#Emerald Specter

[kira-anon-uwu]

TS! Who built the weird ghost machine?

"My father, and some dude that goes to my brother's university. They hunt ghosts; not well, but they hunt them."

Master Post

~-~-~

thank you for giving me a break from the big comic set I've been working on for this, drawing the funny emerald men was a nice change

this is not shipping art, also; don't be weird

[heavysighing-dreamyeyes]

A Specter

Jason Todd is once again more or less an unreliable narrator (and a little dramatic, but he gets a pass for dying) ~1k

Jason Todd wakes up from death drowning, his lungs burning out of his chest. When he breaks the water, he will cough out sickening green that will claw its way into his nightmares. He will dig his jagged nails into the ground and gasp for air he is not meant to be breathing.

And when that is all said and done, he will only have one thought on his mind. Where are you.

Jason Todd rejoins the world as nothing more than a poltergeist. He haunts back alleys and rattles skeletons in the closest of anyone stupid enough to get in his way. He is a wraith, his visage screaming with nothing more than vengeance and bloodshed.

That is, until the night ends and his mask is left clattered to the floor of his barren safehouse. And then he will think of nothing but you.

It's pathetic, to be so attached to someone who doesn't even know he's alive. But that's the problem. He's attached. His dreams, when they aren't nightmares, are filled with your laughter and the memory your hand curled into his.

Jason Todd has not moved on from anything. He hasn't moved on from that warehouse. Hasn't moved on from his own incompetence. Hasn't moved on from the betrayal of those who were supposed to love him.

So he doesn't think he should be expected to move on from you. Not when you're the only anchor his lost soul has left. (This is an excuse, one he knows all too well, one he'll never acknowledge)

The thought of you seems to claw at his heels with every step, every breath he takes that isn't intended towards an effort to find you. He knows it would be easy, to find you. All he would have to do is look. But Jason Todd is a name meant for gravestones, and yours is a name meant to be written in light.

So, he cannot imagine, even in his most twisted desires and daydreams, dragging you down to where he rots. To the moments he starts to wonder, if he breathes too heavily– if he coughs too hard in the Gotham smog– will green water leave his lungs instead of air?

Jason Todd does not look for you, content satisfied accepting enough with the memory of you. His own private apparition that manifests into every part of his life.

(He sees your favorite color in the blankets he buys, lingers too long in front of your favorite flowers, orders your favorite foods, even if they were never his own)

He is stuck in his never-ending pattern of revenge that wails of a past still broken– anguished by the weight of things never fixed, words never said. He stares out through the white, glowing eyes of his mask that was made to strike fear and knows that this is all he will ever be.

The people he saves, the good and bad he does, the lives he takes, does not change that he is still drowning. He is still the boy sputtering emerald waters laced with a magic he doesn't understand. He is still the boy who came back to life with only you in his head.

But he is not the boy that held your hand with gentleness and hope. He is not the boy who smiled at you and promised to come home.

He is a ghost. A thing of memories bound to the present by hate and fury. He is wrongness and he is twisted, and he knows that if he did seek you out, he would only darken your doorstep with curses and decay.

So it's very much a problem when you grace his crumbling safehouse of the week with your presence.

He's not sure who tipped you off to where he was, not sure how you even know he's alive. But you're here, and there's nothing he can do but let you inside.

He doesn't remember everything you say. He doesn't even remember if he talks much. He just knows he's choking back that eerie, unnatural water in the back of his throat every time his eyes meet yours.

You shouldn't be here. But you are– were. You brushed your fingers over the back of his hand as you moved to leave. You asked to come back. That he remembers.

And, by whoever is listening, he said yes. He said yes and scribbled an address onto a piece of paper and pressed it to your palm.

He said yes, and he says it again and again, each time you carry yourself into his home that was no better than a morgue– a tomb to hold everything he used to be– he says yes.

You don't seem to care that he has nothing to offer but whispers of something that will never exist again. You do not mind that he is hardly more than false righteousness and thinly veiled wrath. You are fine with the fact that Jason Todd is supposed to be dead, but by some foul trick of fate, he is not.

No, you count him–the waters that made him new– as a blessing. It shocks him, the first time he hears it. Nearly makes him retch.

How could it be a blessing? How could the pain of feeling your bones snap into place, your muscles restitching themselves, your soul fragmenting apart and back together, be a blessing? How could knowing you do not belong and can never belong again be anything more than a blight?

It isn't. It can't be. It won't be.

Until one day– after weeks of pressing papers with scrawled numbers and letters into your palms– your fingers thread into his and then it is.

Something in him settles. Something haunted seems to fade. And not everything is perfect, but there is suddenly more than the past and shattered things. There is more to Jason Todd than an etching on a headstone, a hushed warning in a story.

There is a future, and Jason Todd suddenly finds himself to be more than a passing, vindictive phantom. With your hand in his, what rings in his head, laced with hope and something that was lost now found, is you. As it has been, and as it always will be, it is your memory in his head, your name on his tongue, you, in his heart.

[drmapzo]

Hello, everyone!

The party has secured safe passage through the mountains in a caravan. The ride is going smoothly until out of nowhere, a hail of arrows starts to come down.

Quickly, the heroes get out of the carts and start to defend the caravan. They have been ambushed and are at a disadvantage. Let's see if they can emerge victorious this time!

The creature tokens for this map are a Jaded Pilgrim, a Mountain Bandit and an Unnatural Specter. Emerald tier gets the Mountain Bandit while Diamond tier gets all three. In addition, Sapphire tier gets extra creature token variants. Click here to see the contents of the complete map pack!

You can see a preview of all of this week’s Patreon content here.

Thank you very much for taking a look and be sure to check out my Patreon where you can pledge for gridless version, alternate map versions as well as the tokens pertaining to this map.

[novaursa]

can you please write something with the reader being the queen of a far away kingdom that is kinda similar to the targaryen house but instead of dragons they have elike either magic or something. and reader ends up befriending rhaenyra which has the reader being a very powerful ally and the greens notice this , with alicent still wanting to steal the throne but otto is like “…nahhhh” , so rhaenyra becomes queen with the reader there and just standing all badass and stuff kinda comedic if you can please

The Witch Queen

- Summary: You arrive from faraway land to aid Rhaenyra before her rightful claim is stolen.

- Pairing: female!reader/Rhaenyra Targaryen

- Note: This might be slightly darker than you asked for, but the spooky season vibes guided me with this one. I hope you still like it, dear anon. 🙂

- Rating: Mature 16+

- Next part: long live the queen

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

The wind carried a sharp, briny scent from the sea as your ship glided through the dark waters toward the docks of King's Landing, its shadow stretching ominously beneath the moonlit sky. The black sails of your fleet billowed against the midnight horizon, a ghostly procession that had gone unnoticed until now. No banners heralded your arrival, no horns sounded from the walls of the Red Keep. The city slept in ignorance of the storm you had brought.

At your side, your court stood with heads held high, their violet eyes gleaming in the moonlight, their pale, silver-gold hair swept back in intricate braids that mirrored your own. House Tyvarella was not accustomed to formalities that belonged to lesser kings or the pious men of Westeros. You were the Queen of a realm far older than this one, a survivor of Valyria’s doom, and there was no need for permission to make yourself known.

As you stepped onto the cobblestones, the whispers from the shadows began to ripple. The common folk had heard the tales—stories of your house, the blood mages of Tyvarella, feared even by those who once tamed dragons. To those of the Faith of the Seven, you were a creature from their darkest myths, a figure woven into the very fabric of their nightmares. And now, you were here, at the heart of their crumbling kingdom.

“The night brings ill omens,” Otto Hightower muttered, his hands wringing in that nervous, meticulous way of his. He stood by a flickering torchlight, watching as your procession marched through the streets toward the Red Keep. His face was pale, his eyes narrowed in a mixture of wariness and disgust. “They come as vultures, Alicent, like specters summoned by death itself. We need to leave, now.”

Alicent Hightower, now Dowager Queen, stood by his side, her delicate fingers gripping the edges of her gown as if holding herself together. Her emerald eyes, though wary, flickered with a strange curiosity as she gazed at your retinue. “They were not expected, not invited… What are they doing here?”

“Nothing good, I assure you,” Otto responded with grim certainty. “King Viserys is dead. They arrive just as his breath fades. They bring with them blood magic and ruin. If we stay—”

A distant sound cut through the air, carried on the wind—the solemn toll of bells echoing across the city. Viserys was gone. The king had breathed his last.

Alicent's breath hitched as the realization washed over her. Her husband, the father of her children, the king, was dead. And here you stood, arriving at this precise moment, as if heralding the change to come.

But her eyes strayed, flickering toward the upper windows of the Red Keep. Through the torch-lit chambers, she caught a glimpse of another figure—Rhaenyra. The Princess had been kept behind, confined within the castle after that last bitter feast Viserys had demanded, the one after Vaemond Velaryon met his end.

Rhaenyra stood by the window now, her gaze drawn irresistibly to you. Alicent noticed it in an instant, the way her rival, her stepdaughter, leaned closer to the glass, watching your every movement with a deep, unspoken longing. Rhaenyra’s eyes were fixed on you, even from this distance, her expression one of unmistakable hunger and fascination.

“Do you see that?” Alicent whispered, her voice tight. “She… she looks at her.”

Otto followed her gaze, his lips tightening. “Rhaenyra’s drawn to power,” he said dismissively, though a hint of concern tugged at his tone. “It’s in her blood. But this... this is different. Tyvarella’s magic is ancient, forbidden. If she aligns herself with them, it will be disastrous.”

Alicent felt a wave of unease roll through her, but before she could respond, the heavy gates of the Red Keep groaned open, and you stepped inside. The room fell into a hush, as if the very stones of the castle were holding their breath. You entered without ceremony, your violet eyes scanning the gathering of lords and courtiers, none of whom dared meet your gaze directly.

And then, you saw her.

Rhaenyra.

She descended the grand staircase, her silken black gown flowing behind her like the wings of a raven. Her silver hair glowed in the candlelight, and her lips were parted ever so slightly, as if tasting the air between you. The tension in the room coiled tight, palpable.

When your eyes met hers, the world seemed to fall away.

You had seen her before, of course. But this… this was different. Here, in this moment of death and turmoil, the connection between you felt like a thread of fire, burning through the distance between you both. Her breath hitched as she came to stand before you, her gaze never leaving yours.

“Y/N,” Rhaenyra whispered, her voice soft yet carrying a weight that pulled at something deep inside of you. “You came.”

“I did,” you replied, your voice steady, though the sight of her stirred something untamed within you. “I came as soon as I sensed it. Viserys is gone, and now… the realm will fall to chaos.”

Her lips tightened into a thin line, pain flashing in her eyes at the mention of her father, but she didn’t look away. “They’ll come for me. For my children.”

“And they’ll have to go through me first.”

Rhaenyra’s eyes darkened at your words, the weight of your promise settling over her like a shield. Her hand, pale and trembling, reached out ever so slightly, as if testing the waters between you. And then, without another word, she placed it in yours.

A murmur spread through the room. Alicent stiffened where she stood, her face pale as the dawn.

Otto watched in silence, his mind already racing, already calculating. He knew what this meant. He knew that your presence here was more than a disruption. It was a declaration.

“We should have left when we had the chance,” he muttered, just loud enough for Alicent to hear. “Now it’s too late.”

Rhaenyra squeezed your hand, her fingers warm despite the cool air. “Will you stay?”

Your lips curved into a small, knowing smile. “For as long as you need me.”

[lavenderspence]

silly poker night reveals | A.H.

Pairing: Aaron Hotchner x fem!reader | Word Count: 1.8K

Content warning: basically just funny, or crack, alcohol mention, gambling addiction mention

Summary: A poker night with the silly crime men gets disrupted when a certain someone decides to prove he's not a psychic.

Characters: Aaron Hotchner, Spencer Reid, Patrick Jane, Richard Castle, Seeley Booth, Harvey Specter

A/N: One day, I just really wanted to write a fic with all my favorite silly crime men and have them be snarky to each other, and that’s what I did. This was literally written for the fun, for the vibes, for the hell of it, and then I just could not, not make it about my husband too. So, even if you’ve only watched one of the shows, give this a read, I think it's fun. enjoy🤭

and thank you to @reidsstargirl for beta reading this 🥺💕

masterlist

“You’re late.” You said after you pulled the door open. A rumpled blond was sitting in front of you - a white dress shirt, a black vest, and a gray suit jacket thrown over his shoulder. 

He flashed you a lazy smile, all teeth, “Yeah, well, when have you known me to be punctual?” He pushed past you, stepping into the apartment, with no care in the world.

His eyes ran around the room, finding it empty of any other presence, “You little minx, you lied to me.” He turned around, eyes running through your body. 

You smiled, eyes sparkling, “Yeah, well, I had to get creative if I wanted you to be on time, Jane. You have just enough time for a power nap, go enjoy the couch.” You threw his words back at him, and then waved a hand around, gusting to the emerald couch. 

You made your way to the kitchen, picking up a half-full glass of champagne. Walking around for a second, you looked at the man on the couch and waited for the 15 minutes until 7:30 to pass, so you could welcome your other guests too. 

You were waiting on Aaron and Spencer - they were coming straight from work, deciding to stay around an extra hour after you to finish up. Harvey was flying in from New York, Castle was driving down, and Jane was already snoring on your couch, and Booth was coming after closing a case. 

You arranged these poker games once every two months, depending on how all your schedules aligned. You’d worked with all of these silly assholes at one point in your life. Sometimes, they needed some time to just goof around and play some games, nothing serious. 

A few other of your colleagues joined occasionally - Rossi and Morgan loved the snark, and Emily was a fan of disturbing the testosterone with you from time to time. But all of them were busy, so it was just you and the usuals tonight. 

12 minutes later, you were welcoming everyone in, and Jane was rousing from his nap, looking even more rumpled than before. 

Spencer and Booth took their usual places in front of the TV, where you’d already queued a baseball game, and left them some snacks. The others each took a place at the table. 

You usually played just one game, so you took your place as the dealer and shuffled the cards. 

The conversation was sparse for a few minutes while you dealt the cards. 

“Why’s Clark Kent not playing?” Rick asked all of a sudden, gusting to Booth with his head. Booth usually joined the gathering every few games, still not entirely comfortable coming every time. His addiction wasn’t something that you’d brought up or were looking to bring up during a night like this. He usually stayed away from the table, engrossed in a game of baseball on tv, or bothering Reid for any useless facts and calling him a squint. 

“Let him be Rick, he needs the night out even if he isn’t playing.” Your answer was vague and it would stay that way as long as Booth wanted to be there and stay away from the game. 

“And the kid?” It was Jane’s voice, and he raised a hand and pointed at Spencer. He was usually sitting the games out too, since the last time you and Hotch had played with him he’d hustled you. 

“Go on, tell him.” You prompted Spencer, as he bookmarked the page he was reading. 

“I’m good at poker.” It wasn’t convincing and it wasn’t the truth. 

You shook your head with a laugh, “Nooo, Jane’s good at poker, Castle is good at poker. What are you good at?” You asked, your eyes meeting Aaron’s for a second. 

“I'm good at counting the cards, and banned from several casinos in Las Vegas, Laughlin, and Pahrump.” Aaron’s lips twitched, a barely there grin appearing for just a second before it disappeared again. 

“Can I borrow him for a poker night with my author buddies? Maybe even Kate? I really need a win.” Castle asked. 

“He’s not winning against Kate, Rick. She will sniff him out before he even sits at the table. Now, Ryan and Esposito, on the other hand, you can easily steal some money from.” You told him as you took a sip from your drink. 

Everyone else was having a drink - whiskey was the preferred drink at your table, Booth was having a beer and Spencer was sticking to water. 

“Anything to drink Jane?” You asked again. 

“Chamomile tea, two sugars please.” 

“You do realize this is a poker game, and not an afternoon tea with Her Majesty, right?” Harvey’s usual snark was making a comeback for the first time tonight. 

“But her Majesty’s sitting right there.” Jane's chin jutted towards Rick. It was no secret that out of every man currently in the room, Rick was probably the most pretentious one, closely followed by Harvey.

“Haha, very funny.”

“I didn't lie, did I? I highly doubt that the Ferrari parked downstairs can be bought on a government salary.” Quipped Jane.

“How do you know it's not Harvey's?”

“Because I'm not a pussy driving a bright red Ferrari around New York City, thank you very much.” Harvey threw a few chips in the center of the table. 

“Well, said Ferrari costs anywhere between 70K and 120K. A Special Agent’s salary is around 135K, and 170K a year for Supervisory Special Agents. So realistically, yeah, we can’t afford it.” Spencer shrugged, turning a page in his book, not even phased by the looks everyone was throwing at him.

“I like this kid, he’s such a squint.” Booth laughed and gave Reid’s shoulder a little pat. Spencer tensed for a second but quickly relaxed again. 

“Dammed it, I overpaid 30K for this one.” Castle scoffed, shaking his head. 

Harvey produced a business card from somewhere and slid it toward Rick. 

“In case you need it. Fair warning though, get on my nerves, and I’m giving you to Louis.”

“Aww he has a heart.” Rick pouted.

“Never repeat that, never.” The brunette warned.

“And a lot of snark.” You smiled, looking around. They all might have serious jobs during the day, but they were all extremely silly when they were off of work.

The game continued on for another 15 minutes, conversion flying by until Booth’s voice rang around you.

“Okay Jane, no offense, but I need to know. What’s your shtick? What made the FBI want to hire you as a consultant?” Seeley asked, turning a sobriety chip in his hand. 

“Ugh, offense.” 

“Oh come on,” Booth waved a hand around, “I’m one of the best sharpshooters out there,” you rolled your eyes and so did Rick, “Hotchner’s an ex-ADA, Y/N’s a weapons expert and a linguist. Reid over here is basically Einstein.” 

“Well, actually, Einstein’s IQ is believed to be somewhere between 160 and 180, and mine’s 187, so technically, I surpass Albert Einstein.” Seeley wasn’t happy being interrupted again, but he let it slide, used to being interrupted by his own team.

“So Jane, what makes you such a special asset to the FBI? You're not still pulling the psychic card, are you?” To anyone, it might seem judgmental, the way he asked, but you knew it was anything but. He was curious, but he also valued his job too much not to ask. 

Jane leaned back in his chair, laying his cards face down and his hands on top of them. He looked on over you, head to toe, and then his eyes focused on your left - to Aaron. 

You saw his eyes shine for a second, and shook your head at him, already knowing what was going to come out of his mouth. 

