#Goblet of Fire Cast

[talkingnerd]

[loonyloopylupin96]

The fact Barty is canonically the kid who cries when he gets in trouble tickles me.

[ignitedminds27]

Thank you, MICHAEL GAMBON for giving us the greatest wizard of all time, ALBUS PERCIVAL WULFRIC BRIAN DUMBLEDORE.

Wizards raise your wands.

WE WILL MISS YOU, PROFESSOR DUMBLEDORE.

WE WILL MISS YOU, MICHAEL GAMBON. YOU TERRIFIC ACTOR.

[victoriaemayfield]

Click On the link below for more!

[novaursa]

The Silent Pyre

- Summary: It was a rainy night when Blood and Cheese came to deliver you your half-sister’s message; a son for a son.

- Pairing: reader (twin!wife)/Aegon II

- Note: reader is referred to as Y/N. Aegon and the reader have four children, the oldest son named Aeron, a daughter, Daena, and twin boys, Vaelon and Baelon. These events happen after Twin Fires and before The Fire That Binds Us. For full chronological order of these works visit my blog. The list is pinned on the top. Or, you can read it as a one-shot. Anonymous user inquired about these events, and I've decided to post it and share it with you all, it has been stashed away for too long in my file graveyard.

- Rating: Explicit 18+ (no adult content, but there are graphic descriptions of violence, blood and gore)

- Word count: 5 133

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff

The night is heavy with the scent of rain, the coolness of autumn seeping into the stones of the Red Keep. The fire in Helaena’s chamber casts long shadows across the walls, flickering as the wind howls faintly outside. You stand by the door, the weight of your crown pressing down upon you as you gaze at your younger sister. Her pale hair gleams like moonlight as she kneels by her children’s cradle, whispering a soft lullaby. Her voice is a quiet, fragile thing, a melody that seems almost too delicate for the world that surrounds you both.

“Helaena,” you murmur, stepping closer. She lifts her head, her violet eyes distant and unfocused, as though she is seeing something far beyond the chamber walls.

“Y/N,” she replies, a small, distracted smile gracing her lips. “Goodnight. May the Seven bless your dreams.”

“And yours, sister.” You reach out, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. “Sleep well.”

With one last glance at her serene face, you turn and leave the room, pulling the door shut softly behind you. The corridor outside is eerily silent, the usual clamor of the servants and guards muted, as if the Keep itself holds its breath.

As you walk through the darkened halls, a sense of unease begins to coil in your chest. The silence feels unnatural, like the calm before a storm. The rain patters against the windows, a steady rhythm that should be soothing, but instead heightens your anxiety. You pull your cloak tighter around yourself, the chill of the stone floors seeping through your slippers.

Your thoughts drift to Aegon, waiting for you in your shared bedchamber. You picture him sprawled across the large bed, his platinum blond hair tousled, perhaps with a goblet of wine in hand. There is comfort in the thought of him, of the warmth of his body against yours, but it does little to dispel the growing dread that gnaws at your insides.

As you approach the nursery, the unease sharpens into fear. You pause, your hand hovering over the door. The sound of something crashing softly from within reaches your ears—a faint, almost imperceptible noise, but enough to send your heart racing. The shadows behind the door shift, moving in ways that shadows should not.

You swallow, forcing down the rising panic. Your children are in there, your precious sons and daughter. Steeling yourself, you push the door open slowly, trying to remain as silent as possible.

The scene before you is one pulled from the darkest of nightmares. The warm, cozy nursery is cast in a pall of terror. Your eyes first find your mother, Dowager Queen Alicent, bound and gagged on the floor, her eyes wide with a terror that you have never seen before. She struggles against her bindings, her muffled cries like the wail of a ghost in the suffocating silence.

But it is the two men in the center of the room who capture your attention—the one holding your eldest son, Aeron, in his arms, a cruel knife pressed to his throat, while the other stands nearby, his presence looming and sinister. Your son is awake, tears streaking down his face, his small body trembling in fear.

“Do not scream,” the man holding your son whispers, his voice low and threatening. “Or the boy dies.”

Your breath catches in your throat, a wave of nausea rising within you as the reality of the situation crashes down. You force yourself to remain calm, to not give in to the terror clawing at your heart.

“What do you want?” you manage to say, your voice shaking despite your best efforts to keep it steady.

“Vengeance,” the other man—Cheese, they will call him, from his size and the rat-like cunning in his eyes—replies coldly. “For son's blood has been spilled. Now, it is your blood that must pay.”

You take a step forward, and the knife digs deeper into Aeron’s tender skin, a small whimper escaping his lips. Your entire body tenses, every instinct screaming at you to protect your child, but you are powerless, bound by the threat that hangs over him like a blade.

“Let my son go,” you plead, your voice cracking. “Please. He is but a child.”

Cheese’s grin is twisted, devoid of mercy. “A choice, Your Grace. You must choose one of your sons. Two to live, and one to die.”

The words hit you like a blow, stealing the breath from your lungs. Your knees threaten to buckle beneath you, the world spinning as the horror of what they ask becomes clear. They want you to condemn one of your children to death. To choose between your sons.

“No,” you whisper, shaking your head. “I cannot.”

“You must,” the man holding Aeron insists, his voice a menacing growl. “Or we kill them all three.”

You look between your sons, your heart shattering into pieces. Aeron, your eldest, so brave despite his fear, his wide eyes pleading silently for you to save him. And twin boys, Vaelon and Baelon, still asleep in their cribs, blissfully unaware of the nightmare unfolding around them.

Tears blur your vision, the anguish of the choice tearing at your soul. You cannot do this. You cannot be the one to decide who lives and who dies. But their lives, three of them, hang in the balance, and the choice is yours to make.

“Please,” you beg once more, though you know it is futile. “Do not make me choose.”

Cheese steps closer, his breath foul as he leans in. “Choose, Queen Y/N. Or your precious children will all die, and it will be on your head.”

The weight of your crown feels like a curse as you stand there, trembling, the choice before you too terrible to comprehend. Your hands are shaking, your heart breaking, as the words begin to form on your lips, but they can't leave them.

