#Family Casks

[maltrunners]

Glenfarclas 28 (1995) The Family Casks

Review by: Raygun A special Family Casks release for Royal Mile Whiskies. These older Family Casks are particularly sought after, with a price to match. I’m not very fond of the Glenfarclas core range, but some of the special releases have made an excellent impression. Have high hopes for this, the oldest Glenfarclas I’ve tried. Reviewed from a sample. Rested about 15 minutes. Distillery:…

[blackseafoam]

Cleanse Your Worry

previous . next

Arturo is still struggling, Elleh is worried, Nicco deals with the consequences of playing dodgeball with a deranged half-orc. WC: 1129

whumptober 2024. day 13. team as a family l familial curse l multiple shumpees l "death will do us part"

The Red Lantern Inn glowed with soft warm light. The only patrons were a small group of traveling monks, and a pair whose look made their dubious line of work quite apparent. The staff were down to two tonight, and they had no fresh meat, so they prepped a simple vegetable stew to serve. 

“Arturo, you need to go to bed.” The gnome scolded as she stood on her stool at the kitchen hearth, carefully stirring the stew in a huge iron pot suspended over the flame. 

“‘M fine.” Arturo braced himself on the counter nearby, riding out a sickening wave of dizziness, waiting for the inevitable headache to set in. “Almost done.” He spoke through gritted teeth. Squinting down at the half chopped zucchini before him. 

“Nicco’s gonna be back any second, I don’t need your help.” She raised the pot on its chain to simmer, wincing a bit as the scar tissue in her arm pulled. “Come on.” She tutted at him as she pulled at his apron. “Dude, you look like garbage, go upstairs right now.” Tough love was going to be the only thing that was going to work in this scenario.

“Okay…” The dizziness lessened and Arturo straightened, fatigue setting in. Elleh escorted him to his bedroom. He leaned on the wall the entire way. 

The hunter sat down on his bed unsteadily. “I only just woke up like three hours ago.” He complained, wiping a palm over his face. Elleh poured him a mug of water from the pitcher and handed it to him, hopping up on the bed next to him with a sigh. 

“Well somebody used your head as a church bell, it’s going to take time to heal. You’re not doing yourself any favors by overdoing it.” She patted his elbow as he took a drink. “Remember how frustrating it was for us when Nicco would refuse to rest after his accident? Please don’t make me go through that again... I can’t take it.” She sniffed. 

Arturo glanced down at her, lowering the mug. Elleh wiped a tear away from her cheek. “I’m sorry.” His hand found her shoulder. 

“Please, help us by being patient with yourself. Please.” She swiped at another tear like it was a bothersome gnat, then leaned into Arturo’s side with another sigh. “These past few months sure have sucked.” She flexed her wrist, the scar tissue creaking in her skin. 

“Hasn’t been all bad.” Turo hummed. A savory aroma had wafted up the stairs, down the hallway, and into the room.

“I guess so.” Elleh straightened. “I better go serve that stew. I’ll bring you a bowl.” 

Arturo laid down gingerly, pinching at his forehead, as Elleh trotted out the door.  “El?”

“Yeah?”

“Just, leave the door open please.”

“Sure.”

Arturo breathed through his throbbing headache, the humming voices echoing up from the common area distracted him enough to finally fall asleep.

Nicco entered the inn as Elleh doled out wooden bowls to the patrons. He calmly greeted his guests, then caught the gnome’s gaze and nodded toward the kitchen. 

Elleh rushed behind the bar. “Did you find anything?” She wasted no time with pleasantries. 

“I did. Um…” Nicco had to gather his thoughts. “There’s a… woman living in the ravine. She’s very hungry, and very aggressive.” He unpinned his cloak and rolled his shoulder, wincing. “Beaned me with a rock pretty good."

Elleh made a face, she gestured to the chair that had become Nicco’s sit-down prep station. The half-elf obeyed and sat down, pulling down the shoulder of his deel. 

“So do you think she’s like, a substance user or something?” Elleh pulled the fabric down and looked at Nicco’s shoulder. 

Nicco shook his head. “No, she… she just seemed scared. I don't know how much longer she's going to last down there.

“Where did she come from? How have we never seen her before?”

“Maybe we leave some food down there tomorrow. But we should all stay away from that area for the time being. Even in her state, she’s strong as hell, you should’ve seen the way she threw those rocks.” He winced and looked at his shoulder. He could already tell that it was going to be a nasty bruise. “It’s fine, I can move my arm, it just hurts like a bitch.” 

“Well, you probably shouldn’t move it then.”

“Thank you Dr. Harfvestii.” 

“You’re welcome.” She tilted her head in mock haughtiness. “I’m serious though. Actually I’m so serious that I’m going to make you wear this.”

She went to the table linens and pulled out a woven runner, tying it over Nicco’s uninjured shoulder as a makeshift sling. “Since I know you’re not going to rest yet, you’re going to wear that. That’s our compromise.” 

“Doesn’t compromise usually mean the other party gets a say in it?”

“Not when the compromiser already knows what the compromisee is thinking.” Elleh asserted. 

Nicco emerged from the kitchen to see one of the monks sitting at the bar, an odd sight. He was a young human, no more than 17 years old, with a shaved head and blue woolen robes. “Need something?” Nicco quickly settled into his customer service persona.

“I sense something’s wrong, is everything alright?” He glanced at the innkeeper’s immobilized arm.

The mercenaries nearby cast a glance over, but kept their hushed conversation going. 

Nicco let out an amused huff. “You must be the perceptive one.” He crossed his arms.  “My staff and I have had a rough go of it lately.”

“How so?”

“Well, it started during the High Plains race, and just went downhill from there.” Nicco continued on for a while, sharing way more than his character usually allowed. Something about this young man put him at ease. He covered his heatstroke, the fight with the Dragonborn (while leaving out any mention of a magical well), and all the way up to Arturo’s episode

“Bad things will pass. Good things will pass. What’s important is that these things are behind you, and you have each other.” 

Nicco nodded, huffing in agreement while looking at the floor. 

“Bad luck is one thing, but the worst thing you can do in this situation is let the anxiety ferment. You must cleanse your worry as often as you can. If you don’t, it will become a curse.”

Nicco nodded in agreement, but with a slightly confused look behind his eyes. 

The group of monks got up to retire to their rooms, and the young monk got up and followed them without another word.

Cleanse my worry? What does that even mean? Nicco shook his head and went back to the kitchen to help Elleh clean. 

[kaithewhatever]

[tortoisesshells]

Dark Shadows: 58, 112, 67, 126 & Moby-Dick Ch. 7 "The Chapel"

[phoenixcoin]

❂⭃ @phoenix-flamed asked: ⥷❂

❂⭃ DIFFERENT and/or CRITICAL for the Glimpses of the Past meme! ⥷❂

Glimpses of the Past

send DIFFERENT for a scene from my muse's past that they feel changed their outlook / personality / etc, for the better or worse

send CRITICAL for a scene from my muse's past in which they thought about / were reminded of something they're insecure about

⤛⌠❂⌡⤜

Byron stood like a soldier, shoulders back, arms at his sides, feet together... Though he never could quite get it as good as Elwin could... That was why he was the older brother. He had to be more skilled, more charismatic, more prepared. And Bryon was the little brother who was all smiles and trouble and a bad influence, self-titled, of course. No part of him has ever really felt like there was a favorite in the family, and even standing now before his mother in a scene they could only be predicted to deteriorate, he did not feel like a burden. Not to the family or his mother or his brother. Certainly not to the Phoenix.

But he was still in trouble, and his mother was still glaring down at him with stony disappointment... And maybe a little exhaustion.

He would remember the ensuing conversation for many years into the future, a pivotal moment that would stick in his brain and change his way of life forever. No less fun-loving or troublesome, of course, but certainly far more purposeful with every act.

"I know it was you," his mother had said, with such a stern voice. "Carrying Elwin away from his studies? I know it was you."

Byron at first attempted to shrug the comment off, but sharp reprimand from the woman cut him into place all over again. He wasn't so much afraid of her as he recognized that she was being very serious. And when she was serious, one was to listen.

His mother and stepped down to him, so as be close to him, and explained to him that while she was aware Elwin enjoyed those distractions as much as Byron, and she was also aware of how necessary reprieve was for Elwin, that his behavior was still unnecessary.

"Just because you have no obligations does not mean you have no duties, Byron," she scolded. "And yes. Finding ways to support your brother are certain among those duties. However, I emphasize support. You cannot hinder his growth if you want the both of you to have enduring happiness and health. Do you understand?"

There was plenty of time for fun, and should Byron be worried about his lacking of it, Byron was to immediately inform her, his mother explained. But he has a great weight on his shoulders, and he needed to be given every opportunity to be as prepared for those burdens as possible. If Byron had known then what he did many years later, maybe he would have even helped those studies instead of going his own way... His mother had been right about that.

She had lead him by the arm, a gentle lace and pull, to the window as she continued her words of wisdom. Of explaining the importance of one's family and how every branch of the tree needs be strong were the whole thing to survive the weathering of storms. How she demonstrated the rot growing on a single patch could spread and consume the whole thing (a metaphor that would later haunt him, again and again).

"Of course I am not asking you to change who you are," she has reiterated. "But you must be strong and you must be responsible. Because one day, Elwin will need you, my darling. One day, you may very well be the only thing holding him up. You must prepare for that."

Byron had carried those words with him from that point on. He understood then his place in his family, not as second rate or lesser than, but a supporting pillar to the empire that his brother would be handed the crown to. He was more than necessary, and he had to act like it. Later he would go on to pass these words to Clive once Joshua was born, though he knew there was certainly never any doubt. Clive had the responsibility of his brother in his heart, and all the love of himself. He would continue to love by those words every day, even after Elwin was gone.

He would always be the branch that would never rot. He would always be the supporting beam that his family needed on and on. Forever and always.

[markredfield]

#AudioDramaSunday “The Cask of Amontillado” from the story by Poe.

Adapted by Tony Tsendeas, and starring the voices of John Astin (as Montressor; John starred in the classic TV series “The Addams Family”) and Mark Redfield (as Fortunato) You can listen on our YouTube Channel!

THE MIDNIGHT MATINEE anthology series resumes with new shows in March 2024! Tales of mystery, imagination, horror, and science fiction!

On our Podcast, and on our YouTube Channel!

Thanks for listening, and subscribing!

[bourbontrend]

Discover the top performers at the American Bourbon and Whiskey Competition 2023! Dive into the highlights featuring the spectacular Savor Spear Straight Bourbon Whiskey and other standout bourbons. Perfect for every whiskey enthusiast looking to explore the finest spirits of the year. #BourbonTrend #WhiskeyLovers

[hisfavegirl]

The Rouge Prince - Daemon Targaryen x Reader.

summary : As the only daughter in your family, you are required to marry someone with dignity and honor, that's what your father thinks and when he heard that the king wanted to find a bride for his grandson, your father and mother did something that required you to sacrifice your future.

You sit in the carriage, your eyes fixed on your parents, who are deep in conversation. The rhythmic sound of the horses’ hooves on the road fills the air, but your mind is elsewhere. You glance at your father, his brow furrowed in thought, and your mother, her eyes scanning the horizon as if lost in her own plans.

“Why are we going to King’s Landing, Mother?” you ask again, trying to break through their focused discussion.

Your father, glances at you briefly before returning his attention to your mother. “You’ll find out when we arrive, child. It’s not something for you to worry about right now.”

“But I want to know now!” you protest, frustration bubbling up inside you. “Why do you keep talking in secrets? What are you planning?”

your mother, turns her head slightly toward you, her face calm but distant. “Enough questions, dear. It’s for your own good.”

You cross your arms, narrowing your eyes in suspicion. You look out the window, trying to ignore their conversation, but curiosity gnaws at you. What are they planning? What could be so important that they won’t share with you?

“Mother,” you ask quietly, your tone softer now. “Please. I just want to understand.”

Your mother sighs, her gaze softening for a moment. “In time, you will, my love. But for now, you must trust that we are doing what is best.”

You turn back to the window, still not entirely convinced. The trees pass by in a blur as your mind races with possibilities. What is waiting for you in King’s Landing? What role do you play in this unknown plan?

The carriage rumbles to a stop, and the clatter of hooves fades into the bustling noise of the Red Keep’s courtyard. Your eyes scan the scene before you — guards marching in tight formations, their armor clinking with every step, and servants rushing about, their arms full of crates and baskets of food, wine, and decorations. The air hums with activity, the scent of fresh bread and sweet fruits mixing with the sharp tang of metal.

“Out,” your father’s voice cuts through the noise as he steps down from the carriage, offering a hand to your mother. You follow after them, your eyes darting around, taking in every detail.

“What’s all this for?” you ask, noticing the banners being unfurled from the high towers. The sigil of House Targaryen — the three-headed dragon — looms over the courtyard like a watchful beast.

“The feast,” your mother replies, her gaze sharp as she glances at a group of servants struggling with a large cask of wine. “There will be many important guests tonight. You will behave accordingly.” Her tone is gentle but firm, the kind that leaves little room for argument.

“A feast for whom?” you press, stepping closer to her. “What’s the occasion?”

A flicker of something — hesitation, perhaps — crosses her face. She looks at your father, who gives her a short nod. “The King has decided it is time to strengthen bonds between houses,” your mother says carefully. “There will be dancing, music, and… alliances to be made.”

“Alliances,” you mutter under your breath, frowning. The meaning behind that word is never as simple as it sounds.

The three of you walk into the Red Keep, and the warmth of the sun is quickly replaced by the cool, shadowed halls. The once-quiet corridors are now alive with movement. Servants hang garlands of flowers along the walls, and tables are being set with silver plates and goblets of polished gold. You have to step aside as a pair of kitchen boys hurry past, balancing platters of fruit and roasted meats.

“Stay close,” your father says, glancing back at you. “The halls are crowded, and I will not have you wandering off.”

You nod but your eyes remain on the scene before you. The smell of spiced wine drifts past your nose, and the distant sound of musicians tuning their instruments echoes through the stone corridors. Everywhere you look, people are moving with purpose, as if the whole keep is holding its breath for something grand to begin.

You glance up at your mother, your brow furrowed in suspicion. “Are you sure this is just a feast, Mother? It feels like something more.”

Your mother doesn’t answer immediately. Her gaze is fixed straight ahead, her lips pressed into a thin line. “Keep your eyes open tonight, my dear,” she finally says, her tone low but pointed. “There is more to see than what is being shown.”

Her words stay with you as you walk deeper into the Red Keep, the echoes of footsteps and distant music filling your ears. The air feels heavier now, like a storm about to break.

You walk through the grand corridors of the Red Keep, the distant hum of preparations for the feast slowly fading behind you. The air grows colder, heavier with the weight of expectation. The echo of footsteps bounces off the high stone walls, each step feeling louder than the last.

As you approach the large, looming doors of the throne room, two guards push them open with a low, rumbling creak. The chamber beyond is vast and dimly lit, the narrow beams of sunlight streaming through high windows casting sharp rays upon the stone floor.

At the far end of the room, atop the Iron Throne, sits King Jaehaerys I Targaryen, his presence as commanding as the throne itself. His silver hair gleams in the fractured light, and his sharp, thoughtful eyes watch every movement like a dragon surveying its domain. Beside him stands Prince Baelon Targaryen, his son, tall and broad-shouldered, his hand resting casually on the hilt of his sword. His gaze is sharper, more direct, and it lingers on you just a moment too long.

“Lady Tyrell, Lord Tyrell,” King Jaehaerys’s voice echoes across the hall, steady but worn with age. His gaze shifts to you, eyes narrowing with faint curiosity. “And you have brought another with you.”

“This is my daughter,” your mother replies with a polite bow of her head. “She has come to learn, as all must in time.” Her voice is steady, but there is a careful calculation in her words, as if each syllable has been weighed before it was spoken.

“Ah, the young one,” Baelon says, his voice carrying a hint of amusement. “She looks sharper than most. I wonder if she listens as well as she watches.” His eyes meet yours, a spark of challenge in them.

You lift your chin, refusing to look away. “I listen when there’s something worth hearing,” you reply, your voice cool but clear.

Baelon raises an eyebrow, his grin widening. “A tongue as sharp as her gaze. She’ll need both if she means to walk these halls.”

Jaehaerys raises a hand, and the room falls silent. His eyes settle on you, more curious now than before. “Tell me, child,” he says slowly, his voice like distant thunder, “what do you see when you look upon this throne room?”

You glance around the room, your gaze moving from the cold stone walls to the guards stationed along the edges, to the light catching on the jagged edges of the Iron Throne. Your eyes linger on the throne itself — a twisted mass of blades, swords of conquered kings melted together. You feel a weight in the air, not just from the presence of those before you, but from the very history embedded in the metal.

“I see power,” you answer carefully, your voice unwavering. “But power that cuts as easily as it commands.”

For a moment, there is only silence. Jaehaerys’s eyes remain on you, and you can feel him weighing your words. Slowly, a faint smile touches his lips.

“Wise beyond your years,” he says, leaning back on the throne. “Perhaps too wise.” His gaze flicks to your father, then to your mother, his eyes sharp with meaning. “Keep her close, my child. Wisdom is both a gift and a danger in these halls.”

Your mother dips her head in acknowledgment. “She will be guided well, Your Grace.”

Baelon chuckles softly, his eyes still on you. “If she’s as clever as she seems, I doubt she’ll need much guidance.”

You glance at him again, your heart steady despite the weight of so many eyes upon you. The Iron Throne looms larger than ever, and in this moment, you realize that every gaze in this room carries its own weight of expectation. Something about this meeting feels heavier than it should.

As the king begins speaking with your mother and father, you remain silent, but your mind is far from still. What had your mother said before? “There is more to see than what is being shown.”

You watch them all — the king, the prince, the guards, even the way the light falls on the Iron Throne — and you wonder what lies beneath their words.

The heavy groan of the great doors behind you draws your attention. Slowly, they swing open, and for a moment, the light from the corridor frames the figure in the doorway like a portrait.

Prince Daemon Targaryen steps inside with the confidence of a man who has never questioned his place in the world. His silver hair, so much like his father’s and grandfather’s, falls just past his waist, but it is the sharpness in his eyes that catches your attention. Mischief and danger swirl in his gaze like fire and smoke. His lips curve into a crooked grin, as if he already knows something no one else does.

“The Rogue Prince arrives,” Baelon mutters, glancing toward his son with a mix of pride and exasperation. “Late, as usual.”

“Better to arrive late than to wait on others, Father,” Daemon replies smoothly, his voice rich with amusement. His boots echo as he strides forward, his cloak swishing behind him like a dragon’s tail. He spares a glance at his grandfather, King Jaehaerys, and gives a short, almost lazy bow. “Your Grace.”

“Daemon,” Jaehaerys says his name like a warning, though his gaze is steady. “You walk these halls like they belong to you.”