“There is no such thing as psychics. Just a very good eye for reading people. Like for example, all night Hotchner’s been a broody, quiet bastard, safe for any time Y/N talks. His eyes light up and he relaxes back into his chair.” You watched Aaron’s posture too tight and reached a hand under the table to lay over his leg.

You were glaring daggers in Jane's direction, but once he was on a roll, there was no stopping him. “Earlier, when she put his glass down, his fingers on the hand closest to her body, twitched. His cologne is expensive, freshly applied - he probably has a spear bottle in his office.  He's been checking his watch, waiting for the night to end, so we'd all go home. Not him though, he's staying over.”

He played with the edge of his cards as he watched all eyes turn in your direction. 

“Oh, and the murderous look he's been giving Harvey every time he catches him looking at Y/N a bit too closely. Also, the clenching of the jaw - seriously knock it off, you won't have teeth forever.” Jane warned before he leaned back into his chair, looking just a tad too proud of himself.

The silence was defeating for a few moments, no one dared to utter a word.

“I don't think they wanted that to be shared just yet.” Rick muttered

“No shit.” Aaron's fingers wrapped around your own as he gritted out.

“And I didn't want to be lied to, but alas…” Jane added, flashing you a grin.

“Oh, you petty asshole.” A grin was making its way onto your face and you didn't know why.

“Oh, I'm about to become even more of an asshole - full house.” He threw his card in the middle of the table, close to the chips.

“Awww, you really are an asshole.” Rick leaned back in his chair, defeated and pouting.

“Takes one to know one, Dicky.” He smirked.

“Are you okay with this?” You turned around and asked Aaron quietly, for a moment forgetting the room full of men you’d worked with over the years.

“I'm good, although being profiled wasn't my idea of fun for the night.” He admitted just as quietly, reaching to push your hair away.

“I'm sorry.” He went to close the space between you before you heard the scraping of chairs.

“Okay kiddos, mom and dad need us to empty the apartment. Go on, out the door.” Seeley announced. You rolled your eyes at his bullshit before you started giving goodbye hugs. 

“If Hotchner's the dad, who's the daddy?” Harvey asked jokingly as he pulled you into a hug.

“Ask Louis tomorrow.”

“I didn't need the mental picture, thank you.” He shuddered and walked towards the door with the rest.

“Don't ask dumb questions then.” You called out, before you turned towards the good Doctor, “Oh and Spence? Keep this on the down-low, would you?” You asked, still not exactly ready to share this with your team, even after having the whole thing come out this way.

He smiled sheepishly and scratched at the back of his neck, “Yeah…too late.” and just then both your and Aaron's phones went off. 

There was no question about it, there was a fun morning waiting for you tomorrow. 

Comments and reblogs are greatly appreciated!

[lucygxybaird]

imagine holding billy in your arms as he lays dying, pat garrett's gun still breathing smoke like a dragon you can't vanquish.

billy's breath is rattling in his chest, each struggling to escape, tears leaking from the corners of his eyes and over his temples. they leave stains on your skirt the color of storm clouds, stains that spread, stains that grow, like a tumor. you aren't crying. you feel as though you are being forced through the eye of a needle, everything inside you crushed and broken to fit, and in the process you are wrung dry.

his hand clutches tightly at your arm, his eyes flitting around blindly, a pair of frightened bluebirds. you stroke his forehead with your other hand as if you're his mother trying to soothe away a fever.

"hush," you whisper. "hush, hush, lie still. don't move too much."

as if it matters. as if it would save him, to lay still as a statue, a marble monument to youth bludgeoned into gray obscurity by a bullet, to tragedy, to a broken future. but you don't know what else to say, how else to comfort him.

he manages to say, in a voice cracked and sharp like shattered porcelain: "i'm scared."

"don't be scared," you say, although you're scared too.

scared of what your life is going to be when his is extinguished. scared of seeing him in every pale dawn and bitter-black night, of hearing his voice at the very edge of your hearing and turning your head toward the specter sound. scared -- even more so -- of forgetting precisely how he looks, how he sounds.

how he feels. how he tastes.

billy whimpers.

"hush," you say again. "just close your eyes, listen to me."

his eyes flutter shut.

"there's nothing to be afraid of." you swallow. "it's just like falling asleep. soon there won't be any more pain. you'll float in my arms, like you're floating in a sweet river. above you there's just blue sky, and the riverbanks are green as emeralds."

his grip on your arm softens.

"when you wake up, you'll be home," you say. "your mother will be there, your father, and joe. they're waiting for you, just like you'll wait for me. someday we'll all be together."

just not today.

"tunstall," he croaks, and you nod.

"yes, and mr. tunstall," you say. "he'll be so proud of you, billy. they all will. you fought so hard, and you've been so brave."

you lean down to press your lips against his forehead, which is clammy and slick with sweat. "you've been so brave," you say again. "i've always been so proud of you, you know that? so proud to be yours."

another kiss to his forehead. you think his skin is even cooler now than it was just a moment before.

"my love," you murmur.

you want to say, don't leave me. you want to beg him to fight, to hang on; but you can't ask that of him. not after everything he's been through, the pain he's suffered in the past and in this moment. it's time for you both to let go.

you hold him like that, hunched over with him cradled in your lap. shielding him, your hair framing his face like a curtain protecting him from the rest of the world. the world that has been so hard on him, the world he is slipping away from by degrees, as though chains are rusting away from a prisoner seeking freedom.

you keep your eyes on his face, his beloved, beautiful face, but you're aware, too, of his grip on your wrist. how it slackens moment by moment, until his fingertips are just barely resting on your sleeve. you hear him trying, fruitlessly, to catch his breath; it almost sounds like he's drowning.

he gasps, as though he's seen something astonishing, although his eyes are still closed. you think -- you're not sure, because your heartbeat is roaring in your ears, like it's attempting to remind you that you're alive despite any desire to the contrary -- that you hear him whisper, "ma?"

his hand slips away from your arm to land on the floor. the soft thump is louder than the gunshot. it echoes and it lacerates, tearing you apart inside.

when they try to take him away from you, the tears come. you struggle the best you can without letting go of him; you clutch him to you with one arm, your free hand curled into claws. you bare your teeth. you scream, you curse -- not epithets, but bitter prayers, as if you're a witch who can work dark magic.

finally, they overpower you.

they bury him. you wish you could burrow into the earth like a worm and lay down there with him.

but you know he wouldn't want that for you. so you live, despite every day, every moment, feeling like a stone in your mouth, weighing you down and entombing your speech. not that you have anything to say, not anymore.

months go by. summer is scorching. you imagine the unforgiving sun burning you up, like a dry leaf caught in a campfire. you imagine yourself as ash, drifting away in the wind.

autumn brings damp rain, keeping everyone inside. it doesn't matter to you. you can hardly bring yourself to leave your bed, despite the memories that lurk in the sheets like fleas, waiting to bite you.

winter is cold and gray, but you hardly notice the snows, the howling winds, the disconsolate pewter skies. if anything, it's only a reflection of how you feel.

and then --

despite the cruelty of the world, the frozen fist of january trying to choke the warmth out of every breath of breeze, out of each brittle beam of sunshine -- despite nothing meaning anything -- despite what feel like the greatest of odds --

spring comes again. flowers push their stubborn, colorful heads up out of the ground. the wind softens. the sun gains strength. you find yourself climbing out of bed; the floors and the chimney are swept, the windows cleaned, dishes and clothes are washed. you prop your front door open so the fresh air can come in.

one morning, you come outside to find a kitten huddled under the rocking chair on your front porch. it mewls, sounding rather cross with you, as though asking what took you so long.

you smile.

you take him inside, pour out a saucer of milk and slice up a piece of chicken. you notice, as you're holding him on your lap, that his eyes are blue.

you name him bonney.

[thyras]

→ of mourning & loss (bonus chapter)

PAIRING → mairon | annatar | sauron x female!elf!reader

WORD COUNT → 6.2k words

SERIES → of sauron & the moriquendi

WARNINGS → grief, loss, angst, dad!sauron

SUMMARY → face to face with her father for the first time in years, aerilaya confronts him about her mother.

AUTHORS NOTE → so this has a spoiler in it for the next chapter, but I never planned for this to be the ending of the story, but it was one of the possibilities. just going to post it anyways as I think we all kinda knew where i was going with their story. the next chapter is taking longer than i thought so i hope this holds y'all over till then.

masterlist // series playlist // mood board

Aerilaya pressed the tip of her blade against his throat, the steel cool and unyielding against his unnatural skin. Her emerald eyes blazed with fury, burning like embers stoked by years of pain. She had not seen him in all that time, yet here he was—a specter of the man she once knew.

He had been radiant once, his icy blue eyes and elven grace masking the darkness that had always lurked beneath. Now, that mask had fallen away. His eyes, once bright and piercing, were nothing more than endless voids, hollow and cruel. His skin, once kissed by moonlight, had been leeched of all warmth, pale as bone. Whatever remnants of the man she had once trusted, even loved, had long since rotted away.

Aerilaya’s fingers tightened around the hilt of her blade, steady despite the storm of emotions surging within her. He swept his gaze over her, unbothered by the threat of death lingering at his throat. His brow arched slightly, amusement flickering in his darkened eyes, mocking her.

“I was not expecting you,” he mused, his voice smooth but edged with something sinister. His gaze flickered to the silver chain around her neck, where a jewel shimmered, pulsing with an ethereal glow. The flames of the burning ruins around them danced upon its surface, casting fragmented reflections in the suffocating night.

For a brief moment, silence stretched between them—an aching, suffocating thing, heavy with all that had been lost. Then, he smiled. “But it warms my heart to see you, Aerilaya.”

His voice was velvety, almost tender, yet it slithered through the air like a serpent coiling around her. That smile—sickly sweet, a mockery of affection—curved his lips, sending a shiver down her spine.

Aerilaya’s heart pounded in her chest, a war drum beating against her ribs.

“I had hoped to see my daughter once more.”

The words struck her like a dagger, sharp and merciless. Daughter. The title, once sacred, now dripped with something tainted, something wrong. He was no father to her—not anymore.

Her grip on the hilt tightened, fury swallowing hesitation. She pressed the blade harder against his throat, her resolve unwavering. A dark liquid oozed from the tip where steel bit into flesh, thick and viscous, unnatural. It dripped to the ground, sizzling softly against the scorched earth, staining it like ink spilled upon an ancient parchment.

Yet still, he did not flinch. Instead, his smile widened. “You truly are the spitting image of your mother.”

Aerilaya’s face hardened, but the words struck deep, an invisible wound reopened with cruel precision. He spoke of her so freely, as if his hands were not stained with the grief that had driven her to despair. As if he had not been the one who shattered her beyond repair.

A sharp ache settled in Aerilaya’s chest, tightening like a vice around her ribs. She could still remember the way her mother had wept—silent, broken—until sorrow became too great a burden to bear. In her darkest hour, she had whispered her final plea to Nienna, the Lady of Mercy. And Nienna, ever compassionate, had answered.

She had gathered her fëa into her arms, cradling her as a mother would, and guided her into the halls of Mandos, where pain and longing no longer reached. There, at last, she had found peace. A peace Aerilaya had never been granted.

Her grip on the blade never wavered, but something burned behind her emerald eyes—rage, grief, and the unyielding weight of all she had lost.

“You speak so freely of her, snake," Aerilaya spat, her voice sharp as the blade at his throat. "But you were the cause of her pain. Her torture.”

The words trembled on the edge of grief and fury, a storm barely restrained. Her chest ached, her throat burned, but she refused to let the tears fall. Not before him. Not before the one who had shattered her mother beyond repair.

She searched his face, waiting—hoping—for something. A flicker of regret, a shadow of guilt, anything to betray that he was not as hollow as he seemed. But there was nothing. His expression remained untouched, carved from something colder than stone, a mockery of what he had once been.

Her fingers tightened around the hilt, knuckles whitening.

"Do you feel nothing?" she whispered, the question slipping past her lips before she could stop it.

Still, he did not answer.

And that silence was an answer all its own.

Aerilaya's jaw tightened, her emerald eyes narrowing as she stared into the abyss of his gaze. The silence stretched between them, thick with centuries of pain and betrayal, an unspoken chasm neither could cross.

"Nothing," she echoed, her voice barely more than a breath, fragile yet unyielding. "You truly are lost."

A low chuckle rumbled from his throat, but there was no warmth in it—only something hollow, twisted.

"I feel things, Aerilaya," he murmured, his voice smooth as silk, yet frayed at the edges. "I feel the pain of your mother’s absence."

Before she could react, he moved. A sudden shift, swift as a shadow, knocking her back a step as he rose to his full height. He loomed over her now, his presence suffocating, his darkened eyes locked onto hers.

“I ache,” he continued, his voice quieter now, almost wistful. “Because she left this world and went where I could never follow.”

Aerilaya’s breath hitched, her grip tightening on the hilt of her blade. She had spent years imagining what she would say to him if ever they stood face to face again. But the words she had prepared, the accusations, the fury—they faltered against the quiet agony laced beneath his tone.

"You could have followed," she whispered, her voice breaking against the weight of the truth. “You could have gone with her, if only you had listened.”

For the first time, something flickered in his expression—a ghost of something lost. But it was gone just as quickly, swallowed by the darkness he had long since embraced.

Aerilaya had only come to understand the truth of her father’s origins after Erynwyn and Elrond had told her. Her mother had never spoken of it, never uttered a word that might taint the image of the man Aerilaya had once loved with all her being. He had been her anchor, the guiding star by which she measured all others, the standard to which she held the world.

But those days were long gone.

Gone were the stories of a time before creatures roamed this land, before Arda had even settled into its first breath of life. Gone was the father who had once smiled so effortlessly in her mother’s presence, whose very light had radiated for her alone. Aerilaya had spent her life longing for that kind of love—to feel the unshakable bond of two souls woven together by fate itself.

To share in the beauty of Ages spent side by side. To fill them with warmth, happiness, and the promise of a child born of that sacred union.

But her mother had known the truth long before Aerilaya had. She had known that he would never change. That no matter how much light he tried to grasp, the shadow had already claimed him. It had consumed him so entirely that even his choice to live in the light had been a deception.

His greatest deception.

And it had been her mother’s last straw. The last fragile piece of love she had clung to had been smothered by the darkness he had embraced.

Elrond had told Aerilaya that after Eregion fell, her mother had been little more than a shadow of herself—heartbroken, laced with grief. Yet she had endured. She had carried on for Aerilaya’s sake, laying the foundations for her daughter to know only the light.

To ensure that Aerilaya would never fall as he had.

She had taught her to wield her gifts only for virtue, for the betterment of the world. Her power over the elements, particularly over beasts and the living things of the earth, was proof of Yavanna’s blessing. But it was in rare moments of great need that she was granted something more—a gift beyond even her mother’s teachings.

A gift of the stars.

A light so pure it could blot out the deepest shadow. A force that turned any darkened beast or figure from her path. A gift of protection from Varda herself—a preservation of the grace and radiance her mother had instilled within her.

A light that would never bow to the darkness.

Aerilaya's fingers unconsciously ghosted over the jewel resting against her breastbone, feeling its warmth pulse in time with her heartbeat. It was a piece of her mother, a lingering ember of her love and sacrifice, shining defiantly against the darkness that sought to swallow it whole. The silver chain and the gem it held had been forged by none other than the very man before her—the one she once called father. He had created it for her mother when they wed, binding light and shadow together in a union that had long since crumbled into ruin.

Sauron’s eyes followed the movement, a flicker of something passing over his features—hunger, longing, perhaps even possession.

Even now, he wished to claim that piece of her. To seize the last remnant of what had once been his, of the light that had drawn him in, ensnared him in the promise of redemption. The light that, for a fleeting moment, had made him yearn to walk a different path.

But that moment had passed.

Now, he coveted it for what it could do—for the power it held, for what it might grant him. His desire was no longer for the love it once symbolized, but for how he could twist it to serve his will.

Aerilaya’s fingers curled protectively around the jewel, her grip tightening as its warmth pulsed against her palm, steady and resolute. She met Sauron’s gaze, unflinching.

"You cannot have it," she said, her voice low and fierce. "This light was never meant for you."

A shadow passed over Sauron's face, his features contorting, shifting into something cruel and insatiable. "Oh, but it was, Aerilaya," he murmured, his voice like a silken snare. "It was always meant for me. Do you not see? Eru himself wove us into existence together—light and shadow, twined in a harmony that could never be broken."

He stepped forward, slow and deliberate, his presence thick and suffocating. Aerilaya tensed, her blade rising between them in silent warning.

But Sauron paid it no heed. His gaze remained fixed on the jewel at her throat, as though it called to him in ways neither steel nor words could deter.

"I forged that jewel for her," he continued, his voice dipping into something almost reverent. "In a light as pure as Aman itself. It holds a part of me, just as it holds a part of your mother."

His fingers, cold and relentless, reached toward it, seeking to reclaim what he had lost.

Aerilaya jerked back, her grip on the jewel tightening until it burned against her skin. A shudder ran down her spine as his voice slithered closer, each syllable a whispered ghost of a past she refused to acknowledge.

"I vowed to her that night," he murmured, a glint of something dangerous in his darkened eyes. "That she would never be parted from me. Never again."

But she had been.

By her own will.

By the mercy of the Valar.

And Aerilaya would not let him defile that mercy now.

“Let her be at peace. Let her know the light of Aman, for she has suffered too long.”

Aerilaya’s voice wavered, but her resolve did not. Tears spilled down her cheeks in silent streams, tracing paths of grief across her flawless skin. She did not try to stop them. Not now. Not when she was pleading for the one who had given her life, for the mother who had borne the weight of love and loss alike.

“Let her have those memories, those pieces of you that she now finds comfort in. Let her be as she was when we were a family—happy, joyous, full of life.”

Sauron's expression flickered—an unreadable shift in his ever-darkened gaze. A shadow of something long buried, some fractured remnant of a feeling he had once known.

For the briefest moment, he seemed to waver.

“Peace,” he echoed, the word slipping from his lips as though he had never spoken it before, never tasted its meaning. His eyes drifted past Aerilaya, unfocused, searching for something unseen beyond the charred ruins that surrounded them. When he spoke again, his voice was softer, almost distant.

“Do you think she sits in the gardens of Lórien, basking in the light of the Two Trees? That she walks among Melian and the others, free from the burdens of this world?” A bitter smile twisted his lips. “Or does she wander the Halls of Mandos, reliving every moment of her life—every joy, every sorrow?”

His voice, once cold steel, turned to something quieter, something raw.

“Does she remember the warmth of my embrace? The nights we spent whispering dreams to one another? Or has she cast it all away, erased me from her memory as though I never existed?”