The world narrows to the unbearable choice before you, every second stretching into an eternity. You stand frozen, the screams of your heart drowned out by the silence that has gripped your throat. Aeron, your firstborn, stares at you with wide, tear-filled eyes, pleading for a salvation you know you cannot grant him. And there, in their cribs, laid Vaelon and Baelon, so small, so unaware, their chest rising and falling peacefully with each breath.

It is the smaller and younger twin’s innocence, his lack of awareness, that seals your fate. If he must die, let it be without knowing fear. Let him slip from this world in the safety of his dreams.

Your decision comes not from cruelty, but from a twisted, desperate kind of mercy.

“Vaelon,” you whisper, your voice a broken thing. “Take him.”

The words taste like ash on your tongue, a confession of the darkest sin. The man holding Aeron grins, his eyes alight with a sadistic satisfaction. But even as the choice leaves your lips, a cold realization claws at the back of your mind—this was never meant to end well. They were never going to let Aeron live.

You see it happen almost in slow motion, the knife glinting in the dim light as it draws across your eldest son’s throat. The sound that escapes him is a choked gasp, eyes widening in pain and betrayal as the blood wells and spills down his neck.

“No!” The word tears from your throat as you lunge forward, but it is too late. The man has already sliced deeper, crimson blooming like a terrible flower. Yet, Aeron is not yet gone. The blade catches as the man’s hand slips, and in that moment of weakness, Alicent—your mother—finds her strength.

With a fury you have never seen, she throws herself against the man holding Aeron, her bound body knocking him off balance. He stumbles, the knife digging deeper but freeing your son from his grasp. Aeron falls to the floor, clutching at his bleeding throat, his small hands stained red.

A scream of pure, primal rage rips from your chest as you hurl yourself at the man, the world around you narrowing to a singular purpose: kill him. You grab for the knife, your hands slick with Aeron’s blood, and wrest it from his grasp. The man struggles against you, but your desperation lends you strength. With a wild, desperate thrust, you drive the blade into his side, feeling the give of flesh and bone as it sinks in.

He gasps, a wet, gurgling sound, eyes wide in shock as he stumbles backward, clutching at the wound. You pull the knife free and stab again, and again, each strike fueled by the agony that has consumed you. Blood splatters across your face, warm and sickening, but you do not stop until he falls, lifeless, to the floor.

In the chaos, you do not notice Cheese until it is too late. He has turned his attention to one of the twins, to Vaelon, your youngest, the one you had chosen to condemn. As your daughter, Daena, screams—a piercing, heart-rending sound that echoes through the nursery—Cheese moves swiftly, seizing the smaller boy from his crib.

“No! Please!” you cry out, scrambling to your feet, but your voice is drowned by the sheer panic that has overtaken you. You are too far, too slow. Vaelon’s eyes flutter open, confusion and fear flickering across his tiny face as the knife flashes once more.

And then it is done. The light fades from Vaelon’s eyes as his small body crumples to the floor, lifeless. 

A silence falls over the room, broken only by the sound of your daughter’s sobs, Baelon’s baby gurglings and the ragged breaths of Alicent, who is desperately pressing her hands against Aeron’s wound, trying to stem the flow of blood.

“Aeron!” You rush to him, dropping to your knees beside him. His eyes are glazed with pain, his breathing shallow and labored. The wound is deep, but he is alive, clinging to life by the barest thread.

Cheese is panicking now, his eyes darting around the room as if realizing for the first time the gravity of what they have done. The plan, whatever it was, has gone horribly wrong. He looks at the bodies—the man you killed, Vaelon’s small, lifeless form—and he falters, unsure of his next move.

“You will die for this,” you hiss, every word trembling with a deadly promise. “You will not leave this room alive.”

Cheese takes a step back, fear flashing in his eyes, but before he can act, you move. Fueled by a mother’s wrath and the madness of grief, you surge forward, the bloodied knife still clutched in your hand. He tries to fend you off, but he is no match for the fury that drives you. With a wild, savage strike, you plunge the knife into his chest.

He gasps, a final breath escaping his lips as his eyes go wide, then glassy. He collapses to the floor, joining his fallen companion in death.

You stand there, panting, covered in the blood of your children’s murderers, and of your children themselves. Your hands shake as you drop the knife, the sound of it clattering to the floor barely registering in your mind.

“Y/N,” Alicent calls out, her voice trembling. “Aeron needs you.”

You blink, the fog of rage lifting just enough for you to focus on your son. You drop to your knees beside him, your hands finding his, trying to staunch the flow of blood with trembling fingers.

“Stay with me, my love,” you whisper, tears streaming down your face. “Stay with me. Please.”

Alicent is beside you, pressing her hands down on the wound with all her might. “He’s strong,” she says, though her voice wavers. “He will survive this.”

You nod, though your heart is breaking. You dare not look at Vaelon’s still form, his twin, Baelon, now wide awake in his crib, or at your daughter, Daena, who is now curled into a ball in the corner, sobbing for her brothers. You can only focus on Aeron, on keeping him alive, as the horror of what has happened sinks into your soul.

The night is no longer just cold and rainy; it has become a night of death and despair, one that will haunt you until your last breath. But you will not let it claim Aeron. Not him, too.

And as the dawn begins to break, casting pale light over the carnage, you hold your son close, praying to the Seven to spare him. To spare at least one of your children, as the taste of your own choice, the bitterness of it, poisons your every breath.

Aegon sits in the dim light of your shared bedchamber, his goblet of wine resting lazily in his hand. The fire crackles in the hearth, casting dancing shadows on the walls, but the warmth it offers does little to chase away the chill of the autumn night. He sighs, his thoughts drifting to you, knowing that you will join him soon. The bond you share, forged not only by blood but by a deep, consuming love, is one that neither of you can escape, nor would you wish to. Sleep eludes him without you by his side, as it always has since you were children. 

He takes another sip of the wine, waiting for the familiar sound of your footsteps approaching. The thought of the night ahead, of holding you close, offers a comfort that softens the weariness in his bones.

But then, a scream pierces the stillness of the night—a scream that he recognizes instantly as belonging to your daughter. It is followed by your voice, raw with anguish, echoing down the corridors.

The goblet slips from his hand, clattering to the floor as he leaps to his feet. The wine spills across the stone, forgotten as dread seizes him. He knows something is terribly wrong. Without a moment’s hesitation, he rushes to the door, his heart pounding in his chest.