“Do they not, grandfather?” Daemon’s grin widens, his eyes flicking briefly to the Iron Throne. “One day, they will.”

A strained silence falls over the room, heavy as storm clouds. You glance at your mother, and see her eyes narrow, her lips pressed tightly together. Your father, shifts his stance, his gaze fixed on Daemon like a hawk watching prey.

“Ambition is a dangerous thing, nephew,” your mother says softly, her voice calm but pointed. “It burns hot but fades quickly if not tempered.”

Daemon’s eyes flick to her, his grin unfaltering. “Then it’s a good thing I prefer wildfire, my lady. Burns hotter, lasts longer.” His gaze moves to you next, his eyes sharp and assessing. “And who do we have here?”

You meet his stare without flinching, your eyes steady on his. “Someone who knows better than to be charmed by wildfire, Prince Daemon.”

Baelon barks a laugh, his eyes lighting up with surprise. “She has your tongue, Daemon. Careful, or she’ll cut you with it.”

Daemon’s grin only widens, his eyes gleaming with interest now. He takes a step closer, tilting his head as he examines you like one might examine a puzzle with missing pieces. “A sharp tongue, a sharp gaze. Dangerous tools for one so young.”

“And yet,” you reply smoothly, “dangerous tools tend to be the most useful.”

His eyes narrow, but there’s no malice in them — only curiosity and something else you can’t quite name. He chuckles softly, his eyes flicking to your mother. “This one’s yours, I take it?”

“She is mine,” your mother replies firmly, stepping slightly forward, as if to place herself between you and Daemon. Her tone leaves no room for doubt. “And she is not a tool for anyone to use.”

“Everyone’s a tool, my lady,” Daemon replies with mock sweetness, stepping back with his hands raised in mock surrender. “Some just don’t know it yet.”

“That will be enough, Daemon,” King Jaehaerys’s voice cuts through the room like a blade, sharp and absolute. “We are here to prepare for the feast, not to play games of wit and pride.”

Daemon lowers his head slightly, his grin fading but not disappearing. “Of course, Your Grace.” He steps aside, letting his gaze linger on you for a moment longer before turning toward his father, Baelon.

You release a slow breath, realizing only then how tense you’d been. Your gaze flicks to your mother, who places a hand on your shoulder, her fingers firm but reassuring.

“Remember what I told you,” she says quietly, her eyes locked on Daemon as he walks away. “There is more to see than what is being shown.”

Her words echo in your mind as you watch the Rogue Prince disappear deeper into the throne room, his laughter still hanging in the air like smoke after a fire.

The king rises from his throne, and the room falls into a hushed silence. His presence alone commands attention, but as he begins to speak, the weight of his words settles over the room like a heavy fog.

“Now that Prince Daemon has arrived,” King Jaehaerys’s voice rings clear and firm, “I am pleased to announce the engagement of my grandson, Prince Daemon, to Lady Tyrell, the daughter of Lord and Lady Tyrell. The marriage will take place in one month’s time.”

The room seems to hold its breath. You feel your heart stop in your chest, and for a moment, the world around you seems to blur. Your eyes flick to your parents, and everything falls into place.

You had wondered why your father had so stubbornly rejected every suitor you had been offered, why he had pushed back against every potential match, no matter how prestigious. It wasn’t that they didn’t care for your happiness—no, it was something far more intricate, far more political. The realization strikes you like a thunderclap.

The match with Daemon. This is what your father had been maneuvering toward all along. A marriage that would tie your House to the Targaryens in a way that could not be undone. But it’s more than that, isn’t it? This is a power play—a way to gain influence in the court, to strengthen your family’s position, to secure your place among the highest powers in the realm.

You feel a cold shiver run down your spine as you look at Daemon. His eyes meet yours across the room, his expression unreadable, but there’s a glint of something in his gaze. Recognition? Amusement? Or something far more dangerous?

Daemon, the Rogue Prince—the one who had walked into the room with such defiance and charm. The one who had stirred the pot, who had pushed every boundary. And now, he is your fiancé. Your blood runs cold, and yet, you can’t tear your eyes away from him.

“Is this truly necessary?” you hear yourself ask, the words slipping from your mouth before you can stop them. Your voice rings out in the room, breaking the silence like glass shattering.

King Jaehaerys’s eyes flick to you, sharp and unyielding. “It is done, child. The decision has been made.”

Your mother, Lady Tyrell, steps forward, her expression neutral but tight with control. “It is for the good of House Tyrell,” she says, her voice calm but with an edge. “A union with House Targaryen will strengthen our position. We must all think beyond our desires, for the future of the realm.”

The weight of her words crashes down on you, and for a moment, you feel as if the room is closing in. You glance at your father, Lord Tyrell, who watches the exchange with a cold, calculating gaze.

“So this is why,” you say softly, more to yourself than to anyone else. “This was the reason behind all the rejections… All those men who came to court me, only to be sent away with little more than a polite refusal. You had this planned all along.”

Your father does not deny it. “Sometimes, the right choice is not the one that makes us happy,” he says quietly. “But it is the one that secures our future.”

Daemon’s voice cuts through the tension. “Don’t look so disappointed, Lady Tyrell. You may find our union more… thrilling than you think.” His grin is sly, but there’s something behind it that you can’t quite place.

You take a steadying breath. You don’t have to like this arrangement, but it seems you have little choice in the matter now. Daemon is your fiancé, and the course has already been set.

As the room shifts back into its previous rhythm, the whispers of the courtiers beginning again, you feel a chill settle in your bones. The power dynamics have shifted in ways you couldn’t have predicted, and now you are at the center of it all.

Your life, and your future, are no longer entirely your own.

You stand in the newly prepared chamber, its walls draped in fine silks and the soft glow of candlelight flickering across the polished stone floor. The room feels both grand and foreign to you, filled with the weight of the Targaryen legacy, yet it is still undeniably your own—at least for now. The heavy, regal scent of incense fills the air, and everything in the room seems meticulously arranged for your new life.

Your mother, Lady Tyrell, stands near the window, her gaze fixed on the far-off horizon, as if she is contemplating something far beyond the stone walls of this keep. The silence between you is thick with unspoken words, but you can feel her eyes shift toward you, sensing your presence without turning.

“Mother,” you begin, your voice steady but tinged with a mixture of confusion and something deeper. “You are part of House Targaryen by blood, yet now you’re asking me to bind myself to them through marriage. Is this truly the best course for our House?”

She finally turns to face you, her expression unreadable but her eyes sharp. For a moment, there’s a flicker of something, a vulnerability, before it is quickly masked.

“It is not just about bloodlines, my dear,” she says softly, her voice carrying the weight of experience. “The strength of our House is not in our name alone but in the alliances we forge. House Targaryen is the most powerful in the realm. A marriage to Daemon… well, it solidifies our position in ways that words alone cannot.”

You stare at her, trying to make sense of her cold pragmatism, yet beneath it, there is something you almost cannot place. She speaks with such certainty, such authority, as if her entire life has been leading up to this moment.

“But what of me?” you ask, a thread of frustration slipping into your tone. “What of my future? My happiness?”

Lady Tyrell steps closer to you, her gaze softening just slightly, though her resolve remains strong. “You are not the first woman to be wed for the good of her family. And you will not be the last. But remember this, child: House Tyrell will endure, and so will you. You are not just a pawn, but a queen in the making. Your sacrifices will carry our name far and wide, and that is something that will outlast any personal longing.”

You want to argue, to voice the doubts and fears that have been swirling in your mind ever since the announcement. But there’s something in her voice—something both comforting and chilling—that silences you.

You look down at the fine silks draped over the bed, the delicate embroidery woven with care, and for the first time, you realize the cost of this union. It’s not just about power. It’s about the future of House Tyrell. And you, whether you like it or not, have become its instrument.

“Will I ever truly have a choice in any of this?” you ask, the words barely escaping your lips before you can stop them.

Your mother steps forward and places a hand on your shoulder, her grip firm, almost too firm. “You always have a choice,” she says quietly. “But know this: sometimes the right choice isn’t the one that will bring you immediate joy. It’s the one that will ensure survival, legacy, and honor.”

You nod slowly, feeling the weight of her words settle into your bones. There is no turning back now. You are bound to this marriage, to Daemon, to a future that will not be of your choosing.

But as you meet your mother’s gaze, something inside you stirs—determination, perhaps, or the beginning of a plan of your own. This life might not be the one you imagined, but that doesn’t mean you have to accept it without shaping it in your own way.

And with that thought, you look at your mother one last time. “I will make sure House Tyrell does not just survive, but thrives,” you say, your voice quiet but resolute.

She gives you a nod, the faintest hint of a smile on her lips. “I know you will.”

Your words hang in the air, heavy with doubt and defiance. “Becoming a queen? Even Daemon is just the second son,” you say, your voice tinged with frustration. You didn’t mean to speak so openly, but the realization of your situation is too much to bear. How could you possibly be married to someone like Daemon, the second son of House Targaryen, whose ambitions and wild nature are known across the realm?

At the sound of your words, a sharp silence fills the room, and in an instant, you feel the change in the atmosphere. Your father, Lord Tyrell, who had been so composed, now stands rigid, his eyes narrowed with a cold, burning fury.

“Do not question my decisions,” he says, his voice low but firm, each word biting through the air like a blade. The heat of his anger is palpable, and his gaze hardens as he steps closer, his presence towering over you. “Daemon is not just any second son. He is a Targaryen. And his blood is powerful enough to change the course of this realm.”

You can feel your heart pounding in your chest as his words sink in. This is no longer a family discussion; it’s an assertion of power, of authority. Your father’s hand tightens into a fist, and you know that questioning him now is not a luxury you can afford.

“I have done what is necessary,” he continues, his voice steady, though there is an edge to it now. “House Tyrell’s future is secured by this union. It is not a matter of titles or birth order. It is a matter of survival, of influence. And you will marry Daemon, whether you like it or not.”

You swallow hard, the tension in the room thickening. The implications of his words are clear—there is no room for rebellion in this decision. Your personal desires, your future hopes, they mean nothing in the face of what your father believes is best for the family. You can see the finality in his eyes.

“But father,” you protest, your voice trembling slightly despite your best efforts to remain strong. “This is not the life I wanted. This is not the future I dreamed of.”

Your father’s expression softens only slightly, but there is no trace of remorse in his eyes. “Dreams are for children,” he replies, his tone hardening again. “The realm is ruled by power, not dreams. You will adapt. And in time, you will understand.”

Your mother, Lady Tyrell, steps forward now, her presence steady and calm as always, but her eyes meet yours with an expression that speaks volumes. She says nothing at first, allowing your father’s words to settle. Then, her gaze softens, and she places a hand gently on your arm, her touch warm but firm.

“I know this is difficult,” she says quietly, her voice carrying the weight of years of experience. “But your father is right. This is not just a marriage. It is the future of our House. And your role in this is not one to be taken lightly. You must think beyond yourself for the good of everyone you love.”

You want to fight back, to argue that your happiness should matter, but the reality of your situation presses in. This is the life you will have now—the life your parents have chosen for you.

With a heavy sigh, you turn away from them, facing the window, your eyes tracing the distant horizon, where the sun is setting. You are trapped in a life you didn’t choose, and for the first time, you feel the full weight of that reality.

You freeze as you hear the soft rustling of fabric and the faint sound of footsteps. Turning swiftly, you spot Daemon emerging from the shadows at the far end of your chamber, his presence as commanding as ever. He moves with a fluid grace, almost as if he’s accustomed to walking unnoticed, and before you can fully react, he’s already standing close, his piercing eyes fixed on you with an intensity that makes your heart race.

Daemon reaches out, his fingers brushing lightly against your cheek, and you can feel the warmth of his touch, despite the coldness in the room. The gesture is unexpected, and for a moment, you’re caught off guard—unsure of whether to push him away or allow the contact.

“Did you think I wouldn’t come?” he asks, his voice low, his smirk barely concealed. There’s something almost mocking in the way he says it, as if the idea of you being alone, contemplating your future, amuses him. “You are not the first bride-to-be to feel lost in this place, but don’t worry, I’ll make sure you aren’t alone for long.”

You pull back slightly, trying to regain your composure. His presence fills the room in a way that’s both unsettling and undeniably magnetic. He seems to relish the power he holds over the situation, over you. It’s clear that he’s not here just for casual conversation.

“I wasn’t expecting you,” you say, your voice sharp despite the uncertainty creeping in. “This is my room, not a place for you to wander in whenever you please.”

Daemon’s smile widens, though there’s a darkness lurking beneath it. He leans closer, his breath warm against your skin. “Expectations can be… limiting,” he murmurs, his hand still lingering on your cheek. “I’m here because I want to be. And I’m not known for following the rules.”

The way he speaks, the confident, almost predatory manner in which he carries himself, unsettles you. Yet there’s an undeniable pull—his presence is commanding, and you can’t help but feel as though you’re caught in his web, whether you like it or not.

“Why are you here?” you ask, your voice quieter now, more cautious. “Is this another game to you, Daemon?”

He tilts his head, studying you as if trying to read the very thoughts behind your eyes. “Games?” His voice is low, almost a whisper. “Perhaps. But I’m not a fool, and neither are you. We both know what this marriage is about. It’s not about love, or even companionship. It’s about power, survival, and what we can make of it.”

His fingers trace your jawline, sending a shiver through your body, but this time, you don’t flinch. “So, yes,” he continues, his voice a little softer, though the intensity still lingers. “It’s a game. But it’s also something more. And you… you have a role to play, whether you accept it or not.”

You stand still, caught between the impulse to push him away and the dawning realization that you must, somehow, find a way to navigate this union, this game, in a way that serves you. Daemon Targaryen may be a powerful figure, but that doesn’t mean you have to submit to him blindly.

“Don’t think you can control me,” you say, your voice firmer now, your eyes locking with his.

Daemon’s smile doesn’t falter, but there’s a flicker of approval in his eyes. “Control?” he repeats, as if savoring the word. “I never said anything about control. But don’t mistake me for a man who will be ignored, either.”

He steps back slightly, his hand falling from your face, but his gaze remains fixed on you—intense, unreadable, and as unpredictable as the storm clouds gathering in the distance. You can feel the tension thick in the air between you, the unspoken challenge hanging heavy.

“Remember,” Daemon adds softly, “this marriage may not be of your choosing, but it will be a union of power, of influence. And how you wield it will be up to you.”

With that, he turns, his cloak swirling behind him as he disappears back into the shadows from where he came, leaving you alone once more, the weight of his words settling in your mind.

You remain standing there for a long moment, your heart still racing, trying to make sense of the encounter. Daemon’s touch, his words, his presence—they all felt like a warning, a challenge, and a promise wrapped into one.

This marriage, this union… it will not be as simple as they want you to believe.

You watch as Daemon slowly fades into the shadows, his presence still lingering in the room, as if he has left behind more than just his physical form. A cold shiver runs down your spine, a mix of unease and something deeper—something you can’t quite name. You remain rooted in place for a long moment, trying to shake off the lingering feeling of his touch, his words, but they refuse to leave you.

With a deep, steadying breath, you turn away from the dark corner of the room, trying to collect your thoughts. You had expected your life to change, but not like this. Not with Daemon, not with the weight of House Targaryen looming over you. Yet, here you are, standing at the precipice of a future you never asked for, and there’s no turning back now.

Just as you’re lost in thought, the door creaks open, and several servants step inside, moving briskly toward you. They are efficient and polite, with no hint of judgment or curiosity in their eyes—just the practiced grace of those accustomed to serving in the Red Keep.

“My lady, it is time to prepare for the evening’s festivities,” one of them announces softly, her voice respectful but gentle. “your father requests that you be ready soon.”

You nod, taking a deep breath, and allow yourself to be guided toward the preparations. The weight of your thoughts shifts to the evening ahead. The grand dance, the ceremonial waltz of power and politics that you are now an integral part of. It’s strange to think of yourself as a player in this grand court, a mere pawn in a game that stretches far beyond your reach.

The servants begin to undress you with practiced care, replacing your simple clothes with the intricate, heavy gown that has been prepared for you. The fabric feels foreign against your skin—rich, cold, and undeniably royal. They twist your hair into an elegant updo, tucking every strand into place as if to remind you that tonight, you are not just yourself—you are a symbol of House Tyrell’s power, a future princess.

As they work, you find your mind drifting back to Daemon. His words replay in your head, his touch lingering on your skin. Despite everything, despite the storm of thoughts in your mind, you know one thing for certain: this night is only the beginning. The beginning of a journey you cannot avoid, no matter how hard you try.

Once they finish, the final touches are made, and you look at your reflection in the mirror. You are ready—at least, outwardly. Inside, the battle between your duty and your desires rages on. But there’s no time to dwell on that now. The evening awaits, and your role in it is clear.

As the final servant leaves, you take a deep breath and turn toward the door. Tonight, you will step into the world of the Targaryens, the world that Daemon has invited you into, and you will have to play the part. There will be no room for hesitation or doubt.

With one last glance at your reflection, you leave the room, walking toward the unknown that awaits you in the grand hall.

You gaze at your reflection in the mirror, the red gown clinging to your body in all the right places, the intricate design and fabric of the dress making you look like something both regal and untouchable. The deep crimson hue mirrors the fiery determination and turmoil churning inside you. Your hair is styled flawlessly, and you feel a strange mixture of power and vulnerability in the reflection staring back at you.

Just as you’re about to turn away, one of the servants steps forward, holding a small, velvet-lined box in her hands. She approaches quietly, her eyes respectful as she presents it to you. “My lady,” she says softly, “Prince Daemon has sent this for you to wear tonight.”

Your heart skips a beat at the mention of Daemon, and a wave of unease floods over you. The box is opened, revealing the most beautiful piece of jewelry you’ve ever seen. Nestled within the box is a stunning ruby necklace, its deep red color rich and intense, like the blood of kings. It glistens in the light, its intricate design made of gold and delicate filigree, catching the light in such a way that it almost seems to pulse with life.

“His Grace requested that you wear this tonight,” the servant continues, her voice barely above a whisper, as if she knows the weight this piece of jewelry carries. “It is a gift for the evening’s festivities.”

Your fingers hover over the necklace, and for a moment, you feel the weight of Daemon’s gaze upon you. His presence, his influence, it is all around you now—through his words, through his gift. The necklace, while beautiful, feels more like a symbol than an ornament. It feels like a chain, a reminder of the role you’re about to play in the world of Targaryen politics.

You take the necklace from the box, and the servant helps you place it around your neck, fastening the clasp with careful hands. The cool weight of the ruby against your skin sends a shiver through you, but you force yourself to remain still, to remain composed. You are no longer just a Tyrell. You are now something more, something that belongs to the Targaryens—whether you like it or not.

