#Casting your burdens upon the Lord

[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.

[jesuschristtheprinceofpeace]

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

[heliosunny]

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.

[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)

[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.”

[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 😬

[honeybeezgobzzzzz]

𓅨 Eros: Chapter Five

Eros: Married to Dream of the Endless, you find yourself sent back in time to Ancient Greece where you, unfortunately, meet Oneiros. Fresh off a divorce and drowning the sorrows of his son’s death by indulging in the Panathenaia, you find yourself trapped beneath the lustful gaze of your future husband. In your defense, he seduced you first…

Warnings: Flashback of Oneiros lurking as Reader sleeps, Explicit Language, Explicit Material.

To Note: Morpheus x Wife!Reader, Time Travel, Oneiros is used for AncientGreek!Morpheus.

Word Count: ~2.9k

Previous | Masterlist | Next

Oneiros lies beside you, his body still humming with the lingering sensations of your passionate encounter. The soft glow of the room casts gentle shadows across his face, highlighting the intensity in his eyes as he gazes at you. He is lost in thought, tracing patterns on your bare skin with his fingers, his touch tender yet insistent, admiring the marks already forming upon your beautiful flesh.

“Tell me about yourself, αστέρι μου,” he murmurs, his voice a soothing melody that wraps around you like a warm embrace. The endearment, meaning "my star," rolls off his tongue with a reverence that makes your heart flutter.

You shift slightly, your mind racing with thoughts and memories you aren’t ready to share, that you can’t share. You turn your head to meet his gaze, offering a soft smile instead of an answer. “There’s not much to tell,” you reply, attempting to brush off his inquiry.

Oneiros' eyes darken with a mix of frustration and determination. “There is always more to tell,” he insists gently. “You are a mystery to me, and I wish to unravel you.” His fingers brush against your lower lip, knowing you taste divine, a forbidden fruit ripe to be devoured.

As his touch lingers on your lips, a shiver runs down your spine, igniting a fire within you that you thought had been extinguished by your prior fervent carnal passions. His words stir something deep inside, a yearning for connection that both thrills and terrifies you. You know the dangers of revealing your true self, of who you would come to be to him, yet the longing in his eyes beckons you to let down your walls. Oh how you want to tell him everything.

“I am but a simple wife, waiting to go home.” That is as close to the truth as you can get.

But Oneiros isn't satisfied with the surface-level explanation. His eyes search yours, piercing through your defenses until you feel laid bare before him. You technically already are. He can sense the inner turmoil, unspoken secrets that weigh heavy on your heart.

"You carry a burden in your soul," he whispers, his voice a velvet caress in the dimly lit room. "I can see it in the way you hold yourself, in the shadows that flicker behind your eyes." His hand moves from your lips to cup your cheek gently, his thumb brushing away a stray tear that has escaped your control.

“I am not here to relieve my burdens, my lord,” you tell him before slipping out from his hold and sitting on the edge of the bed. You stand and take a step forward, not knowing what to do. You are naked, without clothes, and have a complete mess between your legs.

Oneiros watches as you distance yourself, a mixture of understanding and frustration clouding his gaze. He knows there is a darkness that clings to you, a weight that seems to crush the light out of your very being. But he also sees the flicker of strength in your eyes, a determination that refuses to be snuffed out.

Silence settles between you, heavy with unspoken words and unshed tears. The air in the room feels charged, as if the very essence of the night holds its breath in anticipation of what will come next. Oneiros rises from the bed, his movements fluid and graceful as he approaches where you stand. His hands reach for yours as he steps up to your back. You tense as you feel his presence behind you, his warmth seeping into your skin even before his fingers graze yours. His touch is gentle, almost hesitant, as if he fears you might shatter beneath his fingertips. But there is a determination in his actions, a silent promise that he won't let you fall apart. Oneiros intertwines his fingers with yours, his touch a lifeline in the darkness that threatens to consume you.

“Indulge with me then,” he whispers, his lips brushing against your ear as the deep and silken tone of his voice makes you shiver. “Be mine, if only for the duration of Panathenaia.”

Rather than respond, you turn in place and stretch up on your toes as you bring his lips back to yours.

Oneiros stands silently in the corner of your dimly lit chamber, hidden in the shadows of the late night. The flickering light from an oil lamp casts seductive, dancing shadows across the room, teasingly illuminating your bare skin as you sleep peacefully. Outside, the distant sounds of the Panathenaia festival echo through the streets of Athens, a celebration of pleasure and indulgence. And here in this room, Oneiros can feel his own desires stirring as he gazes upon your alluring figure.

The satin sheets draped over your body glimmer under the light, revealing tantalizing glimpses of your curves and contours. Your hair cascades over the pillow like a river, framing your face in an ethereal glow. The scent of blooming jasmine fills the room from the courtyard outside, mingling with the heady aroma of incense burning in the corner. The gentle hum of nocturnal creatures provides a seductive backdrop for Oneiros' fantasies.

Each night, he is irresistibly drawn to you, unable to resist the magnetic pull you have over him. It seems as though you are intentionally avoiding him, but that only makes him want you more. As he stands there entranced by your beauty, a primal urge consumes him—a desire that is both carnal and cerebral.

He hungers for you, his gaze devouring every inch of your body beneath the sheer chiton. He longs to touch you, to claim you as his own. But he holds back, knowing that such an action would only deepen the mystery that surrounds you.

In your dreams, he finds even more enticing secrets—stories and places that hint at a future he can't fully grasp. Each night he spends watching over you only intensifies his longing for you, his need to consume every inch of you—body and soul. You are his puzzle to solve, a mysterious enigma that drives him wild with desire.

The soft breeze from the open window carries the faint scent of saltwater and distant laughter, a reminder of the festivities happening outside. But here in this room, Oneiros is consumed only by his insatiable longing for you. The slightest movement from your sleeping form causes his inner being to stir, imagining all the ways he could make you moan and writhe beneath him. And as the night wears on, the moon hanging low in the sky, Oneiros remains steadfast in his watch over you—ever lost in his dreams and desires for you.

You are in dire need of a bath, certainly after Oneiros had his way with you and left you a mess between your legs. Not that you are complaining, but you do care that a servant might see you in such a state. The mortification you’d feel! So you extricate yourself from Oneiros’ embrace and saunter towards the private baths in his grand quarters. You only have to look over your shoulder once, your eyes meeting predatory silver ones, to silently convince the Endless to follow suit.

The private baths are a luxurious escape from the bedroom, which has long since been perfumed by the smell of your activities. With a lavish marble basin filled with steaming water and fragrant oils, you let out a relaxed sigh. You choose a few of your favorite scented oils and watch them swirl into the water. Finally, you slowly step into the tub, the hot water enveloping your body and washing away the remnants of your passion. You lean back against the side of the tub, ignoring the lurking Endless.

It isn't long before Oneiros decides to join you in the bath, his dark eyes burning with desire and longing. He steps down into the water, carefully at first, as if not to disturb the bubbles that have formed atop the warm, scented water. His silver eyes meet yours over your shoulder, reflecting the faint light from the bathing chamber's candles, and you can see the heat of his desire in their depths.

In the dim light, he approaches you slowly, his muscles rippling beneath his skin as he kneels before you. His hands reach for your body, and with mere finger widths separating you, you can feel the intensity of his lust. His touch makes your skin tingle, as if he were stirring the very essence of your being. He traces his fingers along your wet shoulder, down your arm, and finally makes a loop around your wrist, gently pulling you closer.

You can't deny the intense gravity of his desire, and your own passion surges within you like a raging storm. As he brings your lips to his, you feel not just the heat of his kiss, but the primal energy emanating from his being. His tongue dances with yours, a desperate exploration of intimacy that leaves you breathless with need.

The moment your tongues intertwine in an erotic dance, you press your body closer and closer until the water around you begins to churn. Beads of water form on your flesh, and your skin seems to come alive with a shimmering, ethereal glow. Breaking the kiss, Oneiros weaves a hand into your hair and pulls your head back, his lips finding the droplets of water snaking across your flesh. He captures each droplet within his mouth, tongue running along your skin in search of more as he feasts on the nectar it holds. The sensation of his wet, warm lips and tongue savoring the remnants of the water sends shivers down your spine, making you crave more of his teases.

With your head still tilted back, he begins a slow, tender kiss along the line of your jaw, enjoying the sensation of your skin against his lips. His hands explore your curves, gently gliding from your hips to the sensitive skin at the small of your back. You sigh softly, arching your back to allow his hands full access to your body.

Oneiros' hands continue their exploration, sliding over the curves of your breasts, gently brushing over your nipples that harden under his touch. The intensity of his desire is palpable as he cups your breasts in his hands, kneading them gently while his lips trace a path from your neck down to your collarbone.

You can't help but gasp softly as his mouth moves lower, sending shivers of anticipation through your body. Your fingers tangle in his hair, nails digging into his scalp as Oneiros' tongue flicks against your sensitive nipple. The sensation is electrifying and your breath catches as he suckles on it, teasing it with his teeth in a way that heightens the pleasure to a new level.

“You better not start anything you cannot finish in the bath,” you tell him, feeling almost breathless.

Oneiros chuckles softly, his lips still dancing along the curve of your breast. "I make no promises," he replies, his voice low and seductive. "But I can assure you, I intend to pleasure you in ways you have never experienced before."

Leaning down, he continues to lavish attention on your nipples, carefully nipping and licking at them, sending waves of pleasure surging through your body. With a small gasp, your body is moved through the water until Oneiros is lounging on the seat of the bath and you stand with your back to him. You swallow thickly, your eyes staring straight ahead as devilish fingers caress your back in appreciation.

“You are true divinity,” he whispers. “Every touch, every kiss, is a gift I am honored to give and take.”

His hands move to your hips, gently pulling you backwards until you straddle him and your back is pressed against his chest. Your eyelids flutter and breaths quicken when you feel the hardness of his body pressed against your most intimate area.

Oneiros slides his arms around your waist and pulls you closer to him, holding one forearm beneath your breasts and the other so the palm of his hand lays just under your navel. His fingers begin to trace delicate patterns on your abdomen. Sweet torture. The water ripples around them as he draws, his every touch driving you to the point of madness.

"Oneiros," you gasp, arching your back and jerking a hand to cover the one on your stomach.

“Do you know how much I want you?" his voice is a husky rumble against your neck and you can feel the subtle scrape of teeth. "How much I crave your touch, your taste, your very essence?"

Oh, you have an idea, but you are also a glutton for punishment. Certainly with this side of your husband you have never experienced before.

"Then prove it," you whisper, leaning back into him. Oneiros lets out a low growl, his grip on you tightening slightly. His lips brush against your ear, sending shivers down your spine.

"With pleasure," he murmurs, his voice low and filled with promise.

With a gentle swivel of his hips, you feel his cock pressing against you, stiff and throbbing. Your eyelashes flutter only once before your body is dragged down against his erect cock as Oneiros pushes his hips up. A strained and ragged gasp emerges from your lips at the sensation of his cock sinking into your body.

His breath is hot against your neck, his hands gripping your waist tightly as he moves in and out, each motion a calculated move choreographed by desire. You arch your back and meet his every thrust with an eagerness that leaves you breathless.

"More," you beg, wanting him to be deeper, harder, faster. Oneiros obliges, but not in the way you wish. His thrusts become deeper, more punishing even, and that has your free hand latching onto his thigh in a death grip. His mouth finds a sensitive spot on your neck and the Endless bites with the intention of marking you as his.

With teeth sinking into your flesh, an electric current runs through your body and mingles with the fierce pleasure of his relentless thrusts. You cry out, a mix of pain and pleasure, your heart pounding in sync with his rough rhythm. Oneiros' lips meet the wound he has just created, soothing it with his gentle kisses. In that moment, he withdraws and you gasp for air, your entire body electrified from the force of his claim. Your head drops against his shoulder and you whisper, "I'm yours, Oneiros. I’m yours, I’m yours, I’m yours."