“Your Grace!” one of the Kingsguard calls as they fall into step behind him, but Aegon doesn’t respond. The only thought in his mind is to reach you, to reach his children.

He tears down the hall, his bare feet slapping against the cold stone, until he reaches the nursery. The door is ajar, shadows flickering ominously in the light from the hallway. The scent of copper fills his nostrils before he even crosses the threshold, a scent that chills him to the core.

He bursts into the room, but in his haste, he doesn’t notice the slickness beneath his feet until it’s too late. His foot slips on the blood that pools on the floor, and he stumbles, barely catching himself on the doorframe before he can fall.

For a moment, everything seems to slow. He looks down at the blood smeared across the floor, the vivid red of it stark against the stone. And then he sees the scene before him, a tableau of horror that makes his breath catch in his throat.

Two men lie dead on the floor, their bodies twisted in death, blood oozing from fatal wounds. But it is not them that hold his attention; it is the small, lifeless form of Vaelon, his infant son, lying not far from them, his throat cruelly slit. Aegon’s heart seizes, his vision blurring with tears that he fights to hold back.

“No… no, no…” The words are barely a whisper as he staggers forward, his mind unable to fully comprehend the sight before him.

But there is more—your mother, Alicent, is on the floor, her hands pressed desperately against Aeron’s throat, trying to stem the flow of blood. And there you are, kneeling beside your eldest son, your hands covered in blood, your face a mask of desperation and despair as you try to keep him alive.

“Y/N!” Aegon chokes out your name as he rushes to you, his voice filled with fear and anguish. “What… what happened?”

You look up at him, your eyes red and swollen from crying, and the sight of you breaks something deep within him. “Aegon… they… they killed Vaelon,” you whisper, your voice trembling. “They tried to kill Aeron… we… I couldn’t stop them…”

Aegon falls to his knees beside you, his hands hovering uselessly over Aeron, unsure of what to do. He can see the life fading from his eldest son’s eyes, the pale skin, the way his breath comes in shallow, ragged gasps. Aegon feels a crushing sense of helplessness, something he has never experienced with such intensity before.

“Aeron, my boy… stay with us,” Aegon pleads, his voice thick with emotion as he brushes a trembling hand over Aeron’s hair. “Stay with us, please…”

Alicent looks up at her son, her own eyes filled with tears, though she fights to keep them at bay. “We need to stop the bleeding, Aegon. If we don’t… if we don’t…”

“I know,” Aegon says, though his voice is strangled. He tears a strip of cloth from his sleeve, pressing it to Aeron’s wound with a firm but gentle hand. “Stay with me, Aeron. You’re strong. You can fight this.”

But even as he says the words, he feels the cold dread settle in his chest, knowing that the wound is too deep, that his son’s life is slipping away with every passing moment. 

You lean into Aegon, your body shaking with sobs as you press your bloodstained hands over his, trying to help, trying to do something—anything—to save your child. But the blood keeps coming, seeping through your fingers, staining the floor beneath you.

“Please… please…” you whisper, over and over, your voice breaking with each word. “Don’t take him from us…”

Aegon pulls you closer, wrapping an arm around you even as he continues to press down on Aeron’s wound. He can feel your pain, your sorrow, as if it were his own, and in that moment, he knows that this night will haunt both of you for the rest of your lives.

The Kingsguard finally arrive, swords drawn, their faces pale as they take in the scene before them. But there is nothing they can do; the threat is already gone, the deed already done. All they can do is stand there, silent and grim, as the horror of what has happened sinks in.

“Get a maester!” Aegon commands, his voice rising with desperate urgency. “Now!”

One of the guards rushes off without a word, the others standing watch as if expecting another attack, though it is clear that the danger has passed. Aegon looks down at Aeron, his heart breaking as he watches the light in his son’s eyes flicker and fade.

“Stay with us, Aeron,” he whispers again, but the words sound hollow, empty, even to his own ears.

Alicent, her hands still pressed against the wound, glances at you, her eyes filled with a sorrow so deep it seems to swallow the room whole. “Y/N,” she says softly, her voice thick with grief, “he’s… he’s still fighting. But we need to prepare ourselves… we need to…”

“No!” You cry out, shaking your head violently. “No, he’s going to survive. He has to. He’s strong. Please, Aegon, tell her… tell her he’s going to survive.”

Aegon swallows hard, trying to keep the tears at bay as he looks at you, seeing the hope in your eyes, fragile and desperate. “He’s strong,” he agrees, his voice trembling. “He’s a dragon. He’ll survive this.”

But even as he says the words, he knows that they are more for your sake than for his own. He knows the truth, as much as he hates it, as much as it tears at his very soul.

And then, as if in response to your pleas, Aeron’s breathing hitches, a faint, ragged sound that sends a jolt of hope through your heart. But Aegon sees the truth in the way his son’s eyes begin to flutter shut, the way his small body goes limp beneath your hands.

“No, no, stay with us, please…” you sob, your voice breaking completely as you try to shake him awake, as if you can keep him from slipping away just by sheer will alone.

Aegon pulls you closer, holding you tightly against him, his own tears falling freely now. “Y/N… he’s…”

But before he can finish, the maester arrives, pushing his way into the room with a satchel of supplies. He takes one look at Aeron and immediately sets to work, but Aegon can see it in his eyes—the resignation, the grim acceptance of what is to come.

Aegon watches as the maester tries to stem the bleeding, his hands moving quickly, efficiently, but it is clear that he is fighting a losing battle. You cling to Aegon, your tears soaking into his tunic as you watch, your breath catching in your throat every time Aeron’s breathing falters.

Minutes pass, each one stretching into an eternity, until finally, Orwyle pulls back, his face pale and drawn. He looks up at Aegon, then at you, and shakes his head, his expression filled with sorrow.

“I’m sorry, Your Grace,” he says quietly. “There’s… there’s nothing more I can do.”

The words hit you like a physical blow, and you cry out, your hands trembling as you reach for Aeron, as if you can somehow pull him back from the brink.

“No… no, please, no…” you whisper, your voice barely audible as you cradle your son’s head in your lap, your fingers brushing through his hair.