Aerilaya’s fingers tightened around the hilt of her sword, her knuckles white with fury.

“You have no right to speak of her,” she hissed, her voice trembling under the weight of barely contained rage. “No right to wonder about her fate when you were the one who drove her to it.”

Sauron’s gaze snapped back to her, the softness vanishing, swallowed whole by something dark and violent.

“I loved her,” he growled, his voice laced with something dangerously close to pain. “More than you could ever understand.”

Aerilaya’s breath hitched, her grief and anger coiling into something sharp, something merciless.

“Love?” she spat the word like venom. “You know nothing of love. You twisted it, tainted it until it was nothing but a weapon in your hands—”

Before she could finish, his hands shot forward, gripping her wrists with an ironclad hold.

The blade fell from her grasp.

The world around them wavered.

And then—

Darkness.

A shift in time, in space. The cold ruins, the fire, the pain—they were gone.

Aerilaya gasped as the world pulled her under, not into blackness, but into something else.

A memory.

One that still lived in the fractured, dying ember of the man he used to be.

Aerilaya blinked, disoriented by the sudden shift. The charred ruins, the suffocating heat of fire and smoke—all of it was gone. In its place, a garden stretched before her, bathed in soft, ethereal light. The air was sweet with the scent of night-blooming flowers, their delicate petals glowing beneath the silver radiance of the stars. A gentle breeze whispered through the towering trees, their silver leaves rustling like a distant melody.

She knew this place, though she did not remember it being as such.

Eregion.

Not as it lay now in ruin, but as it had been in its prime—before shadow and flame had ravaged its beauty, before betrayal had sunk its fangs into the heart of all that was good.

A melodic laugh drifted through the air, light and carefree, like the chiming of distant bells. Aerilaya’s heart clenched as she turned toward the sound. Beneath an archway of intertwined vines and starlit blossoms, she saw her mother.

She was radiant.

Her hair cascaded down her back like liquid starlight, shimmering with an ethereal glow. Her eyes, bright with love and joy, reflected the very light of the stars. She wore a flowing gown of deep cerulean, silver embroidery catching the light like woven constellations. The sight of her, untouched by sorrow, unhardened by grief, stole the breath from Aerilaya’s lungs.

She had never seen her mother like this—so full of life, so unburdened.

And then she saw him.

He stepped into view, his movements fluid and assured, his presence commanding without effort. His arm slipped around her mother’s waist, drawing her close with effortless familiarity. Aerilaya's breath hitched as she gazed upon the face of the man her father had once been.

Mairon.

His eyes—clear and piercing, like the sky over the sea—held no trace of the darkness that would later consume him. They shone with something Aerilaya had never known from him: unguarded devotion. His smile, free of cruelty or cunning, was warm and genuine as he looked upon the woman in his arms.

"Mairon," her mother whispered, reaching up to caress his cheek.

The name struck Aerilaya like a physical blow. Mairon. Not Sauron. Not the monster he had become. But the being he had once been—the one her mother had loved.

She watched, transfixed, as Mairon leaned into her mother’s touch, his eyes closing briefly, as if savoring the warmth of her palm against his skin. When he opened them again, they burned with an intensity that stole even the breath from memory itself.

“My love,” he murmured, his voice a low caress, rich with devotion. “Divine.”

His fingers traced the curve of her cheek before coming to rest upon the jewel at her breastbone—the same jewel that now hung around Aerilaya’s own neck, years later. In this memory, the gem pulsed with a gentle, living light, as though it breathed in tandem with their love.

“Do you remember the day I gave this to you?” Mairon asked, his thumb gliding over its smooth surface.

Her mother smiled, and the sheer beauty of it made Aerilaya’s heart ache. It was a smile untouched by sorrow, unmarred by regret—a sight she scarcely remembered.

Mairon’s gaze drifted downward, his expression softening further as his hand ghosted over the gentle swell of her mother’s stomach. Beneath the flowing fabric, Aerilaya lay, not yet born, cradled in warmth and light.

“My greatest inspiration,” her mother whispered, placing her hand over his. “My light in the darkness. May you wear this, so I am never truly parted from you.”

Her eyes sparkled against his soft gaze, and for a moment, they stood together—whole, unbroken, untouched by the tragedy yet to come.

Aerilaya felt her knees weaken beneath her as she watched.

For the first time in her life, she saw them as they had been.

Before the fall. Before the lies. Before everything was lost.

The vision shattered like fragile glass, dissolving into the acrid air of the present. Aerilaya gasped as the scent of sweet night-blooming flowers faded, replaced by the stench of smoke and ruin. The warmth of a life that once was—one she had never known—slipped through her fingers like sand, leaving only the cold weight of reality.

Sauron—no, Mairon—stood before her, his grip on her wrists loosening. His eyes, no longer the piercing blue of the vision but fathomless voids, searched her face. For a fleeting moment, he seemed unsure, untethered. A man caught between past and present.

"Do you see now?" he whispered, his voice rough, raw with something Aerilaya couldn't name. "Do you understand what was lost?"

Her breath came in ragged gasps, her mind struggling to reconcile the man she had just seen with the being before her. The father who had held her mother so tenderly, who had spoken with devotion, who had placed a reverent hand on the swell of her stomach—where had he gone?

Was he ever truly there?

"I..." she began, but the words caught in her throat. For a moment, the monster before her was gone, replaced by a ghost—a shadow of what could have been. "I see what was," she finally said, her voice wavering. "What you chose to throw away."

Sauron's grip tightened, his fingers pressing into her skin like iron shackles. His eyes darkened, pain flashing behind them before twisting into anger.

"I did not throw it away," he hissed. "It was taken from me."

Aerilaya wrenched free, stumbling back, her hand flying to the jewel at her throat. The warmth of it pulsed against her skin, steady, grounding.

"No," she said, her voice gathering strength. "You chose this path. You chose darkness over her—over us. You deceived her, even when she begged you to turn back."

She swallowed hard, her grief sharp-edged and burning. Then, her eyes locked onto his, ablaze with a fire that once—perhaps—mirrored his own.

"You killed her," Aerilaya whispered, the words laced with quiet fury. "You killed her with grief and sorrow."

Sauron's face contorted, a storm of emotion flickering across his features. For the briefest moment, he looked almost—human. Vulnerable. Lost.

But then, as swiftly as it had come, the moment passed. The mask of cruelty slid back into place.

"You speak of things you do not understand, child," he snarled, his voice like distant thunder. "The choices I made were necessary. The power I sought—it was all for her, for us."

Aerilaya shook her head, tears burning her vision. "No," she whispered. "It was for you. Always for you."

She stepped back, her hand clutching the jewel as its warmth pulsed stronger, as if responding to the storm raging between them.

"She loved you," Aerilaya continued, her voice trembling with the weight of truth. "She believed in you—until the very end. But you twisted that love into something unrecognizable."

Sauron's eyes darkened, a tempest brewing within their depths. For a heartbeat, Aerilaya saw something fracture—a glimpse of the man from the vision, the one her mother had loved, the one who had once spoken her name with reverence.

But it vanished just as quickly, swallowed whole by the abyss.

"You know nothing of what transpired," he snarled, taking a slow, menacing step forward. "Nothing of the choices I was forced to make. Of the sacrifices—"

"Sacrifices?" Aerilaya’s voice sharpened, cutting through the air like a blade. "What did you sacrifice, truly?" Her eyes burned with accusation. "Your conscience?"

Sauron recoiled, his expression flashing with something that might have been pain. A wound long buried, suddenly laid bare.

But then, just as quickly, he recovered. His features hardened into a cold mask of fury.

"You dare speak to me of sacrifice?" he hissed, his voice low, dangerous. "I, who have given everything for the greater order of this world?"

He advanced, his presence suffocating, shadows pooling at his feet like a tide of darkness.

"I offered her the world, Aerilaya," he continued, his voice thick with conviction. "A place where she could walk unshackled by the burden of the Morgoth’s curse. We could have been a family still." His expression twisted, anger warring with something dangerously close to longing. "She threw it away."

Aerilaya did not move. Her heart pounded in her chest, but she stood her ground.

"She wanted none of that," she retorted, her voice steel despite the tremor in her breath. "She wanted you. The real you. Not this..." she gestured at him, her voice thick with sorrow and rage, "this twisted shadow you've become."

For a moment—just a moment—his mask cracked. The glimmer of something human, something aching, flickered behind his darkened gaze.

But then it was gone. Replaced by cold certainty.

"Mairon died long ago," he said, his tone eerily calm. "And even if your mother still saw good in me, it would have never been enough for her."

He sighed, almost as if speaking to himself now.

"She doubted me at every turn," he murmured, his eyes dark, distant. "Held onto petty notions of the being I once was. Redemption is not earned through love. It is earned through peace. Through order."

Aerilaya's heart clenched, a storm of emotions surging through her—grief, fury, pity.

"You still don't understand," she whispered, her voice barely audible.

Sauron’s eyes snapped back to her, narrowing into dark slits of fury. "What don’t I understand, child?" he hissed, his voice low, dangerous—a blade hidden in shadow.

Aerilaya stood firm, though the weight of centuries pressed down upon her shoulders. The chasm of loss and betrayal stretched wide between them, yet she did not waver. Her emerald eyes burned with an unyielding fire, one that would not be swallowed by darkness.

"Love," she said simply. The word hung between them, quiet yet powerful.

Sauron scoffed, but there was something in the way his jaw tensed, in the way his hands curled into fists at his sides—something that betrayed him.

Aerilaya pressed on.

"True love doesn’t seek to change or control," she continued, her voice steady despite the tremor in her heart. "It accepts. It nurtures. It grows."

Her fingers curled protectively around the jewel at her throat, its warmth a steady pulse against her skin, as if her mother’s spirit stirred within it.

"She saw the light in you," Aerilaya said, her voice softening. "Even when you couldn’t see it yourself. She believed in you. She chose to believe that the goodness in you had not been completely consumed by shadow."

Sauron’s expression twisted, his features contorting under the weight of something unspoken.

For a fleeting moment, she saw it—the ghost of the man from the vision. Mairon, standing beneath starlit blossoms, his clear blue eyes alight with devotion, his hands cradling her mother with reverence.

His mask cracked.

Pain flickered across his face, raw and unguarded. His lips parted as if to speak, but no words came.

Then—the moment passed.

A flicker of grief. Then fury.

Sauron’s face hardened, his expression twisting into a snarl of denial, of defiance. His eyes burned with something dark and unrelenting, swallowing whatever brief weakness had surfaced.

"You speak as if love is some divine force," he spat, his voice laced with venom. "Some unshakable power that bends the will of all who encounter it. But love is fragile, Aerilaya. It is fleeting. It fails."

His gaze darkened further, shadows coiling around him like living things.

"And when it fails," he whispered, stepping closer, his voice dangerously low, "it is nothing more than a weapon. A tool to shackle and blind those foolish enough to believe in it."

Aerilaya’s breath caught in her throat, but she refused to step back.

"That’s where you’re wrong," she said, her voice like tempered steel. "Love is not weakness. It is not a weapon. It is the one thing the shadow will never understand."

Sauron's expression flickered—an almost imperceptible hesitation. But then his fury returned, colder than ice, hotter than flame.

"Then you are just as blind as she was," he said.

Aerilaya’s grip on the jewel tightened.

"And you," she whispered, "are more lost than I ever imagined."

For a moment, silence stretched between them, heavy with everything unsaid.

The silence stretched between them, heavy and suffocating, thick with all that had been lost. Aerilaya’s words lingered in the air like a final judgment, reverberating through the shattered ruins around them. For a heartbeat, Sauron remained still, his face carved into an unreadable mask.

Then—he moved.

Faster than a striking viper, his hand shot out, reaching for the jewel at Aerilaya’s throat. His fingers, cold as iron, grazed the silver chain, but she was faster.

With the reflexes honed by centuries of battle and bitter expectation, she twisted away, her grip closing protectively around the gem.

"No," she breathed, her voice barely more than a whisper—yet filled with unyielding resolve.

Sauron’s eyes ignited with fury, but beneath it, something flickered—something darker, rawer. Desperation. Or perhaps—longing.

His gaze burned into hers, his presence suffocating, his form wreathed in shifting shadows.

"Give it to me," he snarled, stalking forward with slow, deliberate steps, a predator cornering its prey. "It was never meant for you."

Aerilaya stood her ground, her heart hammering, but her grip did not falter. She could feel the warmth of the jewel pulsing against her palm, steady, unwavering—a heartbeat not her own.

"This was hers," she said, her voice a quiet storm. "It was forged for her—by you. You cannot take back what was freely given."

Sauron’s face twisted, his expression unreadable, torn between anger and something far more dangerous.

"I forged it," he murmured, his voice low and almost reverent. "I shaped it with my own hands, with light I captured in the fires of my own making. It carries a piece of her—and a piece of me. It belongs to me as much as it ever did to her."

Aerilaya’s fingers tightened around the jewel.

"And yet, she chose to give it to me."

A muscle in Sauron’s jaw tensed. His fingers flexed at his sides, as if struggling to contain himself.

"She is gone," he said at last, his voice quieter now, but no less sharp. "Clutching that trinket will not bring her back."

Aerilaya’s breath shuddered through her, but she lifted her chin, emerald eyes locking onto his with unwavering defiance.

"No," she said, "but it will keep you from defiling what remains of her light."

For a fraction of a second, something flickered in his expression—a shadow of the man from the vision. A sliver of grief, buried so deep beneath centuries of cruelty that it barely existed anymore.

But then, just as quickly, it was gone.

Sauron’s face twisted into a snarl, his eyes darkening into fathomless voids. The air thickened, pressing against Aerilaya like an unseen force, the very atmosphere trembling under the weight of his wrath. Shadows coiled at his feet like living things, writhing, shifting, reaching—hungry.

"You speak of defiling her light?" he hissed, his voice a blade honed to cut deep. "I sought to build altars in her name, for all to revere her as I did. To worship even one like you."

He took a step forward, his presence suffocating, his movements slow and deliberate.

Aerilaya did not move.

Then, to her surprise, he reached for her.

His hand, cold yet impossibly gentle, lifted toward her cheek. She did not flinch.

For this moment alone, she allowed it.

His fingertips brushed her skin, a ghost of a touch—something that might have once been tender, but now felt like a whisper from the past.

"You are as beautiful as Lúthien herself," he murmured, his voice softer now, almost reverent. "A flame of eternal light, carved by the hands that shaped you—the hands of a Moriquendi and a Maia."

Aerilaya’s breath caught, not from fear, but from the weight of the truth in his words. She had always known her lineage, but to hear him speak of it—to acknowledge it, to honor it—felt like standing at the precipice of something ancient and powerful.

But she would not be swayed.

She reached up, her own hand closing around his wrist—not in acceptance, but in restraint.

"You speak of worship," she said, her voice steady, unshaken. "But worship is not love."

His expression flickered, a crack in the stone.

"You claim to have honored her," she continued, her emerald eyes burning. "Yet you destroyed all that she held dear. You claim to have loved her, yet you twisted that love into a cage. And when she could not live within it—you let her die."

A shadow passed over his face, something dark and deep and aching.

His fingers twitched against her cheek—then withdrew.

"You think you know love," he whispered, his voice barely more than breath. "But love is a force far older than you, Aerilaya. Older than even I.” He paused. “I never meant for any of this, never meant to drive her away. I only did as I saw fit.”

The silence between them stretched, thick with centuries of grief and regret. His words had settled between them like the final toll of a bell, reverberating through the shattered remnants of all they had lost.

Sauron—Mairon—stood before her, no longer the unshakable force she had always known him to be. His expression, once so meticulously controlled, had fractured. His shoulders, which had borne the weight of ages, sagged as if the truth she had spoken had finally sunk its fangs into his very soul.

And yet, his eyes—once dark voids of hunger and fury—now shimmered with something Aerilaya had never expected to see.

Tears.

"You're right," he whispered, his voice raw, brittle as glass. "I lied to myself. I twisted the truth until I could no longer see it."

His eyes drifted past her, lost in the ghosts of what had been. "I loved her," he continued, his voice breaking under the weight of the admission. "More than anything in this world or beyond it. But I was afraid."

Aerilaya’s breath caught in her throat. She had never imagined she would hear such words from him, the being she had spent a century despising, the one she had blamed for all her mother’s suffering.

"Afraid of what?" she asked softly, hardly daring to believe this moment of vulnerability.

Sauron's gaze remained distant, unfocused, as if he could still see her mother standing before him, radiant in her love.

"Of losing her," he murmured. "Of being unworthy of her light. I thought... if I could reshape the world, make it perfect, then perhaps..."

His voice faltered, dissolving into silence. He looked lost—adrift in memories of what could have been.

Aerilaya swallowed against the lump in her throat. Despite everything—despite the devastation he had wrought, despite the choices he had made—she ached for him. For the father she had never truly known, the man who had once cradled her in reverent hands, who had adored her mother beyond reason.

"But you did lose her," Aerilaya whispered. "By trying to control her, to reshape her world, you pushed her away."

Sauron's eyes snapped back to hers, a storm raging behind them. "I never meant—" he began, but the words faltered, as if they no longer held weight.

For a long moment, the air between them was thick with everything unsaid, everything too late to change.

Then, slowly, hesitantly, Sauron reached out.

His fingers trembled as they hovered near the jewel at Aerilaya's throat—the very last remnant of her mother, the final link to a love long buried beneath centuries of ruin.

"May I?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

Aerilaya hesitated. Her instincts screamed to refuse, to pull away, to protect this piece of her mother from the very man who had driven her to despair.

But then she saw it—the vulnerability in his gaze, the unspoken plea buried beneath the weight of all his sins.

Slowly, she nodded.

His fingers brushed against the jewel, and in an instant, it pulsed with a brilliant, ethereal light. A warmth unlike anything Aerilaya had ever felt surged through her, spreading from the gem and wrapping around her like an embrace. A love so pure, so fierce, it stole the breath from her lungs.

Sauron gasped softly, his eyes widening in something like awe.

"She’s still here," he murmured, his voice thick with wonder and grief. "After all this time..."

His fingers lingered on the jewel, and for the first time in all her years, Aerilaya saw the impossible.

A single tear slipped down his cheek.

"I'm sorry," he whispered, his voice breaking. "I'm so sorry."

The words hung in the air between them, fragile and raw. A confession years too late, yet filled with a depth of pain Aerilaya had never known he was capable of.

Her hand moved of its own accord, covering his where it rested on the jewel. Its warmth pulsed beneath their joined fingers, a steady heartbeat of light and memory.