As the servant steps back, you take a deep breath and adjust the necklace, staring at your reflection once more. You look every bit the part of a princess, of someone who belongs in the Targaryen court. But inside, the questions still linger. What does Daemon want from you with this gift? What does it mean? Is this a sign of favor—or something more insidious?

With a final glance at the servant, you nod to yourself. This night is inevitable, and you will walk into it with your head held high, no matter what Daemon’s intentions may be. The game is on, and whether you like it or not, you are a player now.

You leave your chamber, stepping into the hallway where the sound of music and laughter grows louder, and you move toward your fate. The ruby around your neck feels heavier with each step, as if it carries the weight of a thousand unspoken words.

As you approach the grand doors of the throne room, your parents stand waiting, the regal elegance of their presence undeniable. Your father, Lord Tyrell, stands tall, his face a mask of calm authority, while your mother, Lady Tyrell, gazes at you with an expression of quiet admiration. Her eyes soften as they trace the delicate ruby necklace around your neck, and for a brief moment, you feel the weight of her approval. It’s a look that says so much more than words ever could, as if she understands the path you are being forced to walk, and yet, she is proud of how you carry yourself.

Your heart races as you take a deep breath, steeling yourself for the moment ahead. This is it. This is the night where everything changes, and you step into a new world—a world of power, influence, and uncertainty. The weight of your new reality presses down on you like a mantle, but you hold your head high as you walk toward the doors.

The sound of the guards’ footsteps echoes in the hall, and as you reach the entrance, the heavy doors swing open. The loud voice of a herald announces your arrival.

“Presenting Lord and Lady Tyrell, and their daughter, Lady Tyrell, betrothed to Prince Daemon Targaryen!”

The words ring out across the vast chamber, and the eyes of everyone in the room fall on you. The grand hall of the Red Keep is filled with nobles, courtiers, and various dignitaries, all gathered for the night’s festivities. But it feels as if all eyes are on you now, studying you, measuring you. Your pulse quickens as you step forward, every movement deliberate and graceful, despite the storm of emotions swirling within.

The throne room is resplendent, with golden chandeliers casting a soft light over the gathered crowd. The walls are adorned with tapestries depicting the history of House Targaryen, their dragons roaring and flying in intricate detail. The air is thick with the scent of fine wine, rich perfumes, and the soft murmurs of conversation. But in this moment, everything seems to slow down as you walk toward the center of the room, where the royal family awaits.

As you approach the royal table, your gaze meets King Jaehaerys, who is seated with an air of quiet power. His eyes flicker over you, an unreadable expression crossing his features before he nods in acknowledgment. Beside him, Prince Baelon stands with his usual stern demeanor, his gaze cool but respectful. And then, of course, there is Daemon. His eyes catch yours the moment you enter, and despite the crowd around him, it feels as though the rest of the world disappears for just a second. His lips curve into a knowing smile, one that sends a mix of unease and curiosity rippling through you.

The moment feels charged, as if everything is hanging in the balance. You are no longer just a Tyrell; you are now a part of the Targaryen story, and tonight will set the stage for everything that follows.

Your parents move to the side, and you step forward, your heart pounding in your chest. This is the moment you must embrace the future, no matter how uncertain it may be. You lower your gaze to the floor, curtsying in respect, before raising your head to meet the eyes of King Jaehaerys, Daemon, and the others.

The crowd watches in silence, the tension thick as the evening unfolds, and the weight of your decision, of this engagement, settles over you like a cloak you cannot cast off.

As you stand before the royal family, your eyes catch a glimpse of the serene and graceful figure of Princess Aemma, the wife of Prince Viserys. Her gentle smile is directed towards you, a silent acknowledgment that, despite everything, you are not alone in this court. Her delicate hand rests on her round belly, the life within her a reminder of the future of House Targaryen. You return her smile with a nod, feeling the weight of the moment settle over you like a heavy cloak.

But your attention is swiftly drawn back to Daemon as he rises from his seat, his movements fluid and confident. The eyes of the room seem to follow him, but he pays them no mind, his gaze fixed entirely on you. His presence is overwhelming, and for a brief moment, the air seems to thicken between you both, the tension palpable.

Daemon approaches you with that same predatory grace, and before you can react, he takes your hand in his. The coolness of his fingers against your skin sends an unexpected chill through you, but you don’t pull away. His touch is firm, commanding, as he raises your hand to his lips, brushing them against your skin in a manner both intimate and public.

The soft rustling of the crowd falls away, and his voice, low and almost a whisper, reaches your ear. “You wear it well,” he murmurs, his breath warm against your ear. “The ruby. You used it… just as I intended.”

You freeze for a moment, his words striking a chord deep within you. You hadn’t expected him to notice, to connect the necklace to something more than just a simple gift. But there is something in his voice—something that hints at a deeper understanding of the game you are now both playing.

Daemon pulls away slightly, his eyes locking onto yours with a flicker of something unreadable. “The Targaryen blood runs thick, but your Tyrell strength… I can see it in you,” he says, his words both a compliment and a challenge. “Tonight, we show them who we are.”

Before you can fully process what he means, Daemon straightens up, his hand still lingering for just a moment before he releases yours. The world around you feels suddenly more real, the weight of this engagement, this court, this night—everything—is no longer just a distant concept. It is here, in this room, in this moment, and Daemon has just marked you in a way that you can’t ignore.

As he steps back, the music in the hall swells, and the courtiers begin to resume their conversations, the tension in the room slowly dissipating. But you are left with the echo of Daemon’s words in your mind, and the unsettling realization that this night is only the beginning of a journey you have little control over. You straighten your posture, your thoughts racing, but your gaze remains steady.

Daemon may have whispered those words, but you know that the game has just begun, and you will have to play it carefully, whether you’re ready or not.

The music swells, and Daemon steps closer, his gaze never leaving yours. The moment feels charged, the entire room seemingly holding its breath as he places a hand firmly on your waist. You can feel the warmth of his touch through the fabric of your gown, his fingers pressing gently but assertively. The dance has begun.

He leads you onto the floor with the grace of a man who has danced this many times before. His movements are confident, his body guiding you effortlessly through the steps. Despite the eyes of the entire room on you both, the closeness of your bodies feels intimate, almost private, and for a fleeting moment, you wonder if anyone else can see the tension building between you and Daemon.

As you move in rhythm with the music, the world around you blurs, the noise of the court fading into the background. Your focus narrows to Daemon—his steady hand at your waist, the slight tension in his jaw, the way his gaze occasionally flickers to yours, as though testing you. The red ruby around your neck glints under the soft candlelight, and you can’t help but feel the weight of both the necklace and his gaze.

He leans in slightly, his lips just inches from your ear. “You dance beautifully,” he whispers, his voice a velvet caress against your skin, but there’s something dark behind the compliment. “But this… this is just the beginning.”

You meet his gaze, a mix of defiance and uncertainty bubbling inside you. “What do you mean?” you ask, the words slipping from your lips before you can stop them.

Daemon smiles, a knowing glint in his eyes. “Everything here is a dance, my dear. You’ve only just started learning the steps. But we will both master it in time.”

The sound of the courtiers around you begins to fade back in as they join the dance, filling the floor with elegant figures twirling in harmony. Your moment with Daemon becomes a shared performance—everyone around you moving, their eyes trained on you both as you sway together. The music is sweet and slow, but beneath the surface, there’s an undercurrent of something far more dangerous, something unspoken that pulses between you and him.

Your movements grow more synchronized as the dance continues, and soon, the entire room is swept up in the rhythm, the energy of the event building. You can feel the weight of the room’s attention on you, but your thoughts remain fixated on Daemon, his hand never leaving your waist, his presence never wavering.

The dance floor becomes a stage, and in this moment, you and Daemon are the stars of the show, bound by an invisible thread that neither of you can fully unravel.

You make your way toward the royal table, offering a polite but hurried excuse to the courtiers around you. “I’m afraid I’m not feeling well,” you say, your voice laced with just enough feigned fatigue to seem believable. “The journey has left me rather drained.” Your gaze flickers to your parents, who, though surprised, offer a brief nod of understanding. The polite murmurs of the crowd fade as you slip away from the bustling celebration.

The corridors of the Red Keep are quieter now, a welcome contrast to the din of the ballroom. Your steps echo as you move through the familiar halls, each footfall a reminder of the weight on your shoulders, of the whispers and the secrets that hang heavy in the air.

You reach your room, the door creaking softly as you push it open. The room is dimly lit by the flickering glow of the candlelight, and the comforting solitude washes over you. You close the door behind you with a soft click, the world outside suddenly feeling distant and muted.

The weight of the evening’s events settles upon you like a physical burden. You approach the mirror, taking a deep breath. The reflection staring back at you seems foreign, like someone you barely recognize. Slowly, you begin to undo the intricate braids that hold your hair, the strands slipping free with each gentle tug. The weight of the ruby necklace feels heavier now, its once dazzling allure now a symbol of the very thing that has begun to change everything for you. You set it down on the vanity with a quiet finality.

Next, you begin to unlace the tight corset beneath your gown, the fabric finally loosening around your body, allowing you to breathe more freely. The delicate layers of your dress slip away, leaving you in the simpler, more comforting layers of your undergarments. You stand for a moment, letting your body relax, the tension of the evening melting away.

But as the final layer of your gown falls to the floor, leaving you standing in the solitude of your room, the silence feels oppressive. The weight of the words Daemon spoke earlier, the whispers of the court, the uncertainty of your future—all of it feels like a storm waiting to break.

You sit down on the edge of the bed, your mind racing. What had Daemon meant by his words? The future? Power? Survival? Did he truly see this marriage as a partnership, or was it merely another chess piece in a game neither of you had fully agreed to play?

The questions linger, unanswered, as you finally lean back against the pillows. The soft rustling of the fabric around you offers no comfort, no answer to the storm swirling inside you. With a deep breath, you close your eyes, knowing that the days ahead will only grow more complicated.

But for now, at least, you are alone with your thoughts. And that, for just this moment, is all you can bear.

The days have slipped by faster than you could have imagined. One moment, you were standing in the great hall, Daemon’s hand in yours, and now, it feels as though time has run away from you. Tomorrow marks the day that will change everything—the day you will marry Daemon. The realization is both exhilarating and terrifying, and as you sit in your room, your heart beats with a mixture of anticipation and dread.

You stand before a large mirror, the soft candlelight casting gentle shadows on your face. Your mother stands beside you, her hands gently smoothing the fabric of the wedding gown that rests over your body. The dress is a masterpiece, elegant and simple, with intricate lace and delicate pearls woven into the fabric, creating an aura of timeless beauty. The gown feels heavy, as if it carries the weight of the future with it.

“How does it feel, my dear?” your mother asks, her voice soft and warm. There’s a tenderness in her eyes, but also a flicker of something else—concern, perhaps, or fear. She’s seen the way you’ve carried yourself these past few days, the quiet distance in your eyes, the hesitation that lingers in your every movement. She knows how you’re feeling, even if you haven’t spoken the words aloud.

You take a deep breath, looking at your reflection. “It’s… beautiful,” you say, your voice tinged with a hint of uncertainty. “But I can’t help but wonder if I’m ready for this.”

Your mother steps closer, her hands resting gently on your shoulders as she looks at you in the mirror. “You are more than ready, my darling. You’ve always been strong—just like your father, just like me. And tomorrow, you will take the next step in ensuring the future of our house. Daemon… he is a man of power. You know that.”

Her words hang in the air, a reminder of the path that you’ve been set upon. Your mind drifts to Daemon—his presence, his words, the way he made you feel both desired and distant. You still don’t fully understand what he wants from this marriage, or what your role will truly be. But one thing is certain: this union will define your future, for better or worse.

“You know, you don’t have to go through with this if you truly feel it’s not right,” your mother continues, her voice soft, as if sensing the turmoil inside you. “But remember, sometimes the choices we make are for the greater good. For our family. For our legacy.”

You look up at her then, meeting her gaze in the mirror. “I know,” you say quietly, the weight of her words sinking in. “I just wish I knew what I was getting myself into.”

Your mother smiles gently, brushing a loose strand of hair from your face. “No one ever truly knows what lies ahead. But you’re not alone in this. You have the strength of the Tyrells and the wisdom of the Targaryens in your blood. You will find your way.”

Her reassurance brings you a measure of comfort, but a knot of uncertainty still lingers in your chest. As you stand there in the gown, the future seems both distant and frighteningly close. Tomorrow, you will walk down the aisle, and your life with Daemon will begin.

You glance at your reflection once more, your heart heavy but resolute. No matter what comes next, you will face it with the strength and grace that your family expects of you. The time for hesitation is over. Tomorrow, you will step into your new life, whatever that may bring.

You freeze for a moment, the sudden sound of Daemon’s voice breaking the quiet of your room. You hadn’t heard him approach, but the smooth, confident tone of his voice tells you he’s been there for longer than you realize. A feeling of both surprise and tension rises in your chest as you glance toward the direction of the sound, your gaze following the faint rustling of the curtains.

Daemon steps into the soft moonlight, his presence as commanding as ever, even in the stillness of your chamber. In his hand, he holds a glass of wine, the ruby liquid catching the light as he approaches you. His gaze is steady, watching you with that same intensity that both unnerves and draws you in.

For a moment, neither of you speaks. You just stand there, silently observing each other. His eyes travel over you—the gown you wear, the way the moonlight seems to soften your features, but it’s hard to tell what’s in his mind. You can feel the weight of the unspoken words hanging in the air between you, a sense of anticipation that seems to fill the room.

“I didn’t mean to disturb you,” Daemon finally says, his voice low, almost amused. “But I thought you might need something to help ease your nerves.” He holds out the glass toward you, the offering an unexpected gesture. The deep red wine glows softly in the dim light, tempting you with its warmth.

You study him for a moment, wondering why he’s here, why he’s come so late. Is it simply to check on you before tomorrow, or is there something more? A flicker of uncertainty tugs at your chest, but you quickly push it away. You’ve already made your choice.

You walk toward him, your steps quiet on the stone floor, and reach for the glass. His fingers brush yours briefly, sending an unexpected jolt through your body. His touch lingers for just a heartbeat longer than necessary before he releases the glass into your hand.

“Thank you,” you say, your voice a little softer than you intended, your eyes briefly meeting his. For a moment, you think you see a flash of something deeper in his gaze—an unreadable emotion that quickly disappears behind his usual guarded expression.

Daemon leans against the wall, his posture relaxed but his eyes never leaving you. “Tomorrow,” he begins, his voice now lower, “changes everything. You know that, don’t you?"

You nod, your fingers tightening around the stem of the glass as the weight of his words settles in. “I do,” you reply quietly, unsure of how much more to say.

“Good,” he murmurs, the hint of a smirk playing at the corner of his mouth. “Because it’s not just the kingdom that will change tomorrow. You will, too. And there’s no turning back.”

The finality of his words hangs in the air, a reminder that once you step into tomorrow, there is no going back to the life you once knew. You can feel the tension rising between you both, a complex mix of emotions that neither of you has fully expressed yet.

Daemon steps closer again, his presence filling the space between you. His voice drops to a whisper, just low enough that it feels like an intimate confession. “But I think you already know that. And perhaps… you’re ready for it.”

You hold his gaze for a moment longer, wondering what he truly means by that.

Your breath catches in your throat as you feel Daemon’s lips brush against yours. The kiss is brief but electric, sending a shiver through your entire body. It’s soft, almost tender, yet laced with an undeniable intensity. Before you can fully process what’s happening, Daemon pulls back, his lips curling into that familiar, enigmatic smile.

Without saying a word, he turns, his movements graceful and confident, and steps back into the shadows. The room seems to grow even quieter as he fades into the darkness, leaving you alone with a lingering warmth on your lips and a rush of confusion swirling in your chest.

You stand frozen for a moment, the kiss echoing in your mind, its meaning elusive. You lift a trembling hand to your lips, feeling the faint trace of his touch still there. What was that? What did it mean? And why did he leave without another word?

The silence in the room feels deafening now. The wine in your hand, once a source of comfort, suddenly feels heavy. You don’t know if you’re ready for the emotional storm that’s brewing inside you, the mixture of desire, fear, and uncertainty that Daemon has stirred within you with a single, fleeting kiss.

Your mind races, and for a long moment, you just stand there, trying to collect yourself. His words, his actions—they’re a mystery you don’t yet have the answers to. And as the last traces of his presence fade into the night, you’re left with more questions than before.

What do you truly want from this marriage? From him? And how much of yourself are you willing to give away in the pursuit of a future that is no longer entirely yours to shape?

The night feels heavier now, the weight of everything pressing down on you as you stand alone, still feeling the warmth of his touch on your lips.

The day has finally arrived. The weight of it presses down on you as you sit in front of the large mirror in your chamber. The room is alive with movement—your mother directing the servants, Aemma offering quiet words of encouragement, and your handmaidens working carefully to perfect every detail of your appearance.

Your wedding gown is a masterpiece. The fabric shimmers faintly with every movement, a blend of white and pale gold, symbolizing both your Tyrell roots and the union with House Targaryen. The lacework is intricate, delicate flowers and vines winding along the sleeves and bodice. Around your waist, a small belt of golden roses serves as a subtle nod to your house. The long, flowing train trails behind you like a river of silk, and the soft veil drapes over your head, light as air, yet it feels heavier with each passing second.

Your hair has been braided in the traditional Targaryen style, an acknowledgment of the house you will now be tied to. The braids are adorned with tiny pearl pins that catch the light as you move, and strands of your hair frame your face softly. One of your handmaidens carefully places the final flower—a pale blue lily—among the braids, a finishing touch that makes you look almost ethereal.

“Look at you,” your mother says, her voice filled with pride as she stands behind you. Her hands rest gently on your shoulders, and you see her reflection in the mirror. Her gaze is soft, though there’s something more in her eyes—a mixture of pride, sadness, and perhaps a hint of worry. “You look every bit the queen you were always meant to be.”

“Not a queen,” you reply softly, your gaze fixed on your reflection. “A princess, a wife.”

“A princess today,” Aemma interjects gently, stepping forward. She places a hand on your cheek, her smile kind and knowing. “But tomorrow, who knows what fate will bring? Queens are not born, child. They are made.” Her words linger, filling you with something you can’t quite name—hope, perhaps, or warning.

You take a slow breath, glancing at your reflection. For a moment, you barely recognize yourself. You look regal, untouchable, like one of the porcelain figures you used to play with as a child. But beneath all the silk, pearls, and flowers, it is still you—just a girl about to face something far greater than she ever imagined.

“Does it feel right?” Aemma asks, tilting her head as she studies you closely. “The gown, the flowers, all of it?”

You glance at your mother, who looks at you with quiet encouragement, and then back at Aemma. “It feels… heavier than I expected,” you admit, your fingers brushing the fabric of your dress. “But I suppose that’s how it’s meant to be, isn’t it? Every choice we make feels heavier when it becomes permanent.”