Aegon feels his heart shatter completely as he watches you, as he sees the light finally fade from Aeron’s eyes, his small body going still in your arms. He can’t breathe, can’t think, can’t do anything but hold you as you break down completely.

The days following the brutal attack on your family pass in a haze of grief and despair. The Red Keep is draped in a suffocating silence, its once lively halls now cold and empty, as though the life has been drained from its very walls. The horror of that night lingers in every corner, every shadow, a constant reminder of the blood that was spilled and the lives that were lost.

Your remaining children, Daena and Baelon, are kept under the strictest watch by the Kingsguard. No less than two knights are stationed outside their chambers at all times, and they are never left alone, not even for a moment. The memory of what happened to their brothers hangs over the nursery like a dark cloud, and every sound, every creak of the floorboards, sends a fresh wave of terror through the household.

But it is you, their mother, who is most affected. The grief has hollowed you out, leaving you a mere shadow of the woman you once were. You spend your days in a state of numbness, your heart shattered beyond repair. Nothing and no one can console you, not even Aegon, who tries desperately to reach you, to bring you back from the edge of the abyss into which you have fallen. But his attempts are in vain. You are inconsolable, broken beyond words.

Aegon himself is a man consumed by fury. The fire of his rage burns hotter with each passing day, fueled by the sheer injustice of what has happened. He holds a small council meeting in the dead of night, summoning only those he trusts—or at least, those whose loyalties he can control.

In the dimly lit council chamber, Aegon sits at the head of the table, his hands gripping the arms of his chair so tightly that his knuckles are white. His eyes are bloodshot, his face drawn and pale from lack of sleep. The tension in the room is palpable, every man present feeling the weight of the King’s anger pressing down on them like a physical force.

Around the table sit Otto Hightower, his face a mask of stern concern; Ser Criston Cole, his expression grim and unyielding; Lord Larys Strong, who watches the proceedings with his usual calculating gaze; Lord Jasper Wylde, the Master of Laws, his fingers tapping nervously on the table; Lord Tayland Lannister, the Master of Ships, who remains unusually quiet; and Grand Maester Orwyle, who sits with his hands folded, his eyes downcast.

Aegon’s voice breaks the silence, a low, seething growl that sends a shiver down the spine of everyone in the room. “How did this happen?” he demands, his eyes blazing with fury as he looks from one man to the next. “How did two men infiltrate the heart of the Red Keep, murder my sons, and nearly take the life of my other children without anyone knowing? Where were the guards? Where was the protection I was promised?”

Otto is the first to speak, his voice calm but firm. “Your Grace, we are all grieved by this tragedy, but rest assured, we are investigating every possible lead. The guards who were on duty that night have been questioned, and those found negligent will be dealt with severely.”

“Dealt with severely?” Aegon echoes, his voice rising with incredulity. “My sons are dead, and you speak of discipline as if that can undo what has been done! This was not just negligence—this was treason, betrayal of the highest order!”

Ser Criston Cole, ever the loyal sword, speaks next, his tone as hard as steel. “Your Grace, the Kingsguard were stationed as ordered, but the enemy was cunning. They knew exactly where to strike, and when. We are searching for any who might have aided them from within the Keep.”

Aegon glares at him, his anger still simmering. “You should have been there, Ser Criston. You should have been protecting my family, as you swore to do.”

Criston bows his head, accepting the rebuke without argument. “I failed you, my king, and I will bear that burden until the day I die.”

Larys Strong, who has remained silent until now, leans forward slightly, his voice smooth and unhurried as he speaks. “Your Grace, the men who did this were not acting alone. This attack was meticulously planned, designed to strike at the heart of your family and weaken your claim. There is but one who stands to gain the most from such an act of terror.”

Aegon’s eyes narrow as he fixes his gaze on Larys. “Speak plainly, Lord Strong. Who do you accuse?”

Larys meets Aegon’s gaze without flinching, his voice carrying a weight of certainty. “Rhaenyra Targaryen, and her husband, Daemon. They are the ones behind this atrocity. They seek to undermine your rule, to sow chaos and discord within the realm, so that Rhaenyra might usurp your throne.”

Aegon’s breath hitches at the mention of his half-sister’s name. His hatred for her is no secret, but to hear that she might be responsible for the deaths of his sons sends a fresh wave of fury coursing through him. “You have proof of this?” he demands, his voice shaking with barely contained rage.

Larys inclines his head, a faint smile playing on his lips. “The men who committed the murders—the butcher and the rat catcher—are known associates of Daemon Targaryen. They were hired by him to carry out this heinous act. The gold they were paid with was traced back to Rhaenyra’s supporters in King’s Landing. This was not just an act of violence—it was a message. Response to the death of Lucerys Velaryon by the hand of Prince Aemond.”

Aegon’s hands clench into fists, his nails digging into the wood of the table. “A message? They dare to send me a message by murdering my sons? Two innocent boys?”

“Yes,” Larys replies, his voice as cold as ice. “They wish to show that you are vulnerable, that your rule can be challenged. They wish to provoke you into rash action, to draw you into a conflict that will weaken your position.”

“Rash action?” Aegon scoffs, his anger flaring anew. “They think they can provoke me? They think I will sit idly by while they murder my children?”

“Your Grace,” Otto interjects, his voice measured. “We must be careful. If we move too quickly, without proof, we risk turning the realm against us. Rhaenyra still has many supporters. We must gather our strength, consolidate our power, and then strike when the time is right.”

But Aegon is beyond reason, his grief and rage too great to be tempered by caution. “I will not wait!” he snarls, slamming his fist on the table. “They have taken from me what I hold most dear, and I will make them pay for it, tenfold! If Rhaenyra wants war, then war she shall have!”

The council members exchange uneasy glances, each man aware of the storm that is about to be unleashed. Aegon’s wrath is a dangerous thing, and they know that nothing they say will dissuade him from the course he has set.

Grand Maester Orwyle finally speaks, his voice soft but insistent. “Your Grace, the lives of your remaining children—Princess Daena and Prince Baelon—must be your foremost concern. They are the future of your house, and they must be protected at all costs.”

Aegon’s expression softens slightly at the mention of his children, the thought of them momentarily piercing through the fog of his anger. He knows that Orwyle is right, that the safety of Daena and Baelon is paramount. But even this knowledge cannot quell the burning desire for vengeance that has taken root in his heart.

