamlin's hand tightly.

"You're doing great. It's almost over."

"Is it?...Am I ever going to move on from this?"

"Yes. Because I will make sure of it."

"Riya, you can't stay here and make sure I heal."

"Then I guess that means I am taking you to Hollywood with me."

He looked at her surprised, touched and concedned all at the same time. "I can't. The court."

"You can return. Just for a few weeks let yourself be selfish. Just tell Luce and you'll be okay."

He wasn't sure if he could allow himself the selfishness, until he glanced at the pink dress Feyre wore when she chose to leave him behind without a word and discard everything they'd ever been. The dress turned to ash, and he too should let guilt turn to ash.

"Hmmm fine then, I shall tell him I'll be gone for a few weeks upon his return."

"Good. I am making sure you smile again!"

He did, at her, because despite all he still had left she'd been the first to make sure he healed. Perhaps in her world he'd make sure she got the adoration she deserved too.

"Thank you Riya."

"You're welcome, Tamlin."

So they stayed like that until the fire burned everything away. Tamlin was now content in the knowledge that for all the losses, he'd have people on his side in every universe.

[dany-is-my-queen]

A Question Of Loyalty XV

Rhaenyra Targaryen x reader, Alicent Hightower x reader

Word count: 2.4k

Summary: When dragons of green and dragons of black dance, you have to choose the color that suits you best.

At long last, the dreaded day arrived, casting its foreboding shadow upon the entire city. It was a day that instilled fear in the hearts of all, a day where the path ahead would become steep, and your wrestling of emotions would commence anew.

During your fleeting tenure as Hand, you had gleaned wisdom regarding the weighty choices that must be made. Those decisions, whispered into the ears of the Realm, possessed a gravity always returns with even fiercer consequences.

Betrayal, once a palpable concept, now seemed enshrouded in ambiguity, its essence eluding your grasp. Family bonds had ceased to be a salve against its sting, for in the end, they only birthed disappointment, no matter the intentions that drove your actions.

Syrax, Caraxes, Seasmoke—a dragon of old—accompanied by an unfamiliar beast, emerged above the Capital. Their presence brought forth thunderous echoes, as if the very walls of Maegor Holdfast trembled under their might. Silhouetted against the ashen clouds, they cast an imposing sight upon all who beheld them.

"Have the treacherous bitches gone into hiding?" Came the thunderous voice of Daemon, as he made his entry into the castle. The sight of his dragon circling above took you aback, for he was expected to be distant from this place. It was then that the realization struck: a spy from within the Green Council had betrayed their plans, alerting his Uncle to the impending confrontation. A perfect scheme, you thought, but now your hope rested on avoiding suspicion. Yet within the labyrinthine chambers of your mind, you sought answers, searching for clues to untangle this intricate web.

What remained of the Council, alongside yourself, were led to the Throne Room, where you once again laid eyes upon her.

There she stood, once the embodiment of the Realm's Delight, garbed in a black scaled armor that seemed to have been forged from the very hide of the Black Dread. A sense of unfamiliarity emanated from her, a bitterness intermingled with indifference. But when her gaze met yours, the world ceased its tumultuous dance, freezing.

Her countenance now carried the weight of weariness, the burden of her station etched upon her eyes, despite the distance that separated you.

In that instant, memories surged forth, from the day she was named heir to the throne by King Viserys. One by one, the subjects had knelt, swearing their fealty to their future queen.

On that day, she had strived to maintain composure, a fleeting smile gracing her lips when her father uttered the words that would lead her to this very moment. But she was no longer a child, and neither were you.

The throne embraced her, yet her unease within its grasp was evident. It was her birthright, and you had schemed and conspired to wrest it away. You had succeeded, lending your counsel to her adversaries since the day you chose to remain within these walls.

The Black Queen found herself unable to divert her gaze from you, and you, in turn, found yourself unable to tear your eyes away from her. In her presence, your previous endeavors faded into obscurity, the mental notes you had so carefully composed fading into blankness. Emotions surged within you that left you adrift, unsure of how to react in this newfound proximity. All that was left was a cacophony of feelings.

On the opposite side of the room stood your lover, the Green Queen, her heart throbbing with an indescribable ache. Not only was her rival here to claim the throne for her son, but she had also come to reclaim the chambers of your heart once more.