"She loved you," Aerilaya said softly, her own tears falling freely now. "Even at the end. Even when it broke her heart."

Sauron's eyes met hers, and for the first time, she saw the full depth of his torment—centuries of longing, of regret, of sorrow so vast it threatened to consume him whole.

How long had he endured, shackled by the choices he had made? How many times had he dreamed of her mother, only to wake in the darkness of his own making? How much had it destroyed him to know she had chosen peace over him?

Aerilaya saw him now—not as the tyrant, not as the Dark Lord, not as the shadow looming over Middle-earth.

But as a man.

A man who had once held everything—and lost it all.

Her grip on the jewel tightened, and she took a shaky breath.

"Is this what you wanted?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

Sauron blinked, his brow furrowing. "...What?"

"This," she gestured around them—the ruin, the darkness, the power that weighed so heavily upon him. "Did it bring you what you wanted? Did it ever fill the emptiness?"

A muscle in Sauron’s jaw twitched. He looked away, but not before she saw it—the hesitation, the doubt.

The answer was there, unspoken.

And for the first time, Aerilaya saw it.

He did not know.

For all his centuries of conquest, for all his hunger for dominion, he did not know if it had ever been worth it.

And that was the greatest tragedy of all.

[seattlesellie]

knight!ellie x princess!reader drabble. ♡🗡️🕯️

an: since i’m thinking of writing a full fic of knight ellie x princess reader i wanted to know what you guys think ! let me know if i should turn this into something way longer. just a lil peak of the themes of a longer fic 💗

cw: mature themes, reader is a little lonely, tension.

the moon is so bright, so big, so white, luminous, it reflects in her emerald eyes and renders them almost mystical, bordering on the verge of the unreal. one couldn't help but wonder if she herself was not entirely real, a specter of dreams made flesh. do you recall those distant days of childhood? just eight years old, insisting that your imaginary friend — aurora, was right by your side? you clung to her like a lifeline. you'd shed tears as your mother, the reigning queen, denied the request for an extra place setting, an empty plate reserved for aurora alone. how you fell asleep bawling, tasting salt on your tongue, bitter and sickening, feeling as if you were drowning in your sleep, the specter of aurora growing gaunt and wretched, as though starved for existence.

how you woke up plagued by guilt, tormented by a high fever and a stubborn eye infection, crying and screaming for your imaginary best friend. and how from that day on, the castle fell empty. you wandered around, through those regal halls like a specter, floating like a brittle ghost, nodding politely when a maid curtsied in reverence, offering a feeble smile to the steward as he addressed you as his cherished princess.

you filled your duties, all your royal obligations, attended to your classes, spoke only when spoken to by your parents, ignored when another royal called you a “loony” when catching you in the midst of a conversation with several alabaster rabbits.

you formed a connection with the world around you, a bond that ran far deeper than what met the eye, and now one knew.

you rub on your eyelids with the back of your hand, and blink in dismay — oh, you’ve been mistaken, she is real, and her abdomen rises and falls with each breath, the clang of her armor a testament to her existence, to your sanity. her eyelids flutter, and her throat subtly moves as she swallows. a strand of her auburn hair sways in the wind too, but sweet aurora’s hair also danced in the breeze, so who knows.

sometimes it all is simply too blurry.

for now, you choose to believe.

the grass tickles your bare toes, you don’t laugh.

“hate being a princess” you mutter with a sigh, tilting your head to the side — her side, to see if perhaps she vanished like the rest of them, yet finding her there.

her role as a knight is dictated with silence in your presence, a mere executor of commands from your father with a duty to bow in submission, so she doesn’t respond. all she has to do is be your protector, keep you safe and guarded, make sure you won’t try and run once more.

she’s also not supposed to help you with your clandestine escapades from the castle, she’s not supposed to lay in the tall royal gardens ridiculously green grass with the princess, to allow the opulent and delicate fabric of her dress to gently brush against the barest portion of her knee. yet — she allows it.

she’s not supposed to help you pick flowers and greet you good morning, she was supposed to be unyielding as stone, almost ephemeral yet ever-present.

and now your ankle shifted to rest gently against hers, and she didn’t even nudge you.

“i despise it” you repeat. you try and voice your frustration but it comes off as too soft. ellie typically abhorred anything soft. she’d rather sleep on a hard mattress than a plush one, favored stomping over floating.

and yet you seem to be an exception.

you seem to be an exception for lots of things.

and ellie doesn’t respond. she blinks at the full moon and it blinks back at her.

“do you like being a knight?”

you think you may have heard a breathy chuckle. you’re unsure, you sigh.

“ellie?”

and she never told you her name. you figured it out by yourself.

then she begins, pink tongue folding and moistening her lower lip. “i like being your knight”, she blinks thrice, in a hurry — like she said something wrong, as though she feared she might have offended anyone else whose knight she was not. she takes a deep breath, for some reason it's shaky.

“i like, i- need, to protect the kingdom. it’s my duty. for the sake of your father, the people, you — you know that, my princess”

and usually you’d cringe when addressed with that title. you voiced it already — that title isn’t you, you don’t want it, it felt like a burdensome label imposed or cursed upon your birth, but for some reason, when she says it ; “my princess” it feels like her “my”, is the one that holds the power to cloud your mind. and that’s why you don’t argue that it isn’t your name, because she calls you as hers, and oh how bad you want to be hers.

you overheard the conversations among the other young royals, who spoke in hushed tones about "crushes." you eves dropped and furrowed your brows intently when they talked about the charming sable boy, a dark haired prince from a faraway land, an adviser. they described the feeling of having a crush as if they were “falling”, “giddy”, “thrilled”, “like riding a horse, really really fast”

and it never really happened to you, albeit you really did try. you just accepted it, you’d be crush-less forever, forced to marry a crush-less prince, forced to live a crush-less life.

then you met knight ellie.

it happened when she removed her bascinet, when she casually tossed her tousled auburn locks from side to side, when she smiled that sly smirk then immediately wiped it off and glued her gaze to the stone wall. it was in the way her eyes met yours, her all but graceful bow, and the sound of her armored knee meeting the ground, when she chuckled after winning the battle of who would be the princesses knight. how cocky she looked as her arm was raised in triumph, only to transform into humble grace when officially declared the winner.

but it wasn't a feeling akin to falling; it was more like crashing down. you also didn’t feel giddy, you felt nauseous and tight everywhere, you weren’t thrilled you were petrified, and you didn’t ride a horse really fast — it was more like being thrown off the horse and crashing onto the ground, nose-first.

so it didn’t feel like crushing, it felt like something else. and you really had to go to the washroom.

“you don’t… owe anything to the kingdom, or to my father” you murmur.

she really doesn’t. it got her family starved, killed. “i do” she lies, swallowing thickly. “also, i really don’t need protection” then you lie, rolling your eyes with a huff.

she'd call you a brat if she wasn't your knight, and if she knew for certain that you wouldn't go running to your father after being offended.

“i should run away” you muse, idly toying with the hem of your dress. ellie sees the bare flesh of your thigh and she feels like maybe she shall run away as well. then her breath hitches down her throat, and she really hates it because this isn't the first time. perhaps she's sick, a throat infection. it's getting very hard to breathe.

t'must be the armor, the decides.

then she decided it's not.

it's simply the cold night air. definitely not your naked thigh, or your hunger to be free, or the way your dress flows with the wind, or the way your eyelashes flutter and your fingertips tap tap tap on your plushy lips.

“should i fetch the horse then, my princess? which one d'ya want, charlie... or buster, maybe. he's a strong one” ellie croons then swallows a chuckle.

she’s also not supposed to joke with you. or to stare at your thigh, or to let you place your head on her armored chest.

“yes” you reply like she’s serious.

then a cloud veils the once-bright moon, and your knight clears her throat.

“i should take you to your room, freedom warrior, s’getting late”

“you shall take me to the forest to pick some blackberries, knight”

ellie chuckles and argues back. “i shall not”

“disobeying a royal?” you say with a wink.

you might actually be the death of her.

[novankenn]

What If...

Pyrrha was also under the sway of Salem Cinder and Pyrrha love each other (Pompeii)

Scene : Beach of the EverAfter / Paper Pleasers Village

==> @soundkiller0017 What if Pyrrha destroys the paper pleaser village in a anger attack (beacuse she realise that she traded a really good live for a one in survice to a Queen that disent care of her and a manipulative lover) and after destroying the village she is met by a ROYALY PISS, ANGRY AND MERCILLES Jaune, Neo and Team RWBY who would give her a fate worse than death.1Hide replies

==> @watcher-servant The betrayer Spartan had stayed there... left in thought of what just happened. So with strain, she picked up her spear and walked on as much as she could. Coming upon a village, one so fragile so peaceful it only raged her all of this felt like a slap to her choices. So what did she do..she raged the peaceful village she came upon she destroyed...only when she stopped when she realized what she done, she would see a familiar umbrella appear before and it's holder looking very disappointed as a loud and very familiar yell is heard.

==> A/N - No redemption for the Spartan? You all REALLY seem set on me offing this Pyrrha! ==> A/N - In this version... Only Jaune and Pyrrha "fell", though I will do an OMAKE with Neo and RWBY also "falling" in a later post.

She had no idea how much time had past since she found herself near death upon this small stretch of sandy beach. Weeks? Months? Days just ran into each other, as she attempted to heal, and regain her original strength. She felt alone, yet she wasn't. She found herself at odd times seeing things, most notably the wraith of Cinder standing in the shadows of the forest edge. Gesturing for her to follow.

Then there was the more heart breaking ones. The image of her mother standing in the surf, a heart broken look upon her teary face. The exact look she wore when Cinder helped Pyrrha remove her as an obstacle to Pyrrha's relationship with Cinder. Had she made a mistake listening to Cinder's whispered words?

At odd times she also saw Jaune. Kneeling on the sands, just at the limit of her vision. Impaled through the chest with Milo, though these rare visions were accompanied with her seeing the rusted armor clade knight. His sheathed sword held in his hand, standing as if watching her.

Her nights were filled with whispers and nightmares. Words of condemnation, accompanied the angered and hurt looks of her former team and friends. Yet the whispers didn't alone happen during the darkest parts of the night. They also began to happen during her other visions, as well.

"Why?" was all that the figment of her mother would say. Over and over, in a maddening rhythmic cadence.

"Join me. Let us take this place." Cinder's seductive voice would float past her ears, even when her image was unseen. "They are weak... powerless. Show them your strength."

"Why linger here? Why allow the weak celebrate and flourish?" were Cinder's other enticing words. "Why remain here? Rotting away alone with nothing? Honor me. Prove to me the strength that drew me to you, still exists."

Yet, Pyrrha continued. Eking out an existence, as her strength grew, and the voices continued their relentless assault. Slowly of the was it days? Weeks? Months? Her resolve and intention to seek redemption was worn away. An anger smoldered in her heart. Embers of hate aimed at those who had what she had always craved. Acceptance, joy and love. Everything Jaune had taken from her.

Finally feeling strong enough to venture into the forest, she walked away from the specters of her mother and Jaune, to join the wraith of Cinder in the shadows. She felt the touch of Cinder's searing kisses upon her cheek and lips, and with her cold emerald eyes closed she revealed and celebrated the tainted embraces, before opening her eyes and taking the first step on her new jounrey.

The residents and inhabitants of this strange, nonsensical place seemed to reflexively avoid her. Hiding as she passed by. Her burning eyes, and wild unkept mane of flowing crimson a promise of what would happen if they crossed her path. The isolation gnawed upon her, as Cinder's seductive, wanton words eroded any thoughts that did not focus on her injustice punishment and isolated imprisonment. Pyrrha's mind twisted by the ghost of Cinder's venom raged at the loss of her happiness. Of a future with the woman she had given her heart.

Days blurred into one another, and time seem to crawl as she stalked through twisted land. A cruel smile crossed her lips when she found them. A village, of star shaped people. Foolish and cumbersome. The sound of their happy voices, and the sight of the idyllic scene, fanned the flames of rage.

"Punish them. Take what has been taken from you, my love." was the whisper of Cinder's poisonous, tainted words in her ear. "Take, and show them what your pain is..."

It was a slaughter. The razor edge of her spear cleaved the fragile people asunder. Her brute strength, bolstered with absolute burning hateful rage, allowing her to lay waste to all in her path. Her eyes shined at the carnage, her lips twisted with cruel joy as she unleashed her true self upon them. Cinder's venomous laughter following her every step as she unleashed desolation upon the people before her.

"I am Pyrrha Nikos!" she screamed in putrid victory, as she stood in the middle of the razed village. "Hear me, and lament! This world is mine!"

The creak of armor, from her right caused her to turn. Her sick smile becoming cruel, her eyes shining in delight. There he was, one of her tormentors. The liar who promised absolution. He who left her to wallow in misery and suffering.

"Look upon what I am!" Pyrrha cackled. "I am death! I am destruction! Bow knee to me and serve!"

"Disgusting." was his hollow response. "You were given the chance to become more than this disease, hateful creature you are now."

"This is who I am! Why should I deny myself from that which was taken from me? Happiness, love, acceptance! I was robbed of all this!"

"You could have found that all and more if you had followed a true path." the knight replied, while reaching up with his free hand to take hold of his helmet. "Your sins are many in this life and the last. Look upon me... and know..."

"Know..." Pyrrha's words caught in her throat, as the knight's helm fell discarded upon the ground. After several long moments she was able to croak out, "Jaune?"

"Look upon the face or your accuser... your judge... your jury..." with perfect motion, he drew his sword from its sheath, tossing the empty vessel aside without a care. "and... executioner."

Pyrrha was given no chance to respond, as Jaune was upon her in an instant. His blows were precise, and without equal as he unleash impassive, cold, judgement upon her. She railed against his onslaught, but if he was a monster the last time she faced him... now he was akin to demon.

She used all her skills, ever tactic, trick and tool at her disposal, yet she was found wanting in all regards. With a missed attack, Jaune gave Pyrrha an opening, that she desperately took. It was a feint, a purposeful misdirection. His response to her spear thrust, was simple and effective. Twisting to the side, he changed the direction of his longsword chopping in down upon the haft of her weapon.

Over balanced, Pyrrha was unable to recover before the keen edge of his blade split her open just below her breasts. She screamed in pain, her hand relinquishing it's hold upon her spear as she stumbled and fell backwards to the battle torn ground. Her eyes grew wide with fear as Jaune turned, and chambered his sword for a final strike.

"Cinder! Help me!" Pyrrha screamed out in a voice filled with utter desperation. A voice that was chocked off, as the vision of her love that had walked at her side for so long, gave her a cruel smile and faded away. "Cinder!"

Jaune's blade bit deep into her flesh, causing her to scream and screech in agony, as he drove in deeper and deeper. reaching down her twisted his hand in her matted mass of crimson hair, and pulled her to a seat position, eliciting a agonized cry. tears filled her eyes, as she finally understood what she truly had and was loosing.

She felt Jaune's warm skin touch her forehead. He teary eyes focusing on his now remorse filled blues.

"I prayed you would choose the correct path." he whispered. "That you would find and become the woman you had been at Beacon."

"Jau..." Pyrrha tried to speak, blood trickling over his lips.

"It seems that woman, was nothing but an facade to hide the cancer you truly are." Jaune continued to whisper. "Goodbye Pyrrha, may you finally find peace in death."

With those final words, Jaune pushed forward, driving his aged blade completely through her. Impaling the tainted heart of one he would have considered a friend. He watched, with tearless but remorseful eyes as Pyrrha's grew wide with the pain, and then dull as the light of life finally left her.

Withdrawing his weapon, he stood, and then went to work. As the sun began to sink past the horizon, Jaune finished his work. A small pile of stones places upon freshly turned soil. A spear, driven blade first at the head of the pile. he said no words, but just looked upon the fresh grave, before turning. retrieving his cast aside belongs, he sheathed his blade, and then seated his rusted helm upon his head, hiding his face in shadow.

"Goodbye." were the last words he spoke, before walking away, never to return to this place again.

[witchofhimring]

Younger and more beautiful

This series is being edited. I feel Alys came off as one dimensionally evil and the reader as a pretty flat character. So this will be heavily edited.

Queen you shall be, until there comes another, younger and more beautiful, to cast you down and take all you hold dear

Pairings:

Aemond Targaryen x Reader

Aemond Targaryen x Alys Rivers

Part 2: Until there comes another

Part 4: To cast you down and take all you hold dear

Warnings: angst, cheating, mentions of stillbirth/miscarriages, death

Queen you shall be, until there comes another, younger and more beautiful, to cast you down and take all you hold dear.

To this day the words that both enthralled and haunted the Queen hovered over her dark head like a specter. It echoed as a constant reminder. She had become Queen and Alys had never felt more victorious. But every time the elation came, the rest would come roaring back.

Younger and more beautiful

To cast you down and take all you hold dear

As she sat proudly on her throne the ladies danced bellow. Alys had made sure that every one of her handmaidens were either less attractive or older than herself. Helped if they were both. But she could not banish every woman who could capture her husbands eye. Every time her husbands eyes drifted over the crowd Alys wondered if they were searching for a woman. She tried to convince herself that she was young, beautiful, and the King loved her. One of the Tyrell girls, sporting a beautiful head of auburn curls and sparkling blue eyes, ascended the stairs. She was on the arm of her father. Alys's fingers curled into her palm. "Lady Redwine." Alicent Hightower walked towards the woman. Of course the meddling old hag invited the woman. If Alys had her way the Dowager Queen would be out by now. But Aemond loved his mother. Anxiety clawed at Alys as she knew Alicent was the only person left in her way. Y/n was locked away and Daenerys was Gods know where. "Son." Without even using titles, Alicent advanced up the steps and embraced her son. All Alys received was a cold look. Alys had thought that maybe the Dowager Queen would take her side. After all, it was well known that Alicent did not get along with Y/n. But it seemed her dislike of the thrones newest occupant outweighed the old. One day, Alys would deal with her.

Her face ached from her daily ritual. Alys scrutinized each inch of her skin. There where no spots blemishing her pale skin. No wrinkle in sight. Satisfied, she sat back in her chair. She was still as lovely as when Aemond first fell in love with her. Pale fingers traced over her slightly swollen belly. Soon Y/n would know that Alys had accomplished what she had not. Satisfaction dwelled within her as she thought of Y/n's less than flattering body. Alys had always been careful to watch what she ate. No morsel of food passed her lips without thorough inspection. She doubted Y/n had been as vigilant. Hence why Alys never felt any pity for the woman. Y/n had taken her position for granted and lost everything. That was her fault, not Alys's.