“I will protect them,” he says, his voice hardening once more. “But I will not allow this attack to go unanswered. Rhaenyra and Daemon will know the price of crossing me.”

Otto inclines his head, understanding that there is no turning back now. “Then we must prepare for war, Your Grace. We must rally our banners, secure our allies, and strike swiftly and decisively.”

Aegon nods, his jaw set with determination. “Do it. Call the banners, prepare the dragons. We will bring fire and blood to those who dare to defy us.”

The council members rise from their seats, each man knowing that the decisions made this night will plunge the realm into chaos. As they leave the chamber, Aegon remains behind, staring at the bloodstained map of Westeros spread out before him. His thoughts drift to you, to the shattered look in your eyes, to the bodies of his sons lying cold in their graves.

He swears to himself, to the gods, and to the memory of his murdered children that he will not rest until Rhaenyra and Daemon are brought to justice. No matter the cost, no matter the blood that must be spilled, he will have his revenge.

And so, the storm begins to gather, the winds of war stirring in the darkness of the Red Keep.

[misswynters]

Wine

aemond targaryen x wife!reader

[WARNING: switch!aemond, implied mommy kink?, riding, lactation kink but with wine?, let me know if there are any mistakes

[requested: by @demigoddessqueens (everyone say thanks)

[a/n: both you and aemond are switches and this is the first time i’m writing this type of thing :3

Aemond knelt before you in the privacy of your chambers, his tall, imposing figure somehow made small by the sheer humility in his posture. The low, flickering light of the hearth cast long shadows across the room, turning the walls into a canvas of shifting shapes. But the only thing that mattered was the man before you—Aemond Targaryen, Prince of the Realm, brought to his knees by his own desires, and by you, his wife.

The tension in the air was thick, palpable, as if the very walls of the room held their breath, waiting for the inevitable. Aemond’s single eye, the vibrant violet of old Valyria, locked onto yours with an intensity that could have melted stone. But tonight, there was no fire in his gaze, no dragon-like fury—only a deep, aching need.

You stood above him, holding a goblet filled with the finest Arbor red wine. The deep crimson liquid sloshed gently as you tilted the cup ever so slightly, just enough to let the wine catch the light. Aemond’s breath hitched, his lips parting as his eye followed the movement of your hand, as if entranced.

“You want this, don’t you?” you asked, your voice a low, sultry purr that filled the room with an almost tangible heat.

“Yes,” Aemond whispered, his voice strained, laced with desperation. “Please…”

There was something so intoxicating about the way he begged—this powerful man, a dragonrider, a warrior, reduced to nothing but a trembling, needy husband before you. You reveled in the control you had over him, the way he willingly gave himself to you, trusting you with his vulnerability.

With deliberate slowness, you lowered the goblet toward his lips, but stopped just short of letting him drink. His eye flicked up to meet yours, a flash of panic crossing his features as you teased him, holding the cup just out of reach. He didn’t dare move, though you could see the strain in his shoulders, the way his hands clenched into fists behind his back.

“Do you think you deserve it?” you asked, raising an eyebrow.

Aemond swallowed hard, his throat working as he struggled to form words. “I—I want to deserve it,” he stammered, his voice trembling with a mix of fear and longing. “I want to please you, my lady. I’ll do anything…”

Your lips curved into a slow, wicked smile as you tilted the goblet just enough to let a single drop of wine fall onto his waiting tongue. He groaned softly at the taste, his eye fluttering closed as he savored the brief, tantalizing sensation. But you pulled the cup away again, making him whimper in protest.

“Anything?” you repeated, your voice laced with amusement as you crouched down to his level. You were so close now that you could feel the heat radiating off his body, see the slight tremor in his hands as he struggled to maintain control. He nodded fervently, his eye wide with need.

“Good,” you murmured, tracing the rim of the goblet with your finger before bringing it to his lips once more. This time, you allowed the wine to flow freely, pouring it into his mouth as he eagerly drank, his lips wrapping around the edge of the cup like a man starved.

Some of the wine spilled over, trailing down his chin and neck, staining his skin a deep, sinful red. You watched, enthralled, as the liquid dripped onto his collar, seeping into the fabric of his tunic. Aemond’s breathing grew heavier, more labored, as he drank, and when you finally pulled the goblet away, his lips were stained with the rich hue of the wine.

You leaned in closer, your breath ghosting over his skin as you licked a stray droplet of wine from the corner of his mouth. Aemond shuddered under your touch, his whole body tensing as he fought to keep still. The taste of the wine, mixed with the saltiness of his skin, was intoxicating, and you found yourself drawn to him, unable to resist the pull.

Pressing your lips to his, you kissed him deeply, your tongue slipping into his mouth to claim the remnants of the wine. He moaned into the kiss, his eye closing as he surrendered completely to you, his hands trembling where they rested on the floor. You could feel the intensity of his desire in the way he kissed you back, the way his whole body seemed to ache for your touch.

When you finally pulled away, Aemond was panting, his lips parted and his eye half-lidded with lust. His hair, usually so meticulously kept, was now disheveled, strands falling into his face. You brushed them aside gently, your fingers lingering in his hair, savoring the feel of the silky strands.

“You’ve been so good,” you whispered, your voice softening just a fraction. “So sweet.”

His eye fluttered open, and the look of adoration in his gaze made your heart skip a beat. He nodded, swallowing hard as he tried to steady his breathing. “I’ll always be good for you,” he said, his voice hoarse, raw with emotion. “Whatever you want… i’m yours.”

The sheer sincerity in his words, the absolute devotion, made your pulse quicken. You set the goblet aside, your fingers tracing the line of his jaw, feeling the stubble beneath your touch. He leaned into your hand, a small, contented sigh escaping him as he closed his eye once more.

You guided him gently onto his back, his body melting into the soft furs beneath him. He looked up at you, his violet eye wide, vulnerable, and utterly captivating. You straddled his waist, feeling the warmth of his body against yours, and leaned down, brushing your lips against his ear.

“Tonight, you will relax,” you whispered, your breath hot against his skin. “and do absolutely nothing.”

“Yes, my lady,” he breathed, his voice trembling with anticipation.