As the echo of your whispered affirmations hangs in the air, Oneiros slows his pace, finally pulling out completely. He gently lifts you off of him and aligns you in front of him, nudging you down so that you are facing him when your legs straddle him. Your legs still tremble and your breaths are still heavy with the aftermath of passion, but your eyes meet his, filled with hunger and desire. He looks so hungry. Oneiros guides your hips, a knowing smirk playing on his lips. He pulls you flush against his chest.

“You asked, beloved,” he purrs and his hands find your waist once more. You can't help but feel the same fierce need that had generated your initial plea. You give him your own desirous gaze, your desire mirroring the intensity in his eyes.

"More," your word speaks in clear demand and the predatory smirk upon his lips grows. He thrusts himself back into you, his unrelenting need and hunger for you consuming him. You’d extinguish his pain, you’d soothe his hurt. His nails dig into your hips as he pushes deeper, driving himself into you with a fervor that leaves you breathless.

Your fingers dig into the muscles of his shoulders, urging him to take you with more force, to claim every inch of your body. The sound of your strained and ethereal moans reverberates off the tiled walls of the bath, a testament to the intensity of your pleasure. Oneiros' hips continue their relentless thrusting, his intense gaze never leaving your half-lidded eyes. Your expression is beyond celestial, as if you are in a state of euphoria from his touch.

Oneiros watches as love and desire consume your entire being. He knows he will never get enough of you.

Your moans turn into a primal cry, your ecstasy imminent. With a final force, Oneiros thrusts into you, pushing you higher until you are soaring together. A cry departs your lips and your ecstasy mirrors his. For a brief moment, the world disappears, leaving only the two of you in the purgatory of your passion. You collapse against his chest, arms barely hanging limp over his shoulders as your legs tremble in numbness. While you catch your breath, he gazes at you, his expression softening. In this intimate moment, the passion between you feels overwhelming. His fingers gently caress your cheek, tracing its delicate contours as if to memorize every line. No doubt he will. They dig into your hair, stroking the strands and caressing your scalp.

You let out a sigh and drop your cheek to his shoulder.

"Would you help me wash up, my lord? I seem to have lost control of my legs."

You almost hate how smug he looks upon doing so.

Date Published: 5/29/24

Last Edit: 5/29/24

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[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

[yoursinisforgiven]

CARYATID ──

pairing: xanthus x reader (love) 

cw: age gap relationships (xanthus is at least 400 years old, reader is at least 18), ideally set after the trimidian issues, minor existential crisis, reader is described to be wearing sandals.

you are responsible for your own media consumption.

A woman with the weight of the world on her head—quite literally.

The British Museum was quiet in the early afternoon, save for the faint echo of footsteps on marble floors and the distant murmur of tourists marveling at stolen history. The air was still, holding the crisp sterility of a place meant to be looked at, not lived in. Unlike the world outside—where spring painted London in pastels and warmth—these halls were a stark, indifferent cold, untouched by time or season.

You walked deeper into the exhibit, past glass cases filled with fragments of civilizations long faded, until the corridor narrowed into a dead end. Dim lighting pooled in soft halos above the display, casting elongated shadows against the walls. It was almost eerie how undisturbed this section felt. No half-empty Starbucks cup forgotten on a ledge, no stray museum pamphlet left behind, no smudged fingerprints on the placards. As if no one had been here in a long time.

No one except you.

And Xanthus.

He wasn’t near, but he was close. He always was. The bond between you hummed with a low, steady presence, threading through your chest like an unspoken reminder. A tether, ever-present.

Your eyes lifted to her.

She stood tall and unwavering, carved from pale stone, her figure draped in the soft folds of an impossibly heavy chiton. The sculptor had captured her in such delicate detail that the fabric seemed to ripple, as though she might shift her weight at any moment, adjust the crushing burden of the entablature on her head. But she never would. She would stand like this forever—her arms at her sides, her expression unreadable, her fate unchanging.

There was no rope, no glass barrier to separate you from her.

You hesitated, then reached out, your fingertips grazing the cool stone of her gown. The sensation sent a shiver up your arm, the cold sinking into your skin as if she were breathing it into you. It was unnatural, this chill. Like she had been frozen in something deeper than just time. You pulled your hand back quickly, a whisper of unease brushing against your spine.

She had carried weight.

Still carried it.

Not just the marble pressed upon her crown, but the weight of centuries. Of expectation. Of servitude. She had been a daughter once. Perhaps a sister, a wife. But here—here, she was no one. A relic of empire, stripped from her home and placed beneath foreign lights, in a foreign land, where millions passed by her without ever considering who she had been before she became stone.

A part of you wondered if she resented it.

If she could.

Would it matter?

Your gaze lingered on the placard beside her.

"Caryatid from the Erechtheion, 421-406 BC, Athens. One of the six original maidens from the Acropolis, removed by Lord Elgin in the early 19th century."

Removed.

Not brought. Not gifted. Taken.

Like so many things in this museum. Like so many histories, fractured and severed, put behind glass under the guise of preservation.

A shift in the air pulled you from your thoughts.

The bond between you and Xanthus stirred, deep and familiar. He was here now. Watching.

“You shouldn’t touch things that aren’t yours.”

His voice was low, edged with amusement but holding something else beneath it. Something softer, something unreadable. You didn’t turn to look at him yet. Instead, your fingers twitched at your side, as though still remembering the cold of the stone.

“She isn’t theirs either,” you murmured.

A silence stretched between you. Not tense, not uncomfortable—just filled with something unspoken.

Then, a sigh. Footsteps approached, unhurried, steady. Xanthus came to stand beside you, his presence slipping into the space as easily as shadow into dusk. When he spoke again, it was quiet.

“Do you think she remembers?”

You glanced at him then, your eyes catching the way his lingered on the statue, his expression unreadable yet thoughtful.

“Remembers what?”

“Home.”

You swallowed, looking back at her. The unyielding stone. The weight she bore. The life she had lost.

“I don’t know,” you admitted. “Do you?”

Xanthus didn’t answer right away. When he did, his voice was quieter than before, almost distant.

“Sometimes.”

Another silence. But this one was heavier.

Your fingers curled slightly at your side, the ghost of cold still lingering on your skin.

And for the first time, you wondered if Xanthus felt the same way.

Carried weight.

Carried history.

Carried a home he could never return to.

──

Despite Xanthus's teasing remark about your poor sense of direction—delivered with that infuriatingly confident smirk of his—you couldn’t help but feel a flicker of determination rise within you. He'd assured you, with his usual sarcastic flair, that you’d find your way just fine. That was, of course, before his comment about your “lack of compass bearings” caught you off guard, making you momentarily question whether you’d misjudged your path. But then, in an act of defiance—or perhaps simple stubbornness—you told him firmly, “I don’t need it, Xanthus. I know where I’m going.”

His gaze lingered on you for a moment longer than necessary, amusement flickering in the depths of his eyes, before he shrugged, clearly unconcerned. “As you wish.” A quiet chuckle followed, its warmth curling through you, but the sound seemed distant as you spun on your heels and set off, determined to prove him wrong.

A few turns later, and you realized the truth: you hadn’t a clue where you were going. The labyrinthine halls of the British Museum stretched out endlessly before you, each corridor leading to another, as though the museum itself was a living, breathing entity designed to test your patience. The stone walls were cool and impersonal, but the exhibits whispered stories, drawing your attention at every corner. Statues of gods and kings seemed to watch you with silent, judgmental eyes, and the echo of footsteps beneath your feet felt a little too loud, reverberating in the stillness of time.

Fifteen minutes passed in a haze, the weight of uncertainty pressing against your chest. You’d wandered far enough to feel the thrum of discomfort in your legs. Your feet were aching now, the sandals you’d chosen in haste that morning offering little support on the marble floors. It was inevitable—you’d been so sure of your bearings, but now, in the maze of history and culture, you’d lost your way.

With a barely audible sigh, you finally gave in. Xanthus, ever the perceptive one, had probably sensed your discomfort long before you’d even registered it. The cool, steady presence of his gaze was on you now, his hand gently pulling you toward a nearby bench as if he knew you’d stop anyway. You didn’t argue. It was easier to surrender to him than admit your own defeat.

You slipped off your sandals and settled onto the wooden bench, the cool air in the museum brushing your bare feet. You sighed in relief as the pressure eased, your toes curling in the soft texture of the floor beneath you. You didn’t look up at him, knowing the expression on his face would reveal too much. His smirk—always so damn self-assured—would be there, no doubt, a reminder of your earlier arrogance.

“Close, but not quite,” he murmured, his voice low, warm, and teasing. You felt the gentle press of his fingers against your feet, his touch both soothing and intimate, as if time itself had slowed. “You took a left when you should have taken a right.”

The admission startled you, and before you could even question how he knew that, or why he’d been watching you so closely, he shifted, his hand leaving your foot to retrieve something from your pocket. A soft rustling of paper echoed as he pulled out the pamphlet you’d refused to take. You hadn’t even noticed it was there.

“You kept it?” you asked, a mix of surprise and embarrassment threading through your voice.

He didn’t answer immediately, simply unfolding the pamphlet with a quiet flick. “I thought you said you didn’t need one.”

The words hung in the air, a gentle reminder of your earlier declaration—and the irony of it all. Could you ever really be sure of your own path? You had walked confidently, choosing your direction with every step, yet here you were, forced to sit, to acknowledge that sometimes even the most confident of us lose our way.

Xanthus's fingers traced the pamphlet’s edges, but his gaze remained on you. There was a softness there, something you rarely saw in him. You didn’t meet his eyes, instead focusing on the way his thumb skimmed the edges of the paper. His touch was a paradox—comforting yet unsettling, an unspoken connection pulling at something deep within you.

A moment passed in silence, the kind of silence that felt filled with too much and yet not enough. It wasn’t the type of silence you could fill with idle chatter. It was heavy with meaning, or perhaps the lack of it. There was something philosophical about it—the nature of direction, of knowing, of the very essence of discovery.

“I wonder,” Xanthus finally said, his voice shifting to something softer, almost reflective, “how often we think we know where we’re going... only to find ourselves somewhere else entirely.”

You tilted your head slightly, taking in the weight of his words. Was this about the museum? About your journey here? Or was it a broader metaphor, one that ran deeper than either of you had first realized? A philosophical query, wrapped in the mundanity of lost directions.

“You think it’s all just random?” you asked, voice quiet.

“No,” he replied, his smile now more subdued, thoughtful. “But sometimes, the right path isn’t as clear as we think. Sometimes, we need to get lost to find what we’re really looking for.”

You couldn’t argue with that. In some strange way, your detour had led to something far more valuable than just reaching the Rosetta Stone. Maybe it wasn’t about the destination after all. Perhaps it was about the journey—the pauses, the missteps, the moments in between that shaped us just as much as where we ended up.

And in that moment, sitting on the cool bench with Xanthus at your side, you realized that some of the most important discoveries didn’t lie in the artifacts you could touch, but in the conversations you shared, the unspoken connections between you, and the way even a wrong turn could lead to something new.

──

The moment you stepped into the Rosetta Stone room, an overwhelming sense of regret washed over you. It was subtle at first—just the smallest whisper of doubt as you tried to push through the crowd. The space was packed, too packed for your liking, and the air felt thick with murmurs and shifting bodies. There were people standing too close, shifting from one foot to the other, their eyes scanning the stone with a sense of urgency, as if trying to unravel its secrets before it slipped away.

You immediately felt a pang of frustration, a sense of discomfort bubbling beneath your skin. You had fought your way through this—almost stubbornly refused Xanthus’s suggestion to grab the pamphlet, convinced that you knew where you were going, and now you were here, surrounded by more people than you wanted, straining to get a good view. It was almost as if the universe was throwing a little irony your way.

But as always, Xanthus sensed it before you could even articulate your frustration. His presence behind you became an anchor, steady and unwavering. You felt his gentle hand on your back, a silent reassurance that he understood. Before you could even take a breath, his hand guided you through the crowd, moving with an elegance that seemed almost too natural, as if he’d done this a thousand times. People instinctively stepped aside when they saw him, a quiet respect emanating from them. With a soft push, he found a space right in front of the stone, giving you the clearest view possible.