Aemond Targaryen entered, still dressed in his kingly finery. Alys felt desire in the pit of her belly. Elegantly she got to her feet, the emerald train following her. Aemond gave her a sultry smile, noticing immediately that she wanted him. "My love." She sighed and placed her arms around his neck. Kisses littered his cheeks as they made towards the bed. "Stay with me tonight?" Alys's hair flowed down her back out of its up do. She knew what his answer would be, he had never once denied her. Alys was laid out of the former Queen's bed and pulled her husband close.

The contractions started early in the morning. By midday Alys was doubling over in pain. They had given her a small draft of milk-of-the-poppy and herbs, but it did little do dull her agony. Once nightfall fell Alys could barely breath. "Just one more push Your Grace!" The midwife could see the head. With one last almighty push Alys's child made their way into the world. Alys collapsed onto the sheets, exhausted but feeling elated. She had done it. She had given the King his heir. Now they would accept her as Queen. Soon Y/n and her bastard daughter would get word of her victory. "Hand him to me." Alys had forced herself to sit up. The midwifes looked at eachother before the bravest among them spoke. "My Queen, it is a girl."

Aemond looked down at their newborn daughter, Princess Aelena. Alys could hardly look at the baby. Her daughter was small with silver hair. A true Targaryen, but not a boy. Aemond picked up the girl and cradled her against his chest. "She's beautiful." His voice was quiet. Alys could not tell what her husband thought. He showed no outward signs of displeasure, but that did not mean Aemond was happy. Sometimes he was so hard to read. "I am so sorry." Alys cast her eyes downwards, praying he would not be angry with her. Aemond placed the baby down in her crib. With a sigh he walked over to Alys and sat down next to her. "I am happy to have a daughter. And we conceived her quickly, sons will follow."

"Yes. sons will follow."

It had been a dark day, the sun remaining hidden. On that day Alys, in all her curiosity, snuck into the woods. She had heard legends of a wood witch in its depths. Alys was not frightened, had never been frightened. When she wanted something she got it. Deeper she went. As as she treated along the forest floor she noticed there was no noise. Not even the twittering of a bird. The air became denser and her head started to spin. Still, the stubborn young woman pushed on. Finally, in the midst of a great swamp was a hut. It sat right in the middle. Through the thin fog Alys realized that crossing would be no easy challenge. She paced around for a while and thought of what to do. Eventually she noticed there was a path of rocks barely visible above the murky water. Tentatively she placed a foot on one of them. It was stable enough. Steeling herself, Alys set out. Rock over rock she went. She practically flew the last few steps. There was no door. Just some cloth hung, as if that could do the witch any good. She brushed the fabric aside and looked in. There was a fire in the center. But that was all she could make out. "You have come." Alys swallowed back a gasp. From the corner emerged a cloaked figure. She was old, very old. 'Step in." Alys obeyed.

"Are you sure this is wise My Queen." Questioned a meek Lady. Alys sat on her chair, crown on head. She had brought baby Aelena with her today. So that Lady Floris might see that she had triumphed over her former mistress. Floris Baratheon had been living in a self imposed exile since Y/n had left. But the King had ordered her to return to court. Today, Alys would show her who was Queen. "Lady Floris." Floris was only a little younger than Y/n, but she looked younger than Alys had expected. Much to Alys's disgruntlement it seemed Y/n's death had not dulled her beauty. She had dark brown hair that flowed behind her like a veil. Brown eyes held a golden hue to them. Unblemished skin showed none of the wears of the past four years. What was even more insulting was the fact she wore black. As a mere lady, Y/n was entitled to no more than a few weeks of mourning from her close friends and family. But she noticed many in black. They protested that black was quite fashionable these days, but Alys knew better. "My Lady, we welcome you to court." Alys straightened herself. Floris held a look of cool disinterest. Her arrogance angered the Queen. Then an idea occured to the Queen. A smile curled her lip. "My Lady. The King and I have considered this, and believe that you are the best candidate to act as governess to Princess Aelena. As you did such a good job looking after his bastard daughter I think you should agree." Rage flashed through the lady's eyes. Of course Alys would never let Floris be alone with her precious girl. Others would keep an eye on her. It would give her great satisfaction to have the lady toil away in service to the rightful princess.

Floris watched the baby tottle towards one of the ladies. She was still so so tired from all the errands Alys had her do. It seemed Alys was determined to make her pay. Floris reckoned that Alys would try and break her down and take all she held dear. But little did the foolish Queen realize this was not a surrender. Floris had contacted supporters of the deceased Queen to put the rightful heirs on the throne. She just had to spy and get what information she could. When the King appeared all three curtsied. The baby giggled and grabbed towards her father. Floris felt a thrill of anger as he cuddled the baby. Not at Aelena, but Aemond Targaryen. Here he was pretending he only had one daughter when there was another whom he had banished. Hatred for Aemond and Alys stirred in her heart. After everything her dear friend had been forced to suffer made her want to weep with rage. She hoped that one day the two of them world be forced to suffer as much as the late Queen had.

That was when an idea occured to her.

"I shall be Queen!" Alys was overwhelmed with the possibility her future might bestow on her. Queen. Oh to be the greatest woman in the land! But the witch just shook her head. "I am not done." Alys froze. "I shall not be Queen?" "You shall." "Then what is the rest?" And the words that haunted Alys for the rest of her days were uttered. "Queen you shall be, until there comes another, younger and more beautiful, to cast you down and take all you hold dear." As Alys stepped out of the hut she swore to herself she would never let that happen.

And with that, she sealed her destiny.

Six months later:

Planning a rebellion had been easier than expected. Likely they never expected the King's daughter to rebel against her. Daenery's had always been an obedient daughter. Her father was her lord and King. The made who took her on Vhagar, read her stories and night and danced with her when she was little. But she loved her mother more, who had fought for her till the end. At nineteen Daenerys was no longer a little girl. Aemond Targaryen was no longer her world. In the past four years she had gone from princess to rebel. "My Queen. A letter." Viserys Targaryen, her betrothed, handed her a letter. She saw the wax "F" stamped on the front. She smiled. "It is from Lady Floris. It's time, and I think you have a dragon to claim."

Note: Last part is up next!

Taglist:

@watercolorskyy

@bellstwd

[ravenyenn19]

Six of Crows future head cannon:

Alby Rollins joins the Dregs.

Picture it: 1920’s-esque Ketterdam, 10 years post Sweet Reef/ Ice Court. Slick Rolls Royce cars line the cobbled streets, a city spiraling toward a new age. Rain drenches the obscure signs & hidden arrows pointing to the Speak-Easy halls. In a time of prohibition… down, down, down must one go in the Barrel to find the most notorious of them all. A slice of sin, six feet under. A crowd drunk off vice served in black tea cups.

The young man walks into Kaz Brekker’s office (after fighting his way there), sits himself in a chair opposite a great obsidian desk. Winded & lip still bleeding from his tousle with the men at the doors, Alby wheezes: “Teach me.”

In turn, A near 30 year old Kaz smirks. “I thought lions preferred their pride.”

Alby, barely pushing 17, gives a smile of a golden boy, nervous but strong enough to hold the gaze of a devil. (He’s practiced.) “I thought Crows scavengers. Here I am, a shine for the taking.”

“Still have that crow, little lion?” A feminine shadow whispers from the corner. Unnoticed by the young man previously, he clicks his teeth but still refuses to show fear. A serpent-like bead of sweat slides down his spine, a shiver chasing after. He holds firm, biting his cheek to hide the startle.

He knows this shadow, this phantom. She haunted him, once.

“I buried it with my father,” the Kaelish prince whispers, “or rather, in place of him. Never did find a body. Pity.” He shrugs.

Kaz’s eyes glint like a cat’s, his smile a loaded gun. A gloved hand stretches halfway across the table in offering. “All right, cub. What do you want?”

Alby reaches forward, feeling the cold black leather of Dirtyhands�� grip between his fingers. The moment is a stormy crossroads, a whip between his shoulders reminiscent of his father’s favorite belt. He smiles, for this is a pain Alby has been walking toward since the day he woke up clutching stuffed black feathers.

(His blood never did bleed emerald.)

More than one answer to Kaz’s stinging question come to mind, nettles along the path of his thoughts. Yet, only one pricks Alby into speaking, the rage in his voice real rather than bravado. “Revenge.”

The Wraith giggles roughly, slipping herself to the arm of Kaz’s chair on silent feet. Alby swallows.

“On me?” The leader of the Dregs rasps, a brow peaked with amusement. His wife smiles with closed lips, knives glinting along her body like hungry specters. For here, her teeth are shown. Alby knows she Captain’s a fleet of the deadliest ships in the True Sea. He drags his gaze from her quickly.

“No.” Alby stutters, but he does not lie. Kaz Brekker bested his abusive father, and he does not care about Pekka’s death. In fact, sitting with the suspected murderers, Alby finds he rather prefers their company.

Kaz reclines in his chair, a hand lazily splayed on Captain Ghafa’s knee. He regards Alby with black eyes, a sharpness that pierces through his strength but doesn’t shatter it. A blade meant to probe. A test of mettle. Alby has waited too long for this audience, he cannot lose it. A moment passes.

Dirtyhands looks to his wife, his Wraith. She quirks her head in the silent exchange. Six heart beats have passed, and Alby Rollins is certain he won’t leave this room. He waits for the snap of a cane to bank his vision, a warm blanket of red to cover him from the jugular down.

He waits for death, but does not invite it. It does not come.

Instead, a voice like choking smoke, “Then let us begin.”

Alby Rollins releases a breath. His knuckles loosen in parts. A tattooist is called in.

The Crow & Cup bleeds as it settles, accepting the fresh skin as it’s master’s tithe.

Alby sits taller, a prince of a different kind, a darker throne.

I don’t make the rules but this is now my personal agenda & important that u agree

Crap now I have to put it in a fic

Should I do it?

[hb-writes]

Dancing in the Kitchen Light

Summary: For Charlie, seeing her brother dressed up in a tuxedo always reminds her of one thing. 🥲

Characters: Harvey Specter & Charlie Specter (OC)

Suits (Lines to Live By) Masterlist

Comfy-cember 2024 Masterlist

—

Charlie paused her movie and pushed herself to sit up on the couch when she heard her brother's keys working in the front door. 

“Well, don’t you look dapper?” she mused when Harvey appeared in the hallway, a slight grin tugging at his lips as he walked toward her.

Harvey had gone straight to the gala from the office, leaving the only opportunity for Charlie to share her usual comments on how nice he looked in a tuxedo for the end of the evening even though by most standards, she shouldn’t have been waiting up. After waking that morning for school before 6 am, and knowing that she had to do it all again tomorrow, Charlie should have been asleep. 

Harvey had a reprimand on the tip of his tongue, the big brother in him urging a reply like, 'And don’t you look like someone who should be in bed?’ but something stopped him, some realization that the only reason Charlie had waited up until the early hours of the morning on a school night was because she wanted to see him. If need be, she could take the day off school tomorrow or go in late. Sleep in a bit.

“I do look pretty fly, don’t I?” he finally said, spinning once as he came to stand a few feet away from her. 

Charlie rolled her eyes, but the gesture was more affectionate than anything. Harvey did look nice. He always did, but Charlie had always enjoyed seeing him dressed up in a tux, something which happened with a certain regularity. He was always being invited to galas, frequently dressing up and heading out on a Tuesday night like he was heading to a wedding. Or at least, that’s what it always reminded Charlie of. 

“I mean, only half as fly as me.” Charlie stood up, twirling and displaying the blanket she had wrapped around her pajama-clad self hours ago. 

Harvey chuckled, a fond smile gracing his lips and lighting his eyes. 

“It’s a little like Cinderella before the fairy godmother showed up.” 

Charlie stopped short and scoffed. “Well, my fairy godmother was with you,” she offered. “Speaking of which, how did Donna look? What did she end up wearing? Pink or green?” 

Harvey took a breath, the question involuntarily bringing the image of Donna to the forefront in his mind’s eye. No pictures had been taken of them throughout the course of the evening, but Harvey wasn’t likely to forget the image of Donna in the emerald green strapless dress any time soon. 

“How do you think she looked?” Harvey asked, finally pulling himself from the memory. 

“Amazing,” she answered. “Better than you, probably.” 

Harvey rolled his eyes, but didn’t take the bait. “How was sch—?” 

“Fine. The usual,” she answered, cutting him off. “How was the music? The dancing?”

Harvey raised an eyebrow.

Charlie groaned as Harvey slid into the chair beside her. “You didn’t dance?” 

“It was a work event, Charlie.” 

“So what?” she asked. “Did Donna dance?” 

“It’s d—” 

“It’s actually not any different at all, Harvey.” Charlie could hear Harvey’s argument before he even had a chance to properly get it out. “Did Jessica dance?” 

Charlie withstood another eye roll from her brother. 

“You can’t dress up like that” —Charlie gestured to Harvey’s outfit— “and not dance. It’s against the law or something.” 

“I can assure you it’s not.” 

“Well, it should be,” she answered. “Especially if there’s a live band, which I assume there was, right?” 

Harvey reluctantly nodded. 

“I can’t believe you didn’t ask Donna or Jessica to dance,” she continued. “Or even some random floozy,” she continued, giving Harvey a knowing look at the term. 

“That’s a real nice way to talk to your brother.” 

“I can be meaner if you want.” Charlie smiled. “I could say that you’re an idiot for not taking the opportunity to dance to beautiful music with a beautiful girl like it’s a fancy fairytale ball or something. That’s what I would do, but I’m not an idiot like—” 

“Fine,” Harvey interrupted, standing and holding out a hand. “Do you want to dance?”  

Charlie stared at Harvey’s extended hand before meeting his gaze. “Are you serious?” 

“Would you like to dance?”

Charlie nodded, taking his hand and quickly pulling herself up from the couch with the blankets still wrapped around her. She dropped Harvey’s hand and glided on her slippered feet across the room to sift through her brother’s vinyl collection.

“Track number four,” she said as she handed her brother the selected record.

Charlie waited, restless and bouncing a bit, as Harvey started the music. A wide grin shone on Charlie’s face when Harvey turned to her and took her hand. He spun her once, Charlie’s giggles louder than the song’s introduction. 

“I love this song,” Charlie said as she settled back into Harvey’s hold. 

“It’s a good one,” he said as they started to move. 

From the moment she handed him the record, Harvey knew which track Charlie wanted. He knew it was a favorite of hers, a song they had been dancing to since she was small, standing on the tops of his feet or being lifted into his arms as they twirled around their father’s kitchen in Riverside. 

Charlie had never told him, but somewhere along the years she had decided that if she ever got married, this was the song they would dance to, she and Harvey. Marriage was a few years off at best—she hadn’t thought very much about most of the particulars, but Charlie had a clear image of this in her mind, an image that she didn’t imagine to be all that different from what she was experiencing just now. 

Even though they were dancing in the dim glow from the light above the stove, and even though Charlie was wrapped in a white blanket rather than a white dress, she imagined some things would be the same. 

Harvey would look the same—handsome as ever in his tuxedo, his shiny black shoes leading them around the floor with an expertise that made one think he did this all the time. 

The song so familiar and comforting, the beautiful notes wrapping them in nostalgia that onlookers wouldn’t share, but would recognize all the same just by hearing the lyrics, by watching as they danced.

And Charlie imagined she would feel the same as she felt now, too. She imagined that day, she would feel the same way she always felt when dancing in Harvey’s arms. She imagined she would feel the same way she felt having Harvey in her life—safe and happy and loved.

—

Suits (Lines to Live By) Masterlist

Comfy-cember 2024 Masterlist

[dollwrites]

Can you do a little drabble with Hal using the ring to hold reader down while he fucks her face?

𝗰𝗼𝗻𝘁𝗲𝗻𝘁 𝘄𝗮𝗿𝗻𝗶𝗻𝗴𝘀 ∣ smut ( minors dni ),fem!reader, suggested age gap, use of the word daddy, face fucking, deepthroat, improper use of a power ring, light bondage, degradation ( but in a cute way ) all characters featured are aged 18+

𝗶𝗺𝗽𝗼𝗿𝘁𝗮𝗻𝘁 ∣ HAAAALLLL my mf daddy 😤 I MISSYED HIM please reblog && leave feedback. not proofread so there’s probably mistakes. thanks for reading < 3

“Ahh, there she goes!”

Hal’s head drops back as he slips the final few inches into your mouth. you’d been so timid, so unsure that you could take him all the way in, but your eyes widen, blurry vision catching the way your cheeks swell when he presses forward. he’s grasping himself at the base of his mighty cock, fingers hooked under his heavy balls as he bucked his powerful hips forward, trying to stuff them into your mouth, as well.

your back arches up off the bed, knees jabbing upwards towards the ceiling as you plant your feet there, pressing hard, trying to propel yourself upwards. the sensation of your throat bulging as his girth delves into it is maddening, and you forget, suddenly how to breathe through your nose. you start to gag, and writhe.

“Listen to those pretty sounds,” Hal grunts, and the emerald specter of his raw willpower flows from the ring on his finger, coiling around you in delicate, lace ribbons, that cinched your body back against the sweat-soaked sheets. they tie a final, large bow around your belly, and hold you in place, like you were a gift, wrapped ever so precariously for him, “those cute, filthy sounds ‘a yours. ‘S okay, daddy’s not gonna let you choke. Breathe through your nose like I taughtcha, yeah?”

your eyelids flutter, tears escaping your ducts and rolling down your cheeks. you try to nod, but when you do, his rough, heavily veined hands rub your already swollen lips raw, and you gargle.

“There ya go…” he swooned as you inhale deep, your chest rising and falling with ragged breathing through your nose. your body struggled against the energy bonds, jerking with your arms restrained tight at your sides. “There’s my best girl. Just breathe, and relax. Let daddy do all the work. Let me pound that tight, little throat ‘a yours, fuck, that feels good.”

he’s found a depth he likes, with your tiers smashing into his base, rubbed raw by the thick patch of mahogany hair, and he lets go of himself, opting, instead, to wrap his fingers around your throat to feel the shape of his own cock imprinting from the other side. he shudders, and moans, bracing his feet on the floor and hunkering down more, his hips pistoning at such a speed that dribbling your face against his groin made you dizzy. “Good.. girl, that’s right,” he sounded distant, and you weren’t sure if it was because his head was dropped back as he stroked the shape of the bulge, using your throat to get him off, or if it was because you were getting drunk on the heat of his body against your face, the smell of his arousal and sweat as it engulfs you, traps you there. “Just daddy’s good, little throat toy, arentcha? You like this like I like it? Does it make you wet when I use your throat to jack my cock off like this?”

you want to muster a reply for him, but all you can do is gurgle and whimper, globs of spit and precum dribbling out of your mouth, sticking to his crotch, smearing over your cheeks and rolling down towards your hairline.

but Hal chuckles, and it’s a raspy, lust-heavy chuckle, “That’s right, little girl. Make those nasty sounds just for me. Daddy’s gonna make a mess of ya.”