You began to unlace his tunic, your fingers deftly working at the knots until the fabric fell away, revealing the pale, sculpted planes of his chest. Aemond’s breath hitched as your hands roamed over his skin, tracing the lines of his muscles, feeling the rapid beat of his heart beneath your palm.

He was beautiful—almost too beautiful, with his alabaster skin and the faint scars that marked him as a warrior. But tonight, he was not a warrior, not not a prince or a dragonrider. Tonight, he was yours, and yours alone. You leaned down, pressing a soft kiss to his collarbone, then another, slowly working your way down his chest.

Aemond moaned softly, his hands clenching the furs beneath him as he struggled to remain still. You could feel the tension coiled in his body, the way he was barely holding himself together. When you reached the waistband of his trousers, you paused, looking up at him through your lashes. His eye was dark with desire, his lips parted as he panted softly, his chest rising and falling with each labored breath.

"Do you want me to continue?" you asked, your voice a low, teasing murmur.

"Yes," he gasped, his voice breaking with desperation. "Please..."

A wicked smile curved your lips as you slowly, agonizingly slowly, began to unlace his trousers. Aemond's breath quickened, his whole body trembling with anticipation as you finally freed him from the confines of his clothing.

You took him in your hand, feeling the heat of his arousal, and he groaned, his eye squeezing shut as he arched into your touch. You stroked him slowly, watching the way his face contorted with pleasure, the way his lips parted in a silent plea for more. "Look at me," you commanded softly.

Aemond's eye fluttered open, and the sheer vulnerability in his gaze made your heart ache. He was completely at your mercy, and the power you held over him was intoxicating.

You leaned down, brushing your lips against his in a featherlight kiss. "My handsome husband," you whispered against his mouth.

"Yes," he echoed, his voice trembling with devotion.

And then you took his lips into your mouth, swallowing his moans as you worked him with slow, deliberate movements, savoring the taste of him, the feel of him trembling beneath you. Aemond's hands flew to your hair, gripping the strands tightly as he fought to control himself, his breath coming in ragged gasps.

You kept your movements slow, teasing, drawing out his pleasure until he was a quivering mess beneath you, his whole body trembling with need. When you finally pulled back, his eye was glazed with lust, his chest heaving as he struggled to catch his breath.

"Please," he gasped, his voice barely more than a whisper. "Please, my lady.I can't..."

"Shh," you soothed, pressing a finger to his lips. "You don't need to do anything, my love. Just let me take care of you."

Aemond nodded, his eye fluttering closed as he surrendered completely to your touch. You straddled him once more, guiding him into you with a slow, deliberate movement that made you both gasp. The feeling of him filling you, the heat of his body against yours, was almost overwhelming, and you had to take a moment to steady yourself. His hands found your hips, his grip almost bruising as he held you in place, his whole body trembling with the effort to remain still. You began to move, slowly at first, savoring the way he filled you, the way his hands tightened on your hips as he fought to keep control.

His eye fluttered open, and the look of sheer adoration in his gaze made your heart ache with a fierce, burning love. You leaned down, capturing his lips in a deep, searing kiss as you rode him. Your The way your hips bounced on his was growing faster and more desperate, as the knots in your stomach began to tighten. Aemond's hands roamed your body, his touch both gentle and possessive, as if he couldn't decide whether to hold you close or let you go. His breath came in ragged gasps, his body tensing beneath you as he neared the edge.

"Come for me," you whispered against his lips, your voice trembling with the effort to hold back your own release.

Aemond's whole body shuddered as he finally let go, his release crashing over him with a force that left him breathless, trembling beneath you. You followed him over the edge, your own release tearing through you, leaving you both gasping for air.

Your hips rolled slowly, teasingly, savoring the way he filled you so completely, the way his thick length stretched and filled your inner walls.

You could feel every vein, every ridge of him, your walls tightening around his cock with each agonizingly slow thrust.

Aemond's hands flexed at his sides, his jaw clenched as he held back the torrent of need threatening to consume him.

You leaned forward, your breasts brushing against his chest, feeling the rapid beat of his heart beneath your skin. His breath came in ragged gasps, each one trembling with the effort to remain still, to let you take him as you pleased. His eye locked onto yours, the sheer vulnerability in his gaze making your core throb with desire.

"Aemond," you whispered, your voice a husky command that sent a shiver down his spine. "Touch me."

His eye widened, a flash of uncertainty crossing his features as he hesitated, unsure if he could trust himself to obey without losing control. You didn't give him a choice. Reaching down, you took his hand in yours, guiding it between your bodies, down to where you were joined.

His fingers trembled as you placed them against your bundle of nerves, the sensitive nub already swollen with arousal. The slightest brush of his touch sent a jolt of pleasure through you, your thighs quivering as you gasped softly.

Aemond's breath hitched, his eye widening as he felt the slick heat of your arousal against his fingertips, the way your body clenched around him in response.

"Right there," you murmured, guiding his hand in slow, deliberate circles over your clit. Aemond groaned, his whole body tensing as he watched you ride him, his touch growing bolder, more insistent as he lost himself in the sensation of pleasing you.

You began to move faster, your hips rolling in a rhythm that matched the frantic beat of your heart. Every thrust sent a wave of pleasure crashing through you, your core tightening with each movement, driving you closer to the edge. Amond's fingers worked your clit with a desperate intensity, his touch sending sparks of ecstasy shooting through your body, making you tremble with the effort to hold on.

Aemond was a mess beneath you, his chest heaving, his breath coming in ragged gasps as he struggled to keep up with you, to match your rhythm, to please you in every way he could. His eye was half-lidded, glazed with lust as he watched you, his lips parted in a silent plea, a prayer to the gods of pleasure.

You could feel the tension coiling in your lower belly, the tight knot of desire that threatened to unravel at any moment. Your hands found purchase on his chest, your nails digging into his skin as you rode him harder, faster, chasing your release with a singleminded determination.

"Aemond," you gasped, your voice trembling with the sheer force of the pleasure building within you. "Don't stop."

Aemond's fingers moved faster, his touch desperate, as if he couldn't bear the thought of not bringing you to the peak of pleasure once more. His other hand gripped your hip, guiding you as you rode him, his thrusts growing erratic as he teetered on the edge himself.