For a moment, you could only stare at the Rosetta Stone before you, the iconic artifact sitting encased in glass, as if it held the very essence of history itself. The stone was more than just a physical object; it was a bridge between worlds, a testament to humanity’s need to understand and connect across time. Your eyes traced the carved hieroglyphs, the ancient Greek, the Egyptian script—the layers of meaning that had once been shrouded in mystery, now slowly unlocking the doors of history for those who were patient enough to listen.

You tilted your head, trying to make sense of the English translations, the words that were supposed to be easier to comprehend. But the glare of the glass reflected the harsh museum lighting, making the characters dance and blur before your eyes. You furrowed your brow, the frustration creeping back up. Why was it so difficult to read?

As you shifted uncomfortably, trying to balance the glare and your curiosity, a sudden warmth brushed against your ear. Xanthus had leaned in close, his lips grazing your lobe with such precision that a shiver ran down your spine. His proximity sent an immediate flush across your cheeks, your heartbeat quickening in that familiar way. It wasn’t just the physical closeness—it was the way his presence seemed to fill every part of your space, how effortlessly he navigated these intimate moments.

A quiet chuckle escaped him, a low, rich sound that made your skin tingle. “Demotic, Greek, and hieroglyphs,” he murmured, his voice a rich undertone that barely disturbed the hush of the room. “Three languages, one decree.”

You glanced up at him. The museum’s low lighting did little to dull the sharpness of his features, the angles of his face carved in soft contrast against the glow of the display. His gaze, however, was something else entirely—piercing, unwavering, as if he could read the stone with the same ease one might skim a familiar book.

Then, without a sound, he leaned in. Not just close—closer than necessary, closer than any proper museum patron had the right to be. The movement was seamless, a whisper of motion, and suddenly his lips were near your ear, his breath cool against your skin.

“It’s amusing, really,” he mused, voice low enough that it sent a slow shiver down your spine. “A royal proclamation so grand they had to carve it thrice, yet here it is—trapped under glass, reduced to a museum exhibit. I imagine Ptolemy V would be rather offended.”

The quiet chuckle that followed was rich and smooth, but it held something else beneath it—something older, knowing. A sound shaped by the weight of centuries.

Your curiosity stirred. “What does it actually say?”

Xanthus exhaled softly through his nose, his fingers twitching at his side, as though resisting the urge to trace the worn grooves of the text himself. “The usual nonsense. Praise the king, honor the gods, remind the people of their obligations.” He gestured lazily toward the inscriptions, his pale fingers illuminated by the soft glow of the display case. “It’s less about language and more about power—communication as control.”

His fingertips hovered just above the glass, so close that, for a fleeting moment, you half-expected the alarms to sound at his mere presence.

“The hieroglyphs are the most poetic. Always are,” he continued, his voice dipping lower, richer. His eyes darkened slightly, lost in something distant as he began to murmur under his breath—a language you did not know, syllables slipping from his lips like water over stone. The foreign cadence sent something warm curling through your chest.

He translated, voice smoothing into something almost indulgent. “‘The gods who made Egypt great, whose temples shine like the rising sun, whose names are etched in eternity, have bestowed wisdom upon the king, and in his light, the people will prosper.’”

A pause. Then, Xanthus scoffed, the sound soft but undeniably amused. “A rather flowery way of saying, ‘Do as you’re told, or suffer the consequences.’”

Despite yourself, you laughed. “That’s a bit cynical.”

His lips quirked, the barest hint of a smirk touching his features. “Is it? Or is it just honesty wrapped in a more palatable form?” His gaze flicked back to the stone, and for a moment, there was something almost wistful in his expression. “It’s fascinating, though. This slab bridged worlds. For centuries, no one could understand the hieroglyphs. Entire civilizations left mute. And then, suddenly—clarity. A single key to a locked door.”

His fingers finally—finally—tapped the glass, feather-light, as if touching the past itself. His expression softened in a way you had rarely seen. “That’s the part I find beautiful,” he admitted, almost to himself. “Not the decree, not the politics. The patience. The dedication. The moment when meaning slipped from the grasp of time and into human hands again.”

You found yourself staring at him instead of the stone, captivated by the way he spoke—like a man who had lived long enough to see both sides of history and was still deciding how he felt about it.

“And now?” you asked, tilting your head.

Xanthus’s eyes met yours, and for the briefest second, something unreadable flickered there—something vast, something ancient.

“Now,” he said, voice softer, “it’s just another relic behind glass, waiting for someone to look past the words and see the story beneath them.”

The silence between you was thick, charged with something unspoken. Then, after a lingering pause, he leaned in once more—deliberate, knowing. His lips barely ghosted past the shell of your ear, and when he spoke again, it was barely above a whisper.

“Much like me, wouldn’t you say?”

Your breath caught, and he stepped back before you could reply, his expression betraying just a hint of amusement—because he knew exactly what he was doing.

And just like that, the Rosetta Stone felt far less significant than the man standing beside you.

──

"Okay, be honest," you say, a grin curling on your lips. "Did you own anything in here?"

Xanthus exhales sharply through his nose—his version of a chuckle. "You think I'm old enough to have my personal belongings on display?"

"You're old enough that I had to Google half the wars you lived through."

He huffs in amusement but doesn’t deny it. The two of you continue walking, the low hum of museum-goers filling the space like distant waves rolling onto shore. You occasionally stop to point at something, eyes alight with playful curiosity.

"That goblet—was that yours?"

"No."

"That sword?"

"No."

"That—" you point to an almost comically large hammer.

"Love, I was not an ancient warlord."

You hum in amusement but don’t relent. The museum air is sterile and crisp, carrying the scent of aged paper and polished glass. You pass a section dedicated to early European trade, complete with fragile, handwritten ledgers and ornate coins locked away under bright museum lights. Names of long-dead merchants and aristocrats are scrawled in slanted ink, their lives condensed into neat little plaques.

Then, you pause in front of a case filled with jewelry—delicate rings, lockets, and brooches lined with tiny pearls. The sign beside them reads: 18th-Century Accessories of the Aristocracy.

"What about these?" you ask teasingly.

Xanthus, who had been preparing another automatic no, suddenly stills. His gaze lingers on one of the pocket watches, forever frozen at 01:36—

His expression is unreadable, his fingers curling slightly at his side.

Then, quietly, he murmurs, "That one actually was."

Your head snaps toward him. You search his face, half-expecting amusement, but find none. Your eyes flicker back to the pocket watch. "Wait. Seriously?"

Xanthus offers you a wry look. "Would I lie?"

You stare at the watch again, as if looking hard enough will reveal some trace of him in its design. The gold casing is faded, dulled by time, its intricate engravings softened by centuries of touch. There’s a small crack near the glass rim, barely visible under the light.

It’s strange—standing in a museum, looking at a relic of history that is, in fact, personal to the man beside you.

"How did it end up here?"

"I gave it away," Xanthus says simply. "A long time ago."

His voice is even, betraying nothing, but something about the way he says it feels heavy, like the words themselves have been carried through centuries just to land here, in this moment, between the two of you.

You glance at him again, searching for something—an answer, an explanation, a flicker of sentiment—but his expression remains still, unreadable. The museum hums around you, the low murmur of visitors, the steady buzz of fluorescent lights, the occasional creak of old floorboards beneath careful steps. Time doesn’t stop for either of you, but for a moment, it feels like it slows.

"You gave it away?" you echo, tilting your head. "Not lost, not stolen—just gave it up?"

Xanthus lets out a quiet breath, more exhale than sigh. "Would it be easier to hear that I lost it?"

You hesitate, considering. The idea of him losing something—something as personal as a pocket watch—feels wrong. He isn’t the kind of person who loses things. He’s meticulous, measured. If he gave it away, it was intentional.

"Who did you give it to?"

There’s a long pause. A flicker of something in his eyes before it vanishes beneath years of practiced indifference. Then, instead of answering, he does something unexpected—he steps closer to the glass case, his fingertips barely hovering above the surface. The glass fogs slightly from his breath before clearing again, leaving no trace behind. Just like time.

You find yourself staring at his reflection instead of him, the dim museum lights casting faint shadows across his face. He looks the same as he always does, and yet… there’s something different now. A quietness, a pull of some distant memory just out of reach.

"I gave it to someone who needed it more than I did," he says at last, voice quiet. "And now, it belongs to history."

You look at him, then at the watch, forever frozen at 01:36, trapped behind glass. "That’s kind of sad," you murmur.

Xanthus’s lips twitch, and this time, his smirk is unmistakable. "Is it? Or is it romantic?"

You snort. "Romantic? A pocket watch?"

"It was sentimental," he muses, a playful lilt in his tone now. "And sentimentality is terribly romantic."

You cross your arms, narrowing your eyes at him. "You’re deflecting."

"Am I? Or am I philosophizing?"

"Deflecting."

He chuckles, the sound warm despite the cool air of the museum. "Very well then, I’ll tell you everything—over a cup of coffee."

Your expression softens as you glance down at your museum pamphlet. "Are you bribing me with caffeine?"

Xanthus places a hand over his chest, feigning innocence. "I would never."

You sigh dramatically but grab his hand anyway, lacing your fingers through his. "Fine. But this time, we are using the map. I refuse to wander around for another hour."

Xanthus hums in amusement, letting you pull him along. "Ah, but you did so well guiding us earlier?"

You roll your eyes, tugging him gently in the direction of the museum café. As you walk away, the watch remains in its glass case, frozen in time—its story shifting, even now, as the two of you disappear into the present.

──

Weeks later, you find a small velvet box resting on the kitchen island. It doesn’t belong there. The sight of it stops you mid-step, a strange, quiet weight settling over the room. Your name is written on the lid in elegant cursive—each letter flowing seamlessly into the next, deliberate, practiced. Xanthus’s handwriting.

Your fingers hesitate over the box, hovering just above the soft fabric. There’s something almost sacred about it, something that makes you second-guess whether you should open it at all. It feels too delicate, too intentional. As if it wasn’t meant for you despite your name inked in his steady hand.

A slow breath steadies you. You press your fingertips against the edge and pry it open.

Inside, nestled against black silk, is the pocket watch.

But it isn’t how you last saw it.

The gold casing gleams, polished to a brilliance that makes it seem untouched by time. Not a single dent, not a smudge. The crack in the glass is gone. And when you tilt the watch slightly, catching the light, you notice something else.

It’s ticking.

But not forward.

The second hand moves backward in slow, measured beats.

You stare, something in your chest tightening.

Beneath the watch, a small folded note rests at an angle. No love letter, no poetic confession, just a few words scribbled on a torn slip of parchment. You pick it up with careful hands, smoothing the fragile paper.

"Love is not bound by the ticking of a clock. It does not fray with time, nor fade with distance. It only changes form—again, and again, and again. Wherever you are, whenever you are… I will always find you."

Your chest tightens.

The room feels unbearably quiet, save for the slow, backward ticking of the watch.

Your fingers tremble around the note, the words sinking into your bones. Xanthus never speaks of forever, never makes promises he cannot keep. And yet, this is something deeper, something heavier than a vow.

This is a truth.

Your eyes flick toward the hallway, sensing him before you see him. He lingers just beyond your sight, quiet, waiting—watching without intruding. You know he will not speak first. He will wait for you to understand.

You swallow, glancing down at the watch in your palm.

Tick.

Tick.

Tick.

Backward.

Time does not move in only one direction.

And love, it seems, does not either.

──

author's note: writing for xanthus is so hard for me, i heavily dislike how this turned out. i may edit it if i have the time to, the james and andrew requests are in the works!

tag list:

@ysawdalawa @rain-soaked-sun @tanksbigtiddiedgf @sdfivhnjrjmcdsn @lil-binuu @colombina-s-arle @xxminxrq @souvlia @meraki-kiera

[glimmervoi]

A SEALED FATE: EMERALDS AND BLOOD - IX You Are Mine

masterlist

e&b masterlist

Notes: Hope this chapter is alright, idk what was wrong with me but every time i tried to revise it i just didnt have the patience.