[spectersgirl]

Harvey Specter forgets your anniversary 🙉

I considered taking this in a slightly angsty route but decided I felt like keeping it light so you get this hehe

also I have no idea what to title this so the title is now...

Anniversary

Harvey Specter x Reader

-------

The sun hung low over the New York skyline as Harvey paced the floor in his office, the weight of the day's workload pressing down on him. The day, however, was an important one that he couldn't afford to forget. It was the two-year anniversary of the day he started dating you, the love of his life, and he'd forgotten. In the whirlwind of cases and negotiations, the date had completely slipped his mind. He glanced at the clock, a sinking feeling knotting in his stomach as he realized his mistake.

"Fuck." He muttered, debating what he could possibly pull off at such a late hour.

He considered every possibility on his own before admitting his own defeat and calling in his last resort, his best secret weapon.

"Donna? Can you come in here for a minute?"

Donna appeared quickly in his doorway.

"What's up?" She asked, noting the look of stress on his features.

Harvey sighed, his frustration with himself evident. "Today is my anniversary with Y/N and I completely spaced. I need to do something special, and I need it to be perfect."

Donna smirked softly, having already had the inkling that he'd forgotten. She loved being right.

"Well then it's a good thing that I already made reservations at the restaurant you took her to on your first date and called Ray to have you picked up in about-" She checked the time. "Forty-five minutes to go sweep your girl off her feet. Don't worry, I already called her and told her you weren't out of your meeting in time to call yourself but you wanted to warn her to be ready when you arrived. Oh, and the necklace you told me to order her for Christmas arrived a week ago, so you can give her that too. Top desk drawer."

Relief flooded Harvey's system, never having been so thankful for his secretary in his life.

"Oh my god, you're a lifesaver. I don't know how to thank you"

"Just leave the credit card on my desk in the morning and I'll thank myself on your behalf." Donna said with a bright smile.

"Done. I owe you the whole damn store for pulling this off. Seriously, thank you."

"Of course, Harvey. Anything I can do to see my friends happy, I'm glad to do it."

An hour later, Harvey was knocking on the door to your apartment, a bouquet of the most beautiful flowers you'd ever seen in his hands.

You were dressed in a floor-length, emerald-colored silk gown that Harvey couldn't take his eyes off of when you'd first tried it on, and again now as he stood in front of you in the doorway.

"You look so beautiful, Y/N. Happy anniversary, my love." Harvey said after a brief moment of collecting himself from the sight of you.

You smiled shyly and thanked him, the heat rushing to your cheeks. You were never the greatest at accepting a compliment, something you had learned to work on since meeting Harvey.

He stepped inside, closing the door behind himself before placing a gentle hand on your hip and one on the side of your cheek, kissing you with a passion and care that you'd never experienced with any other man until Harvey.

He pulled away after a few moments, asking if you were ready to head out, and you nodded, grabbing your clutch and taking his hand as he led you out the door.

Soft music filled the air as he led you to a beautifully set table, adorned with more flowers and candlelight. Your eyes widened in surprise, a smile on your lips as Harvey pulled out your chair, his charm and charisma in full force.

The dinner was phenomenal, and you enjoyed your time talking and laughing with Harvey about any and everything. You hadn't seen much of him over the last few weeks, as he had a huge trial going on and from what you understood, it was one of the harder cases he'd ever had. You could tell he was enjoying the night off just as much as you enjoyed him being off.

"Oh! I almost forgot!" You exclaimed, pulling a small black box from your handbag with a bow on top and handing it to Harvey. Inside was a pair of cufflinks, his initials engraved in the gold. He smiled the biggest smile you'd seen from him as he thanked you. He pulled a box of his own from his jacket pocket, presenting it to you. Tears sprang from your eyes immediately when you saw the necklace, knowing full well how much Cartier cost.

"Harvey, I can't accept this! This was way too much."

"Y/N, every penny I spend on you is well worth it. You deserve to have every beautiful thing you can dream of because you're the most important person in my life."

Your heart swelled, and you couldn't help but reach across the table to kiss him.

"Thank you." You whispered, gratitude for him shining in your eyes.

Later that night, he took you back to his condo where you continued the night together, ending up sleepily snuggled by the fireplace, a glass of whiskey in Harvey's hand and red wine in yours.

"Remind me to text Donna tomorrow morning and thank her." You said drowsily.

"For what?" Harvey asked, looking down at you.

"For planning our dinner."

Harvey's mouth sat open, shocked.

"Wh- how did you know?"

"I didn't for sure until just now," You said "But I got to thinking, any other time you've planned something you tease me for a week beforehand about how good of a boyfriend you are, you didn't this time and I know you've been working hard so really, it only made sense."

Harvey's heart dropped, knowing he was caught.

"Baby, I'm so sorry." He said, anxiety rising in his throat.

"I'm not upset, don't worry." You said, sitting up now. "I'm just happy you took the time to be with me tonight." You said, reaching out to caress his cheek.

"I'm really trying to work on prioritizing us over work, but this case really took over everything. I promise I won't forget next year and let Donna do all my planning. I'm sorry if I disappointed you."

"You didn't disappoint me Harvey. We could've spent the whole night here doing nothing and I still would've been happy, I just love spending time with you."

Harvey smirked before replying.

"I'll keep that in mind for next year"

[novaursa]

The Golden Court (first strike)

- Summary: You were taken from the royal court by your father when you were a child. Now you return as a woman grown from exile. A woman that ignites fires in her wake.

- Pairing: Jason Lannister/targ!reader/Tyland Lannister

- Rating: Explicit 18+

- Previous part: summons

- Next part: where we stand

- Tag(s): @scarletdfox @princesstiti14 @idenyimimdenial

Three Moons Later Since Twins Were Named

The chambers of Casterly Rock were bathed in the dim glow of the hearth, the candlelight flickering against the heavy drapes of crimson and gold, casting specters over the rumpled sheets and tangled limbs upon the grand bed. The air was thick with warmth, with the scent of sweat and skin, with the slow, rhythmic sounds of breath and pleasure, mingling into something heady, something intimate and consuming.

Jason's body was pressed to yours, his hair a tousled mess, his hands moving in slow, reverent paths over your flushed skin, his mouth trailing along the delicate curve of your throat. He had always been passionate, insatiable, but tonight, there was something different—something languid, indulgent, as if he wanted to drown himself in you, in the feel of you, in the weight of your presence beneath him.

Tyland, ever the patient twin, had been content to watch for some time, his gaze flickering between you both, memorizing the way Jason worshiped you, before finally claiming his own space, pressing slow, heated kisses against the swell of your hip, his touch precise, controlled, yet undeniably possessive.

It was a dance between them, between the lion with wildfire in his veins and the lion who studied before he struck, their desires entwining around you like vines curling over stone, each touch, each sound, each lingering kiss a declaration, a reminder of who you belonged to.

Jason chuckled against your skin, his lips brushing against your jaw. "Gods, you’re so beautiful like this," he murmured, his breath hot against your ear, his fingers trailing down the length of your spine with agonizing slowness. "Do you feel it, love? Do you feel how much we worship you?"

Tyland exhaled against your thigh, his hand tightening around your waist, his voice low, smooth as silk. "Perhaps she’s too far gone to answer, brother."

Jason smirked, shifting slightly, his emerald eyes gleaming with mischief as he kissed the corner of your mouth. "Then we shall have to keep asking until we get an answer."

Before you could respond, before Jason could move again, before Tyland could continue his slow, torturous ministrations—

There was a knock.

A loud, firm, insistent knock.

Jason froze, his entire body tensing, his hands stilling against you, his face buried in the crook of your neck as he let out a sharp, exasperated sigh.

Tyland, ever composed, simply stilled, his jaw tightening slightly.

The knock came again.

"If that is another gods-damned raven, I swear to the Seven—" Jason muttered, his voice thick with irritation, his fingers gripping the sheets as if he were seconds from flinging something across the room.

"My lords!" A voice muffled by the heavy wooden door, but unmistakable—Alton Lannister.

Tyland lifted his head, his expression immediately sharpening, the warmth of the moment vanishing like mist in the morning sun.

"What?" Jason snapped, annoyed beyond belief, his face still half-buried against your skin. "Unless the castle is on fire, I suggest you find someone else to bother, cousin."

There was a pause—a brief, tense silence that carried too much weight, too much unease.

Then—

"An army has been spotted near one of our settlements," Alton called through the door, his voice grave, heavy, urgent. "They bear the markings of the Faith."

The room fell into absolute silence.

You felt Jason’s body go rigid, felt Tyland’s breath still, felt the shift in the air, the cold wave of reality crashing over the remnants of warmth.

Jason exhaled sharply, his jaw clenching, his fingers flexing against the sheets before he lifted himself off you with visible reluctance, cursing under his breath. "Of course they do."

Tyland was already rising, his face blank, unreadable, his mind undoubtedly calculating the implications, the strategy, the risk.

You sat up slowly, breath still unsteady, your heart pounding—not from pleasure now, but from something else entirely.

The Faith had come.

The battle was no longer creeping toward them—it was here.

The air in the chambers had turned heavy, thick with the weight of what was to come. The warmth of the bed, the lingering scent of sweat and indulgence, the softness of laughter and pleasure—all of it was gone, replaced by the cold, creeping tendrils of war pressing against their doorstep.

Jason was already fastening his tunic, his movements irritated, his mind still half-wrapped in the frustration of being interrupted, half-geared toward the battle that now loomed. His jaw was set tight, his fingers moving with practiced ease, lacing the front of his shirt, his golden hair still tousled from the bed.

Tyland was more methodical, his expression a careful mask, his movements precise, swift, unshaken. He had already pulled his doublet into place, smoothing the fine embroidery with absent, practiced motions, his mind undoubtedly sorting through tactics, through logistics, through the weight of what Alton had just said.

You, still breathless, still chilled from the abrupt shift, reached for the silken robe draped over the chair nearby, pulling it over your shoulders, the fabric cool against your skin, grounding you back into the present.

Then—

Another knock.

Frantic. Urgent.

Jason’s head snapped toward the door, his eyes flashing with frustration. "For fuck’s sake," he muttered, running a hand through his hair, his patience already hanging by a thread.

But before he could even bark out a response, the door swung open, and a servant girl stumbled inside, her face pale as milk, her breath coming in short, hurried gasps.

"My lords—my lady!" she cried, her hands clutching at the fabric of her apron, her eyes wild, wide, brimming with alarm. "*The—the eggs—something is happening!"

The room stilled.

For a heartbeat, no one moved.

Jason’s brows furrowed, his stance shifting from irritation to something sharper, something more alert. "What are you talking about?"

The girl swallowed thickly, her chest rising and falling in rapid succession, her hands trembling as she wrung them together. "The dragon eggs, my lord," she gasped. "The ones in the cradles—they are glowing—they—they are cracking!"

Your breath hitched, your fingers tightening against the fabric of your robe.

Tyland’s eyes flickered toward you, focused, assessing, before he turned back to the servant. "Are the babes well?"

The girl nodded quickly, still breathless. "Y-yes, my lord! They are unharmed—but the eggs—they are moving!"

A silence settled over the room, but it was not the silence of hesitation—it was the silence before a storm, before movement, before the weight of realization settled fully into their bones.

Jason exhaled, running both hands down his face, shaking his head. "Of course." He let out a short, incredulous laugh, looking between you and Tyland with something caught between bewilderment and amusement. "Of fucking course. Right when the bloody Faith is at our gates, we also have this to deal with."

Tyland, ever the calm strategist, was already moving, stepping toward you, his fingers grazing your wrist, his touch warm, grounding. "We should see for ourselves," he said simply. "Now."

You nodded quickly, already turning toward the door, heart pounding with something electric, something urgent—something that felt like fate unfurling before your very eyes.

Jason let out one more deep sigh, rubbing his temple before following suit, muttering under his breath. "If one of those things hatches in my bloody hand, I swear to the gods—"

And with that the three of you left the chambers, striding down the corridors of Casterly Rock, toward the nursery—toward the sound of fate cracking open like an eggshell.

The nursery doors burst open, the weight of urgency pressing into the air, the heavy silence of anticipation thick as a storm about to break. The warmth of the chamber was more intense than usual, the hearth still burning, the scent of milk and fresh linens mingling with something deeper, something ancient—like the scent of earth after fire, of something waking, something changing.

The nursemaids stood frozen, their faces pale, eyes wide, their hands clutching at the cribs as if unsure whether to protect or flee. A few of the household guards stood on edge near the doorway, their hands hovering over the hilts of their swords, though they knew steel was useless here.

And at the center of it all—

The dragon eggs.

They were glowing, their surfaces slick with moisture, the fine cracks that ran along their shells glowing from within, like molten veins running through blackened rock.

The golden egg, the one that had rested beside Seraphina, shimmered like a star on the verge of collapse, its surface pulsing with radiant heat, silver veins splintering further as a deep rumbling sound emanated from within.

The black egg, the one placed with Daemon Lannister, was moving, shifting ever so slightly, the ridges of its shell trembling, a low vibration filling the air, like the sound of a distant, approaching storm.

Jason came to a halt beside the cribs, his green eyes flickering between the eggs and the sleeping babes, his jaw set tight with something unreadable—something awed, something careful.

"Gods be good," he murmured, his usual swagger replaced with something more subdued, more reverent. "They’re actually hatching."

Tyland stepped closer, his gaze keen, assessing, though there was a flicker of something rare behind his calm exterior—wonder, perhaps, or the weight of realizing that history was unfolding right before his eyes.

"Where is Prince Daemon?" he asked one of the guards stationed near the door. His tone was level, but there was an edge of command beneath it.

The guard swallowed, shifting uneasily before speaking. "My lord, the Prince—he took Caraxes and flew out. He said he was going to see the army himself."

Tyland’s lips pressed into a thin line, though he did not seem surprised.

Jason, on the other hand, let out an incredulous scoff, running a hand through his hair. "Of course he did. That old bastard never could resist throwing himself headfirst into madness."

You barely heard them.

Your eyes were locked on the eggs, on the way they trembled, the way the cracks splintered further, the light beneath them growing brighter, hotter, the sound within rising, echoing with something both primal and powerful.

And then—

The golden egg gave one final shudder, and with a sharp, decisive crack, the shell split apart.

The heat that spilled from within was palpable, the golden glow fading into the air like dying embers, and from the shattered shell, a small, glistening form tumbled onto the silken bedding of Seraphina’s crib.

A dragon.

Tiny, damp, trembling, its scales shimmering in the firelight—the color of burnished gold, with faint ripples of pale silver running down its back, its delicate wings still slick with birth, its tiny claws scraping weakly against the fabric beneath it.

And then, its eyes opened.

Bright. Luminous. Silver like moonlight.

A small chirping sound, weak but insistent, rose from its throat, its head lifting ever so slightly, its wings giving a soft, unsteady twitch.

Jason moved a little closer. "Well, would you look at that."

Tyland, beside him, was silent, his expression unreadable, his eyes locked on the newborn creature with something calculating, something thoughtful.

And then another sound.

A deeper crack, a louder split.

The black egg trembled violently, the sound rising, the vibrations in the air growing heavier, more intense, the heat rolling off it in waves.

It shattered.

The pieces of shell broke apart in an instant, fragments scattering across the bedding, and from its depths, another dragon emerged—but this one was different.

Where the first had been golden and silver, radiant and soft, this one was the color of midnight, its scales a deep, inky black, ridged with veins of molten red, like embers flickering beneath coal.

It was larger than its twin, its limbs stronger, its movements sharper, its wings unfolding with a bit more purpose, its tiny fangs already bared in something instinctual, something fierce.

Its eyes, when they opened, were not silver.

They were deep, dark crimson—smoldering like embers, watching, waiting.

A hush fell over the room.

You exhaled, your heart hammering against your ribs, your hands gripping the edge of the crib as you stared, as you watched, as the weight of what had just happened settled deep into your bones.

They had hatched.

Your children’s dragons had hatched.

Jason let out a breathless laugh, shaking his head, still looking at the creatures with something caught between awe and amusement. "Well, I’ll be damned."

Tyland’s gaze remained steady, his mind already turning, already moving to what this meant, to what came next.

The golden dragon chirped softly, pressing itself against Seraphina’s swaddled form, its tiny body curling close, seeking warmth.

The black dragon stretched its wings, testing them, before lifting its small head toward the ceiling, toward the fire, toward something unseen.

And in the heavy silence of the room—

It let out its first, tiny roar.

The horizon stretched endless before him, painted in hues of pink and amber, the dying light of the sun casting shadows over the land below. The wind howled, rushing past him in a roar that would have deafened lesser men, but Daemon Targaryen was no lesser man.

He sat astride Caraxes, the great Blood Wyrm, his form a silhouette against the burning sky, his cloak whipping violently in the wind. Below, the lands of the Westerlands unfurled like a great tapestry, rolling hills and golden fields, rivers that glistened like silver veins, all leading toward the small cluster of movement that marred the land—a dark stain creeping toward Lannisport, toward Casterly Rock, toward his daughter.

Daemon’s violet gaze sharpened, his lips curling into something between a smirk and a snarl as he took in the sight of the army below.

They marched in tight formations, banners bearing the seven-pointed star whipping in the wind, their armor reflecting the dying sunlight, an endless glistening sea of steel and faith-fueled conviction.

Fools.

Daemon had seen armies like this before—zealots, fanatics, men who believed their righteousness made them untouchable, unbreakable. He had seen them burn.

Caraxes let out a low, guttural sound, his massive wings tilting slightly as he adjusted their course, the beast’s keen predator eyes narrowing upon the army below, his great body coiling like a serpent waiting to strike.

Daemon reached down, running a gloved hand along the ridges of Caraxes’ thick scales, feeling the tension humming beneath the beast’s skin, the raw energy, the power, the hunger.

"Patience, my old friend," Daemon murmured, his voice barely carried by the wind, but Caraxes heard, always heard.

The dragon’s long, serpentine neck turned slightly, his massive head tilting, as if reading Daemon’s thoughts, feeling the battle-lust that simmered beneath his rider’s skin.

Daemon inhaled deeply, his fingers tightening around the reins, his mind turning over the implications of what he saw below.

They were many.

Thousands, at least.

Well-armed, well-disciplined.