Many of the Lords found themselves imprisoned, confined within the dungeons, including Maester Orwyle. Some were captured before they could flee. Alicent's brother, once ‘destined’ to be your betrothed, met his end at the blade of the Queen's Lord Commander, Ser Luthor. Lord Wylde's head fell for the crime of treason, and a dozen more shared his fate. Only Otto was spared, having been absent when the Queen arrived, but his ultimate destiny remained the same. Haleana was confined to her chambers, treated with the dignity her position warranted, without violence or indignity. Larys, the elusive rat that he was, had managed to vanish into the shadows. This fueled your suspicions, intensifying the belief that he had alerted Prince Daemon. And finally, the young King had vanished without a trace. None within the Red Keep held the faintest inkling of his whereabouts, but a nagging sense whispered that he had received substantial aid, and that every aspect had been orchestrated in advance, should such a situation arise.

As the City succumbed in a mere day, Rhaenyra, once again, accepted the pledges of loyalty from her subjects, who bent the knee. Her Hand, Corlys, had yet to arrive, but your curiosity burned, eager to meet the newest rider of your brother's dragon.

You knew that the time had come to face her. There was no easy way out.

—

The morrow arrived, heralding a dawn that cast its rays upon the Red Keep, ensnared by pandemonium. Yet, resolute in her purpose, the Queen resolved to exert her influence, striving to quell the disarray that pervaded the streets. She sought to demonstrate to the small folk that her intentions were devoid of malevolence.

However, Alicent did not yield readily to such endeavors, for on the following morn, she beseeched an audience with the Queen and her loyal advisers. She entreated your presence alongside her, aware that you, though not aligned with Rhaenyra's cause, were not restrained by shackles or confined within your quarters, despite the simmering ‘resentment’ she harbored towards you.

Alicent appeared outwardly composed, yet beneath the veneer of calmness, her nerves and insecurities surged forth with an even greater intensity. The enigma that governed the relationship between you and Rhaenyra remained unpredictable, as it had ever been.

"I propose that we convene the lords from every corner of the Realm, so that this matter is subject to the judgement of those who are governed, just as it had been done in the past years. It would be the most viable and equitable course of action," Alicent ventured, adroitly masking her trepidation. Rhaenyra regarded her with a disdainful glance, displaying a conspicuous lack of interest.

"Equitable, you say?" she retorted incredulously. "Since the moment you and your kin elected to wrest my throne from me, justice has been a forlorn specter," she declared, her ire palpable. Alicent's suggestion, though surprising to you, bore the signs of a ploy to bide time until Aemond's return—an accord that Rhaenyra would never countenance.

Yet, you interceded, lending your support. "We seek to avert further loss of life on either side, Your Grace," you subtly interjected, capturing the attention of both women.

Rhaenyra found herself engulfed by a whirlwind of emotions, caught off guard by the directness of your address after such a protracted estrangement. "Do you intend to feed me to Silverwing, like a hapless morsel?" the Queen blurted out, her words lacking coherence, driven by the need to establish a weighty conversation, an assurance that she commanded your attention. And indeed, she did.

"Of course not," you responded with unfeigned candor. "My dragon is not even here. She shall arrive in due time, when she is in optimal condition. But I harbor no designs to offer you as a feast to her." In uttering these words, you forwent the use of her title, a triviality that mattered little in light of her concerns.

"Nor do I, my Lady. You are an integral piece in this war, and under my protection, you shall find safety," Rhaenyra declared resolutely, her gaze then shifting to Alicent. "For the sake of the love my father once bore for my stepmother, Alicent too shall be afforded refuge within these walls."

A flicker of irritation played upon Alicent's visage. "Alternatively, it may be more prudent to send her to her kin in Oldtown," suggested Maester Gerardys, his words devoid of malice. Rhaenyra contemplated the proposition, while Alicent's countenance turned pale and dismayed, for the prospect of leaving you alone with the Queen shattered her.

"I beg your pardon, Maester, but I would prefer to remain. I wish to stay by my daughter's side," Alicent hastily interjected.

"Moreover, we require hostages, Your Grace. Formidable threats still lurk in various corners of the Realm. Such luxuries cannot be afforded," Lord Celtigar said with cautious deliberation.

"Yes, that is true. Both of them shall remain here," Rhaenyra pronounced with a definitive tone. A modicum of relief fleetingly graced Alicent's expression, though beneath the surface, her yearning to reunite with her little one remained unabated.

The discourse endured for another hour, delving into the intricacies of the path forward, while you and Alicent assumed the role of mere observers, devoid of active participation. You silently thanked the gods that Rhaenyra's husband was absent, for his contributions had seldom borne any semblance of intelligence, and you were keenly aware of his deep-seated animosity towards Alicent, and viceversa. You would not brook any slight directed towards her.