Two weeks passed since the tragic demise of Lady Rosalyn Pyke. Her identity was revealed to you after her brother, Lord Pyke, openly confronted the King, holding him accountable for his sister's untimely death within the castle walls.

Refusing to tolerate Lord Pyke's grief-fueled behavior, the King swiftly condemned him to hang the following day. The execution unfolded in front of a crowd, conducted in the dead gardens adjacent to the south wing. Attendance was mandatory, even for the servants.

Fortunately, you found yourself positioned at the rear of the crowd alongside the other maids, shielding you from a full view of the grim spectacle. Despite this, the haunting sound of Lord Pyke's neck snapping upon the kick of the stool resonated in your memory, lingering for the past two weeks.

Life within the castle now carried an air of unease. The elusive murderer remained at large, casting a shadow of fear over everyone. Guards loomed at every turn, their presence unbearable, while the departure of most of the castle's guests left behind an eerie quiet. Even the yule celebration had been canceled.

Although Namjoon had cleared you and Rae of any suspicion, the lingering gaze of the castle's guards continued to prick at your nerves. The constant scrutiny left you on edge, acutely aware that any misstep would not go unnoticed.

Sanria had yet to resume her duties as head maid, leaving Isabella to assume the position in her absence. Despite the recent problems in the castle, her gentle demeanor remained unchanged, her cheerful spirit a constant and welcoming presence. She evaded questions regarding Sanria and after the first week, the topic was forgotten.

Rae, noticeably withdrawn, seemed haunted by the events she had witnessed. You couldn't help but speculate if her quiet attitude also stemmed from the uncertainty surrounding her superior's fate and the lack of communication regarding it, given her direct role as Sanria's subordinate. 

Observing Alice's persistent efforts to uplift Rae's spirits, it became increasingly evident to you that their bond was more than a mere friendship. It was evident in the tender gestures they shared, from intertwined hands to soft kisses planted on each other's cheeks. It made you glad that the solemn redhead had a person who she was close with during such a stressful time.

Winter raged beyond the castle's sturdy walls, only growing colder in the  aftermath of Lady Pyke's tragic demise. A mere week following the murder, the first heavy snow fell, blanketing the landscape in pristine white. It was during one of your routine walks down the hall, burdened with a weighty bucket of water, that you stole a fleeting glance out the window. You had caught sight of Jimin and Taehyung frolicking in the snow-covered fields.

Their carefree actions amidst the grim investigation of Pyke’s murder left you wondering. How could they remain so seemingly unaffected by the brutality that had unfolded? Yet, they were not the sole members of royalty to exhibit such nonchalance. One chilly morning, you stumbled upon Prince Seokjin engaging in precisely the behavior Isabella had cautioned you about.

The strikingly handsome prince leaned casually against the wall, his trousers undone and hanging loosely. His hands were entwined in the brown locks of a woman kneeling before him, mercifully obscuring the most inappropriate aspects of his exposed lower half.

It wasn't Lady Woong. You found yourself frozen in shock, cheeks flushed and mouth agape as Seokjin's gaze locked with yours, a sly smirk playing on his lips. Summoning what composure you could muster, you offered a hasty and apologetic bow, scrambling to excuse yourself from the unexpected and scandalous scene.

He had the audacity to request a towel while his fingers remained entangled in the woman's hair. Despite the shock and discomfort, you complied, unwilling to burden Rae with such a task as she grappled with the aftermath of the murder.

As you handed him the towel, your fingers brushed against his, sparking an unfamiliar sensation within you. It was like an unquenchable thirst. After being excused by Seokjin, you hurried away and hid in the servants' kitchen. There, you hastily downed four tall cups of water. Yet the dryness in your mouth persisted for hours afterwards. You were certain that on that day you had drank enough water to create a new river, as thick and deep as the one that surrounded the castle.

You had pondered whether the feeling stemmed from the effects of the stress that you had felt since Lady Pyke's death, along with the uncertainty of where you stood with Hoseok. You had pushed the thought aside, preoccupied with the myriad of tasks that consumed your days, as you were now confined to the southern wing.

Shortly thereafter, a clumsy mishap with cleaning supplies in front of Namjoon resulted in your prompt dismissal to your chambers with directions to "practice holding things properly." As he strode away, a melody unfamiliar to your ears escaped his lips, echoing down the hallway.

Encountering Namjoon had evoked a strange sense of reassurance, despite the unyielding firmness of his features when he looked down at you. It was then that you finally attributed the odd sensations to the tumultuous events since your arrival at the castle, recognizing that your mind was not quite settled amidst the chaos.

Fortunately, encounters with other princes had been limited to Namjoon and Seokjin. The mere thought of crossing paths with Hoseok again ignited a deep uneasiness that caused a cold sweat to form on your skin. The persistent uncertainty surrounding his intentions was tiring, sapping your energy with each passing moment.

While Isabella had hinted at Hoseok's kindness among the princes, you remained cautious. His perceived kindness did not render him safe; the potential to provoke his anger lingered ominously, something you were determined to avoid at all costs.

What did he seek from you, anyway? A night in his bed? A plaything for his amusement? His interest in you left you confused and uncomfortable. What quality or trait could possibly compel him to bother you? There were plenty of other Ladies of the court who constantly sought his attention.

At the ball, Hoseok's order to accompany him elsewhere was interrupted by Jimin, a moment that reminded you of Kassie's tragic fate—deceived, impregnated, and ultimately abandoned in the dungeons. Would you too be ensnared in a similar web of deceit, or would your fate unfold in a more unpleasant manner, given Hoseok's princely status?

Exhaling a frustrated sigh, you shook off the disturbing thoughts, pulling yourself from the comfort of your warm blanket. The subtle movements of the other maids signaled the beginning of another day. It was time to get up and get to work. There was no point in attempting to stay in bed for any longer.

As you stretched, the satisfying release of a few joints echoed in the quiet room, accompanied by a soft groan of relief. Swinging your legs over the edge of the bed, a shiver coursed through you as the chilly floor met your bare feet. Glancing toward Rae's bed, you spotted a tuft of her red hair peeking out from underneath her blanket.

Rae typically took the lead in rousing the other maids, ensuring punctuality to avoid any repercussions for tardiness. However, thanks to her change in behavior, you had begun to take on the responsibility of waking her first, a gesture you knew she would appreciate.

"Time to rise and shine," you murmured softly, nudging her gently beneath the covers. As she reluctantly emerged from her slumber, wrinkling her nose in annoyance, you couldn't help but chuckle at her sleepy protest. With a swift motion, you pulled the blanket away, revealing her disheveled appearance as she groaned and sought refuge under the covers once more.

Rolling your eyes at her antics, you decided to tease her a bit. "You know," you began, feigning nonchalance as you stepped back, "I heard a rumor that Sanria will be making her grand return today. Could that be her?" A mischievous grin tugged at your lips as you watched Rae's reaction unfold.

Suddenly alert, Rae looked around the room with bleary, confused eyes. "What?" she exclaimed, her voice still rough with sleep. "Where? When? What's happening?" Her rapid-fire questions echoed through the room as she searched frantically for any signs of Sanria's impending arrival.

A soft laugh escaped your lips as you retrieved your uniform from its place on the wall. "Seems like you're finally joining the land of the living," you teased gently, sliding out of your nightgown. "Time to shake off the sleepiness and get ready for the day."

Rae shot you a playful glare once she realized your ruse, pushing the thin blanket away before unsteadily rising to her feet. "That was uncalled for," she grumbled half-heartedly, her irritation tempered by a hint of amusement.

"Better to be safe than sorry, right?" you countered with a grin, slipping into your uniform as Rae began to dress herself. With practiced efficiency, you both set about the task of rousing the remaining maids who had yet to stir from their slumber.

This routine was becoming a familiar one, save for the playful jokes about Sanria's return. You would awaken early to think about life, then ensure Rae was up before attending to your own morning routine. Occasionally, there would be time for a quick breakfast before commencing your daily duties.

The next phase of your routine involved meeting Isabella in the supply room. There, you'd receive your daily tasks, complete about half of them before breaking for a modest lunch, then finish the remainder before returning to your chambers to change into your leisure uniform so that you could enjoy dinner.

It was a straightforward regimen, admittedly dull. But in the castle, dullness was preferable to danger, and you found solace in its simplicity.

Today would be like any other day, no doubt. Skipping breakfast, you headed straight to Isabella, greeted by her customary friendly smile. She handed you a large list of tasks. Cleaning half of the south wing would make up the first portion of your day.

Loading up your cart, you set off silently toward the south wing. Conversation with Rae seemed futile; any attempt would likely draw unwanted attention from the arrogant guards, a hassle you preferred to avoid.

The sun seemed to ascend with unusual haste as you trudged down the hushed hallway. Its gentle warmth permeated the cold hall. Bathed in its golden glow, you found a fleeting sense of calm. It was as though the sun was chasing away any lingering nightmares that wandered the halls.

Silent maids darted about, engrossed in their own tasks yet casting furtive glances over their shoulders, their demeanor reminiscent of the day you first arrived at the castle. Such fearful silence had become a familiar backdrop, one you had grown accustomed to over time.

Upon entering the south wing, Rae consulted the list. “We should begin in the library.” She said quietly, her near-whisper almost sounding too loud. Nodding in agreement, you gestured toward a pair of large double doors at the end of the first-floor corridor.

"I'll handle the doors," you murmured quietly, approaching them. You pushed against them, wanting to groan at the weight that protested against you. They had to be the heaviest of all the doors in the entire castle.

With a determined effort, the heavy doors yielded, revealing a breathtaking sight within. The spacious room was bathed in hues of blue and gold, the high bookshelves adorning the walls and forming intricate rows on the floor, inviting exploration. 

A sweet aroma of aged parchment lingered in the air, enticing you to breathe deeply, momentarily lost in the comforting scent. Your gaze was drawn upward to the grandeur of the glass dome ceiling, through which the soft light of day streamed in, casting enchanting patterns of birds and clouds drifting lazily overhead.

Despite the room's magnificence, a pang of sorrow gripped you as you realized that your time here would be limited to cleaning duties. Shaking off the wistful thoughts, you stepped aside, allowing Rae to maneuver the cart into the room.

Silently, you both set to work, the only sounds punctuating the tranquil atmosphere being the gentle swish of your feather duster against the wooden bookshelves, the soft sighs of Rae as she tended to the shiny hardwood floor, and the rhythmic clicking of your footsteps as you moved about.

The tranquility of the room enveloped you, offering moments of respite amidst the tasks at hand. Whenever you dared, you allowed yourself to pause and simply drink in your surroundings, feeling a sense of awe wash over you. 

Midway through your cleaning duties, the peaceful ambiance shattered as the doors opened loudly once more. You watched as Rae scurried out from behind the towering shelves and into the center of the room, where she bowed deeply. It was no doubt someone of high importance. Not wanting to create more trouble for yourself, you quickly joined Rae in the center of the room. You mirrored her bow, your eyes fixed to the ground.

An odd feeling filled your stomach, as if you had consumed a vial of poison. Nervously, you waited for permission to return to your duties. 

"It appears we've interrupted your morning cleaning," a soft voice remarked, its tone gentle and inviting. It carried a warmth that instilled an immediate sense of trust, despite that leaden feeling at the bottom of your stomach. "I hope you won't mind if we sit and chat while you finish up?"

"No, not at all, ma'am," you murmured, your fingers nervously toying with the hem of your apron. "We will leave you if you wish for us to do so." Please, let us leave. Please.

"Ma'am?" a deeper voice interjected, laced with disdain. "Don't you mean, 'Your Highness'? You should know better." The heat of embarrassment flushed your cheeks as you bowed again, preparing to apologize, but the soft voice intervened once more.

"It's quite alright, Jinnie," the gentle voice reassured. There was a rustling of fabric, the sound of someone drawing nearer. Then, the bottom of a deep red gown came into view, halting before you. "You may look at me."

Hesitantly, you complied. Your gaze slowly ascended, tracing the elegant lines of the crimson gown and the glittering jewels adorning its bodice. Your eyes paused at the pale, slender neck, and the sizable emerald necklace that hung from it, too afraid to venture further. Even without seeing her face, you knew precisely who you were speaking with.