They had come not as raiders, not as scattered warbands, but as an organized force, moving with precision, with purpose.

And that meant one thing—this was no mere warning.

This was a declaration.

Daemon’s smirk widened, baring teeth.

"So they wish to test fire," he muttered, tilting his head slightly, his keen eyes scanning the length of their formation, noting the movement, the banners, the war machines tucked between regiments.

They had prepared for dragons.

There were large scorpions mounted on wagons, their bolts tipped with blackened steel, their crew already preparing for battle, shifting uneasily beneath the shadow of Caraxes’ form overhead.

Daemon exhaled slowly, amused. "They think themselves clever."

He patted Caraxes’ side, tilting them just slightly, letting the Blood Wyrm’s shadow fall directly over the largest part of the army, just enough to let them feel the weight of what loomed above them.

Below, the Faith’s men faltered, some turning their heads skyward, hands tightening around their weapons, their formation hesitating just slightly.

Daemon chuckled. "Good."

Fear.

Even in their blind faith, even with their pious arrogance, they felt it.

The weight of a Targaryen above them, the unrelenting presence of a dragon who had burned fields and men alike, who had seen wars older than their fathers and would see wars long after they were dust.

Daemon considered his next move carefully.

He could burn them now.

Caraxes was eager, ready, his throat vibrating with the beginnings of a growl, the great heat already coiling in his belly, waiting for Daemon’s command.

He could rain fire upon them, tear through their ranks before they ever reached the gates of Lannisport.

But that was not the game to play—not yet.

Daemon was no fool. He knew that this was not their full force.

If the Faith had committed to war, then this was merely the first strike, the first wave meant to test their defenses, to see how far House Lannister would bend before it broke.

And Daemon Targaryen had no intention of bending.

Not for gods.

Not for faith.

Not for any man who dared raise a hand against his daughter.

He pulled at the reins gently, guiding Caraxes in a slow, deliberate arc, circling the army below, letting them see him, feel him, hear the slow beat of leathery wings above their heads, the whisper of fire waiting to be unleashed.

A warning.

A promise.

Daemon smirked, then pulled back, tilting Caraxes toward the coast, toward the Rock, toward the battle that had already begun before the first blade was drawn.

The Faith had come.

They had brought their banners, their soldiers, their righteous fury.

They thought they marched against Lannisters, against nobles softened by wealth and gold, against men who would hesitate to draw their swords.

They had forgotten the dragons.

Daemon Targaryen intended to remind them.

The war room of Casterly Rock was a flurry of movement, of voices barking orders, of the sharp clank of steel being fastened, of parchment being unrolled, of battle preparations unfolding as war descended upon them. The banners of House Lannister draped over the stone walls, their lions roaring silently in the low torchlight, but here, in this moment, they were more than mere symbols—they were a call to war, a reminder of the power and fury that had been bred into this house for generations.

Jason stood at the center of it all, his golden mane disheveled, his broad chest bare as a servant fastened the straps of his armor, the finely crafted plate glistening beneath the glow of the torches. Another squire was adjusting his pauldrons, tightening the leather bindings, while a third worked at fastening his heavy crimson cloak over his shoulders, the golden lion of Lannister roaring proudly upon it.

And you—

You stood before him, your hands clenched into fists at your sides, your jaw set, your pale hair spilling over your shoulders in a cascade of moonlight, your body humming with restless energy, with frustration, with the unyielding fire that had been stitched into your very being from birth.

Jason had already decided.

He would ride out without you.

And you would not allow it.

"You cannot ask this of me," you said, your voice firm, unwavering, your gaze locked onto his as the tension between you simmered like wildfire beneath the surface.

Jason let out a exhale, adjusting his gauntlet as the last strap was secured. "I am not asking, my love." His voice was calm, steady, but there was something tense beneath it, something protective and unyielding. "I am telling you."

Your fingers curled tighter, nails digging into your palms. "You would keep me locked away behind these walls like a delicate thing?" Your voice was heated now, edged with disbelief. "You forget who I am, husband. You forget who you married."

Jason finally looked at you then, really looked, his green eyes narrowing, his lips pressing into a thin line. "I have forgotten nothing," he muttered, stepping closer, towering over you, his body clad in layered steel and leather, the scent of oil and metal clinging to him. "But I know what it would do to me if I were to lose you."

You tilted your chin upward, refusing to let him cow you into submission, refusing to be treated as something breakable, something to be kept behind walls while the battle raged beyond them. "And do you not think I feel the same?" you shot back, your voice a whisper, but sharp as a blade. "Do you think I would be content to wait here, to sit idly as they march against our children, against our family?"

Jason’s jaw clenched, his hands tightening at his sides, as if he was physically restraining himself from reaching for you, from arguing further, from conceding to what he already knew in his heart.

"You are still healing," he finally said, his voice low, though there was an edge of desperation beneath the steel of it. "You gave birth only moons ago, and now you wish to throw yourself into the sky, to face an army with nothing but fire beneath you?"

You stepped closer, lifting a hand to press against the cold metal of his chest plate, feeling the thundering heartbeat beneath it, the war within him.

"I am Targaryen, Jason," you whispered, your voice a breath of fire against his skin. "I was born for the sky. Born to ride. Born for war."

His fingers twitched, his restraint cracking beneath the weight of your words.

"And what of our children?" he murmured, his voice hoarse now, raw with something deeper than mere frustration—something vulnerable, something terrified. "What if you do not return? What if—"

"And what of you?" you interrupted, your voice shaking now, not with fear, but with fury, with love, with the sheer maddening devotion that bound you together. "You ride into battle—do you think I would survive it if you did not return? Do you think I could bear it?"

Jason’s breath hitched, his throat working as he swallowed thickly, his hands finally coming to rest against your waist, gripping you as if he could keep you tethered to the ground, as if he could will you to stay.

The room buzzed with tension, the sound of armor being strapped, of swords being checked, of men preparing for war falling away into the background as the two of you stood locked in battle of your own.

Tyland’s voice broke through the silence, steady, calculated, issuing commands near the long war table where he stood beside Alton, their heads bent over the strategic placements of their forces, over maps marked with enemy movements.

Jason finally sighed, his forehead dropping against yours, his grip tightening before he exhaled heavily. "You are impossibly stubborn."

You smirked, tilting your head. "You knew this the moment you met me."

Jason pulled back just slightly, his green eyes burning into yours, his fingers trailing along your jaw before dropping away. "Then let it be fire and blood, my love," he muttered. "But if you fall, I will not forgive you for it."

You reached for your own armor then, your heart pounding, your blood singing, knowing that whatever happened next—

You would ride together.

The Lannister host moved like a river of gold and crimson, a sea of banners fluttering against the backdrop of the dying sun, the gleam of polished armor catching the fading light, their steel-forged discipline evident in every measured step, every armored figure marching toward war.

Jason rode at the head of the formation, clad in gilded plate, his red cloak billowing behind him, his sword strapped securely at his hip, his expression carved from stone. Beside him, Tyland rode with the same quiet command, his gaze sharp, his mind already working through the next set of tactical maneuvers, his posture rigid with the weight of responsibility.

And above them—

A shadow passed over the land, vast and monstrous, the wind shifting as powerful wings beat against the sky, sending a rush of dust and leaves spiraling across the field below.

Haelle.

The Nightmare Queen soared above the army, her black-and-gold wings stretched wide, her form a dark blot against the sky, a living reminder of who rode with the Lannisters now, of the bloodline that had merged with their own.

And on her back—you sat astride the saddle, your silver hair whipping in the wind, your armor gleaming under the last rays of sunlight, your Targaryen blood made manifest in the way Haelle responded to your every movement, every shift of your body.

Jason glanced upward, watching as Haelle banked slightly, her great, golden-ridged tail curling in the air before she let out a low, grumbling growl, as if already irritated by the battle to come.

He shook his head, muttering under his breath, "Damn beast always looks ready to kill something."

Tyland did not look up, his focus still on the approaching ridge where a lone figure now stood waiting, a great red-scaled dragon coiled beside him like a shadow of war itself.

Jason exhaled sharply. "And now comes the old dragon himself."

Caraxes had landed a few miles from the Rock, his long serpentine form curling around a jagged outcrop of stone, his head tilting slightly, his crimson eyes gleaming as Daemon Targaryen watched the Lannister forces approach.

Daemon stood near his dragon’s massive talons, clad in blackened plate, his red cloak whipping in the wind, his silver hair tied back, his dark violet gaze cold, calculating.

Jason and Tyland rode forward, their banners flanking them, their horses slowing as they reached the Prince.

Daemon did not wait for pleasantries.

"They are nearly here," he said, his voice low, even, but carrying the weight of a man who had seen far too many wars. "Their numbers are larger than expected, and they have brought war machines with them. Large ones. Bigger than what I saw in the Stepstones."

Tyland’s gaze darkened, his fingers flexing around his reins. "Scorpions?"

Daemon nodded once. "More than a few. They have them mounted on wagons, flanked by knights. They are protecting them well—whoever commands this army knows what they’re doing."

Jason gritted his teeth, his jaw flexing as he exhaled sharply. "Do they have anything else?"

Daemon’s gaze flickered toward him, something unreadable in his expression. "The usual. Heavy infantry. Archers. A few mounted knights. But I’d wager they have a second force waiting further south. This is not their full strength."

Jason muttered a curse under his breath, his fingers tapping against the hilt of his sword as he turned toward the distance, scanning the horizon, as if willing his bannermen to appear.

Daemon watched him for a moment before speaking again. "Is anyone else coming?"

Jason let out a harsh breath, his expression twisting into something bitterly amused. "Ravens have been sent," he admitted, rubbing a hand over his jaw briefly before gripping his reins tighter. "But it will take time for them to mobilize."

He glanced at Daemon, his green eyes filled with unspoken truth. "We are on our own for now."

Daemon did not react at first. He simply rolled his shoulders slightly, the metal of his armor groaning softly, his gaze drifting toward the approaching battlefield.

"Then we make sure we do not fall today," he murmured.

Jason snorted, a slow smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Oh, I don’t intend to fall. But I do intend to make them regret ever marching toward my home."

Daemon’s smirk mirrored his. "Then let’s get started."

The Lannister army stood in formation, rows upon rows of knights, footmen, and archers poised atop the hill, their armor gleaming under the dying light of the sun. The air was thick with the scent of oiled steel, damp earth, and the faint lingering burn of torch smoke, the steady drumming of horses' hooves and the clank of shifting armor filling the quiet before battle.

At the highest vantage point, Jason and Tyland sat astride their warhorses, flanked by their trusted commanders, their expressions grim, measured, unyielding. Below them, the army of the Faith Militant was a relentless tide, thousands of men marching in tight formations, their white tabards embroidered with the seven-pointed star, the rhythmic thunder of their march echoing through the valley below.

It was an impressive force, larger than initial reports suggested, their numbers swelling as faithful from nearby settlements had joined their ranks, emboldened by the cries of righteousness, by the call to cleanse sin with steel and fire.

Jason's fingers tightened on the reins, his eyes assessing the field below, his lips curling into something hard, calculating.

"They move like an organized force," he muttered, his tone edged with disgust and something dangerously close to admiration. "Whoever leads them isn’t a fool."

Tyland, his expression sharp as a whetted blade, nodded in agreement. "This is not just a horde of zealots with pitchforks. They march with discipline. Someone trained them." His gaze flickered toward their own formations, toward their position atop the hill, where the advantage of higher ground gave them a strategic edge. "But they still march upward. That slows them. If they charge, they will tire before reaching us."

One of their commanders, Ser Martyn Hill, a veteran of many border skirmishes, cleared his throat, his voice gruff and certain. "They may be marching in order now, but faith makes men reckless. When they see the prize before them, when they believe the Seven are guiding their swords, they will break into a full charge. They will want the glory of taking the field."

Jason hummed, his eyes flickering toward the enemy war machines, where scorpions had been mounted on wagons, their deadly bolts tipped with steel meant to pierce dragonhide.

"And then there’s those," he muttered, his jaw tightening slightly, his expression shifting into something colder, more serious. "They came prepared for dragons."

Daemon, who had remained silent so far, standing beside Caraxes with arms crossed over his blackened armor, let out a low chuckle, the sound dripping with something darkly amused. "They can prepare all they want," he said, tilting his head slightly, his dark violet eyes gleaming like embers in the fading light. "The Faith has never faced a dragon in open battle. Nor have they faced a rider willing to burn them to ash."

Jason snorted, shaking his head. "Remind me to keep you away from the victory speech."

Daemon smirked but said nothing, his gaze turning back toward the battlefield below.

Tyland, ever the strategist, gestured toward their own positioning, his voice firm. "We hold the high ground. We make them tire themselves reaching us. The infantry will hold the center—shields locked, spears ready. They will absorb the first charge. The archers will thin their ranks as they approach."

Jason nodded. "And the cavalry?"

"Positioned at the flanks," Tyland continued. "If they overextend in their charge, our riders will break them from the sides. We wait for the right moment, then crush them between our lines."

Lord Alton Lannister sighed, his weathered face etched with the weight of battle years. "The Faith fights like fanatics," he reminded them. "If they break, they will not retreat—they will die where they stand. We will not be fighting men who value survival."

Jason’s smirk hardened, his fingers flexing over the pommel of his sword. "Then we make sure none of them walk away from this."

Daemon gave a slow nod, his silver hair shifting slightly as the wind rolled over them, his gaze never leaving the battlefield. "And what of the dragons?"

Jason glanced upward, where Haelle circled above, her black-and-gold wings stretched wide, her massive form a terrifying silhouette against the setting sun.

His gaze flickered to you, where you sat astride her, your armor gleaming, your hair unbound, your presence unmistakable, a figure of fire and fury against the darkening sky.

Jason exhaled through his nose. "Haelle and my wife will strike when they see an opening. They stay above for now—watching, waiting. If they come too close to the scorpions too soon, they risk being brought down."

Daemon nodded in approval. "A smart decision." He patted Caraxes’ side, the beast rumbling low, steam curling from his nostrils. "And what of me?"

Jason smirked. "You do what you do best, dear father-in-law—scare the shit out of them."

Daemon grinned, a wolfish gleam in his violet eyes. "That, I can do."

Tyland ignored their exchange, his focus still calculating, always thinking steps ahead. "The battle will begin soon. The moment they make their first move, we react. We hold the line, and we do not break."

Jason rolled his shoulders, reaching for his sword, drawing it with a sharp metallic hiss, his green eyes flashing with determination. "Then let’s remind these fanatics who they’ve come to fight."*

The roar of war split through the valley as the Lannister host and the Faith Militant collided, the clash of steel against steel, of flesh against blade, of men screaming as they fell into the fray. The banners of House Lannister snapped violently in the wind, the sound swallowed by the thunder of hooves, the bellowing of war horns, the guttural cries of dying men trampled beneath their own comrades.

From atop the hill, the Lannister shield wall held firm, their ranks tightly packed, shields braced against the charging wave of fanatics that had broken into a full sprint the moment they crested the ridge. The air was thick with war cries, the zealots screaming prayers to the Seven as they hurled themselves at the line of armored soldiers, their weapons crude but swung with blind fury.

Jason stood at the center, his armor glistening beneath the bloodied sunset, his greatsword already slick with crimson, his teeth bared in a feral grin as he parried an incoming strike, twisting his blade and driving it through the unarmored ribs of a charging zealot. The man gurgled, eyes wide with shock, blood foaming at his lips before Jason ripped the blade free, sending him crumpling to the dirt.

"Hold the fucking line!" Jason bellowed, his voice cutting through the chaos as he turned, catching a glimpse of his cavalry preparing to move on the flanks.

Tyland was already issuing commands with cold precision, his expression unreadable as he gestured to the archers positioned further up the hill. "Loose!" he shouted, and the sky darkened with a volley of arrows, each bolt streaking downward, finding purchase in unarmored throats and chests, sending dozens of zealots crumpling mid-charge.

The Faith did not retreat. They did not falter.

Instead, they pressed harder, stepping over their fallen, shoving through the gaps in the shield wall, their wild, fanatic eyes gleaming with something beyond mere battle-lust.

Jason saw them coming—saw the moment the first break in the line appeared, where two of his men stumbled backward, their shields knocked aside by the sheer madness of the Faith’s assault.

"Push forward!" Jason roared, barreling through the line himself, his sword swinging in deadly arcs, cleaving through cloth, through chainmail, through bone. Blood splattered across his cheek, hot, fresh, the scent of iron filling his nostrils as he shoved another attacker back, his boot crushing the man’s wrist beneath him.

Beyond the melee, the Faith’s war machines rumbled forward, massive scorpions mounted on wagons, their crews frantically loading the bolts, their target clear—the sky.

Jason’s stomach dropped as he followed their line of sight upward.

Haelle.

Above them, Haelle roared, her massive wings slicing through the sky, her dark form casting a shadow over the battlefield, circling like a predator above a wounded beast. You were astride her, watching, waiting, poised to strike.

Jason knew what you were waiting for—the right moment. The break. The point where the enemy faltered just enough for fire to swallow them whole.

But the Faith had prepared for dragons.

Jason saw it too late.

The scorpions fired in unison, their massive bolts cutting through the sky, streaking toward Haelle with unnerving precision.

"Shit!" Jason cursed, twisting toward Tyland. "They’re aiming for her!"

Tyland had already seen it, his eyes narrowing as he turned to the Lannister cavalry, his voice ringing over the chaos. "Break the flanks! We take the war machines now!"

The cavalry surged forward, their armor glinting as they thundered down the slopes, their lances lowered, hooves tearing into the earth as they crashed into the rear lines of the Faith’s formation, cutting their archers and scorpion crews apart.

Jason turned back, his breath catching as he saw the first bolt miss Haelle by inches, slicing through the air dangerously close to her wings.

But she was faster.

The next bolt came—and Haelle rolled mid-air, twisting her body with terrifying agility, the missile narrowly missing her belly as she let out a deafening, furious shriek.

Then, you moved.

Jason saw it—the exact moment you gave the command, the way Haelle’s body twisted again, her great maw opening wide.

And then—fire rained from the sky.

The battlefield was swallowed in dragonflame, a storm of dark orange and gold cascading over the Faith’s formations, their unarmored ranks screaming as they were engulfed, their war machines reduced to little more than smoldering wreckage.

Jason laughed, sharp and breathless, his sword glinting as he turned back toward the fray.

"That’s my wife!" he shouted, cutting down another zealot in a swift, brutal arc.

Tyland's stance was tense, though there was something flickering in his gaze—a mix of relief and disbelief.