As the hour grew late, Rhaenyra commanded, "That shall suffice for today. We’ll reconvene on the morrow. My lords, my ladies, you are dismissed." Alicent rejoiced, knowing that she would finally be liberated from the ceaseless prattle of her stepdaughter. Yet, when you both rose to depart, Rhaenyra summoned you. "Not you, Y/N."

A fleeting glance between you and Alicent passed, as she departed, her hands poised at her sides, evincing her reluctance to leave your side.

"Your Grace."

"I wish to converse with you. Unless urgent matters demand your immediate attention," her voice striving to sound composed, though her efforts faltered.

"I was merely intending to check on your sister, but I trust Alicent will attend to that," you replied with honesty.

"You need not fear me, Y/N. Although your paramour was one among those who wished to plunge a dagger into my heart, I harbor no such sentiment. They shall remain unharmed, unless they foolishly tempt fate."

Her words furrowed your brow. “Fearful people breed further fear.” you stated.

"And are you afraid of me?" she inquired.

"No."

"I offer my sincerest apologies for the loss of your mother. She was a woman unlike any other—courageous and astute, beloved by all. I regret that you were compelled to bear witness to her demise."

"And I regret my own perceived insufficiency in not being able to do more."

"When we were but youths, she foretold that men would sooner consign the Realm to the flames than witness a woman ascend the Iron Throne. Yet, here I stand, having finally achieved what seemed so elusive. However, it is not yet over, and that is what fills me with dread. Yet, you also assured me that once they beheld the type of Queen I could be for them, they would accept me, and you would stand beside me."

"Rhaenyra..."

"When did the love you held for me perish, Y/N? When did I lose you?" she inquired. Guilt washed over you, engulfing you in its remorseful grip.

You yearned to assuage her pain, yet your throat proved bereft of words. She turned her gaze towards the expansive window, overlooking the sprawling city, where the houses appeared distant, the horizon remote. Syrax soared across the skies before retiring to her lair, infusing the scene with melancholy.

"I deeply feel the loss of your children," you began delicately. "You know that I held great affection for my nephews. They were very of honorable."

"Sometimes, I wish they had forsaken their honor to ensure their safety, to spare themselves from the cruel fate that befell them all too swiftly.”

"But then they would not have been the remarkable princes they were.”

"Rhaena and Baela have yearned for your presence as well. They would have cherished your support during these tumultuous times," Rhaenyra stated, and a wave of immense remorse splashed. They were of your own blood, your kin, and yet you had abandoned them when they needed you most, as if they had slipped from your thoughts entirely. Now, shame was all you knew. “Baela resides on Dragonstone, while Rhaena ensures the safety and well-being of my three young children in the Vale," she continued, her voice infused with maternal affection.

"They grow with each passing day. Those princelings are blessed to be surrounded by good souls and to have a mother as extraordinary as you," you expressed, your heart softening at the thought of Rhaenyra cradling their future within her grasp. “And little Y/N?”

"Eagerly anticipating to meet you," she tenderly spoke.

"As I am.” you confessed.

"Y/N, believe me when I say that I possessed no knowledge... of the abominable act Daemon commanded, the assassination of Prince Jaeherys," she added, her words free from deceit.

"How many more must we lose before this madness ceases?" you whispered, sadness permeating your tone. Rhaenyra took a step closer, her presence now within arm's reach, refraining from shattering the fragile moment by revealing that this madness would only conclude when the traitors paid with fire and blood. Instead, she extended her hand, her fingers gently caressing your skin, her breath brushing against your cheek, akin to the fiery exhales of your dragon. Uncertain of her intentions, your heart wavered between a desperate desire to quell the tension and the pangs of guilt that haunted you for even contemplating such a betrayal. Yet, Rhaenyra respected your boundaries, bestowing upon you a tender kiss upon your cheek. In that single moment, the warmth that radiated from her touch eclipsed the brilliance of a thousand suns.

For several breathless seconds, your eyes locked in an unspoken connection. Rhaenyra, deciding to conclude this long-awaited encounter, broke the enchantment. "Nyke jaelagon ao ēdan chosen issa (I wish you had chosen me)," she murmured, and, driven by instinct, divine intervention, or perhaps the cruel machinations of fate, you drew her closer, your hand encircling her waist, until your chests met in a collision of shared longing. Surprise danced across her countenance, and you teetered on the precipice of sealing this long-awaited union with a much-needed kiss. In that suspended moment, as uncertainty swirled around you, you chose a different path. Enveloping her in a warm embrace, she reciprocated instantly, her heartbeat aligning with yours, her essence intertwining with your own.

~~~~~~

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