With a delicate touch, she extended her slender hand and gently guided your chin upward, prompting you to meet her gaze. The Queen herself wished for direct eye contact. The notion was both daunting and terrifying.

"What is your name, dear?" she inquired, her voice soft yet commanding, as your eyes finally met hers.

You responded with a trembling voice, your gaze wide with astonishment. The Queen, touching you and speaking to you directly— it was surreal. Her eyes, deep and dark, seemed to harbor something ominous, sending a shiver down your spine.

She hummed softly, releasing your chin as a small smile found its way to her lips. "Well, my dear," she continued, her tone measured. "Would it be too much trouble if my sons and I had some morning tea here while you attended to your cleaning duties?" Her question left you dumbfounded, your mouth agape in disbelief.

She was the Queen. She didn't require permission to occupy her own library. This was her domain, and you were merely a servant. Why, then, did she seek your consent? With a raised brow, she awaited your response, her expectant gaze fixed upon you.

"Of course not, Your Highness!" you exclaimed, your voice quivering as you bowed once more. "Please, tell us if there is anything we can do for you."

Your gaze finally shifted past the Queen to identify her companion. Clad in a relaxed cream-colored suit stood Seokjin, his sneer aimed down at you with unmistakable disdain. It was evident that he had been the one to correct you  just moments ago.

However, as a flicker of recognition crossed his features, his smirk widened, and your cheeks flushed deeper with embarrassment. You couldn't shake the memory of your last encounter with the eldest Prince, and you wondered if his mother was aware of the scandalous behavior he had engaged in within the castle walls.

"What a delightful surprise," drawled another voice from the opposite side of the Queen. Instantly recognizable, it sent a jolt of alarm through you, betraying your unease despite your attempts to maintain composure.

You slowly turned your gaze towards Hoseok, who greeted you with a broad smile. Unlike his mother and brother, he opted for more casual attire. Although undoubtedly expensive, his clothes lacked the grandeur of his breakfast companions.

He wore a loose, billowing white blouse, haphazardly tucked into faded brown trousers. The untied string at the neckline exposed a glimpse of his collarbone and chest. His well-worn boots, though of high quality, bore the marks of use, reminiscent of the stableboy uniform he had worn on the day of your first encounter. Yet, today’s attire was of a higher quality, as if he sought comfort without the need to masquerade as something he wasn't.

The Queen's gentle clearing of her throat interrupted your brief staring contest with the tall prince. Returning your attention to her, you were met with another small smile. "We'll be taking a seat, then," she announced gracefully, before proceeding further into the room.

Seokjin followed his mother, casting you a peculiar glance as he passed by. Meanwhile, Hoseok remained rooted in place, his presence sending a wave of unease coursing through your gut. Your past interactions with him hadn't yielded anything positive, and you desperately did not want to be alone with him again.

"Would you mind fetching a pot of tea for us?" Hoseok's request pierced the air, his gaze fixed on you. "The morning tea should be laid out and ready to pour in the kitchen, as usual."

An uncertain glance over your shoulder revealed that Seokjin and his mother were engaged in conversation, while Rae watched you with apprehensive eyes. She seemed to consider something mentally, before she approached.

"Sir, would you like me to retrieve your tea?" Rae interjected, her shoulders tense. "I have more experience, so I will be able to select the correct item.”

Hoseok's gaze sharpened, his smile taking on a predatory edge. "No, I specifically asked for her to retrieve the tea," he replied curtly, dismissing Rae with a wave of his hand. "You may return to your duties."

Your heart sank, however you exchanged a thankful glance with Rae. At least she had attempted to intervene. With a respectful nod, you bowed to Hoseok. "Of course, Sir," you replied, before briskly making your exit without looking back.

As you swiftly made your way down the now-deserted hallway, the sound of the door opening and closing behind you caught your attention. Moments later, a familiar warmth enveloped your shoulder as a hand gently guided you to a stop.

"I wanted to speak with you," Hoseok began softly, his touch urging you to face him. "But I preferred to do so away from my mother and the other maid."

Your stomach churned as you stared up at him. You couldn't decide whether it would be better if he intended to flirt with you again or to reprimand you. Frankly, you simply wished to avoid any further interaction with him altogether.

"How are you feeling?" Hoseok inquired after a brief, awkward silence. His large hand cupped your cheek, his fingers brushing lightly against your skin. Startled by his sudden gesture, you instinctively recoiled, backing away from him in alarm.

"I'm quite alright, Sir. Why do you ask?" you murmured, deliberately averting your gaze to his chest. Despite your initial reluctance, the notion of a night spent in his bed was beginning to seem appealing, as long as it meant he would leave you alone afterwards.

Hoseok's frown deepened, and he withdrew his hand, allowing it to fall to his side. "At the ball not long ago, you were punished by the head maid for conversing with me," he clarified, stepping closer. Instinctively, you backed away, maintaining a respectable distance between your bodies.

"I took it upon myself to... remove her from her position. Both of them," he continued, a smile playing at his lips. Although his expression appeared benign, the underlying darkness in his words was unmistakable. Your mouth fell agape in astonishment. Alice had made no mention of Iseul's disappearance, as she had been the one to administer your punishment. However, Sanria, who had silently observed the ordeal, had now vanished, thanks to Hoseok's intervention.

"You didn't have to do that!" you protested, your eyes widening in disbelief. "Of course I didn't enjoy the punishment, but that's just the way things are done here! It wouldn't be fair to expect special treatment when others don't receive the same kindness."

Hoseok's brown eyes clouded with an unfamiliar emotion, prompting you to hastily clamp your mouth shut, fearing his potential wrath. His jaw tensed and relaxed several times before he spoke again.

"Either way," he said, his tone clipped. "No one will lay their hands on you. You're not theirs to hurt." With a rough grip, he seized your chin, his demeanor shifting from jovial to menacing in an instant. "And that little blonde whore? She had no right to treat you the way she did, either."

His words struck you like a physical blow, and it took only a moment for their full weight to sink in. As terrified tears welled in your eyes, Hoseok made sure to drive his point home, leaving you no room for doubt.

As Hoseok recounted the disturbing events in vivid detail, a nauseating sense of satisfaction twisted his features. "I'll do it again, too," he declared, his voice tinged with darkness as he offered you a sinister smile. "I'll do it as many times as it takes to make my point clear. No one should ever treat you as anything less than a Queen."

His gaze bore into yours, waiting for any response, but you were unable to find the words, overwhelmed by shock and fear. Your mind raced, your heart pounding relentlessly in your chest. Sensing your silence as surrender, he advanced towards you, his grip on your chin tightening as he closed the distance between your bodies.

You didn’t move as he gently worked his lips against yours. Your stiffness didn’t seem to bother him as he groaned softly, his hand caressing your cheek. It was overwhelming for you. The close contact, the terror that coursed through your veins from his confession.

You were letting a murderous prince kiss you, the same one who had just informed you that he would willingly kill again. You had only spoken with him a few times, and he was already this obsessed with you?

The kiss seemed to last an eternity, before he finally pulled away. A satisfied expression graced his features as he swiped his thumb across your lips. Then, he backed away slightly, allowing more space between you both. His hands still held you, your skin tingling once more as it had at the winter ball.

His brown eyes now held a warm fondness, which was a stark contrast to his dark behavior from only a moment before. It was terrifying, and you suppressed a shiver.

You allowed him to hold you close as you struggled to find your voice amidst the turmoil of emotions. The last thing you wanted was to provoke his wrath. After all, he was the one responsible for Lady Pyke's murder—a brutal and chilling act that still haunted your thoughts. The mere contemplation of what he might do caused a surge of anxiety to envelope you.

Finally, summoning a flicker of courage, you drew in a deep breath and posed the question, "What do you want from me?" His response was delivered with a smile that mirrored the patronizing gaze of a parent faced with an obvious question from their child—a look that practically dripped with condescension.

"I love you," he stated firmly. "I want you to be mine. You are mine." His words left no room for debate, his tone resolute. Yet, his declaration did not soothe you, especially considering the heinous act he had committed.

"You've only spoken to me three times!" you pointed out, a frown creasing your brow. "How can you claim to love someone so profoundly after only knowing them for such a brief period?" As you placed your hands on his chest, intending to create distance, he misinterpreted your gesture and drew you closer instead.

"It was love at first sight," he murmured softly, his hand gently caressing your cheek once again. You tensed, hoping that he didn’t kiss you again. "I don't understand it either. One day, I was daydreaming about breakfast, and the next, I was dreaming of you. It was as if a fire had ignited within my soul, and it hasn't dimmed since."

You shook your head, struggling to comprehend his words. Was he hinting at something more? Was it sex he spoke of? No, surely he wouldn't go to such lengths just for physical desire. Yet, attempting to delve further into his explanation seemed futile.

"I'm just a maid. We can't be together. It goes against the laws of the kingdom," you asserted, averting your gaze from his. "We could both face severe punishment. The King and Queen would not approve."

Growing increasingly frustrated and feeling suffocated, you summoned the strength to push yourself away from his embrace. Every fiber of your being screamed for this nightmare to end. Part of you wished desperately that it was all an elaborate hoax, that he was merely toying with you. Yet, deep down, you knew the grim reality.

Hoseok was genuinely unhinged, convinced that you were the love of his life. He was willing to commit unspeakable acts for you, perhaps even harm you if provoked. He was a dangerous man, and it would be nothing short of reckless to deny him. But did you still do it? Yes.

"I can't marry you," you said, your voice trembling slightly as you met his gaze. Though his expression remained gentle, his words carried a sharpness that sent a chill down your spine.

"Of course you can," he murmured, a subtle arch of his brow accompanying his words. "I won't allow the court or my parents to stand in our way. You belong with me, and I'll do whatever it takes to ensure it becomes a reality."

You shook your head in disbelief. "No, Prince—" you started, only to be swiftly interrupted as he waved his hand dismissively.

"Please, my love," he interjected, his tone softening. "Drop the formalities. Just call me Hobi."

You rubbed your face harshly, the weight of desperation pressing down upon you. All you craved was to escape from him. "Prince Hoseok, I do not want to marry you!" you declared, your voice laced with anger, punctuated by the sharp stomp of your foot. But in the next moment, you realized your mistake.

His soft expression dissolved into one of fury in the blink of an eye. Before you could react, he seized you and forcefully pushed you against the wall. Towering over you, his face contorted into a menacing snarl.

“Do not decline me, my love.” He said, his voice low and dark. His face was inches from yours. “You will come to regret it.” He ran a thumb over your lip gently.

You stared up at him in horror as he breathed, “You will be mine.”

You couldn't help but berate yourself for your foolishness. Wedged between a rigid wall and a raging, erratic Prince, every instinct urged you to surrender. After all, he was a Prince. He was wealthy, had status and influence, and appeared to harbor genuine affection for you. Perhaps accepting his advances could lead to a life of relative comfort and ease? And of course, it could be safer than making him angry…

Once more, you felt a surge of defiance flow through you. You found the strength to reject him yet again. "No, I can't." In response, he pressed you even harder against the unyielding wall, his grip on your arms tightening painfully.

"Then I will make you regret it. You will come back to me, begging," he sneered, his words like icy daggers piercing through your resolve. As his grip finally loosened, you felt a rush of relief, though it was quickly overshadowed again by fear. You screwed your eyes shut, tears welling up, bracing for what would come next. Then, unexpectedly, he planted a gentle kiss on your cheek. "And, of course, I will take you back with open arms."

As he pulled away, you slid to the ground, feeling utterly defeated. "My room is the one on the second floor, at the very end," he said, stepping away. "When you come to your senses, do not be afraid to come find me. If I were you, I would do it sooner than later." His words echoed in your mind as you watched him leave, leaving you alone with your turmoil.

He took one last look at you before disappearing through the double doors to the library. As the door clicked shut, the hallway once once again filled with silence. Once you were sure that he wouldn’t return, you scrambled to your feet and rushed to the storage closet closest to you. There, you fell to the ground and curled your body, tears falling from your eyes as his words echoed in your mind like a haunting song.