Daemon, still mounted on Caraxes, let out a slow, dark chuckle, his expression unreadable as he muttered, "Now that’s a fucking dragonrider."

The battle raged on, but now—the tides were shifting.

Jason grinned, wiping blood from his cheek, his heart pounding, his blood singing.

"Time to finish this."*

The battle was a cacophony of chaos and blood, a feverish blur of clashing steel, war cries, and the constant drum of hooves pounding the earth beneath them. The battlefield now was a thick miasma of smoke and ash, the air stinking of charred flesh and the acrid scent of burning war machines. The Faith's lines were already fragmented, their once unwavering charge now broken into smaller pockets of resistance as they struggled to hold the ground beneath the relentless onslaught of the Lannisters' mounted knights and the devastating fire from Haelle.

Jason and Tyland stood shoulder to shoulder, their faces splattered with blood as they cut their way through the remnants of the Faith's line. Their cavalry had swept through the flanks, breaking the enemy's coordination, but the zealots were fanatical—desperate, refusing to yield, their eyes wild with the conviction of their cause.

"Push them back," Jason barked, his voice hoarse from exertion, his greatsword cleaving through another zealot’s chest. "We’re not finished yet!"

Tyland, ever the strategist, glanced over his shoulder toward the Lannister infantry, who were slowly closing the distance, methodically working their way through the remaining Faith soldiers. "They’re breaking," he muttered, more to himself than anyone else. "But not enough. Not yet."

Jason’s gaze flickered toward the far side of the battlefield, where the last remnants of the Faith’s war machines were still sputtering smoke. He gritted his teeth, looking for any remaining pockets of enemy forces. But something caught his eye.

It was a figure at the rear, draped in crimson and white, a warrior’s cloak hanging from his shoulders, a man whose presence seemed to exude authority, even amidst the chaos.

"Tyland," Jason muttered under his breath, his voice low, as he pointed toward the figure. "There. Do you see him?"

Tyland followed his gaze, his eyes scanning the battlefield until they landed on the figure Jason had pointed out. The man was larger than the rest, standing tall and commanding, his armor was brilliant in the dimming light, his sword drawn, and though he was surrounded by guards, there was a deliberate distance between him and the rest of the Faith’s forces.

"A leader," Tyland said flatly, his gaze hardening. "It’s the one we need to take out."

Jason nodded, his lips curling into a grim smile. "Time to meet the man behind the madness."

As they made their way through the mangled bodies of the fallen, their horses galloping effortlessly over the dead, the din of the battle seemed to fade slightly as their focus sharpened, zeroing in on the target ahead. But they were not alone.

From above, the sound of wings swept across the battlefield, the unmistakable roar of Caraxes cutting through the air as Daemon descended, his red dragon swooping low and fast, his eyes scanning the chaos below, looking for any sign of the man who had orchestrated this madness.

Daemon did not speak a word as he circled the battle, his eyes narrowing, already calculating the best moment to strike. His dragon flapped its massive wings, the wind whipping around them as they soared above the battlefield. Daemon's mind worked quickly. He had seen the man Jason had pointed to, and now he was closing in.

"There," Daemon muttered under his breath, his voice carrying the weight of a man who had seen too many battles. "That’s him. The one who’s been rallying the troops. Let’s see how he handles the real war."

With a flick of the reins, Daemon guided Caraxes down, his massive form slicing through the air as he aimed for the Faith's leader, who was now attempting to rally his remaining men. The zealots, sensing their leader's approaching demise, began to charge forward, trying to shield him, but they were too slow.

Daemon’s sword flashed in the light, his crimson cloak trailing behind him like a flame as he dismounted, his boots hitting the ground with unwavering confidence. He charged into the fray, his blade cutting through a group of men with deadly precision, sending them screaming to the earth.

The enemy leader, his face grim and stern, finally took notice of the chaos unfolding around him, his gaze locking onto Daemon, his face momentarily flickering with fear. He called to his men, trying to rally them once more. But his voice was lost amidst the growing chaos of the battle.

Daemon was already there, his sword slicing through the air with the force of a storm. The leader tried to parry the strike, but it was too late—Daemon’s blade cut through his sword arm, sending it flying. He staggered backward, falling to the ground with a thud, his remaining guards rushing to his defense.

Jason and Tyland arrived just in time to see Daemon disarm the leader, sending him to his knees before him. The Faith’s leader was now at Daemon’s mercy, his breaths coming fast and shallow, his eyes wide with terror as he scrambled to recover his sword.

Daemon stood over him, his dark violet eyes glowing, his chest heaving as he towered above the man.

"You came here to fight for your gods," Daemon said, his voice low, mocking. "And now you find yourself kneeling before one who doesn't give a damn about them."

Jason and Tyland dismounted quickly, their faces hard as they approached the defeated leader. Jason’s voice was ice-cold, his green eyes blazing with a fierce intensity.

"Tell me," Jason snarled, stepping forward, his sword still dripping with blood, "why do you think your gods will save you now?"

The man opened his mouth to speak, but Daemon’s blade flashed downward, the tip of it stopping just above his throat.

"Enough questions," Daemon said with a quiet chuckle, his sword resting on the man’s neck. "Let’s see if your gods will answer this prayer."

With a swift motion, Daemon slashed the blade down, ending the Faith leader’s life in an instant. The man’s body crumpled to the dirt, lifeless, his eyes wide with the shock of realizing that no salvation would come for him.

Jason wiped his blade clean, his expression unreadable as he glanced at Daemon, his voice low but full of respect. "I thought you might drag this out a little longer."

Daemon wiped the blood from his blade, his lips curling into a grin. "You know me too well, Jason. I don’t waste time on the theatrics."

Tyland stepped forward, his expression as cold as ever. "The battle is ours, then. The Faith’s morale will crumble without their leader."

Jason looked toward the rest of the battlefield, where the Faith’s remaining forces were already retreating, their ranks disorganized, their spirit broken. "Then let’s finish this," he said, his voice low, commanding, as he turned toward his forces, his heart beating steadily now with the thrill of victory.

Daemon mounted Caraxes once more, his gaze scanning the battlefield with keen satisfaction. "The war is far from over," he said softly, his eyes glinting. "But this fight is ours to win."

...

The war tent was thick with the scent of sweat, blood, and damp earth, the heavy canvas walls rippling faintly as the wind howled outside, rattling the iron stakes that kept it standing amidst the war camp. The table at the center of the space was littered with maps, scattered reports, and bloodstained gauntlets that had been discarded during the debriefing.

Jason stood at the head of the table, his armor scratched, dented, but still gleaming beneath the flickering light of the torches mounted in iron sconces. His green eyes were sharp, his expression one of grim satisfaction, as he studied the rough, hastily drawn battlefield report laid before him.

Tyland stood beside him, his doublet marked with streaks of mud and blood, his hands braced against the edge of the table as he reviewed the casualty figures, his jaw set in quiet calculation.

You stood across from them, still clad in your armor, the warmth of Haelle’s flames still lingering beneath your skin, your body aching but alive after the battle. Your pale hair had come loose in places, strands clinging to your damp forehead, but your gaze was unwavering as you studied the remnants of war laid bare before you.

The commanders, hardened knights of the Westerlands, stood in various states of exhaustion, their armor battered, their faces streaked with grime and dried blood, but their eyes held victory within them.

Jason rolled his shoulders. "We broke them," he muttered, tracing a gloved finger across the map. "Their lines crumbled after the cavalry struck the flanks. Once their war machines were lost, they had nothing left."

Tyland nodded, his voice even, but tinged with exhaustion. "Their leader's death ensured it. Daemon made certain of that."

Jason’s smirk twitched at the mention of the Rogue Prince, his fingers tapping the hilt of his sword idly. "Speaking of our favorite dragonlord," he drawled, tilting his head. "Where in the seven hells did he disappear to?"

As if summoned, the tent flap rustled, and Daemon stepped inside.

His crimson cloak was damp, his black armor marked with streaks of dried blood, his silver hair slightly wind-tossed, but his expression was one of pure amusement, as if he had been off for a leisurely ride rather than finishing a war.

Jason’s brows lifted, his lips curling slightly. "And where, pray tell, have you been?"

Daemon paused just inside the tent, reaching for the nearest goblet of half-drunk wine, swirling it lazily before taking a slow sip, ignoring the weight of the stares upon him.

"Had a package to prepare," he murmured.

Jason blinked. "A package?"

Daemon’s smirk widened, the torchlight catching the sharp gleam of his teeth. "A special delivery," he clarified, setting the goblet down. "One that should be arriving in Oldtown soon enough."

A slow silence settled over the tent, the commanders shifting uneasily, their glances flickering between one another.

Tyland rubbed the bridge of his nose before speaking in his usual calm but knowing tone. "Let me guess. It has something to do with the late commander of the Faith’s army."

Daemon’s smirk remained, but his eyes glinted with something colder, more biting. "A well-timed gift, wouldn’t you say?"

Jason frowned slightly, the pieces falling into place in his mind. "You’re sending his head, aren’t you?"

Daemon tilted his head. "Would you rather I send the whole corpse?" He let the question hang for a moment before exhaling dramatically. "It’s much too heavy. The head alone will do just fine."

Jason let out a short laugh, shaking his head in disbelief. "You are a vindictive old bastard, Daemon."

Daemon simply smirked, unbothered. "I find it makes a lasting impression."

Tyland, ever the diplomat, simply sighed, rubbing his temple. "So while we were strategizing for what comes next, you were organizing a message of terror."

Daemon shrugged, his expression unreadable. "Why not both?"

The tension in the room shifted, the commanders exchanging wary glances. None of them voiced disagreement.

Jason rolled his shoulders, taking a deep breath. "Let them see what happens when they march against my house. Let them see what happens when they challenge my wife, my family." His voice was calm, but filled with steel. "If the High Septon thought he could send an army against me without consequences, he will learn otherwise."

Tyland, still watching Daemon closely, finally asked, "Has there been any word from King Viserys?"

A brief silence followed.

Daemon’s smirk faded, his expression darkening just slightly as he turned his goblet idly between his fingers. "No ravens have arrived." His voice was measured, careful. "And if there is word, it has not reached us yet."

Jason frowned. "Is he even aware of what’s happening?"

Daemon let out a low hum, his gaze flickering toward you briefly before returning to the table. "My dear brother has always preferred to pretend the world beyond the Red Keep does not exist. If he is aware, he will ignore it until it is too large to look away from."

Jason scoffed, shaking his head. "So we fight our war while he sits on his throne, blissfully ignorant."

Tyland, always the realist, simply nodded. "It means we cannot rely on reinforcements from the Crown. We stand alone in this."

A quiet understanding settled over the room, a realization that this war was theirs to fight, theirs to finish, and whatever lay ahead—there would be no aid from the King in King’s Landing.

Daemon took another sip of his wine, his smirk returning as he tilted his head slightly. "Then we ensure that when Viserys finally does take notice, all that remains of the Faith’s army are ashes."

...

The tent was thick with tension after you left it, the air charged with the weight of strategy and uncertainty, of men who had fought and won but knew the battle was far from over. 

Daemon stood at the edge of the gathering, his arms crossed over his chest, his face etched with calculation. His earlier amusement had dimmed, replaced with something colder, something dangerous. His fingers tapped idly against the pommel of his sword, his gaze drifting over the map before him.

"We are not finished," Daemon finally said, breaking the brief silence. He tilted his head slightly, his expression unreadable as he traced a gloved finger over the map, pointing toward the road leading from the Reach. "This was a probing attack."

Jason frowned, his green eyes narrowing, his fingers still resting against the hilt of his sword, his muscles tense from the lingering adrenaline of battle. "A probing attack?" he repeated, voice edged with skepticism. "They marched thousands against us, Daemon. If this was merely a test, then what in the Seven Hells is their real army going to look like?"

Daemon smirked, but it was not an expression of humor—it was something colder, something that did not bode well for what was to come. "Larger," he answered simply. "Stronger. More disciplined. With more men willing to die in the name of their gods." He gestured vaguely toward the battlefield beyond the tent. "This was the first wave. The fanatics. The ones most easily swayed by the promise of righteousness and martyrdom."

Tyland, still hunched over the war table, exhaled slowly, his sharp gaze flickering toward Daemon. "Then the real army is still on its way." It was not a question—it was a grim realization.

Daemon nodded, his fingers curling slightly against the edge of the table. "If the High Septon was bold enough to send this force, then he has already committed himself to war. He will not stop until one of two things happens."

Jason’s smirk returned, sharp and humorless. "And what are those two things, dear father-in-law?"

Daemon’s violet gaze darkened. "Either he takes Casterly Rock... or we burn Oldtown to the ground."

The tent fell silent, the weight of those words settling over the gathered men like a blade pressed to the throat.

Jason tilted his head slightly, his fingers drumming against the table, before finally sighing, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "So what you’re saying is, we either prepare for a siege, or we march first and take the fight to them."

Daemon nodded. "Exactly."

Tyland, always the level-headed one, sighed quietly, adjusting the edges of the map before him. "A siege would stretch us thin. Even with Casterly Rock’s defenses, we do not have the numbers to withstand a prolonged assault. And if they are bringing more siege weapons..." He trailed off, his expression grim.

Jason ran a hand through his damp golden hair, shaking his head. "Then we make sure they never reach our gates."

Before anyone could respond, the tent flaps were suddenly drawn back, allowing a gust of cold night air to rush in as a soldier stepped through, his armor dusty, his face streaked with sweat, though his expression was one of relief.

"My lords!" he said hurriedly, nodding toward Jason and Tyland before sparing Daemon and you a brief, uneasy glance—clearly still wary of the Rogue Prince’s presence. "Messengers have arrived from our bannermen. Some of them will be arriving by tomorrow!"

A beat of silence followed, before Jason let out a breath, his smirk returning, this time carrying something closer to genuine amusement. "Well, it’s about fucking time."

Tyland, though visibly relieved, remained measured. "How many?"

The soldier hesitated briefly before answering. "A few thousand from House Marbrand and House Brax. Lord Lefford sends word that his men are marching now, but they will take at least another few days."

Jason nodded, rolling his shoulders as if shaking off the weight of waiting. "It will have to do."

Daemon, however, remained quiet, his gaze lingering on the map, his thoughts already moving beyond the immediate news.

Tyland, sensing his contemplation, turned toward him. "You’re not convinced this will be enough."

Daemon sighed, shaking his head. "It’s not about numbers." He tapped a finger against the edge of Oldtown on the map. "It’s about timing. If their larger force is still on its way, we need to strike before they fully assemble. We cannot give them time to recover from today’s losses."

Jason’s smirk widened, his green eyes glinting with something dangerously close to excitement. "You’re saying we don’t wait."

Daemon met his gaze, his smirk mirroring Jason’s. "We don’t wait."

Tyland exhaled, already moving pieces in his mind, already weighing risks against rewards. "If we march out to meet them before they expect it, we may be able to crush their reinforcements before they can regroup. But it’s a gamble."

Jason grinned. "I do love a good gamble."

Daemon laughed, low and sharp, stepping back from the table, his eyes glowing again with something dangerous, something eager. "Then we best start preparing."

...

The night air was thick with the scent of battle, of burnt wood and churned earth, of lingering death and distant fires still smoldering where the Faith’s forces had fallen. The sky above was deep indigo, streaked with faint silver clouds, the stars barely visible against the backdrop of war. The battlefield stretched endlessly toward the horizon, a graveyard of broken banners and blood-soaked soil, where the bodies of the dead still lay in twisted, unnatural heaps.

You stood at the edge of the encampment, away from the murmurs of soldiers, away from the war tent and its endless discussions of strategy. Instead, your gaze was locked on the distant hills, where shadows shifted in the darkness, where the land stretched toward the unknown, toward whatever came next.

Beside you, Haelle shifted restlessly, her massive form casting an imposing shadow against the flickering torchlight. Her great golden-marked wings twitched, her tail curling and uncurling in the dirt, her clawed feet scraping impatiently against the ground. The great Nightmare Queen was uneasy, her instincts attuned to the tension that hung in the air like a storm waiting to break.

You reached out, pressing a gloved hand against her warm scales, feeling the slow rise and fall of her breath, feeling the raw power humming beneath her skin like the promise of fire.

"Patience, Haelle," you murmured, your voice barely above a whisper. "I feel it too."

The dragon let out a low, guttural sound, a rumbling growl that vibrated through your bones, her head tilting slightly, as if she were listening to something just beyond your hearing.

You exhaled slowly, your gaze never leaving the horizon.

Then, you felt him before you saw him.

Tyland’s presence was quieter than Jason’s, less boisterous but no less commanding. His footsteps were measured, deliberate, and when he finally came to stand beside you, he said nothing at first—only gazed outward, toward the same darkness you watched.

For a long moment, neither of you spoke.

Then—

"You should be resting," Tyland said, his tone calm but laced with quiet disapproval.

You huffed a soft laugh, shaking your head. "And you should be inside the war tent, going over our next move for the hundredth time."

Tyland didn’t deny it. Instead, he tilted his head slightly, studying you from the corner of his eye. "I needed air." A pause. "So did you."

You sighed, lifting your hand from Haelle’s side, crossing your arms over your chest. "There’s something coming," you admitted, your voice softer now, thoughtful. "I don’t know what, but I can feel it."

Tyland nodded once, his expression unreadable. "Daemon is right." His voice was quiet, but the weight behind his words was unmistakable. "This was only the beginning."

Your jaw tightened. "I know."

Tyland turned to you then, his keen golden-brown eyes scanning your face, his expression still composed, still measured, but softer somehow. "And yet you are still determined to fight."

You met his gaze. "Would you have me any other way?"

A small, almost imperceptible smirk ghosted across his lips before it was gone. "No," he admitted, exhaling. "But I would have you safe."

You turned back toward the horizon, feeling the wind shift, colder now, laced with something unspoken. "Safety is an illusion, Tyland."

He didn’t argue, but you felt his fingers brush against your arm, a fleeting touch, a reminder that even in war, in uncertainty, in the face of whatever loomed beyond that horizon—

You were not alone.

[yourbelgianthings]

can we just talk about montrose pretty for a sec? he’s a gentleman thief and a pretty charismatic guy. he wears a hardlight mask he never takes off until he does and then he’s decades older than anyone thought he was. he’s done the i’m your dad bit twice and also adopted a child separately from that. he knows everything imaginable about ephemera, where he’s a hawkblade of the emerald coven. his fake last name is always goodparty. he’s the bazooka maniac. he got horny when the car he was in exploded around him. he has an animatronic family he visits regularly. he finds it hard to interact with other people but not his best friends. he dressed up as infinite jessie the specter fairy. he’s really just everything <3