“Wise words,” Aemma says with a soft smile. “But know this—you may feel bound by duty, by house and family, but you are not without power. Do not forget that.”

Her words offer you a brief sense of reassurance, though they also stir something deeper inside you. Power. It is a word that has followed you like a shadow ever since your betrothal was announced.

The servants step back, their work complete. One of them hands you your bouquet—a carefully arranged bundle of white roses, blue lilies, and soft green leaves. The floral scent is fresh, clean, and grounding.

“Take one last look,” your mother says as she steps aside. “Because the next time you see yourself like this, you’ll be walking down that aisle.”

You glance once more at your reflection, taking in every detail. The girl you see is no longer the same person she was yesterday. She is poised, elegant, and strong. But beneath it all, she is still you.

With a deep breath, you rise from your seat, the weight of the gown settling around you like armor. Your mother adjusts your veil one last time, letting it fall perfectly behind you. Aemma offers you a reassuring smile, her gaze firm and steady.

“It’s time,” your mother says softly, her voice filled with emotion she tries to hide. “Are you ready?”

Your heart beats steadily in your chest, a steady rhythm that echoes through your entire being. You grip the bouquet tightly, feeling its thorns pressing faintly against your fingers.

“I am,” you say, your voice clear and certain. “I’m ready.”

With that, you turn toward the door, your veil trailing behind you like a river of light. The world outside awaits—the noble houses, the court, and Daemon himself. Each step you take will lead you closer to a future you can no longer escape, but one that, perhaps, you can still shape.

The rhythmic creaking of the carriage wheels fills the air as you sit beside your mother and father, the weight of the moment pressing heavily on your chest. Your fingers twist anxiously around the fabric of your gown, the silk smooth and cool beneath your fingertips. Despite the grandeur of the occasion, your heart beats loudly in your ears, drowning out the soft murmurs of your parents.

Your mother notices your fidgeting and places a gentle hand over yours. Her touch is warm, grounding you as she gazes at you with that calm, steady look she always gives you in moments of doubt. “Breathe, sweetling,” she says softly, her voice barely audible over the clatter of the carriage. “You look perfect. Every eye will be on you, but they will see only your grace and beauty.”

Her words are meant to reassure you, but they only make the weight in your chest feel heavier. Every eye will be on you. Not as yourself, but as a symbol of something greater — a marriage that would bind House Tyrell and House Targaryen forever.

Your father sits across from you, his hands resting on the head of his cane, his gaze fixed firmly out the window. He has been unusually quiet since you left the Red Keep, his expression unreadable. His sharp eyes flicker toward you for a brief moment, his mouth pressed into a thin line.

“You’re doing what’s expected of you,” he says suddenly, his tone firm but not unkind. “This marriage is your duty, and you will fulfill it with dignity and strength.” His words are as sharp as ever, but there is a strange sort of pride beneath them. He has always spoken to you this way, as if molding you into something unbreakable. Today is no different.

You nod, though his words leave a hollow ache in your chest. Duty. Dignity. Strength. You’ve heard them all your life. They have guided you, shaped you, and now, they are about to define you.

The light filtering through the carriage window shifts as the carriage begins to slow. You glance out and feel your breath catch in your throat. The Great Sept of Baelor rises before you, its grand domes and stained glass windows glistening in the morning sun like a crown of jewels. People line the streets, their voices a mixture of cheers, gasps, and murmured prayers. Flowers are scattered on the ground, a soft path of white petals leading to the steps of the Sept.

The sight is breathtaking — and overwhelming. You feel the full weight of every gaze upon you. They are here for the spectacle, to witness history in the making. They do not see you. They see a bride, a symbol, a promise of power and legacy.

The carriage comes to a slow stop, the clattering of wheels replaced by the distant hum of the crowd. Your heart beats faster. This is it. No turning back. No running away.

“Stand tall,” your father says as he steps down from the carriage first, offering his hand to help you descend. “Show them who you are.”

Your mother exits next, giving you one last glance filled with quiet encouragement. Her eyes glisten, though she blinks away whatever emotion threatens to show.

Finally, it is your turn. The carriage door swings open, and the soft breeze of the open air greets you. Your eyes catch the first glimmers of sunlight reflecting off the stained glass of the Sept, casting colors of blue, red, and green across the stone steps. You take a breath, slow and steady, letting it fill your lungs. Show them who you are.

You place your hand in your father’s, his grip strong and steady, and step out of the carriage. The crowd erupts into cheers. The air is filled with the scent of flowers and incense, the warmth of the sun on your skin making everything feel surreal. Every eye is on you. Just as your mother said.

Your gaze remains forward as you ascend the steps, the long train of your gown flowing behind you like a river of silk and lace. The Great Sept’s bells ring in the distance, their deep, resounding chimes echoing across King’s Landing. It is a sound that makes the air feel heavier, more sacred.

At the top of the steps, waiting for you at the grand entrance, is Daemon. His silver hair gleams like molten silver in the sun, his armor polished to perfection, but it’s his eyes that catch you. He is watching you with an intensity that makes it hard to breathe. His gaze is not like the crowd’s. It is sharper, more deliberate, like he sees you and no one else.

He stands tall in his Targaryen armor, the three-headed dragon emblazoned on his chest. There is no crown on his head, but he looks every bit a prince. His smirk is subtle, barely there, but you see it. That quiet confidence, that knowing look that tells you he is fully aware of the spectacle before him — and he enjoys it.

As you approach, his eyes remain on you, unwavering, unreadable. The steps seem longer than they should be, each one a reminder of how far you’ve come. Finally, you reach him, and for a brief moment, it is just the two of you. The world fades away — the crowd, the bells, the weight of duty — and all that remains is him.

Daemon steps forward, his gaze never leaving yours. He extends a hand to you, and for a heartbeat, you hesitate. Is this truly what you want? you wonder. But then you remember Aemma’s words. Queens are not born. They are made.

With steady resolve, you place your hand in his. His fingers curl around yours, firm and warm. He leans in, close enough that only you can hear him.

“You’re trembling,” he murmurs, his voice laced with amusement. “Nervous, little flower?”

You lift your head slightly, meeting his gaze with all the strength you can summon. “No,” you reply firmly, though your heart betrays you with its quickened pace. “I am simply ready.”

His smirk widens just a fraction, a glimmer of something playful, perhaps even impressed. He turns, leading you inside the Great Sept. The light from the stained glass windows paints the stone floor in brilliant hues of red, blue, and green. Each step echoes softly as you walk together, hand in hand, toward the altar where the High Septon awaits.

The nobles of Westeros line the aisles, all eyes on you once more. You see familiar faces among them—lords and ladies from noble houses, your family, and even Aemma, watching you with quiet pride. Whispers follow your every move, but you do not falter.

As you approach the altar, the High Septon raises his hands, calling for silence. The Sept grows still. You can hear every breath, every faint shift of cloth. Daemon stands beside you, his hand still holding yours. You glance at him briefly, and for the first time, he is not looking at the crowd, the Septon, or the nobles. He is looking at you.

“Let us begin,” the High Septon declares, his voice echoing through the hall.

The ceremony is a blur of words, oaths, and promises. You speak them all clearly, every vow falling from your lips with certainty. Daemon’s voice is steady as he repeats the words, his eyes never leaving yours. The world feels smaller now, like it’s only the two of you standing there.

When it is done, the High Septon raises his hands. “By the light of the Seven, I declare them husband and wife. May their union be strong, their line unbroken, and their love enduring.”

The Sept erupts in applause. The sound crashes over you like a wave, and for a moment, you are breathless. The High Septon turns to Daemon with a nod.

“You may kiss your bride, Prince Daemon.”

Daemon steps closer, his eyes narrowing in that familiar, wicked way. Slowly, he lifts your veil, his fingers brushing your cheek as he pushes it back. The crowd fades once more, the sound of their cheers dull and distant.

He tilts his head slightly, eyes locked on yours, as if daring you to look away. But you don’t. You meet his gaze, unwavering, unafraid.

“Here we are,” he murmurs, his voice just for you.

“Here we are,” you reply, and before you can say anything more, his lips are on yours.

The kiss is firm, claiming, and yet somehow soft. The world seems to hold its breath as Daemon Targaryen, your husband, pulls you closer. His hand rests at the small of your back, grounding you, anchoring you to this moment. The cheers of the crowd grow louder, but you hardly hear them.

The cheers of the crowd still echo in your ears as you sit beside Daemon in the carriage. The air is thick with the sweet scent of flowers from the Great Sept, and the faint clattering of hooves on cobblestone fills the silence between you. Your gown feels heavier than it did before, the weight of everything — the vows, the kiss, the future — pressing down on you.

Daemon sits beside you, one leg crossed over the other, his arm draped casually along the edge of the seat. His silver hair catches the faint glow of sunlight that seeps through the window, making him look like something out of legend. He tilts his head toward you, his eyes sharp, watchful, and filled with something you can’t quite name.

“You’re quiet,” he says, his voice smooth as silk. His gaze flickers to your hands, which rest neatly in your lap, fingers still clutching the edge of your gown. “Nervous, little flower?”

You turn your head to meet his gaze, your expression calm despite the storm of thoughts in your mind. “I have no reason to be,” you reply, your voice steady, though a hint of weariness slips through. “I did as was expected of me. And now, so have you.”

His eyes narrow, amusement tugging at the corner of his lips. “Expected of me?” He shifts, leaning forward, his face closer to yours now. His voice drops to a low murmur, carrying the weight of something more dangerous. “You think I wed you out of duty alone?”

You hold his gaze, refusing to look away. “Isn’t that what marriage is for people like us? Duty and power. Nothing more.”

There is a pause — a flicker of something that could be surprise or intrigue in his eyes. Then, he lets out a soft, short laugh, leaning back into his seat. “Perhaps. But power comes in many forms, little wife. And duty… well, it tastes sweeter when shared with someone clever.”

His words linger in the air like smoke, curling around your thoughts. You glance at him, studying his face for any sign of sincerity or mockery, but, as always, he is impossible to read.

“You sound as though you plan to enjoy it,” you say cautiously, tilting your head ever so slightly.

His grin widens, wicked and knowing. “I always enjoy what is mine.”

His words send a shiver down your spine, though you do not show it. What is mine. There it is again — that sense of possession, of control. You are his now, by law, by faith, and by the eyes of every noble in Westeros. But just as he has claimed you, you have claimed him.

The carriage jostles slightly as it moves over uneven ground, and the sound of the crowd begins to fade into the distance. Your gaze shifts to the window, watching as the familiar towers of the Red Keep draw closer. The sun glints off the red stone walls, and you feel a strange mix of relief and dread.

The feast awaits. Another spectacle, another performance. More eyes, more whispers, more judgment. It would not end, not today, not ever.

“Are you afraid of them?” Daemon asks suddenly, his eyes still fixed on you. “The nobles. The lords and ladies who will watch your every move tonight.”

You glance at him, your brows furrowing just slightly. “Should I be?”

He hums thoughtfully, his eyes dancing with mischief. “No. They are like hounds, sniffing for weakness. But if you show them none, they will kneel.” He leans closer, his voice soft but sharp as a blade. “Show them the rose, but never the thorn. That is how you win.”

His words echo something your father once told you. It is a lesson you have heard all your life, but hearing it from Daemon makes it feel different. He is not like your father. He is wild flame, not tempered steel.

“Wise words, husband,” you reply, turning to face him fully. Your eyes meet his, unwavering. “But I am not just a rose. I have thorns, and I know when to use them.”

His eyes darken with something you can’t name. Amusement? Respect? Perhaps both. He leans back once more, his grin widening as he taps a finger against his knee.

“Good,” he says, his voice like a purr. “I would hate to have a boring wife.”

Silence settles over the carriage once more, but it is different now. The tension is still there, but it has shifted — no longer suffocating, but sharp and aware. You feel it in the way Daemon watches you, like a cat watching a bird just out of reach. He is testing you, just as you are testing him.

The gates of the Red Keep loom ahead. The sun dips lower in the sky, casting long shadows across the courtyard. The clatter of the carriage wheels begins to slow, the gentle pull of momentum drawing to a stop. Outside, you hear the distant calls of guards and the sound of footsteps.

Your heart tightens for a moment, knowing what comes next. Another performance, another step toward a future you cannot escape.

Daemon is already on his feet before the carriage door is even opened. The guards outside pull it wide, and the light spills in, illuminating his figure as he steps out first, his black and red cloak sweeping behind him like wings. He turns back, his hand outstretched toward you.

You hesitate, but only for a heartbeat. With a deep breath, you place your hand in his, letting him guide you down from the carriage. The crowd within the Red Keep courtyard is smaller but no less watchful. Nobles, servants, and guards alike pause in their tasks to turn and watch. You feel their stares like pinpricks on your skin.

Daemon’s grip on your hand tightens just slightly as you walk together, side by side. His head is held high, his posture that of a dragon who knows he is feared. You mirror him, lifting your chin as you walk with steady grace, every step measured, deliberate, queenly.

The nobles bow as you pass, some low, some shallow, but all respectful. Whispers follow you like the rustle of leaves in the wind. You catch snatches of their words — “beautiful,” “Tyrell,” “Targaryen bride.” The names of houses swirl around you like a storm, but you do not react. You are stone, unyielding, unbreakable.

As you approach the entrance to the Keep, Daemon leans in, his voice low and teasing by your ear. “They’ll be watching you all night, little flower. Waiting to see if you wilt.”

You glance at him from the corner of your eye, a small smile tugging at your lips. “Then let them watch. A rose does not wilt in the eyes of lesser flowers.”

Daemon laughs, a genuine, full laugh that echoes off the stone walls. The sound draws more stares, but neither of you care. His eyes gleam with something dangerous and delighted as he gazes at you, his bride, his wife.

“I knew it would be you,” he says softly, just for you. “From the moment I saw you in the Sept. No one else would have suited me.”

You glance up at him, brow raised. “I wonder, husband, if that is meant as a compliment or a warning.”

“Both,” he says, his grin sharp as a blade.

He guides you inside the Red Keep, where the torches burn brighter than the sun outside. The air is filled with the distant hum of music, the clinking of goblets, and the scent of roasted meat and sweetwine. The wedding feast awaits. Lords and ladies will gather, faces hidden behind smiles and masks of courtesy. There will be toasts, jests, and glances filled with envy and doubt.

But you are not afraid.

Daemon’s words echo in your mind. Show them the rose, but never the thorn.

No. You will show them both.

With each step deeper into the Red Keep, you feel the weight of your new role settle on your shoulders. You glance once more at Daemon, his eyes forward, his confidence as unshakable as the stones of Dragonstone itself.

Your grip on his hand tightens.

He glances down at you, eyes sharp and curious.

“You and I,” you murmur, low and certain, “will be more than they ever expected.”

Daemon tilts his head, his eyes narrowing with interest, his smirk returning in full force. “Yes,” he says, his voice filled with dangerous promise. “We will.”

And as you enter the grand hall where your wedding feast awaits, you feel it — the power in every glance, every step, every breath. This is your night. Your house may have offered you up as a rose, but you will bloom as something far more dangerous.

They will see your beauty.

But soon, they will know your thorns.

The grand doors to the throne room swing open with a low, resonating creak. The light of a hundred flickering torches dances on the polished stone floor, illuminating the space with a warm, golden glow. The cold, commanding aura of the Iron Throne is softened by the vibrant colors of the decorations. Rich red and gold banners hang from the high ceilings, sigils of House Targaryen and House Tyrell displayed side by side. Flower arrangements — red roses for your house, and dragonfire lilies for his — fill the room with a heady, sweet fragrance.

Daemon’s hand rests firmly on yours as he guides you inside, his grip steady and possessive. Your gown sweeps behind you like a river of white and gold, the delicate embroidery shimmering with every step. The room is filled with nobles from every corner of Westeros, their eyes fixed on you. Lords and ladies bow their heads as you pass, their gazes sharp with curiosity, envy, and judgment.

“All eyes on us, little flower,” Daemon murmurs lowly, his voice laced with amusement. “They’ll be watching to see if the rose wilts under the weight of the dragon.”

You glance at him from the corner of your eye, tilting your head slightly as you whisper back, “Let them watch. I’ll show them how a rose blooms under fire.”

His grin widens, sharp and wolfish, and his grip on your hand tightens for a moment in approval.

At the far end of the hall, King Jaehaerys sits on the Iron Throne, regal as ever despite his years. His white beard flows down his chest, and his eyes, though kind, are watchful. At his side stands Prince Baelon, his posture straight and proud, and next to him is Princess Alyssa, who offers you a warm smile. Beside them, Prince Viserys stands with his pregnant wife, Aemma, her hands gently cradling her growing belly.

As you and Daemon approach the royal table, the herald steps forward, his voice booming across the hall.

“Prince Daemon Targaryen and Lady Tyrell, now husband and wife!”

Applause erupts from the crowd, a sea of clapping hands and murmurs of approval. You feel the weight of the moment settle on your shoulders, but you do not falter. With your head held high, you meet the gaze of every noble brave enough to stare for too long.

Daemon leads you to the head table, where two seats have been prepared beside the king. The chair feels larger than it should, its grandeur meant to emphasize the significance of the place you now hold. Daemon sits beside you, his posture relaxed, as though this is where he was always meant to be. He leans back in his chair, his gaze sweeping over the crowd like a dragon surveying its domain.

King Jaehaerys rises from his seat, his golden cloak draped heavily over his shoulders. The room falls silent at once. All eyes turn to the king, and even the faintest whisper dies in the air. He raises a hand, his voice clear and commanding despite his age.

“Today, we bear witness to a union of fire and bloom,” he proclaims, his voice echoing through the hall. “House Targaryen and House Tyrell, bound together in strength, in unity, and in purpose.” He turns his gaze to you and Daemon, his eyes filled with wisdom and authority. “May this marriage be as enduring as the roots of Highgarden and as unyielding as the flames of our dragons.”

Another round of applause fills the hall, and you bow your head in respect. Jaehaerys raises his goblet, and the hall follows, their goblets raised high in the air. “To Prince Daemon and his bride!” he declares.

“To Prince Daemon and his bride!” the crowd echoes, their voices like a chorus of thunder.

Daemon raises his own goblet, a knowing smile tugging at his lips. He leans toward you, his eyes flickering with mischief as he murmurs, “Drink, little flower. They’re watching.”

You glance at him, your eyes narrowing slightly in defiance, but you do as he says. Lifting your goblet, you meet his gaze as you drink, letting the sweet tang of wine linger on your tongue. He watches you closely, his eyes never leaving yours, and for a moment, it feels as though there are only the two of you in the hall, locked in a silent battle of wills.

The music begins to play, the gentle strumming of lutes and the deep hum of drums filling the air. All eyes shift toward the center of the room, where the space has been cleared for the first dance. Daemon rises from his chair, offering his hand to you once more.

“Shall we, wife?” he says with a teasing grin, tilting his head just slightly.