"You are mine. You are mine. You are mine." Each repetition felt like a heavy weight pressing down on your chest, suffocating you with a sense of helplessness and dread.

[novaursa]

Between Pride and Fire (the blessing)

- Summary: It was a challenge of the hunt that drew the lion to you, but it was your fire that made him yours.

- Pairing: targ!reader/Jason Lannister

- Rating: Mature 16+

- Previous part: crossroads

- Next part: the curse

- Tag(s): @punk-in-docs @barnes70stark @sachaa-ff @oxymakestheworldgoround

From the Accounts of Mushroom, Maester Irwin of Harrenhal, and Others

The taking of Harrenhal by Prince Daemon Targaryen and Lord Jason Lannister was an affair far less dramatic than tales of the Dragonlords of old would suggest. While many expected fire and blood to rain upon the cursed towers, the reality proved to be a quiet surrender, leaving both the defenders of the castle and the conquerors with an odd sense of anticlimax.

According to Mushroom, the arrival of Caraxes in the skies above Harrenhal sent a ripple of terror through the garrison. The Blood Wyrm's serpentine form cast a long shadow over the already gloomy ruins, and its deafening roar echoed off the walls, sending many of Lord Simon Strong's men fleeing before a single blade was drawn.

"It was as if the very gods had come to remind the Strongs of their cursed blood," wrote Maester Irwin. "The dragon's approach left no doubt as to the futility of resistance."

Prince Daemon landed Caraxes atop the crumbled remains of the castle's great hall, his imposing figure cutting a sharp contrast to the desolation around him. Lord Jason Lannister dismounted with less grace, though his armor was brilliant even in the dim light, a stark reminder of the wealth and power he brought with him.

As the gates creaked open, Lord Simon Strong emerged with a small retinue, his hands raised in a gesture of surrender. His lined face bore the weariness of a man who had long carried the burden of a cursed name.

"My lord, my prince," Simon began, his voice shaking slightly but steady enough to carry across the courtyard. "Harrenhal bends the knee to Queen Rhaenyra. The Strong name remembers its oaths."

Daemon, ever the predator, regarded him with a sharp, measuring gaze. "You surrender without a fight, Lord Simon?" he asked, his tone laced with both disdain and curiosity.

Simon bowed his head. "A fight would bring ruin to my people and my house. I am no fool, Prince Daemon. I have seen what dragons can do."

Mushroom claims that Jason smirked at this, his relief poorly concealed beneath a veneer of arrogance. "Perhaps your wisdom will spare you from the wrath of the queen," Jason said smoothly. "But words alone do not make a man loyal. Actions must follow."

Daemon, less interested in Jason's verbal sparring, gestured for the castle to be opened entirely. "Let us see if Harrenhal holds more surprises," he said, his voice carrying a dangerous edge.

As the lords and their men entered the keep, it became clear that Simon's surrender had been sincere. The halls were quiet, the garrison subdued. The Strong banners hung limp in the still air, and the only sound was the echo of boots on stone. Daemon, ever vigilant, took to inspecting the defenses personally, while Jason busied himself with questioning Simon about the allegiances of the Riverlords.

According to Mushroom, Jason’s charm was put to good use in these exchanges. "Lord Jason has a way of speaking that even stone walls might crumble to listen," the fool wrote. "He smiles, and men forget they are being commanded."

Simon Strong, for his part, was cooperative, providing details about Riverland loyalties and the movements of the Greens. Jason, satisfied with the intelligence, declared that once Rhaenyra's armies arrived, he would ride to Riverrun to secure House Tully's allegiance. Daemon, however, insisted on remaining at Harrenhal, seeing it as a critical stronghold from which to launch further strikes into the Riverlands.

"You'll have your silver tongue to charm the Tullys," Daemon reportedly said to Jason with a smirk. "But Harrenhal needs fire and blood to keep it in line. I'll hold it, and you can play diplomat."

Jason, clearly uninterested in an extended stay in the desolate castle, agreed readily. "Harrenhal is yours, Prince Daemon," he said with a faint smirk. "Though I wonder how long even you can endure its charms."

Mushroom suggests that Daemon's eyes narrowed at the remark, but he said nothing, focusing instead on organizing the defenses.

The arrival of Rhaenyra’s forces days later brought a renewed sense of purpose. With the castle secured, Jason departed with his men, riding toward Riverrun to meet with Lord Grover Tully. Mushroom, ever the mischief-maker, notes that Jason looked far more eager to leave Harrenhal than he had to arrive, a sentiment shared by many who lingered in the cursed stronghold.

As for Daemon, he wasted no time in asserting control over Harrenhal. He established a garrison and set about ensuring the surrounding Riverlords understood that the queen’s banner now flew above the cursed towers. "Prince Daemon has always thrived in chaos," wrote Maester Irwin. "And Harrenhal is a place where chaos lingers, even in the stillness."

Accounts from Riverrun

Jason’s arrival at Riverrun was far more conventional. The Lannister banners, flying alongside those of House Targaryen, brought a mixture of relief and apprehension to the Riverlands. Lord Grover Tully, an aging and cautious man, greeted Jason with all the courtesy due to a representative of the queen but remained noncommittal.

“House Tully remembers its oaths,” Lord Grover said, though his words were as slow and heavy as the man himself. “But the Riverlands have seen much blood spilled in the name of kings and queens. We cannot afford to be hasty.”

Jason, with his characteristic charm, replied smoothly. “Caution is a virtue, my lord, but loyalty is a duty. The queen remembers those who stand with her, and she rewards those who honor their word.”

Mushroom, who claimed to have accompanied Jason to Riverrun (though this is widely disputed), wrote, “The old fish wavered, but Jason cast his net with skill. By the end, the Tullys were caught, though they didn’t yet know it.”

Lord Grover promised his support in principle, though the full muster of the Riverlords would depend on further assurances. Jason sent word of his progress back to Harrenhal, confident that the Riverlands would soon march under Rhaenyra's banner.

Thus, the Riverlands became a battlefield of diplomacy and dragonfire, as alliances were forged and battle lines drawn. But even amidst the calm before the storm, the specter of Harrenhal loomed large, its dark history a reminder that no victory would come without cost.

From the Accounts of Mushroom, Grand Maester Gerardys, and Others

The Skirmish in the Riverlands

One moon’s turn after Lord Jason Lannister had ridden to secure the allegiance of House Tully, reports of a skirmish near the Red Fork reached the ears of the court. Jason, commanding a contingent of loyal knights and foot soldiers, was caught in an ambush by forces loyal to the Greens. Though the engagement was minor, the sudden appearance of a black dragon in the sky turned the tide decisively.

According to Mushroom, Loren Lannister arrived atop his fearsome dragon, Morghan, in a display of fiery fury. “The Black Lion,” as Loren was quickly dubbed, descended upon the battlefield with all the ferocity of his father’s house. Morghan’s shadow darkened the battlefield, his roar splitting the heavens as flames consumed the Green banners.

“Loren swooped down like a predator on prey,” Mushroom wrote, embellishing as usual. “One moment, the Greens thought they had Jason cornered. The next, they were running, tripping over themselves to flee the dragon’s fire.”

Grand Maester Gerardys, in his typically dry tone, confirmed the event, noting that Loren’s intervention was brief but effective. “The young Lord Lannister displayed both courage and restraint,” Gerardys wrote. “He arrived to scatter the enemy, ensuring his father’s forces were safe, but did not linger. True to his orders, he returned swiftly to the Westerlands to maintain their defense.”

Jason, ever the proud father, reportedly watched Loren’s departure with a mix of relief and admiration. Mushroom, ever the gossip, claimed Jason muttered under his breath, “He’s his mother’s son—too brave for his own good.”

With the skirmish resolved, Jason and his men resumed their efforts to rally the Riverlords. The Tullys, impressed by the Lannisters’ resolve and the dragons’ might, began to muster their banners in earnest, solidifying their allegiance to Queen Rhaenyra.

Life on Dragonstone

Back on Dragonstone, life carried on under the looming threat of war. Rhaenyra held court with her children and closest advisors, her determination unwavering despite the loss of her son, Lucerys. Jacaerys, Leona, and Aemma had taken on increasingly active roles in the queen’s council, their voices lending strength to Rhaenyra’s decisions.

Mushroom noted with admiration that Leona, though still young, had become a trusted confidante to her betrothed Jace. “The Lioness and the Dragon,” he wrote, “worked together as though they had shared more than blood, not merely allegiance.”

Aemma, meanwhile, spent much of her time with her younger cousin, Joffrey. The young prince, too young to fully grasp the weight of the war, found comfort in his cousin’s presence. “Aemma is a calming influence,” Grand Maester Gerardys observed. “Her gentle nature contrasts with the fierce determination of her sister, Leona, yet both share a devotion to their family that cannot be questioned.”

It was during this time that a quiet revelation came to light. Princess Y/N, Jason’s wife, began to experience faint but familiar symptoms—exhaustion, bouts of nausea, and a certain heaviness in her body. At first, she dismissed them as the effects of stress and worry, but a visit from Grand Maester Gerardys confirmed what she had suspected: she was with child once more.

The news brought a mixture of emotions. “Eight children,” Mushroom mused in his account. “The Targaryen woman must have the strength of a dragon and the patience of a saint.” He added, with his characteristic irreverence, “Jason’s virility remains unmatched, though I’d wager he enjoys ensuring his legacy as much as he enjoys the act itself.”

Princess Y/N chose to keep the news private for the time being, revealing it only to Rhaenyra in confidence. The queen, though burdened by her own grief, smiled faintly at the revelation. “Another child, sister,” Rhaenyra said softly, placing a hand over her swollen belly. “A blessing amidst all this chaos. Perhaps the gods have not abandoned us entirely.”

The State of the Realm

As the moon waned and the war continued to brew, Dragonstone remained a hub of planning and preparation. Daemon held Harrenhal firmly, while Jason worked tirelessly in the Riverlands. Loren’s brief but decisive intervention had reminded their enemies of the power of dragons, and the Westerlands remained a stronghold of loyalty under his watch.

On Dragonstone, life carried on with a strange mixture of anticipation and normalcy. The sound of dragons echoed in the skies, a reminder of both their strength and the battles yet to come. And amidst it all, the Lannisters and Targaryens held fast to the hope that their united forces would prevail against the Greens.

“War loomed over us like a storm cloud,” Mushroom wrote. “Yet within the walls of Dragonstone, there were moments of warmth, of love, and of laughter. Perhaps it was these moments that gave us the strength to endure what was to come.”

The Targaryen-Lannister camp bustled with activity as soldiers sharpened swords, tended to horses, and huddled around fires for warmth. Banners bearing the lion of House Lannister and the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen fluttered in the brisk Riverlands wind. At the center of it all stood Jason Lannister’s tent, the largest and most elaborately adorned, befitting his station as one of Queen Rhaenyra’s most prominent supporters.

Jason sat at a heavy oak table, pouring over maps and letters with a furrowed brow. His usual charm and lightheartedness were replaced by the grim focus of a man entrenched in war. The flickering light of the lanterns cast shadows over his sharp features, making him appear older and wearier than he had before the war began.

A commotion outside his tent drew his attention. Moments later, a young squire entered, his face flushed from exertion. He carried a small scroll sealed with the unmistakable crest of House Targaryen.

“My lord,” the boy stammered, bowing low. “A message from Dragonstone.”

Jason’s green eyes flicked to the scroll, and a flicker of something—hope, perhaps—crossed his face. He gestured for the squire to bring it forward, breaking the seal with practiced ease. As he unfurled the parchment, his expression softened almost immediately.

The letter was in your hand, the elegant script unmistakable.

My dearest Jason,

Though the days feel longer in your absence, I take solace in knowing you are doing your duty to secure the realm for our queen and our family. Still, I miss you terribly, as do our daughters.