Your orgasm hit you with the force of a hurricane, your body tensing as wave after wave of pleasure crashed over you. Your inner walls clenched around Aemond, milking him for everything he had, drawing a choked cry from his lips as he came undone beneath you, his release spilling into you once more.

You collapsed onto his chest, your bodies slick with sweat, your breath mingling as you both struggled to come down from the high. Aemond's arms wrapped around you, holding you close, as if he never wanted to let go. His heart still pounded beneath your ear, a steady rhythm that matched the thrum of satisfaction coursing through your veins.

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[shonen-brainrot]

Dragon!Kirishima, who is a huge dragon with fiery red scales that gleam brilliantly. Crowned with two razor-sharp horns, he boasts a majestic golden-red mane that billows in the wind as he soars through the skies, his massive wings casting an impressive shadow below.

Dragon!Kirishima, who is a fire dragon. When faced with a threat or an intruder trespassing on his territory, he doesn't hesitate to unleash torrents of scorching flames, leaving behind a searing trail.

Dragon!Kirishima, with an affinity for all things shiny and golden, shares the common dragon love for richness. His lair is adorned with numerous trophies and trinkets, golden coins and goblets, jewelry, gold bars and many, many more.

Dragon!Kirishima, who is all about rhubarb and figs. Every dragon craves heaps of calcium, and it comes from different sources.

Dragon!Kirishima, who experiences intense heats, making it hard for him to think straight, with his mind consumed by the overwhelming desire to relieve himself in any way possible.

Dragon!Kirishima, who's finding amusement as you navigate lost in his territory, initially contemplates swift retribution. However, upon catching a whiff of your sweet and intoxicating scent, he has a change of heart, opting for a more intriguing course of action.

Dragon!Kirishima, who waits until you enter his den before revealing his massive presence. Amused by your initial screams, he reassures you that he won't harm you and offers a deal – your assistance in helping him get off in exchange for your safety.

Dragon!Kirishima, who, beneath his impeccably sculpted strong abdomen, has not one, but two cocks. Both of his impressive cocks boast extraordinary length, a substantial girth, and a mesmerizing gradient of coloration. Starting with a striking crimson hue near his pelvis, the tones gradually transform into a captivating shade of gold at their tips.

Dragon!Kirishima, who keenly observes as you tentatively discard your garments. In a swift and deliberate motion, his forked, serpentine tongue envelops the entirety of your pussy, earning him a chorus of sweet moans from your lips. The sensation of your exquisite flavor cascading over his tongue sends waves of wild passion coursing through him.

Dragon!Kirishima, who guides you through a series of climaxes with the adept use of his to gue and muzzle. The relentless waves of pleasure leave you thoroughly drenched, creating an ideal state for accommodating one of his impressive cocks.

Dragon!Kirishima, who, once you're wet enough, confidently seizes the opportunity to simultaneously fill both of your eager holes with his cocks. Witnessing you completely engulfed by him ignites a primal surge of satisfaction within the dragon.

Dragon!Kirishima, who fucks you in a forceful, hard rhythm, thrusting into you with primal, guttural sounds escaping his muzzle.

Dragon!Kirishima, who's nearly pushed over the edge by the symphony of your sweet pleas and desperate cries, as you express your inability to last any more.

Dragon!Kirishima, who's unleashing his runny, golden cum in a series of at least a few robust spurts, roaring loudly, praising you for taking both of his cock so well.

Dragon!Kirishima, who, having reached his peak, insists on keeping you close, sprawled on his massive, scaled paws. He watches you breathing heavily, pressing his sizable muzzle against your abdomen, savoring the lingering scent of your slick wetness and of the sex you just had, still hanging in the air.

Dragon!Kirishima, who's confident in his allure, and knows you'll return for more. After a bit of post-coital cuddling, he fulfills his promise and allows you to depart from his den, fully aware that you'll be irresistibly drawn back to him.

Dragon!Kirishima, who's deeming you his mate, luxuriously spoils you with furs, trinkets, and jewelry. Whatever you desire, simply ask, and it's yours.

Dragon!Kirishima, who has a little secret he hasn't revealed yet - a human form tucked away. He decided to keep that tantalizing mystery for himself just a bit longer.

these headcanons were requested by my lovely mutual @crystalwolfblog ilysm ❤️

[xdead-writers-societyx]

Sȳz Riña

Synopsis: When your two dragons catch you dancing with another Lord, it's safe to say neither is best pleased. Daemon Targaryen x Hightower!Reader x Rhaenyra Targaryen

Warnings: General HoTD shenanigans such as sexual themes-oral, penetration, spanking, threesome- incest, vulgar language, and the sort so please if any such things make you uncomfortable or if you're underage do not engage with this post or I will feed you to my dragon!

1,955 words

A/N: I'm just so down bad for these two I couldn't help it, I'm sorry!

With your hand clasping tightly to the skirts of your dress you danced around the room in circles laughing politely with your partner, some Lannister Lord or another whose name you couldn’t really recall holding happily onto his hand while he spun you merrily around the marbled floor. Glancing towards the royal table you caught the gaze of your blatantly bored older sister from where she was perched beside the King, that was until your eyes drifted across instead capturing those of a dragon.

A fire was ablaze behind Daemon Targaryen’s violet eyes as he watched you floating across the floor with your hand entwined with another mans. Casting a glance to his side he saw his wife with a similar fire simmering behind her own as she tightly gripped her goblet taking a rather large drink of the sweet wine in an attempt to smother her own fire.

Having noticed them staring you smirked amused at the sight of your two dragons teetering on the verge of burning Kings Landing to the ground so you turned now wrapping your arm around the neck of the young Lord pressing yourself against him to whisper in his ear, “This has been lovely though I’m afraid I must cut our dance short my Lord.”

Before there was any chance of a reply a large hand was wrapped firmly around your wrist spinning you until you were faced with the leather-clad chest of Daemon. Your nameless Lord excused himself as the Rogue Prince’s wrathful glare bore down upon him, “Rhaenyra is quite tired, and it appears that you have had more than enough to drink Dōna Riña. We shall be retiring to our chambers for the night.” His voice was no more than a harsh whisper against your ear as the heat of his breath upon your face ignited something deep in your stomach. (Sweet Girl)

Staring up at him wide-eyed and pleading a sorrowful pout pulled at your lips, “But I’m having such a nice time with Lord Lannister, Ñuha Dārilaros.” Your voice dropped to a sultry purr at the end of your sentence knowing very well the effect your use of his ancestorial language had on the man. (My Prince)

His hand moved quick as a whip from your wrist to grasp the nape of your neck roughly yanking you closer to his strong body forcing you to face him, “Do not make me take you here in front of all these people.” Leaning down he pressed a searing kiss upon the shell of your ear before continuing, “We both know that I would do so with no quarrels.”