You glance at his hand, then meet his gaze with quiet resolve. Slowly, you place your hand in his, letting him pull you to your feet. The hall watches with anticipation as you step onto the dance floor together. The music shifts, growing louder and more rhythmic, the steady beat of the drums like the thundering of a heartbeat.

Daemon’s hand rests lightly on your waist, his fingers curling ever so slightly as he draws you closer. His other hand takes yours, his grip firm but not forceful. Your free hand settles on his shoulder, fingers lightly grazing the fabric of his tunic. For a moment, the world narrows down to the space between you and him. His eyes lock onto yours, sharp as Valyrian steel, and you feel the hum of energy between you.

“Don’t look down,” he says softly, his voice so close to your ear that it sends a shiver down your spine. “They’re watching.”

You tilt your head, lips curving into a faint smile. “Then let them watch.”

The dance begins.

The two of you move with the music, each step practiced but not without grace. Your movements are precise, every turn and spin guided by his hands. The room blurs around you, faces melding into indistinct shapes as you focus on Daemon — on his eyes, his smirk, the way he moves with the confidence of a man who has never doubted himself.

He twirls you, and your gown flares out like petals in bloom. Gasps and murmurs of admiration rise from the crowd. When he pulls you back to him, his hand presses firmly against your back, his eyes dark with something more intense than pride.

“You’re doing well,” he murmurs, his voice low and smooth. “But I expected no less from you.”

“Careful, husband,” you reply, your breath even despite the pace of the dance. “Compliments from you sound dangerously close to affection.”

His grin is quick, wicked. “Perhaps I’m feeling generous tonight.”

The final note of the music echoes through the hall, and the two of you come to a stop. You’re so close that you can see every flicker of firelight reflected in his violet eyes. Your heart pounds in your chest, but not from the dance alone. His gaze holds you in place, unrelenting and unwavering.

The room erupts into applause, loud and thunderous. Lords and ladies rise from their seats, clapping and cheering. Daemon releases you slowly, his fingers trailing down your arm as if reluctant to let you go. His eyes linger on you for just a moment longer before he turns to the crowd, his grin sharper than ever.

He raises a hand, silencing the applause. “Eat, drink, and be merry,” he calls out, his voice cutting through the noise. “For tonight, we celebrate not just a union, but a conquest.” His eyes flick to you, his grin curling into something more dangerous. “A victory for us both.”

The lords cheer, raising their goblets high, and the servants begin to bring forth trays of food and pitchers of wine. The hall fills with music, laughter, and the clinking of goblets.

Daemon turns back to you, offering his arm. “Shall we, little flower?”

You place your hand on his arm, your gaze steady, your chin lifted high. “Yes, husband,” you say softly, your voice carrying all the quiet power you’ve kept hidden. “Let them see what victory looks like.”

The two of you return to your place at the head table, side by side, facing the hall of nobles and onlookers. You feel the weight of their stares, their whispers, but none of it matters. Not tonight.

Daemon sits with the ease of a man born to rule, his hand idly resting on the arm of his chair. You sit beside him, as regal and steady as the roots of Highgarden.

The feast continues, but you know one thing for certain.

They may call you a rose, but tonight, they will see your thorns.

As the feast continues, the lively clamor of laughter, music, and the clinking of goblets fills the grand hall. Despite the noise, your world feels quieter as you turn to face Daemon. His gaze is sharp as ever, his features carved with the confidence of a man who knows his worth. Yet, tonight, you notice something different — a subtle shift in his eyes when he looks at you, something softer than the sharp edge he shows the world.

You sip your wine, letting the warmth settle in your chest before speaking. “You’re not what I expected, Daemon.”

He raises a brow, his smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. “And what did you expect, little flower? A monster with sharp teeth and claws?”

“Perhaps,” you reply, tilting your head as you study him. “They call you the Rogue Prince, after all. A man ruled by impulse, driven by chaos and ambition.”

He chuckles, low and rich like a purr. “Ah, titles are like cloaks. Useful when worn, but beneath them, we’re all just flesh and bone.” He leans in slightly, his violet eyes fixed on yours. “Tell me, do you think I’m a monster?”

You meet his gaze, unflinching. “No. Monsters don’t get nervous.”

His grin falters for just a heartbeat — so quick that most would miss it. But you see it. His eyes flicker briefly, a crack in the mask he wears so well. He leans back in his chair, swirling the wine in his goblet as if to distract himself.

“I didn’t think you’d notice,” he admits, his eyes still on the wine.

“You’re better at hiding it than most,” you reply, a small smile playing on your lips. “But not from me.”

He glances at you then, something unreadable flickering in his eyes. Silence stretches between you for a moment, comfortable but charged with unspoken meaning. Finally, you decide to ask the question that has lingered in your mind since the day you learned of the betrothal.

“Why did you agree to this marriage, Daemon?” you ask, your voice quiet but firm. “You could have refused. You have always been known to defy expectations.”

He goes still, his fingers pausing on the stem of his goblet. His eyes shift to yours, and for a moment, he seems to weigh his answer. His smirk is gone, replaced by something far more genuine — something raw.

“I agreed,” he says slowly, his voice quieter now, “because I wanted it.” His eyes hold yours, steady and unwavering. “Years ago, when I accompanied my grandfather to Highgarden, I saw you in the gardens.” He exhales through his nose, his gaze distant as if seeing the memory play out before him. “You were surrounded by roses, and you were laughing with your maids. You had dirt on your hands from planting flowers, but you didn’t care. You looked… free.”

You blink, surprise washing over you like a sudden breeze. “You remember that?”

“Of course, I do,” he replies, his voice steady but his eyes carrying a weight of something long kept hidden. “I stood there longer than I should have, watching you laugh. It was the first time I’d seen something so simple yet so… whole.” He breathes deeply and turns to you, his eyes piercing. “I told myself then that if I ever had to marry, I would marry you.”

His words hit you harder than you expect. You feel the warmth rise to your cheeks, but you keep your composure. “And yet, you said nothing until now,” you say softly, tilting your head. “Why not speak of it before?”

“Because I’m a fool,” he admits, his grin returning, but it’s smaller, softer. “Or maybe because I didn’t think fate would be so kind to me.” His gaze shifts, watching you closely. “And now here you are, seated beside me, not as a dream, but as my wife.”

You don’t look away, and for the first time, the weight of the feast, the eyes of the lords and ladies, and the whispers of onlookers all seem to fade into nothing. The only thing that matters is this moment.

“I suppose fate can be cruel,” you murmur, lips curling into a knowing smile, “but tonight, it seems she has been kind.”

Daemon’s gaze narrows slightly, his grin returning in full force. “Careful, little flower. Say too many sweet things, and I might think you’ve fallen for me.”

You arch a brow, lifting your goblet to your lips as you take a slow, deliberate sip of wine. “Maybe I have,” you say lightly, setting the goblet down and looking at him from beneath your lashes. “But I suppose you’ll have to wait and see.”

His eyes darken with that familiar fire, and his grin becomes something more — a promise of trouble and devotion all at once. “I can be patient, wife,” he says, his voice low and rough like a storm brewing on the horizon. “But not for too long.”

The music shifts, another lively tune filling the hall, but the two of you remain still, locked in a silent understanding that words could never fully capture.

Tonight, fate has been kind indeed.

You laugh softly at Daemon’s story, his wit sharper than any blade. But your laughter fades as the sound of approaching footsteps echoes behind you. You glance over your shoulder and see Otto Hightower, your father’s kin and the Hand of the King. His face is as composed as ever, a mask of politeness with eyes that see far too much.

“Congratulations on your union,” Otto says smoothly, his voice calm yet purposeful. His gaze shifts between you and Daemon, lingering on your husband for a moment too long. “A fine match, one that will no doubt strengthen the ties between our houses.”

You nod politely, offering a small smile. “Thank you, Lord Hightower. Your words are most kind.”

But you can feel the shift in the air. Daemon stiffens beside you, his grip tightening ever so slightly on his goblet. His eyes narrow, fixed on Otto like a predator watching prey. The playful warmth he had while speaking with you is gone, replaced by a sharp, simmering edge.

“How gracious of you to offer your blessing, Otto,” Daemon drawls, his tone dripping with mockery. He tilts his head, his smile sharp like the edge of a dagger. “Though I wonder if it pains you to see me gain something you could not control.”

Otto’s jaw tightens, but his smile remains. “I only seek the prosperity of the realm, Prince Daemon. Your marriage serves that purpose well enough.” His gaze flickers to you for the briefest moment. “It is always wise to guide wild flames before they burn out of control.”

Daemon lets out a low, humorless laugh. “Careful, Otto. You speak as though you’ve forgotten who commands fire in this realm.” His voice drops lower, more dangerous. “And who is merely ash beneath it.”

The tension coils tight between them, sharp and ready to snap. You place a hand lightly on Daemon’s arm, feeling the taut muscle beneath his sleeve. He glances at you, his hard gaze softening just enough to acknowledge your presence.

“Perhaps tonight is not the time for old rivalries,” you say firmly, looking between them both. “It is a night of celebration, not division.”

Otto’s eyes meet yours, calculating and assessing. For a moment, he says nothing, then bows his head. “Of course, Lady Tyrell. Forgive me. I meant no offense.”

You can feel the tension between them, as sharp and volatile as wildfire. For a moment, it seems as though Otto might push back, but he only tilts his head in mock understanding. “She is no longer ‘Lady Tyrell’ to you.”

Otto’s brows lift just a fraction, his eyes flicking briefly to you before settling back on Daemon. “My apologies, Prince Daemon,” he says, his tone polite but firm. “Old habits, you understand.”

Daemon’s lips curve into a grin that doesn’t reach his eyes. “Old habits can be broken,” he replies coldly, his eyes narrowing. He gestures toward you with a sweeping motion, his gaze never leaving Otto. “She is Princess now. Best you remember it, lest your tongue slip again.”

“Of course,” Otto says slowly, folding his hands behind his back. His eyes meet yours for a brief moment, calculating and watchful. “Princess,” he adds with an exaggerated formality, bowing just enough to follow decorum but not a step further.

Daemon’s eyes follow him like a hawk tracking prey. His jaw is set, his fingers tapping the rim of his goblet with restless precision. “That man poisons every room he enters,” he mutters, his eyes still locked on Otto.

You lean in just a little, tilting your head toward him. “Then let him choke on his own venom, husband,” you whisper, your voice laced with quiet defiance.

Daemon blinks, then slowly turns his gaze back to you. A grin spreads across his face, wild and dangerous, but there’s pride in it too. He raises his goblet toward you in a silent toast. “To clever wives,” he says, his eyes gleaming with mischief.

“And to husbands who know when to listen,” you reply, clinking your goblet lightly against his.

The fire in his eyes burns brighter. “You and I, little flower,” he says softly, his voice low like a secret shared in the dark, “will burn this world brighter than they can ever imagine.”

The joyful hum of music and clinking goblets fills the hall, but all you can hear is the rapid beat of your heart. The bedding ceremony. The very mention of it had lingered in your mind all night, and now, as the hour draws near, a subtle unease creeps in.

Your gaze flickers to Daemon, who is seated beside you. His posture is as relaxed as ever, leaning back in his chair like a king on his throne. His sharp eyes scan the room, half-lidded with boredom, but there’s a flicker of awareness in them. He knows. He always knows.

Your fingers tighten slightly around the edge of your goblet, your knuckles pale beneath the soft glow of the firelight. You feel your mother’s gaze on you, steady and supportive, but even she cannot help you now. Tradition is tradition, and the eyes of the realm are watching.

A loud voice echoes through the hall — one of the lords, his cheeks flushed from too much wine. “It is time for the bedding!” he shouts, his voice met with a chorus of drunken laughter and cheers. The call is picked up by others, nobles and knights alike, their voices chanting in unison.

“To the bedding! To the bedding!”

You glance at Daemon, unsure of what to expect. He turns to you, his gaze steady and unyielding. Slowly, he reaches for your hand, his touch firm and warm. His thumb brushes lightly against your knuckles, a silent reassurance.

“They will not touch you,” he says softly, his voice low enough that only you can hear. His eyes, sharp as dragonfire, meet yours with unwavering certainty. “Not if I am standing here.”

Your breath catches in your chest, surprise flickering in your eyes. It is a small promise, but it feels like the weight of the world has been lifted from your shoulders.

The chants continue, louder now, as the guests begin to rise from their seats, some already moving toward you. Daemon stands first, his presence commanding enough to make even the most brazen of lords hesitate. He extends a hand toward you, his expression one of quiet defiance.

“Shall we, wife?” he asks, his lips curving into a sly, knowing smile.

You take his hand, your heart still racing, but the panic that once clawed at you has dulled. You rise with him, head held high, and the crowd erupts into a sea of laughter, cheers, and jeering calls. Lords and ladies step forward, but before any of them can reach you, Daemon’s gaze turns to them — hard as dragonstone, sharp as steel.

“Touch her,” Daemon says coldly, his voice cutting through the noise like a blade. “And I’ll take your hand as payment.”

The hall stills. The drunken grins falter, the more sensible lords stepping back as if scalded. The boldest of them mutter curses under their breath but make no further move.

“That’s what I thought,” Daemon mutters, his grin returning, sharp and predatory. With his hand on the small of your back, he guides you toward the doors leading to your chambers. The crowd follows, but from a distance now, the earlier fervor tempered by Daemon’s words.

Your steps are slow but steady, each one more certain than the last. You are not alone. Your hand is held firmly in Daemon’s grasp, his presence at your side a shield stronger than any wall.

When you finally reach the heavy wooden doors of your chamber, the crowd begins to cheer again, but none dare approach. Daemon opens the door himself, holding it for you like a king for his queen.

“Inside, Princess,” he says, his voice softer now, meant only for you.

You step in, glancing over your shoulder at the crowd one last time. Their eyes are filled with expectation, mischief, and far too much wine. But none of them matter now. The door closes behind you with a resounding thud, silencing the world beyond.

The chamber is warm, lit by the soft glow of the hearth. The distant sounds of revelry echo faintly through the stone walls, but here, it is quiet. Your heart is still racing, but it is not from fear.

Daemon turns to face you, his eyes meeting yours with an intensity that sends a shiver down your spine. His smirk is gone, replaced by something far more honest. He steps toward you slowly, his movements deliberate, giving you time to step back if you choose. But you don’t.

“You handled that well,” he says, his gaze flickering with approval. “They expected you to shrink. But you didn’t.”

“Should I have?” you ask, your voice quiet but steady.

Daemon tilts his head, his eyes filled with something akin to admiration. “Never.”

Silence hangs between you, but it is not uncomfortable. Slowly, he reaches for you, his fingers brushing a loose strand of hair from your face, tucking it gently behind your ear. His touch is careful, deliberate — nothing like the wild prince the songs describe.

“If you wish to rest,” he says quietly, his eyes never leaving yours, “then rest. I’ll stay if you want me to, or I’ll leave if you don’t.”

For a moment, you are stunned. All the stories, all the rumors of Daemon Targaryen — bold, brash, uncontrollable — and here he is, offering you control in a world that rarely grants it.

“What do you want, Daemon?” you ask, your voice barely a whisper.

He smiles at that, a slow, wolfish grin. “I want what’s already mine,” he says, his eyes dark but steady. “But I am not so foolish as to take it by force. A king can command fear, but only a fool ignores respect.”

His words linger in the air, carrying more weight than any vow spoken at the sept. You search his face, looking for deception, but all you find is truth — a truth that you had not expected.

“You think me wise enough to be respected, then?” you ask, one brow raised.

“I think you’re wise enough to be feared,” he replies, stepping closer until there is only a breath between you. His eyes lower to your lips, but he doesn’t move, letting you decide. “And that, wife, is far more dangerous.”

The choice is yours now. In a world where choice is often stolen, he offers it freely. No songs will be sung of this moment. No maester will write it down. But this moment is yours.

The warmth of the firelight flickers softly against the stone walls of your chamber, casting long, shifting shadows. The air is thick with unspoken tension—not the kind born of fear, but of expectation. The weight of tradition presses down on you like an invisible cloak, suffocating in its silence.

Daemon stands before you, his violet eyes sharp but calm, as if this moment is nothing more than another game he’s mastered. His fingers reach for the intricate braids woven into your hair, undoing them with slow, deliberate care. He works in silence, never rushing, never fumbling. His fingertips brush against your scalp, and the warmth of his touch is startling in its tenderness.

You feel the weight of your hair slowly falling free, the braids unraveling strand by strand, until your hair spills over your shoulders like a golden cascade. Daemon steps back for a moment, his eyes meeting yours with quiet intensity. There is no mockery in his gaze. No jest or smirk. Only focus.

“Still with me, Princess?” he asks, his voice barely above a whisper.

You nod, your throat too dry to answer aloud. His lips twitch into the faintest smile before he steps closer once more. His fingers move to the clasps at your shoulders, the ones holding the delicate fabric of your wedding gown in place. For a moment, he hesitates, his fingers brushing against the embroidered flowers that line the edge of the fabric.

“You are beautiful,” he says suddenly, his eyes flicking up to meet yours. There is something raw in his voice — not a compliment to charm you, but a statement of fact.

“Flattery, husband?” you reply softly, your eyes narrowing in playful suspicion.

He chuckles under his breath, his gaze never leaving yours. “No, just truth. I may lie to kings and councils, but not to you.”

His hands resume their task, and slowly, he unclasps the gown, letting it loosen around your shoulders. The fabric slips, slow as silk, pooling at your feet in a sea of red and white. You stand before him, vulnerable but unafraid.

But then — a sound.

A rustle. A shift of fabric behind the heavy curtain at the far end of the room. You freeze, your eyes darting toward it. The faintest outline of movement is visible through the dim light. Your heart tightens in your chest, heat rising to your face.

“They’re watching, aren’t they?” you murmur, your voice laced with unease.

Daemon doesn’t even glance at the curtain. His gaze remains fixed on you. “Yes,” he replies bluntly, his tone neither ashamed nor apologetic. “The king. The council. They’ll want to see it done properly.” His eyes flicker with a glint of something darker. “Fools with nothing better to do than spy on a husband and wife.”

You clench your jaw, your hands balling into fists at your sides. “It’s humiliating,” you mutter, your eyes narrowing at the veil of fabric separating you from them.

“It is tradition,” he replies, his tone sharp but not unkind. He steps closer, so close that you can feel the warmth radiating from him. His voice softens, the fire in him dimming to embers. “But they are only men, little flower. Let them watch.” He tilts your chin up with a single finger, his gaze hard but reassuring. “Let them see that you belong to no one but me.”

His words linger in the air like a spark set to kindling. The fire of it spreads, steady and slow, filling the hollow space that doubt had left behind. Daemon is not afraid. He stands as if he is untouchable, unbothered by their eyes, and for a moment, you think perhaps you can do the same.