I write with news that I cannot bear to keep from you: I am with child once more. Though the gods have burdened us with war, they have also gifted us with another life to cherish. I pray for your safety every day and long for the moment you return to us. Until then, I hold you in my heart and carry your love with me always.

Yours forever,

Y/N

Jason let out a soft exhale, his fingers brushing over the parchment as though he could feel your touch through the ink. A small smile tugged at his lips, the first in what felt like weeks. He closed his eyes for a moment, the noise of the camp fading as he let the words sink in.

A gruff voice broke the quiet. “Good news, I hope?”

Jason looked up to see Lord Alan Tarly standing at the entrance of the tent, his arms crossed over his chest. The older man raised a bushy eyebrow, his tone curious but not unkind.

Jason folded the letter carefully, tucking it into his breast pocket. “The best,” he replied, his voice lighter than it had been in days. “My wife has sent word. She’s with child.”

Tarly’s expression softened, and a faint smile broke through his usually stern demeanor. “A blessing in these dark times,” he said. “Congratulations, my lord.”

Jason inclined his head, though his thoughts were already elsewhere—on you, on Dragonstone, and on the life growing within you. He stood abruptly, his chair scraping against the wooden floor. “Make sure the camp knows I’m not to be disturbed unless it’s urgent,” he said to the squire, his tone firm but distracted.

The boy nodded and hurried out, leaving Jason to his thoughts. He moved to the edge of the tent, staring out at the horizon as if he could see Dragonstone in the distance. His fingers brushed over the letter in his pocket again, a sense of determination settling over him.

“I’ll come back to you, Y/N,” he murmured to himself. “No matter what it takes.”

The flickering light of the campfires reflected in his eyes as he stood there, the weight of the war momentarily lifted by the knowledge that, even in these uncertain times, life and love endured.

The chill of Dragonstone's winds whispered against the windows, but the room was cozy, filled with the quiet hum of familial comfort. Leona sat near the fire, a book resting in her lap. For weeks now, she had chosen to forgo her mask, her scar visible but no longer hidden. She wore it now with a quiet dignity that spoke of confidence and strength—a transformation that had been as remarkable as it was gradual.

You glanced at her, a smile tugging at the corner of your lips. There was no doubt Jace’s influence had played a role in this change, though Leona’s courage was her own.

“Do you enjoy the book?” you asked softly, breaking the quiet.

Leona glanced up, her violet eyes meeting yours. “It’s interesting,” she said, her voice calm. “A history of House Arryn and the Eyrie. Jace lent it to me.”

Your smile deepened. “I thought as much. He’s been quite attentive to your interests lately.”

Leona’s lips twitched, though she didn’t look up again. “He’s thoughtful,” she admitted, a faint blush coloring her cheeks.

Seated across from you, Aemma shifted in her chair, her delicate hands resting in her lap. Her soft features carried an expression of calm, though you could sense the quiet strength beneath her exterior. Her gold hair caught the firelight as she glanced between you and Leona.

“Speaking of attentiveness,” you said, turning your gaze to Aemma. “I’ve been meaning to ask you something.”

Aemma tilted her head slightly, her wide eyes curious. “Yes, Mother?”

You leaned forward, resting your hands on your knees. “How did it come to be—this arrangement with Lord Cregan Stark? How did you come to accept his proposal?”

Aemma blinked, her expression thoughtful as she considered your question. After a moment, she folded her hands neatly in her lap and spoke with the quiet confidence that always surprised you.

“It wasn’t entirely planned,” she began, her voice soft but steady. “When Jace, Leona, and I reached Winterfell, Lord Stark greeted us with great hospitality. He’s... different from what I expected. Honest. Direct. He doesn’t mince words, but there’s a kindness in him. A sense of duty.”

Leona glanced up from her book, listening quietly as her sister spoke.

Aemma continued, “During our stay, he spoke often of the North’s loyalty to the crown and the importance of strengthening ties between the North and the South. He proposed the marriage himself, not as a demand, but as a suggestion—a way to unify our realms in these uncertain times.”

You tilted your head, watching her closely. “And what made you accept?”

Aemma’s cheeks flushed faintly, but her gaze didn’t waver. “Because he asked me, Mother. Not as a pawn in a game of thrones, but as a partner. He values my opinion, my thoughts. He said he would never ask me to leave my family or my dragon behind, and that he wanted a match built on respect.”

Leona closed her book, her expression unreadable as she looked at Aemma. “And you believed him?” she asked, her tone soft but curious.

Aemma nodded. “I did. And I still do. Lord Cregan is an honorable man. I believe he will treat me well.”

You sat back, studying your youngest daughter with a mixture of pride and melancholy. She had grown so much, her gentle nature tempered by wisdom beyond her years. “And you feel ready for this?” you asked gently. “To leave Casterly Rock, to leave us?”

Aemma hesitated, her gaze dropping for the first time. “I won’t pretend it’s easy,” she admitted. “But I believe this is the right choice. For our family. For the queen. And... for myself.”

Leona spoke then, her voice carrying a note of reluctant respect. “If it’s what you want, Aemma, then I trust your decision.”

You reached out, taking Aemma’s hand in yours. “You’ve always had a kind heart, my sweet girl,” you said softly. “And a strong one, too. If this is what you’ve chosen, then I will support you.”

Aemma smiled faintly, her fingers tightening around yours. “Thank you, Mother.”

The fire crackled softly in the silence that followed, the warmth of the room wrapping around the three of you. Though your heart ached at the thought of Aemma leaving, you couldn’t help but feel a sense of pride in the strength and wisdom both your daughters had shown.

The winds of war howled beyond the walls of Dragonstone, but here, in this quiet moment, you found a small measure of peace.

Aemma, her hand still in yours, leaned back into her chair, her expression thoughtful. Leona, sitting straighter now, closed her book and placed it aside, her violet eyes focused on you with an inquisitive glint.

“Mother,” Leona began, her tone hesitant but curious. “What about you and Father? How did you accept his proposal? Or, rather… why?”

Her question brought a surprised laugh to your lips, the sound soft and warm as you instinctively reached up to trace the familiar necklace resting against your collarbone. It was one Jason had gifted you long ago—an intricate design of intertwined dragons and lions, symbolizing the union of your two houses.

“Oh, my little lioness,” you said, shaking your head with a smile. “Your father was... impossible to ignore. Persistent doesn’t even begin to describe it. Truly, I had very little choice but to say yes.”

Leona’s lips quirked upward in amusement, though her gaze remained curious. “Persistent? I find that hard to imagine,” she said, the sarcasm in her voice clear. “Father is so subtle, after all.”

You laughed again, the memories washing over you like a tide. “Yes, very subtle,” you replied with mock seriousness. “It all began during a celebratory hunt for Aegon—an event held by your late grandsire, King Viserys. Your aunt Rhaenyra was the center of everyone’s attention, of course, and your father, like many other ambitious lords, sought her favor.”

Leona raised a brow, leaning forward slightly. “And Aunt Rhaenyra rejected him, didn’t she?”

“She did,” you confirmed with a nod. “Quite publicly, too. It was no secret that your father was smitten with her beauty and her rank, but she wanted nothing to do with him. She dismissed him outright in front of half the court.”

Aemma giggled softly at that, though her voice carried sympathy. “Poor Father. I imagine his pride took quite the blow.”

“Oh, it did,” you said with a grin. “But if there’s one thing your father doesn’t lack, it’s resilience. Later that same day, he decided to change tactics. Instead of chasing after Rhaenyra, he came to speak with me.”

Leona’s eyes widened slightly. “He came to you? Why?”

“Because he’s a Lannister,” you replied, your tone dry. “And when a door is closed, a lion simply finds another way in. At the time, I was sitting in the royal pavilion with your grandsire and a few noble lords. Your father marched right up, as bold as you please, and tried to charm me.”

Leona smirked faintly. “I’m guessing that didn’t work?”

“Oh, not at all,” you said, your laughter soft and warm. “I wasn’t in the mood to be charmed, least of all by a man who had just been rejected by my sister. So I insulted him.”

Aemma gasped, her eyes widening. “You insulted him? What did you say?”

You leaned back in your chair, tapping your chin thoughtfully as you tried to recall. “Something about how he should speak less sweet words because he will choke on them. It wasn’t my finest moment, but it certainly caught his attention.”

Leona’s eyes sparkled with amusement. “And yet he still pursued you?”

You nodded, a wry smile tugging at your lips. “Oh, yes. If anything, my insult seemed to encourage him. He started following me around during the hunt, finding any excuse to speak with me. At first, I thought he was just trying to save face after Rhaenyra’s rejection, but… there was something different about the way he looked at me. It wasn’t just ambition. It was something more.”

Aemma rested her chin in her hand, her expression softening. “And when did you realize you felt the same way?”

You traced the necklace again, the memory of that moment vivid in your mind. “It took time,” you admitted. “I resisted him at first, but Jason has a way of wearing a person down. He’s infuriatingly charming when he wants to be. Eventually, I realized that beneath all his bravado, there was a man who truly cared for me. He made me laugh, even when I didn’t want to. He challenged me, but he also supported me. And when he proposed, he did it with his usual style, with fanfare and grand gestures. He simply told me that he wanted to spend his life with me in front of every important lord and lady that he gathered at the Rock. And I couldn’t say no.”

Leona’s smirk softened into a genuine smile. “It sounds like Father hasn’t changed much.”

“No,” you said, your voice warm. “He hasn’t. He’s still as persistent, infuriating, and charming as ever. And I wouldn’t have him any other way.”

The room fell into a comfortable silence as your daughters absorbed your story. The fire crackled softly, and you felt a deep sense of contentment as you looked at Leona and Aemma, their expressions filled with a mixture of amusement and admiration.

“Now,” you said, breaking the quiet with a playful smile. “If either of you ever insult a suitor the way I insulted your father, be prepared for them to follow you around endlessly. It seems to have worked a little too well.”

Both girls laughed, the sound filling the chamber with warmth. And in that moment, surrounded by your daughters and the memories of a love that had endured years of trials and triumphs, you felt a sense of peace that was rare in these tumultuous times.

The sea winds howled outside the walls of Dragonstone, their haunting melody carrying a hint of salt and sorrow. Inside the private solar, warmed by a roaring fire, you sat across from Rhaenyra, a goblet of wine in her hand and a distant look in her violet eyes. The years and loss had etched faint lines into her face, but in this moment of quiet, she seemed more like the sister you remembered—before all the chaos, before the crowns and dragons.

The firelight danced across the chamber, casting flickering shadows that seemed to move with the rise and fall of the flames. You watched Rhaenyra in silence for a moment, her expression softened but contemplative as she swirled the wine in her goblet. Finally, she looked up, catching your gaze, and offered a faint smile.

“It’s strange,” she said softly, her voice carrying the weight of memory. “I sit here, in this place of stone and fire, and I can almost hear Mother’s laughter. Do you remember how she used to laugh when we played in the gardens?”

You smiled faintly, leaning back in your chair as the memories surfaced. “She had a beautiful laugh,” you replied, your voice tinged with warmth. “It always made Father smile, even when he was buried under the weight of his duties. She had a way of bringing light to the darkest moments.”

Rhaenyra nodded, her fingers tightening around the goblet. “She was so gentle with us,” she said, her voice breaking slightly. “Even when we quarreled—gods, we fought like dragons at times—she never raised her voice. She’d just look at us, and somehow, we’d feel ashamed enough to stop.”

You chuckled softly, a bittersweet sound. “Yes, she had that look. I remember it well. But she also had that quiet strength. She carried so much—us, Father, the realm—and yet she never let us see how heavy it all was.”

Rhaenyra sighed, her gaze dropping to the goblet in her hands. “I wish she could see us now,” she murmured. “See what we’ve become. Would she be proud of us? Of the choices we’ve made?”

You reached across the table, placing a comforting hand over hers. “She’d be proud of you,” you said firmly. “Of the queen you’ve become. Of the strength you’ve shown, even in the face of unimaginable loss.”

Rhaenyra’s lips trembled, but she managed a faint smile. “And you? Would she be proud of you?”

You hesitated, the question settling heavily in the air. “I like to think she would,” you admitted softly. “Though sometimes I wonder if I’ve done enough, if I’ve made the right choices. It’s easy to doubt yourself in times like these.”

Rhaenyra squeezed your hand gently, her violet eyes shining with emotion. “You’ve done more than enough, sister. You’ve built a family, raised children who are strong and brave. You’ve stood by me when others would have fled. Mother would have been proud of you—of all you’ve accomplished.”

The room fell silent for a moment, the weight of shared memories settling between you. The fire crackled softly, and the wind outside seemed to wail a mournful tune, as if mourning the mother you had both lost too soon.

“Do you remember the lullaby she used to sing?” Rhaenyra asked suddenly, her voice barely above a whisper. “The one about the dragon and the sea?”

You nodded, the melody coming to your mind as if it had never left. “She sang it to us every night, no matter how tired she was. I still hum it sometimes, when I miss her.”

Rhaenyra smiled faintly, her eyes glistening with unshed tears. “So do I. Sometimes, I sing it to my children. It makes me feel closer to her, even if only for a moment.”

The two of you sat there, lost in the memories of a simpler time—a time when your mother’s laughter filled the halls and her presence brought warmth to every corner of the Red Keep. The weight of the present faded, if only for a little while, as you found solace in each other’s company.

And though the winds outside howled with the promise of storms to come, inside, the memory of your mother’s love wrapped around you like a shield, reminding you of the strength and resilience she had passed on to her daughters.

[lilgreeneyes71]

There is an internal peace that only God can give

John 14:27 Peace I leave with you, my peace I give unto you: not as the world giveth, give I unto you. Let not your heart be troubled, neither let it be afraid.

Psalm 29:11 The LORD will give strength unto his people; the LORD will bless his people with peace.

2 Thessalonians 3:16 Now the Lord of peace himself give you peace always by all means. The Lord be with you all.

keep your mind on Christ and his promises

Isaiah 26:3 Thou wilt keep him in perfect peace, whose mind is stayed on thee: because he trusteth in thee.

Psalm 119:165 Great peace have they which love thy law: and nothing shall offend them.

If you get stressed for any reason

1 Peter 5:7 Casting all your care upon him; for he careth for you.

Troubled with burdens or oppressed

Matthew 11:28 Come unto me, all ye that labour and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest.11:29 Take my yoke upon you, and learn of me; for I am meek and lowly in heart: and ye shall find rest unto your souls.11:30 For my yoke is easy, and my burden is light.

Philippians 4:6 Be careful for nothing; but in every thing by prayer and supplication with thanksgiving let your requests be made known unto God.4:7 And the peace of God, which passeth all understanding, shall keep your hearts and minds through Christ Jesus.

Romans 15:13 Now the God of hope fill you with all joy and peace in believing, that ye may abound in hope, through the power of the Holy Ghost.

Isaiah 26:12 LORD, thou wilt ordain peace for us: for thou also hast wrought all our works in us.

[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.

~~~~~~

Taglist: @nnightskiess @loveislove4 @evattude @lethal-minds @sophiexoxsblog @claymoresword @tired-ninfa @glorioushamsterqueen @alicenter @newcaptainofsquad9 @pindoris @oh-thats-cute @rxscpctals @laenordeservedbetter @voniikg @bugwritesstuff @letlovee-in @urmomsgirlfriend1 @valenciavv @the-camilucha @joliettes @itssecret2109 @i-nail-jello-to-walls @cone-fused-mind

[titaniaqueenoffairie]

Bound By Starlight: Tamlin and RoseVela

This is a small fanfiction based on things I’ve always loved to imagine, especially since I’m a big fan of the theory that Tamlin and Rhys's sister were lovers. In this fanfiction, I named her Rosevela (simply because I love that name 😆). Tamlin’s nickname for her is Viola, which comes from Rosevela → violet rose → Violet → Viola. I like it because it matches her violet eyes, and the idea of violets being roses ties in with her name. Anyway, je dis n'importe quoi ! Feel free to read it and share your feedback 🥰.

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In the magnificent Spring Court, amidst magical gardens, Tamlin and Rosevela lay side by side on the soft grass before the Pool of Stars. The golden rays of the setting sun mingled with the silver glow of the rising moon, casting an ethereal shimmer on their skin. They looked almost celestial—the chosen High Lord of Spring and the chosen High Lady of Night—bathed in the combined light of the sun and stars.

Their connection ran deeper than the courts they were supposed to rule. It was a pull, stronger than anything their families or destinies could tear apart, stronger than even a mother's mating bond.

Tamlin's fingers brushed lightly along Rosevela’s arm, a delicate touch full of silent promise. “You look like you belong here, Viola,” he murmured, his voice soft with reverence. “Like you’re one of these stars.”

Rosevela turned her head, her eyes reflecting the starlight above. “And you,” she whispered, her smile tender, “you’re like the earth itself. Strong, steady, and endlessly kind. How did I get so lucky?”

He chuckled softly, tucking a strand of her dark hair behind her ear. “I think I’m the lucky one.”

Silence settled between them—not awkward, but the kind that needed no words. Around them, pixies fluttered near the water, their laughter like the tinkling of bells. Little green goblins danced among the plants, adding to the dreamlike scene.

Rosevela sighed contentedly, taking it all in. “It’s so peaceful here. I could live in this quiet forever.” She glanced at him. “How have your brothers never found this place?”

Tamlin’s expression darkened for a moment, but there was a hint of humor in his voice. “Because they hate peace. They thrive in chaos and power. This place is too gentle for them. It’s why we’re safe here, Viola. They’d never think to look for us somewhere like this.”

Her smile faltered. “I wish I could stay here forever,” she whispered. “I hate it at home. My father’s always disappointed in me. Rhys and Cassian treat me like I’m fragile. Azriel… he’s even worse. Sneaking out gets harder every time.”

Tamlin grinned mischievously. “Why don’t you just kick their asses? I’ll help you out, especially with Rhys. I’ve been itching to punch him in the face.”

Rosevela laughed, giving him a playful shove. “Stop it, you goose. They’re still my brothers.”

“And you’re my woman,” he teased, his tone more serious. “I hate it when they underestimate you. You’re the chosen one, more powerful than any of them.”

She sighed again, frustration bubbling to the surface. “That’s exactly the problem. I’m the chosen High Lady in a court that still clips Illyrian women’s wings. It’s ridiculous.”

Tamlin’s gaze sharpened. “Has your power grown?”

She nodded, her voice barely a whisper. “Yes. I don’t know what will happen if it becomes obvious to my family.”

“Rhys wouldn’t harm you for that.”

“Not Rhys,” she said, her voice trembling. “But my father… if he knew his heir was a girl…”

Tamlin’s eyes flashed with anger. “Let him try. I’ll—”

“Tamlin, no,” Rosevela interrupted, shaking her head. “Your situation isn’t much better. What about your power? Is your father still suspicious?”

His lips pressed into a thin line. “He’s starting to suspect. It’s getting harder to hide.”

They shared a look of understanding, the weight of their responsibilities and dangers pressing heavily upon them.

“Isn’t it ironic,” she said with a sad smile, “that we were both chosen and burdened with powers we never wanted? It feels more like a curse than a blessing.”

“Vela,” Tamlin whispered, his voice filled with emotion and unsure what to say.

Rosevela’s eyes softened, and she placed her hand on his cheek. “Tamlin, nothing keeps us here. Why don’t we just... run away?”

His eyes widened. “What?”

“Neither of us is happy. Our powers, our courts, the rivalry between our families—it’s too much. We could leave it all behind. Find another court, somewhere no one knows us. I could paint, you could play music... We could live however we want.”

“Are you serious?” he asked, his heart pounding.

“As serious as I’ve ever been,” she said, his voice steady. “We could be free, Tam. Truly free.”

His smile faded, worry creeping into her expression. “But we’re the children of High Lords. No court would risk a war to protect us.”

Before she can says anything Tamlin stopped her by placing his index finger on her lips saying “We will never be free no matter where we go in Prythian, so this why we have to leave the whole continent”

Rosevela blinked, stunned. “Leave Prythian?”

“If we’re going to run, we need to do it right,” he said, a smile creeping back onto his face. “We can go anywhere, Viola.”

She hesitated for a long moment, then smiled softly. “If it means being with you, I don’t care where we go.”

"Crossing the humans land is too dangerous" Tamlin warned, his tone turning serious again. “but Hybren it's like the worst way of suicide.”

“Is it because of that vicious red-haired witch who lusts after you?” Rosevela’s eyes glinted. “I’ll break her neck myself.”

Tamlin laughed. “You don’t need to worry about her. You’re the only one I’ve chosen, isn’t that enough?”

“But......... you're right, crossing Hybern, or even the human lands, is risky.” she said.

“We’ll prepare for it. It’ll take time, but we’ll do it.”

She frowned, worry flickering in her gaze. “How much time? If your father’s suspicious, we may not have much left.”

He cupped her face gently, his eyes soft. “Please, Viola. Don’t worry. We’ll be fine.”

“I’m not trying to be pessimistic, but… what if something happens before we can leave? I feel like everyone and everything is against us even tho the mother. What if… the Mother binds us to someone else?”

“I don’t care about the Mother’s chosen mate for me if it isn’t you,” Tamlin said fiercely. He drew a dagger from his belt, cutting his palm. “I’ll make my own bond.”

He offered her the dagger, his eyes asking for her trust. She hesitated, then nodded, cutting her palm as well. He took her hand, their blood mixing together.

“I, Tamlin, give you, Rosevela, a part of my soul, my magic, my power. If I lose you, I’ll go mad before I ever love another.”

She felt his magic intertwine with hers, his power flowing into her veins. She was bound to him—and to the Spring Court. He had given her everything, without hesitation.

Her heart swelled, words failing her. She hugged him tightly, her head resting against his chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart. He had given her everything, and she could only hold him close in return.

“I have the same fears as you,” he murmured, brushing his lips against her hair. “But we’ll make a bargain. One stronger than any magic.”

She pulled back, confused. “What kind of bargain?”

“With the Pool of Stars,” he said, glancing at the shimmering water. “It’s said to hold power older than the Cauldron itself.”

Tamlin looked to Rosevela like he wants her to look into his mind and she did. She saw what bargain he want to make, how far he want to go for her. And she accepted it .

She was ready to go with him to whatever land and risk everything, and this bargain is nothing compared to what she is ready to do for him.

Together, they rose and made their way down to the Pool of Stars, their injured palms extended over the shimmering water. Crimson droplets fell, mixing with the starlight reflected on the pool's surface, causing it to glisten with an ethereal glow.

“I, Tamlin, son of the Forest,” he declared, his voice resonating through the stillness of the night.

“And I, Rosevela, daughter of the Stars,” she echoed, her tone laced with solemnity.

“By the gods of this sacred pool, we beseech you,” they chanted in unison, “if one of us falls, let them be reborn as human. And no matter the distance or time, the other shall seek them out, restore their memories, and return them to their fae form. Accept our demand, and in time, we will return to you the glory and power stolen by the Cauldron.”

Their voices dissolved into the night, leaving only the quiet hum of the Pool of Stars. The water rippled, absorbing the magic of their words. A silvery light rose from the pool, enveloping them both. As the light faded, they felt a shift—a writing of the bargain etched in the very air. A constellation of stars traced a glowing mark on Tamlin’s palm, while roses bloomed across Rosevela’s hand.

Though the symbols slowly faded from their skin, they could feel the weight of the bargain anchoring itself deep within their souls. This was no ordinary bargain—this bond was forged by a magic far older, far stronger than anything they had known.

They turned to each other, eyes locking, understanding passing between them. Their fates were now entwined—irrevocably bound. Whatever the future held, they would find one another again, in life, in death, and beyond.

“I promise you,” Tamlin vowed softly, his voice thick with emotion, “I will never love anyone but you.”

“No matter what comes,” Rosevela whispered, her voice filled with unshakable conviction, “you are the only man I will ever choose.”

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If you made far here I will appreciate if you leave a comment with your feedbacks, I have a Lots of Ideas to this fanfiction 🔥🔥