“Do they always watch like this?” you ask, your voice quieter now, but steadier.

“Not always,” he replies with a small grin. “But sometimes. They call it ‘assurance of consummation.’ As if it matters to the realm what happens between husband and wife.” He leans in, his breath warm against your ear. “If it bothers you, I can send them away.”

You glance at him, your eyes searching his for any sign of deceit. But he looks at you like you are his equal, his partner in all things. Not a pawn to be used. Not a flower to be plucked.

“You would?” you ask, testing him.

He nods slowly. “One word from you, and they’ll leave. I promise you that.” His hand rests lightly on your waist, his touch grounding you, steady as stone. “But if you wish to see this through, I will make it quick.”

The choice is yours. His words echo in your mind, and you think of all the choices you’ve never been allowed to make before this. But this one is yours.

You take a slow, steady breath, glancing at the curtain once more. You see them there, shadows behind fabric. Fools. Spies. Men who think they have power. But none of them are in this room with you. None of them are Daemon.

You turn back to him, lifting your chin. “Let them watch,” you say, your voice sharp as a blade. Your heart still races, but there is a new resolve in it now. “If they want proof, they’ll have it.”

Daemon’s eyes widen just slightly, his grin returning in full force. He laughs softly, the sound like the low rumble of thunder. “That’s my wife,” he says, his voice filled with pride and something far more dangerous — affection.

“Then let’s give them something to remember.”

He reaches for the laces of his tunic, pulling them loose with practiced ease. His eyes remain on yours the entire time, a silent promise in his gaze. No mockery. No cruelty. Only certainty.

The fabric of his tunic falls away, revealing the pale expanse of his chest, littered with faint scars like constellations across his skin. His silver hair gleams faintly in the firelight, a halo of shadow and flame.

You take a step forward, your breath steady now. The weight of their eyes no longer feels so heavy. Let them watch, you think. Let them see that you are not afraid.

Daemon sees it too. He sees the shift in you. A dragon recognizing another dragon. His grin fades into something more solemn, more reverent. His hand cups the side of your face, his thumb brushing the curve of your cheek.

“You are more than they deserve to see,” he says quietly, his voice so soft that it feels like a secret. His eyes lower to your lips, then back up to your eyes. “But let them see you anyway.”

And so you do.

The air grows warmer as the fire crackles behind you. Daemon moves with purpose, each gesture slow but sure, as if you are something sacred. There is no rush, no frenzy. Only patience. Only reverence.

The sounds of the council behind the curtain fade from your mind. You barely hear them anymore. It is only you and him now.

Daemon’s hands move over you, each touch as careful as a man handling dragon eggs. The weight of tradition still hangs in the air, but it no longer feels suffocating. You have claimed it. Turned it into something of your own making.

Daemon led you towards the bed and laid you down there, you stared at his face as he started to climb on top of you. "Are you ready little flower?" you just nodded and that's when he started kissing you, his kiss was very gentle and also demanding.

Your hands moved to his neck, you played with his long hair and heard him moan softly in between your kisses. he then started kissing your neck. You heard the voice behind the curtain again, "don't mind them, just focus on me" the daemon whispered in your neck, you moan softly as a result.

Daemon's hands didn't stay still, he traced the curves of your body which made you close your eyes. when his fingers touched your core which was starting to get wet you moaned. He started by inserting one finger and looking at you, your body started to heat up. he then added another finger and his rhythm became faster, you moaned because of his treatment. "i have to prepare you first little flower"

After Daemon felt enough, Daemon started to take off his pants. He looked back at you and kissed your forehead, "This might hurt."

You looked at his face and smiled, "i'll hold it in" he smiled and started kissing you. you felt his cock start to enter your core slowly. You squeezed his hair as you felt him start to enter and fill you, you both moaned and after that daemon slammed his cock hard which made you scream in pain in the kiss.

You could feel your blood rushing out, he growled softly as he felt you squeeze him tightly. He wiped away the tears that were in the corner of your eyes, he didn't move yet to make sure you were enjoying and accepting his size.

"Are you comfortable?" he whispered and stroked your cheek gently, you nodded and that's when he started to move his hips slowly. The pain you felt begore slowly turned into a pleasure you had never felt before.

"like that, oh god. you're so tight" he growled and started to speed up the rhythm of his hips. you could only moan under him,

He doesn’t hold back, his hand found yours and he intertwined his fingers with yours. Something hot and heavy settles on the pit of your guts then rises from every thrust of Daemon’ hips, a spark flowing down from the top of your head to toes. Back arches up when the head of his member prods against your sensitive spot.

“You take me so well, sweetling.” You let go of his grip and pulled his face to kiss him again, your legs automatically wrapped around his waist making him go deeper inside you.

Daemons can go crazy because the way your walls are clenching tightly around his length. He then splays his palm on one of your boobs and squeezes the flesh there, keenly studying as the skin turns pink. he broke the kiss and pressed your foreheads together, your breaths mingled and he continued to growl.

"Daemon please g-go faster, please.." you mumbled. He smirked, before going fast and hard. You gasped at the sudden change of pace, holding down at the bed to get some sort of grounding. You threw your head back as he kept on pounding into her.

You shut your eyes as the knot inside your stomach grew tighter, signaling that you was about to come. he chuckled. "Is my little flower about to come?" He teased. you nodded. "P-please let me come..." you rasped. He groaned, he was near his orgasm too. "Shit love, I'm close too.." He said. He thrusted a few more times before finally coming inside you, filling you with his seed, he growled softly before kissing you and lying down next to you.

And when it is done — when the silence behind the curtain is replaced by the rustle of cloaks and the soft, satisfied murmurs of councilmen walking away — you do not feel shame. You do not feel small.

Daemon lies beside you, his eyes on the ceiling for a moment, his breathing steady. Then he turns his head to look at you, his silver hair tangled, his expression calm but sharp with awareness.

“You did well,” he says softly, his eyes watching you with quiet pride. “They’ll remember this night, but not for the reason they think.”

You glance at him, raising a brow. “And what reason will they remember it for?”

Daemon’s eyes narrow slightly, a glint of mischief in them as he tilts his head to look at you fully. “Because they’ll realize they made the mistake of thinking you could be broken.”

His words hit you harder than any vow spoken before the sept. You breathe in deeply, letting them settle in your chest like a flame that will never burn out.

“Let them remember,” you say, your voice stronger than it has ever been. “Let them remember I am not so easily broken.”

Daemon’s grin widens, his eyes glowing like embers in the dark. “No, you are not.”

The warmth of the fire has dimmed to a soft glow, shadows dancing gently across the chamber walls. The weight of exhaustion presses down on you, your limbs heavy and your breathing slow. Without thinking, you turn toward Daemon, seeking the warmth of another presence.

You rest your head against his chest, your arms wrapping around him. His skin is warm, the slow rise and fall of his breath lulling you into calm. For a moment, everything feels still. The noise of the world outside — the lords, the council, the weight of duty — fades into the background.

Daemon doesn’t move at first, his body tense like he isn’t used to this kind of closeness. But then, slowly, you feel his arms come around you, his hands settling on your back. One hand moves up to cradle the back of your head, his fingers threading gently through your hair.

His chin rests lightly atop your head, and you hear him sigh — a long, quiet breath as if releasing something he’d been holding for too long. His lips press softly against your forehead, warm and deliberate. No words are spoken, but the meaning is clear. You feel it in the tenderness of his touch, the weight of his hand holding you steady.

Your eyes grow heavier with each heartbeat, the steady thump of his heart beneath your ear a rhythm you cannot resist. Your breathing evens out, matching his, and before long, sleep pulls you under. Your last thought is that, for the first time in a long while, you feel safe.

Daemon tilts his head slightly, gazing down at you. His sharp eyes, so often filled with mischief or calculation, have softened into something quieter, something unguarded. He watches you in silence, as if memorizing every line of your face. His thumb traces a small circle against your back, a motion so subtle it might as well be instinct.

He watches you for a moment longer, eyes narrowing slightly as if puzzled by the depth of his own thoughts. Then, with a quiet huff of breath — not quite a sigh, not quite a laugh — he rests his head back on the pillow. His eyes remain on you until, slowly, his lashes lower, and sleep takes him too.

In the quiet of the chamber, there is no crown, no council, no eyes watching. Only two people, entwined in warmth and stillness, finding peace in the comfort of each other.

tag list : @danytar @hangmanscoming @yazzzmints @julessworldd

[hometoursandotherstuff]

This pretty 1956 Fairy Tale home in Oklahoma City, OK has been removed from the market. Guess it hasn't sold, and it's so unique. 3bds, 4ba, 4,492 sq ft, $802k.

I didn't expect castle-like walls. And, look at that big skylight.

The dining room has a pitched ceiling, wood flooring, and a large brick fireplace.

Look at how large and open the kitchen and family room are.

Interesting- a huge bar next to the kitchen.

The family room is very nice. Lots of natural light.

Nice cabinetry.

The everyday kitchen table is right in front of a cozy fireplace.

To the wine cellar!

Look at this. What a cool wine cellar. Casks and everything.

Lovely large den.

The primary bedroom has a pitched ceiling and a sitting area in front of the fireplace.

Large, open ensuite.

The bedrooms are large- this one has built-ins and room for a full sofa.

The ensuite has a vanity table and a glass block shower.

This bedroom is also pretty big and has its own ensuite.

Why didn't this house sell? It's lovely. Beautiful pool with a huge patio.

Plus this rounded patio.

Beautiful footbridge leads to the garden.

.74 acre lot.

https://www.zillow.com/homedetails/2208-NW-56th-St-Oklahoma-City-OK-73112/21855735_zpid/?

[killertoons]

I've got ideas and a theory for the recent welcome home updates (10/18/2024)

Walk with me-

So that short story alone already showed pulling ideas from Edgar Allen Poe with the tell-tale heart and the cast of amontillado

(I wouldnt be shocked if they reference other Edgar Allen poes works like the raven soon but that's me cheating to peek at clowns kofi and I won't speak further on that-)

Basically Sally is doing a rendition of the tell-tale heart and poppy got cast....only she doesn't want to be involved. It's a scary tale, and for those who didn't take advanced English

The story of the tell-tale hearts about a man so absolutely freaked out by this old man's eyes to quote

'I think it was his eye! Yes, it was this! One of his eyes resembled that of a vulture- a pale blue eye, with a film over it.'

So the man sets out to kill him, does so by lurking in the dark for 7 straight nights till finally the 8th night he finally does so, dismembered him and hide the pieces under the floorboards!

But when police came to investigate...he could hear both but a beating heart under the floors and from his guilt he admitted to the murder and ended the tale with

'"Villains!" I shrieked, "dissemble no more! I admit the deed!- tear up the planks!-here, here!- it is the beating of his hideous heart!"

So already Sally doing a rendition of this tale is wild already as I imagine it's been changed to be more family friendly for the neighborhood, but poppy isn't up for it.

And Sally's sad about it! And of course the neighbors all know why poppy actually didn't wanna do it. And Sally trying to be a good friend realized the play scares her so they gotta do something to let poppy have her cozy state of mind away from anxiety

So they form their plan-

To cask of amontillado her into her house, brick by brick.

Another famous story by Edgar Allen Poe, that one is about a guy luring someone he had a dispute over into a cellar and bricking him up down there to rot.

It's a revenge story, one we have no details other than a man was wronged (we never learn the reason) his anger and vengeance taking center stage.

Through the entire story time, the neighbors are supposed to be following a book along as a read aloud story but they keep breaking into separate lil conversations or making quips to each other... Till the end where audio is lost on the rest of the story after poppy was bricked away.

However...

Because we have the secret website we can check there and what's found was....worse

Poppy in the dark of her barn and something is lurking with her in the dark.

By the end someone gets her out but the sounds of the people aren't named... although they sound familiar to us

I could say what we were all thinking and state the obvious "oh those must be the puppeteers! That was poppy's puppeteer having a freak out moment-"

Which I personally agree but there's more to it.

Do y'all know how big birds puppet works?

It's one person in there, with a screen to tell you where to go and a script taped inside while they maneuver around like this!

I imagine poppy is the same way since she's based design wise off big bird

Now with this in mind, add how hard it is to move or see or perceive where you are in general in that suit. How clasterphobic your gonna be if you can't get out!

I get clasterphobic trying to get out of a dress that fits too tight at the store, I can't imagine how scary this would be especially if your on your own in the dark room as well!

with only your lantern to read your lines and something to occupy yourself- maybe knitting as it's a hobby you picked up-

When you hear breathing that's not yours. From within the suit. A suit that's JUST big enough for you, mind you.

So it be impossible for anyone else to be breathing...only you forgot someone.

The puppet suit itself...is breathing.

And there's scratching at the door, something else is lurking in the dark with you but you can't see it. You can't get out, the suit can't leave but your mind is stuck the doors open but in another world it's closed and sealed-

But I'm getting ahead of myself

What is said is...what if that IS poppy reacting in the dark to something...but also it's the puppeteers reaction to poppy as well. They share a mind and A space for a moment in the dark where their fear matches them and it doesn't break till the door opens and the puppeteers talk..

I think the horror is going higher as both sides are gonna start interacting more and more with each other..

[liahaslosthermind]

~ 𝑨𝒇𝒕𝒆𝒓𝒎𝒂𝒕𝒉 ~

Past Rhysand x OC (Adelaide), Eventual Azriel x OC Part 7 of Betrayal Summary: How much was he willing to sacrifice to bring her back, and how much will be taken from him as consequence? Warnings: Suicidal thoughts and ideology, Death of a loved one, Grief, Betrayal

The room was empty when Azriel opened his eyes. It hadn’t been like the last few times he had ‘woken up’, though he didn’t remember those instances much. While the fog hadn’t fully lifted from his mind, he could finally register the things around him. The overwhelming amount of white in the room, accents of gold, the curtains that had been drawn to let less light in, but not enough that he couldn’t tell how Gods damned bright it was outside. 

Day, he was in the Day court. There was no doubt in his mind. But why had he been brought here?

Trying to sit up was difficult. He didn’t feel pain, didn't see any evidence of injuries, but his muscles felt so stiff, and his wings felt like dead weight. 

His stomach dropped at the realization. 

Reaching to feel his wings, he let out a breath when he realized they weren’t numb and with albeit much more effort than usual, he could move them. 

They are coming, they aren’t happy his shadows sang.

A second later the door opened and in walked Madja and Amren, the two he had first seen when he was still in his muddled state. They weren’t as angry looking as before, but that didn’t mean much, because they were certainly still mad.

“What the fuck did you think you were doing, boy?” 

Azriel didn’t answer Amren, he didn’t have an answer, he didn’t know what she was talking about.

“You know very well it was not your place to mess with that kind of magic, Shadowsinger.” Madja said in a much calmer tone, but that didn’t hide the disapproval that counted her words.

He would have been pissed off at the interrogation, would have grumbled at the continued questioning when he had no idea what the hell they were talking about, if he hadn’t seen the bags underneath both their eyes, and the concern and worry manifested into deep frown lines on their faces.

His confusion must have been visible, because their questions stopped and their anger softened, as much as it could for the two women who typically looked angry. “You- you don’t remember?” Amren stuttered.

Amren never stuttered.

“I have no idea what I am being accused of” He answered honestly. 

The two women looked at each other, then back at the Illyrian.

“Maybe we should get Helion in here” Madja said to Amren as she turned around and walked out.

So he was in Day.

“Amren, please, you aren’t one to sugar coat things.” He begged.

She looked at him and sighed, annoyed.

“They won’t be happy I am telling you this. They would want someone with more bedside manner to explain.” “That is why I need you to, you won’t dance around the truth. What happened?” 

She took a breath as she looked for the words, “You… you were in a bad state after the girl’s death, and it seems you got desperate enough to take your own life to stop the pain.”

Azriel felt the harsh reminder like a slap to the face, tears welling up in his eyes.

How had he forgotten about Adelaide’s death, about the hell he had gone through since? 

“Is that why I’m here? Did I…”

“No, no you didn’t, although your stupid actions might very well have gotten you killed.” She snapped. She took another breath as she tried to stop her anger from seeping through.

He had never seen her like this. As much as they were family, as much as he knew she did care for the inner circle, no matter how little she let it show, he knew she wouldn’t have been impacted this much by his attempted, or apparently his almost attempted, suicide. 

“That's when The Walking Dead found you. It's an old book, probably older than me. There is no recorded story to its creation, it's just something that has always been, preying on the desperate, giving them enough hope to try things they never would have had they been in their right mind.”

The book by her casket, the blank pages, the intervention by his family, the fight, the attempted resurrection. It all hit him at once, a wave of horrible emotions. 

She looked away as she saw him realize what he had done, and saw him go through all of those terrible moments once again. She didn’t comfort people, and Azriel wasn’t one who wanted to be comforted, at least not unless it was…

“Is she- Did it- Is Adelaide…” he couldn’t finish the question, couldn’t bear to hear that it had failed, that his last hope of getting her back was gone.

Before Amren could answer, the door opened again. Perfect fucking timing.

The High Lords of Day and Night walked in with urgency. 

Azriel had been so mad at Rhysand last time he had seen him, he tried to kill him for Gods’ sake, Rhys also hadn’t been too pleased at the attempted murder, but when the High Lord looked at his brother, bed bound and confused with tears pooling in his eyes, so utterly helpless, he couldn’t stop himself as he brought his Spymaster into a crushing hug and finally let out the sobs he had been fighting for so long. 

Azriel hadn’t felt this type of affection or even love from his brother for a while, he had been too busy hiding from Rhysand, stewing in his misery and hatred for his oldest friend, but as he sat there, disoriented, scared, hopeless, he couldn’t deny the fact he had to fight the urge to lean into the comfort the male was providing. He couldn’t deny the fact he felt more than just anger and hatred towards Rhysand. 

Still, he pulled back after a few seconds, Rhysand still sobbing as his knees buckled next to Azriel’s bed. 

“I’m sorry, Az. Gods know how sorry I am. I hadn’t realized- how much everything truly hurt until Cassian and Nesta found you had left bed” He had to take a moment as he hiccuped, an absolute mess on the ground, “I thought I-we thought we had finally lost you. I tried to tell myself these past few months that I could live with you hating me, I knew damn well I deserved it and that I hate myself too, that as long as you were still there, I could live like that.”

Rhysand looked into Azriel’s eyes, both brothers' faces covered in tears.

“But then we didn’t know if you were gone, didn’t know if you were still alive, and I realized I couldn’t do it, couldn’t live the rest of my life with the knowledge you hated me until the end.

I made the worst mistake of my life, something I will never forgive myself for. I was too cowardly to realize I couldn’t keep Adelaide and Feyre, and the minute I finally chose, I lost Adelaide forever.”

It was too much, Azriel couldn’t deal with all of this right now. Too many conflicting emotions, too many questions, too many-

“Alright, High Lord, that's enough.” Helion said. “Your Shadowsinger is in distress right now. You both can continue this conversation at a later time.” His voice was kind, understanding of both men’s situations, but his tone left no room for objection. 

“I-alright, I just need you to know how sorry I am, Az. How much I plan to do to right my wrongs, even if you both never forgive me.” Rhysand said as he got up, wiping his eyes. 

You both. He said you both. He didn’t just mean Azriel, he…

“It worked?” He asked with urgency, not replying to his brother's words. 

No one spoke up. “He said ‘you both’, did it work? Is Adelaide alive?” 

Anger bubbled in him as everyone remained quiet, unsure of how to proceed.

“Just tell me, damnit! Stop being cowards!” He yelled, tears continuing to spill. Maybe he misspoke, maybe Azriel got his hopes up just to be crushed once again. It wouldn’t have been the first time The Mother had played a cruel joke on him. 

Helion took a step forward, his calm demeanor gone, replaced by fear, reluctance, misery, and longstanding grief. “Yes, Azriel. She is alive…” The High Lord was still speaking to him, but Azriel couldn’t hear anything over the ringing in his ears, over the spots that blocked his vision as he started breathing heavily, his body unable to process the information. 

She is alive, we saw her, she is alive, she is here his shadows sang. 

He needed to get up to see her. But that task proved impossible as Azriel tried to swing his legs over the bed. They didn’t move. As he tried again, jerking the upper half of his body so hard he would have fallen off the bed had Helion not grabbed his shoulders to steady him. 

“Azriel, stop, you'll hurt yourself.” The High Lord of Day said. 

The Illyrian once again looked at the faces in the room, waiting for an explanation. 

Once again, everyone but Helion proved to be a coward. “We don’t know the long term impacts of the spell, you and Adelaide…” Helion’s voice cracked while saying her name. It only hit Azriel then that of course he would be just as impacted by this, Helion had raised her from a babe. But Azriel hadn’t seen him since the funeral, his face controlled into a tight mask that made reading emotions impossible, even for the Spymaster. “You both were brought here to be looked after while our scholars and healers work on learning more. But what we have gathered hasn’t been… reassuring.”

“I knew coming into this I’d have to make a sacrifice, I still stand by that choice.” Azriel confirmed, he just needed people to be upfront with him. 

“You have… tied yourselves together. In bringing her back, you connected your individual beings. We don’t know how this will ultimately impact you both, not till we have both of you here with us. But it is good that you have woken up, for it must mean Adelaide is not far behind.” 

He would get to see her again, get to talk to her, get to…

Thinking of Adelaide now, he tried to ignore the new feelings bubbling inside him, things he hadn’t felt before. 

She was alive and she was here.

For the first time in 6 months, Azriel smiled so hard his cheeks hurt.

[fyonahmacnally]

Their eyes meet across the tower. They’re surrounded by the ragtag family they’ve built over the years, but their eyes are firmly fixed on each other. They weren’t exactly on speaking terms when Kara was sent to the Phantom Zone. Working together, sure, but friends again? Not even close. Most days, Lena felt like she was mostly tolerated. 

There are so many words left unsaid, so many things unresolved. Now that Kara’s back, Lena isn’t sure what to say or do. She’s served her purpose, she brought the hero back. Her presence here is no longer needed and likely no longer wanted. Kara needs to spend time with her family, get to know her father again. 

Lena should go. She doesn’t belong here. Did she ever? She should definitely go.

Veridian eyes are the first to look away. Seeing the disappointment that is probably swimming in ocean blue isn’t something she can handle at the moment. She waits until the others swarm the superhero before she quietly gathers her things and makes her exit. Getting Kara back is what she promised Alex and she’s fulfilled it. It’s time for her to figure out what her future looks like. She’s on her own, starting over again. 

But first, she needs to grieve. Lena’s lost everything. Again. Kara’s betrayal broke her in a way nothing or no one ever has. She’s lost the only person that ever actually believed in her. Yet again, she is mourning someone that is still alive. First Lex, then Andrea, and now Kara. Sure, she played a role in the rift with Kara, but any time she lets her guard down, someone rips her heart out. 

As she enters the cab, she thanks her past self for removing all of her things from Kara’s apartment before the rescue mission. Getting a hotel room was a good idea. At least she doesn’t have to see the inside of the apartment again, doesn’t have to face those otherworldly blue eyes in the only place that ever felt like home. 

She can grieve in peace. Eventually she will find her own place again. At this point, she’s not even sure she’s staying in National City. What’s the point? There’s nothing here for her anymore. She’s got more money than she will ever spend, maybe she’ll head to Ireland. Back to the place her mother’s memories live. 

The beep of the door unlocking startles her from her thoughts. The lifeless, sterile room matches the way her soul currently feels. Empty and achingly lonely. Now she needs to find something to numb the ache in her chest. Her legs automatically take her to the dining table in her suite. Her past self made sure to stock up on her preferred poison, Macallan double cask single malt scotch – a tried and true method of numbing what ails her.

Her current emotional state causes her to bypass the tumbler in favor of drinking directly from the bottle. Not that it matters, there’s no one to care anyway. She opens the bottle and makes her way onto the balcony. Kara won’t be flying around anytime soon, it will be at least a few hours before she has her powers back fully so she feels safe sitting outside. 

Besides, as soon as she is a few drinks in, she’ll activate the lead shield she created. Then her favorite Kryptonian won’t be able to hear her heartbeat. It’ll be better for both of them. Kara deserves better than she will ever be and she’s pretty sure the hero doesn’t want anything to do with Lena anymore. She releases a humorless laugh before taking a swig from the bottle. Swallowing and feeling the burn promptly turns into body wracking sobs. 

She ends up sitting on the balcony for longer than anticipated. Between sobs, she manages to drink about half of the bottle of scotch. Pushing herself up from the chair, she stumbles her way inside to activate the shield. At least now she can drown her sorrow without the risk of the woman she loves more than life finding her in such a chaotic, sad state.

The next two days pass in a blur. She manages to eat just enough to sustain her mostly liquid diet. A pretty steady drunkenness propels her into a numbness that prevents the stark emptiness from being front and center. Unfortunately, it does nothing to quell the loneliness and grief. Every inch of her body is engulfed with loss. No matter how much she tries, the love she feels for Kara remains threaded into every fiber of her being. So she drinks more.

When the third day rolls around, her luck runs out. She knew it wouldn’t be long before Kara figured out where she was. It’s not hard when her suite is the only one in the city with a lead shield. As she anticipated, around noon on the third day a tentative knock sounds on her door. First she ignores it, just like she has her phone. All of them have tried to call and text. Unfortunately, she can’t ignore the now insistent knock on her door. Still, she tries.

A tired voice penetrates the threshold between them. “Lena, please open the door. Please.” Kara’s weary words drift into the silence around her. “I’m not going to leave until I see you. I need to, Lena. Please.”  

The last word cracks with emotion and breaks what little resolve the youngest Luthor has. She staggers to the door, engaging the sing bar lock to crack the door enough for Kara to see her. “T-There. Nowsh’you see’shmme.” Lena slurs, leaning against the door to hold herself up. 

The hero’s shoulders slump and the already welling tears cascade down her face. A shaky whisper of “Lena” escapes her lips before she reaches her hand out as if to touch the porcelain skin peeking around the barely open door. “Please let me in. I’ll sit out here in the hallway until you do. I’m not going away, Lena.”

The sound that escapes her throat is something between a groan and a resigned laugh. She is weak to the woman standing in the hallway, always has been. Closing the door and disengaging the swing lock, she reopens it before staggering back to her third bottle of scotch. With the bottle in hand, she plops herself onto the couch without looking at the hero.

Kara just stands at the edge of the room watching the raven haired genius swallow the last dregs of what appears to be her final bottle of scotch. She’s never seen the woman in such a state. In the five years of their friendship, she’s seen Lena tipsy and even drunk, but never like this. Her usually stoic facade is nowhere in sight. Kara has never seen her this disheveled and out of sorts. Immediately, her stomach drops and she feels some sense of responsibility for it. 

Their friendship wasn’t anywhere near mended before her unplanned trip to the Phantom Zone. It was a tentative truce at best. Her time with the phantoms was riddled with “what ifs” and “should haves” related to her relationship with Lena. Seeing the state of her best friend (ex-best friend?) now makes her want to vomit. The fact she felt the need to run from the tower after their shared moment of eye contact twists the proverbial knife in her heart. 

Kara’s selfish behavior and lies ruined everything they built. After Lena told her countless times she’d been betrayed and lied to by the people she loved most, Kara continued to keep her secret. How is she ever going to get back into her good graces? 

Here she is standing at the edge of the room while the woman she loves drinks herself into oblivion. Standing and staring, saying nothing. In truth, she has no idea what to say. How do you tell the person that means the most to you that you didn’t mean to break their heart when deep down you knew it would happen? She has no words. She’s paralyzed by the possibility of losing Lena for good. So, she watches as the most beautiful woman she’s ever seen fades into unconsciousness. 

Saying nothing. 

Lena wakes up at noon the following day, head throbbing and stomach roiling. She’s confused because she distinctly remembers being on the couch, but she’s in bed with the curtains drawn. Her eyes squint at the glass of water and ibuprofen sitting on the bedside table. That’s when she realizes what she thought was a dream must have been real. Kara was here. A sigh escapes her lungs and she rolls over to push herself up. Sitting on the side of the bed, she gingerly grabs the glass of water and pills to swallow them down. Of course Kara would take care of her. 

Forcing herself to sit still for a minute, she listens for any sign of the blonde in the suite. When she doesn’t hear anything, she grabs a change of clothes and heads to the bathroom. Thankfully, the cool shower tempers the hangover a bit. As she opens the door to the bathroom, she is greeted by Kara sitting at the table surrounded by food. The sight stops her in her tracks. She didn’t expect the Kryptonian to still be here, much less sitting at the table waiting with food. 

They make brief eye contact before Lena moves again. Neither of them say anything, the silence filling the space with their internal shame. Each harboring guilt and blame for the current situation. She makes it a point to sit at the opposite end of the table from Kara, knowing she can’t share close quarters with her without shattering. Not right now, maybe not ever. The meal is spent in a deafening quietude that makes them both squirm, but neither is willing to speak.

Or maybe they just don’t know what to say. Is it too late to salvage what they had? Can they wash away the mistakes and talk about how they feel? The doubt swims across the air between them like sharks circling an injured seal. How can they possibly rebuild their relationship on such damaged ground? They’re both frozen in place, paralyzed with fear and indecision. 

Lena finishes what little she manages to eat, grabs her sunglasses, a bottle of water, and steps out onto the balcony. She spent three days trying to wash away her mistakes, erase her pain, and all she did was make herself feel worse. Now she can feel every pulse of heartache, every ounce of remorse and guilt. She’s no closer to knowing what to do than she was before. There’s a part of her that wishes she wouldn’t have survived the phantoms. Maybe that would have been easier than whatever this is.

Her whole body stiffens when she hears the balcony door open and close. The presence of the hero appears in her periphery. Close enough to see, but far enough away they don’t run the risk of an accidental touch. Kara is close enough to pull her into a hug, but she won’t. She can’t. 

They both stand there, saying nothing. 

Lena chances a glance to her right and immediately regrets her decision. There is a deep, profound sadness in the blue eyes that meet hers. Glittering tears flow down unusually pale cheeks and it further guts her. They’ve both spent so much time bottling up their feelings to save themselves from pain only to cut their own throats with the knife of their lies. 

Here they are, two women who spent most of their lives trying to please others by hiding behind walls and facades. Now they're broken and damaged standing in front of each other afraid to speak. They need to talk, to tell each other how they feel, expel their pain, but they stand there and say nothing. Lost in the stare of regret.

Neither of them are sure which one of them moves, but they drift together, inches apart. Stormy blue eyes are focused on churning sea green. There is a question asked in their intense gaze, each seeking permission to pull the other close. With silent permission granted, they bridge the divide and wrap their arms around the other. It’s a step, toward what, who knows, but it’s a step.

Lena stands there. 

Kara stands there.

For now, that’s all they need. Arms wrapped around their world.

To simply say nothing.

[novaursa]

A Lion's Leap (family)

- Summary: The king announces the betrothal of his youngest daughter, you, to Tyland Lannister. But even the Lannister Lord is taken off guard, as there has been some miscommunication regarding the proposal.

- Paring: targ!reader/Tyland Lannister

- Rating: Mild 13+

- Previous part: runaway

- Next part: peace is a Targaryen illusion

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

The descent toward Casterly Rock had barely completed when Tyland spotted his brother, Lord Jason Lannister, sprinting across the courtyard with a look of sheer panic on his face. Tyland knew that look all too well—the last time he’d seen Jason like this, it had involved a stolen cask of Arbor Gold, a mysteriously missing tapestry, and a sheep that had somehow found its way into the main hall. But this? This was dragons. And three of them, no less.

As Silverwing, Viseron, and Grey Ghost settled on the grounds in front of Casterly Rock, Jason came to a halt, looking between Tyland and you, his hands spread in a mixture of disbelief and distress.

"Tyland," he panted, eyes flicking nervously to the dragons, "we... we don’t exactly have... room for these... guests."

You smiled warmly, giving Jason a reassuring nod. "Don’t worry, Lord Jason. The dragons are quite capable of managing on their own. They’ll just... stretch their wings over the Westerlands for a while. No need for stables or anything like that."

Jason’s face paled. "You mean they’ll be... loose?"

Tyland patted his brother on the shoulder, trying not to grin too much. "Think of it as a form of... security. No one will dare approach Casterly Rock with three dragons in the sky."

Jason shot him a look that could have curdled milk. "Security? What about the... cows? Or... the villages?” His voice dropped to a mutter, “I’m not even sure our shepherds are going to sleep tonight."

A deep rumble came from Viseron, Daemon’s dragon, who had now lifted his head to peer into the castle entrance. Tyland winced as he noticed Daemon standing beside Viseron, looking positively thrilled.

“Viseron wants to come in!” Daemon declared, completely unbothered by the dragon’s lack of... indoor etiquette.

Before anyone could stop him, Viseron took a few bold steps forward, his massive head pressing against the doors of Casterly Rock with all the casual disregard of a cat trying to push its way inside.

“Absolutely not!” Jason cried, throwing his hands up in horror as the dragon’s snout nudged the entrance, causing the heavy doors to creak ominously. “You can’t... he can’t... he’ll break the whole castle!”

Tyland groaned, stepping forward to try and wave the dragon back. “Viseron, no,” he said, doing his best to sound authoritative. “This isn’t the gardens of the Red Keep—you’re not coming inside.”

But Viseron, ever the loyal companion, let out a low, disgruntled whine and pressed harder, stubbornly wedging his head between the doors. Tyland watched, wide-eyed, as the dragon’s horns scraped against the stonework, sending dust and bits of masonry crumbling to the ground.

“He’s... stuck,” Alyssa said with a tone of dry amusement, standing next to Grey Ghost with an expression that suggested this was just another Tuesday in her life.

You stifled a laugh as you approached, placing a gentle hand on Tyland’s shoulder. “He’s still got that habit of following Daemon everywhere, doesn’t he?”

Tyland looked skyward, muttering a quick prayer for patience before turning back to the scene. “This is not exactly the time, Y/N.”

But it was too late; the situation had already escalated. Viseron’s hindquarters were wiggling as he attempted to back out, only managing to wedge his head in further. A handful of castle staff and guards had gathered, staring in a mix of awe and terror at the sight of a dragon trying to make himself at home in Casterly Rock.

“Daemon,” Tyland said through gritted teeth, “get your dragon unstuck.”

Daemon, however, was far too amused, hands on his hips as he watched the spectacle with a grin. “He’s just saying hello to everyone!”

Jason groaned, burying his face in his hands. “Hello? This is a disaster.”

Tyland tried again, this time with a bit more desperation in his voice. “Viseron, move!” He flapped his arms in what he hoped was a convincing display of authority, but Viseron only blinked at him, still wedged stubbornly in the doorway.

You, clearly finding the entire scene more amusing than concerning, leaned in close to Tyland and whispered, “If he doesn’t move soon, you might have to join him out here.”

Tyland shot you a look, though he couldn’t hide the smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Very funny.”

A Dragonkeeper stationed at Casterly Rock (as a precaution since the last visit), who had been watching the whole ordeal from a safe distance, finally stepped forward, waving his arms in a series of complex gestures and calling to Viseron in Valyrian. With a grumbling noise that could only be described as dragonish pouting, Viseron managed to wriggle his head free, giving the door a final, reluctant nudge before retreating a few steps.

Jason exhaled in relief, looking as though he might faint from the stress. “Finally,” he muttered, casting a wary glance at the dragon, who now stood sulking outside the castle like an oversized, scolded puppy.

With Viseron finally settled (or as settled as a dragon could be), you turned to Jason, giving him a warm smile. “See? All under control.”

Jason threw his hands up, still looking frazzled. “If this is what you consider under control, I dread to think what happens when things go wrong.”

Tyland chuckled, wrapping an arm around you. “Welcome to life with Targaryens, Jason. Dragons and all.”

Jason sighed, looking resigned as he muttered, “This is the last time I’ll be surprised by a dragon at my door. Next time, I’m locking it.”

As you all turned to head inside, Viseron gave one last hopeful nudge toward the doorway. Tyland gave him a pointed glare and muttered, “Not. One. Step.”

With a low, defeated rumble, Viseron sat back, clearly accepting that his dreams of castle life would have to wait. For now.

After the dragons were finally settled (or as settled as dragons could be, with Viseron still casting occasional, longing glances at the door), Jason Lannister led you and Tyland to a quieter chamber, where he could finally get some answers. The whole situation was enough to put even the most patient of men on edge—and Jason Lannister was not exactly known for his patience.

Jason poured a generous goblet of wine for each of you before leaning against the table, his eyes fixed on Tyland and you, his expression a mix of curiosity and concern. “Right,” he said, cutting to the chase. “I think I deserve an explanation. Why, in the name of all the Seven, have you shown up here with dragons, your children, and a very sour expression?”

Tyland took a long sip of his wine, as if bracing himself, before he spoke. “It’s... quite a story, Jason. But to put it plainly... King Viserys is dead.”

Jason’s goblet nearly slipped from his hand, his face going pale as he absorbed the news. “Viserys is... gone?” He shook his head, clearly stunned. “Seven hells, Tyland. That’s... well, that’s no small matter.”

You nodded, your expression somber. “No, it isn’t. But it’s what came next that forced us to flee King’s Landing.”

Tyland set his goblet down, his jaw tightening. “The Hightowers seized the opportunity. The very night Viserys passed, Otto Hightower and his lot crowned Aegon as king. And then they made it very clear that my family—your family, too, Jason—would face consequences if we didn’t publicly denounce Rhaenyra.”

Jason’s eyebrows shot up, his mouth opening in disbelief. “You’re saying the Hightowers... threatened House Lannister?”

“Precisely,” Tyland replied, crossing his arms. “Otto expected me to fall in line, to pledge myself to Aegon’s cause without question. After all, he’s the one who matched me with Y/N, so I suppose he thought I’d be more... pliable.”

Jason let out a disbelieving laugh, shaking his head. “So, Otto Hightower thinks he can intimidate House Lannister because he arranged a marriage? That’s rich. Very rich.” He paused, looking between the two of you, his brow furrowing. “So, they’re threatening Rhaenyra... and your family if you don’t turn against her?”

You nodded, a bitter smile tugging at your lips. “That’s about the size of it, Jason. Otto gave us a choice: denounce my own sister, or face the wrath of the crown.” You glanced at Tyland, then back at Jason. “Needless to say, we didn’t take kindly to being given ‘choices’ like that.”

Jason let out a low whistle, reaching for his goblet again. “Well, you certainly didn’t pick the quiet option, did you? Showing up at Casterly Rock with dragons is hardly a subtle way of saying you’re staying neutral.”

Tyland couldn’t help but chuckle. “Subtlety has never been a Targaryen strong suit.”

Jason shot him an amused look. “Or a Lannister one, apparently.”

He glanced toward the door, where he could still see Viseron’s shadow looming, the dragon’s curiosity clearly not satisfied. “So... the Hightowers think they can get away with strong-arming my family. All because of this business with Aegon.” Jason shook his head, looking half-amused, half-indignant. “The arrogance of it. As if the lions of the Westerlands would sit back and let the Hightowers pull our strings.”

Tyland raised an eyebrow. “Careful, Jason. Speaking out against Aegon and Otto like that could get you in trouble.”

Jason snorted, crossing his arms. “Trouble? Please, the Hightowers know nothing of trouble until they’ve tried to bully a Lannister into submission. They’d do well to remember that lions don’t take kindly to being leashed.”

You shared a smile with Tyland, feeling a surge of relief at Jason’s response. “Then you’ll help us?”

Jason gave you a grin that was all teeth, his expression fierce. “If the Hightowers want to play games, I’m more than happy to show them how we play in the Westerlands.” He took another sip of his wine, then muttered, “But don’t expect me to put up with your dragons roaming free forever. I have a feeling I’ll be explaining their presence to half my bannermen by morning.”

Tyland chuckled, clapping his brother on the shoulder. “You wanted to know why we’re here, Jason. Now you know. House Lannister isn’t so easily cowed. Not by Otto, not by Aegon, not by anyone.”

Jason raised his goblet in a toast, a glint of mischief in his eyes. “Then let��s make sure they remember it.”

It was a morning like any other—or so Tyland thought, until one of Jason’s guards came barreling into the hall, red-faced and out of breath, stammering something about another dragon.

Jason, who had just taken a sip of wine, promptly choked. “Another dragon?” he sputtered, clutching his goblet like it might provide some magical answer. “Seven hells, Tyland, did you invite the entire Targaryen family here?”

Tyland, who had his hands full keeping the dragons they already had in check, raised an eyebrow. “I most certainly did not. We’ve barely managed with the ones we brought along.”

But before Jason could respond, young Daemon practically leaped out of his seat, his eyes wide with excitement. “Caraxes!” he cried, his voice filled with wonder. “That’s Uncle Daemon’s dragon! He’s coming!”

Jason’s face went pale, and he shot a horrified look at Tyland. “Another Daemon. Another dragon. I was just starting to sleep again.”

“Well,” Tyland replied dryly, glancing at the door, “perhaps it’s best if we go and greet him before he decides to make his own introduction... with fire.”

Within moments, Jason, Tyland, young Daemon, and an entire entourage of guards and retainers were gathered in the courtyard, all staring at the sky as the unmistakable form of Caraxes descended. The Blood Wyrm’s red scales gleamed in the morning sun, his wings casting a formidable shadow over Casterly Rock. Tyland could feel Jason practically vibrating with dread beside him.

With a graceful yet terrifyingly powerful descent, Caraxes landed in the courtyard, his long, serpentine neck stretching out as he surveyed the scene. And there, perched on his saddle with all the nonchalance in the world, was Prince Daemon Targaryen, looking entirely at ease.

As soon as Caraxes’s claws touched the ground, young Daemon took off, sprinting across the courtyard toward his great-uncle. “Uncle Daemon!” he called out, practically bouncing with excitement. “You’re here!”

Prince Daemon dismounted with a grin, catching young Daemon by the shoulders as he approached. “My little namesake!” he said warmly, ruffling the boy’s hair. “Look at you, growing bolder every time I see you.”

Jason, watching the scene unfold with an expression of pure exasperation, muttered to Tyland, “Great. As if one Daemon wasn’t enough, now we have two.”

Tyland bit back a smile, giving his brother a sympathetic pat on the back. “Welcome to my life.”

Once Prince Daemon finished greeting his young namesake, Tyland stepped forward, doing his best to maintain a polite but cautious tone. “Prince Daemon,” he said, inclining his head, “we weren’t expecting you. To what do we owe this... honor?”

Prince Daemon’s eyes gleamed with a mischievous light as he looked around the courtyard, his gaze lingering on the three dragons that had made Casterly Rock their temporary home. “I came to see for myself where House Lannister stands,” he announced, his voice carrying across the courtyard. “Three dragons here, and yet no word of support.”

Jason shot Tyland a panicked look, his voice a hushed whisper. “Does he mean to suggest we’ve picked a side already?”

Tyland forced a tight-lipped smile, trying to keep his expression calm. “Prince Daemon, it’s... complicated. We have come here to secure our family’s safety. As you know, the Hightowers left us little choice.”

Prince Daemon smirked, clearly enjoying the tension. “Oh, I understand the situation well enough. Otto Hightower never could resist using his claws to force people’s hands.” He cast a pointed glance at Tyland. “Or hearts, as it seems.”

Jason, his nerves evidently fraying by the second, let out a long sigh. “So, what exactly are you here for, Prince Daemon? Besides... checking on our dragons?”

Daemon flashed a grin that was all teeth. “Simply to remind you that House Targaryen never forgets its own. And to ensure that House Lannister remembers where true power lies.”

Tyland managed a respectful nod, though he couldn’t help but feel the unspoken message behind Daemon’s words: the Targaryens were here to stay, and any alliance with them would mean loyalty through thick and thin—and perhaps fire.

Young Daemon, still beaming up at his great-uncle, seemed utterly unaffected by the tension in the air. “Uncle Daemon, are you staying for dinner?”

Prince Daemon chuckled, casting a mischievous look at Tyland. “If your father and uncle don’t mind, perhaps I’ll stay for a while. I’d love to see how House Lannister dines.”

Jason let out an almost imperceptible groan, muttering, “Great. Just wonderful.”

And with that, Tyland gave his brother a reassuring pat. “Welcome to the family politics, Jason. Just remember, it’s all part of the... charm.”

Jason shot him a glare, grumbling, “Charm? If this is what Targaryen charm looks like, I’m moving to a mountain.”

But even through the chaos, Tyland couldn’t help but feel a thrill at having his family—dragons, Daemons, and all—united in purpose, however complex that purpose might be.

The great hall of Casterly Rock was abuzz with an unusual energy as you and Alyssa swept in, both of you clearly eager to greet Prince Daemon. Alyssa, always fascinated by her great-uncle’s stories and dragon lore, had practically flown through the halls at your side, her excitement radiating from her.

When you entered, Prince Daemon stood near the hearth, looking entirely at ease in the lion’s den. His eyes lit up when he saw you and Alyssa approaching, and he greeted you both with a warm smile.

“Uncle Daemon,” you said, inclining your head with a grin. “You won’t have to wonder any longer about where we stand. I will support Rhaenyra—no matter what Otto Hightower threatens us with.”

Daemon’s grin widened, his gaze gleaming with something almost feral. “Good,” he said, clearly delighted. “It seems the Hightowers have underestimated the Targaryens—and our allies.” He gestured expansively to the hall around him. “We have dragons on every side now. Let Otto try to control that.”

Tyland, standing nearby with Jason, managed a slightly pained smile as he overheard. “Yes, let’s... keep the burning to a minimum, shall we?”

Daemon chuckled, clapping Tyland on the shoulder a little too heartily. “Fear not, Lord Tyland. I don’t intend to burn anything today.”

Dinner was quickly arranged in the great hall, and it wasn’t long before everyone was seated: you, Tyland, Jason, Prince Daemon, and the two young dragons in human form—Alyssa and young Daemon—who seemed to be practically vibrating with excitement.

Of course, the dinner was anything but quiet.

Prince Daemon was regaling everyone with tales of dragon riding, his hands gesturing wildly as he described the time Caraxes had decided to swoop so low over the Stepstones that Daemon could practically taste the sea spray. Young Daemon was listening with wide eyes, occasionally nudging his sister and whispering, “Did you hear that? We could do that!”

Tyland, catching this, shot you a slightly panicked look, leaning over to mutter, “Let’s keep their dragon-riding ambitions grounded for a few more years, shall we?”

Jason, meanwhile, was doing his best to maintain some semblance of order, which mostly involved looking horrified as Daemon described close calls in dragon battles. “And you... you survived that?” Jason asked, his voice a mix of disbelief and something akin to mild terror.

Daemon smirked, clearly enjoying Jason’s discomfort. “Survived it? I thrived on it.” He cast a sidelong glance at you, clearly enjoying the drama of the story. “Nothing like a little fire and blood to remind you that you’re alive, wouldn’t you say?”

You chuckled, raising a glass. “It certainly keeps things interesting.”

Jason, however, didn’t seem so convinced. “Interesting isn’t quite the word I’d use. Maybe... terrifying?”

Alyssa, who had been quietly observing her great-uncle with fascination, piped up. “Uncle Daemon, when will I get to ride Grey Ghost like that?”

Jason’s eyes went wide, and he nearly choked on his wine. “Absolutely not,” he said, casting a desperate look toward Tyland for support.

Tyland sighed, patting his brother’s shoulder. “Welcome to Targaryen family dinners, Jason. Just wait until they start hatching their own plans.”

“Gods save us,” Jason muttered, rubbing his temples.

But despite Jason’s fretting, the children were enraptured by Daemon’s stories, and you couldn’t help but feel a surge of pride watching your family—dragons and all—bond in a way that transcended any differences between houses.

At one point, Daemon leaned over to Tyland, his grin mischievous. “So, Lord Tyland,” he said, voice low but filled with mirth, “I hear you’re still reluctant to fly.”

Tyland managed a polite but strained smile. “I’m quite content to keep my feet on the ground, thank you. The last thing I need is another... surprise flight.”

Daemon chuckled, clearly enjoying Tyland’s discomfort. “Pity. I was thinking it’d be quite the sight to see a Lannister on dragonback.”

Jason muttered, mostly to himself, “Over my dead body.”

“Noted, Lord Jason,” Daemon said with a wink, clearly relishing every bit of Jason’s unease.

As the night wore on, the wine flowed freely, and soon the hall was filled with laughter and occasional shouts as the conversation grew louder and more boisterous. Alyssa was practically asleep at the table, her head bobbing as she fought to stay awake, while young Daemon kept inching closer to his namesake, clearly hanging on every word.

When dinner finally wound down, and the candles burned low, Daemon raised a glass, his gaze sweeping over all of you. “To House Targaryen,” he said, his voice carrying a note of defiance. “And to House Lannister, our allies in fire and blood.”

Tyland raised his glass with a slightly forced but sincere smile, murmuring, “May it be a peaceful alliance... eventually.”

Jason, though weary, clinked his goblet with a resigned sigh. “If peace means dragons at my doorstep, so be it. Just... maybe not every day.”

And as the toasts echoed through the hall, you couldn’t help but laugh, feeling the strength of your family beside you—each person, each dragon, and each impossible, unforgettable story.

[prommytheus]

i do almost everything i do in fandom analysis from a watsonian perspective and people who do everything doylist are often massive killjoys,

BUT also i thoroughly refuse to believe the guy who drinks all day, every day, on the clock, likely owns his own vineyard that he drinks wine from (theres a picture of him and his family crest on the bottle), has his wine glasses custommade, and owns a floor to ceiling wall of casks of different wines in his office that he reorganizes every day, doesn’t know how to hold a wine glass. the animators (as much as i love them) either didn’t know this about wine or knew it but it was just too hard to animate.

however, everybody else feel free to clown on him. he really does deserve it 😔

[markredfield]

This audio drama adaptation of “The Cask of Amontillado”, starring John Astin (“The Addams Family”) and Mark Redfield (“The Death of Poe”) was recorded before a live audience at Westminster Hall in Baltimore, where Poe is buried. Adapted by Tony Tsendeas.

Redfield Arts Audio presents The Midnight Matinee production of “The Cask of Amontillado”

[the-nosy-neighbor]

Poe

So, still digesting this information. 

Also, I just realized that the wiki has links to Clown’s past comments about each character, so I have been enjoying reading those.  I did a deep dive a while back, but didn’t see some of the things added.

The main thing I see here, if people aren’t familiar with the works of Edward Allen Poe, is the fact that two of his stories are referenced in the book.  I assume most people are going to know, as his stuff is pretty popular and references abound.  Sally has determined that they are going to do her version of “The Tell-tale Heart.” I wish we got to hear more about what her version was like, but we do get a small idea.  The second references is “The Cask of Amontillado.”  I’m going to do a super basic description of each story—I have read these in the past, but I’m using general info from Wikipedia as a source.

In “The Telltale Heart” (which I saw a feminist play version of recently), the story follows an unnamed person who lives with an old man and becomes obsessed with the idea that his “milky” eye (probably cataracts) is watching him at all times.  He decides that he is going to have to kill him to get rid of this evil eye.  He goes in at night with a shuttered lantern to observe the old man while he sleeps.  For seven days, he doesn’t see the eye.  On the eighth, the old man wakes up (I think the main character makes a noise) and then when the shaft of light lands on his unusual eye, decides that this is the sign he needs to go ahead and kill him. 

Check out this awesome art from Wikipedia, an illustration by Harry Clark in 1923

He hears the old man’s heartbeat at this point.  The old man cries out once and then dies.  So he kills him, dismembers him, and buries him under the floorboards of the old man’s room.  But someone heard the scream, so the police come.  He has taken care of everything suspicious, so he doesn’t think that they are going to find anything, but he keeps hearing the heartbeat.  He brings chairs to the old man’s room, and they sit there.  The heartbeat keeps getting louder and louder, but the cops don’t seem to hear it.  Eventually, the sound of the heartbeat breaks him, and he confesses to the crime.  He tells them where the body is hidden. 

The story was published in January of 1843 in a magazine.  Interesting tidbit, it was published with a poem claimed by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, called “A Psalm of Life” but when Poe’s story was republished, he had them drop the poem, because he thought it could be plagiarized.  It was first published anonymously, and some felt that if it was Wadsworth’s, it could be a translation of Goethe.  The poem is about seizing the day, doing great things. 

Now, the second piece, “The Cask of Amontillado” is also a story about premeditated murder.  In this case, it follows an Italian noble who has fallen on hard times, who hates a man he blames for his bad fortune.  The hated man is called “Fortunato,” and the murderer is called “Montresor” which is a family name.    So, it’s Carnival (Carnevale), which has parades, costumes, masks, games, pranks, theatre performances among other celebrations.  Mardi Gras is descended from this festival.  Montresor finds Fortunato wandering around drunk (and it is insinuated that while he is called a connoisseur he could be a garden variety alcoholic).  Having planned for revenge against the guy, he asks him to come to his house and check out this rare wine he bought, known for being counterfeit most of the time.  Given that Fortunato has a taste for wines, he is going to give his opinion.  Monstresor thinks with carnival happening around them, and both of them in carnival garb and masks, no one will notice them going to his house. 

He takes the guy down to his basement, giving him some wine on the way down to keep him drunk, and instead of wine, there is a chain on the wall with a lock on the other side.  Montresor locks him in, and starts to build a wall around him.  Fortunato tries to take it as a joke, but it becomes apparent that Montresor is going to leave him there.  Fortunato begs for them to leave and drink the wine together, while his murderer agrees with everything he says, still building the wall.  With one brick left, Montresor looks at him, and calls his name twice:

I heard no answer.  “Fortunato!” I cried.  “Fortunato.” I heard only a soft, low sound, a half-cry of fear.  My heart grew sick; it must have been the cold.  I hurried to force the last stone into its position.  And I put the old bones again in a pile against the way.  For half a century now no human hand has touched them.  May he rest in peace!

Also notable in this story is the imagery of Montresor’s family crest, which shows a foot crushing a snake, while the snake has its fangs in the heel of the foot.  I read a discussion on the somewhat circular nature of this image, because the viewer can’t tell who the aggressor is there.  Did the snake bite first, or did the heel crush first?  “Montresor” means “my treasure;” “Fortunato” means “lucky, fortunate, blessed, or happy.”  Fortunato is also the name of many Christian saints.

What does this mean for Poppy? And Sally?  In our story, Sally is distraught that she suggested that Poppy act in the play, having forgotten (somehow) that Poppy is scared of everything, until everyone reminds her that Poppy is scared of everything.  Barnaby says “brick by brick,” which gives Barnaby the idea to brick Poppy into her barn.  Truly bizarre.  So all the neighbors (minus Home) set to work bricking up her window with school glue and bricks.  Interestingly, all the neighbors appear to be there, but you don’t see the hands of Frank or Sally, just trowels. 

You see a shot of the interior of the barn with just a small part remaining open, with Sally’s face in the hole.  Then a line says “Never had a home look so safe and cozy!” (sic, not sure about that, typo?)  Agree to disagree, that sounds terrifying. 

Poppy being out of the play altogether means that Home is in the play.  We see the other neighbors prepping, so I assume that the page where they are all in windows shows what each one is doing:  Wally is painting (scenery?), Frank is brushing Julie’s hair, Howdy is putting chairs out (?), Barnaby is eating a hot dog, home is staring directly at us, and Eddie is studying lines.  Sally, in the center is being bummed that Poppy isn’t participating.  Given that Home is in the background of the play itself, I am going to assume that Julie is the main character, Eddie is Cop 1 and Home is Cop 2.  The play ends with the confession scene, but Julie confesses burying her alarm clock in a garden, not a murder.  Home has three black dots on the front, but I can’t tell if that is some kind of decoration for the play, or if it is more of the black stuff that is on everything. 

After the play, we are treated to silhouettes of the audience and cast, but we don’t have the audio of the lines there, instead, we are hearing Poppy’s panic.  But it does have the line, “Most important of all, not a single peep was heard out of Poppy.” Then there is a page of a feather on a brick page (that reminds me of the old missing art that isn’t canon. 

The book ends with an image of the bricked over window.  While the audio tells us she is fine, the images themselves are suspect.  More to come later.