This pulled a whine from your parted lips knowing that he was being completely truthful and would gladly follow through on his threat, so you nodded. Seemingly satisfied with your submission he took a hold of your hand using it to lead you through the crowd of dancing bodies, into the halls of the Red Keep and all the way back to the chambers you were occupying where Rhaenyra was already awaiting the two of you.

Upon entry your eyes widened as you stared shamelessly at Rhaenyra whose bare body was proudly on display lounging across the bed her ringed fingers gently smoothing over the silken sheets. Your already hazy mind drifted even further at the sight of her unceremoniously dropping Daemons hand your steps quickening in your rush to launch yourself above her lips immediately seeking out her own.

She laughed softly at your antics before reciprocating your affections her soft pink lips now moving in tandem with your own, moaning against her you made a move to deepen the kiss only for her warm hands to take hold of your cheeks lifting your face so you could see each other, “I thought mayhap you would rather accompany Lord Lannister to his chambers tonight, Ñuha Jorrāelagon.” Despite her gentle tone, you could still see the poorly concealed embers simmering deep inside of her. (My Love)

Suddenly a pair of rough hands were lifting you from your position atop the Princess instead having you stand upon the cold stone floor of your chambers, “I have half a mind to go back out there and take that Lannister cunts head for the audacity to touch what is ours.” Daemons voice was firm with no hint of a jest in his voice as he spoke, his fingers expertly working to loosen the ties of your dress, “Don’t think you will not be paying for the fun you had yourself tonight.”

Due to the fact that he couldn’t possibly see your face you dared to roll your eyes at the overly possessive Prince, “I hardly think that I did anything wrong with a simple dance.” You drawled while accepting Rhaenyra’s offered hand as you stepped from the dress that now pooled around your feet, “You’d think I was on my knees sucking his cock for all to see with the way you are acting, Ñuha Dārilaros.” (My Prince)

No sooner had the words left your mouth did a soft yelp escape as Daemons hand harshly connected with the delicate flesh of your backside though it was promptly soothed by the soft hands of Rhaenyra, “The way his gaze never faltered from those marvellous tits of yours,” Daemons voice was deep with a mixture of anger and lust as his hand slithered up your body his fingers pinching cruelly at your pert nipple, “That is precisely what that cunt was thinking.”

Head shaking you decided to instead look down upon Rhaenyra your hands running smoothly over her shoulders as hers remained grasping the red flesh of your rear, “Please Nyra, speak sense to your husband.” Earning yourself yet another hard slap you huffed in feigned annoyance, “It was merely a dance, Ñuha Dāria.” (My Queen)

A contemplative noise left her as her hands ran around your body rubbing at the softness of your pillowy thighs while she slowly parted them from her seated position on the bed, “Mayhap our Sweet Girl is right, Valzȳrys.” Rhaenyra’s carnal stare held you captive as she moved to feather open mouthed kisses over your mound completely avoiding where you needed her the most, “It was after all merely a dance.” (Husband)

A jovial grin spread across your pretty face at her words your hand weaving itself through the bright tresses desperately urging her closer till she happily darted her wet tongue out to tease over your needy clit.

Palms still full of your heaving breasts Daemon removed his face from where it had been nestled into your neck delivering a series of delicious kisses and dizzying bites, “You are too quick to give into her every demand, Ābrazȳrys.” Despite his chiding words he easily manoeuvred you from the warmth of Rhaenyra’s mouth before carefully tossing you into the centre of the large bed. (Wife)

Finding himself as the only one remaining clothed you watched with heavy breaths as Daemon started slowly removing his garments starting firstly with Dark Sister which was hanging comfortably from his lithe hips, “Nyra..” Whining pleadingly for her she smirked crawling over to you till she lay with an elbow propping her up greedily taking your hard nipple into her mouth.

“Spread your legs.” Before you even had the chance to comprehend the command your legs had fallen open of their own volition as Daemon loomed above you his leaking cock heavy in his hand, stroking it as his sinful eyes never wavered from the attack Rhaenyra was laying upon your tits, “There’s our Good Girl.”

“Sȳz Riña.” Rhaenyra purred her agreement as she removed herself from you swinging her leg over your body and positioning herself to straddle your chest while her hands lovingly caressed your heated face. (Good Girl)

The intrusion of Daemon's finger entering you had your eyes widening and a wanton moan clawing from deep inside you, “I’m going to fuck you.” He spoke clearly his chin sitting atop Rhaenyra’s shoulder allowing him to stare down at your flushed face for any sign of discomfort as he added another finger beginning to thrust them slowly into your sopping hole, “And you are going to make Nyra cum on your tongue before you even think about cumming. Do you understand, Dōna Riña?” (Sweet Girl)

Nodding your head frantically your hands gripped Rhaenyra’s plush thighs in an attempt to pull her closer to your mouth, “I understand, Ñuha Dārilaros.” Grunting his approval Daemon disappeared from your sight moments before he was thrusting his hard cock deep inside your tight hole, “Fuck..” Taking this as her cue Rhaenyra turned herself around before lowering herself softly onto your face her hands fondling with your tits willingly taking everything that you had to offer her.

Tossing herself forward in her throes of pleasure Rhaenyra’s hips worked hard as she ground herself energetically against your skilled tongue that worked fervently to bring forth her release, her own tongue tangled against that of her husband the pair sharing a passionate kiss full of love and lust while Daemons thick cock was fucking into you at a brutal pace leading you to a fast-approaching high.

“Don’t stop Sweet Girl, you’re doing so well!” Moaning noisily Rhaenyra’s damp forehead pressed upon her husband’s strong shoulder as pleasure slowly overtook her, “Fuck, right there!” Removing a hand from her thigh you coated two fingers in her wetness before pushing them into her quivering hole which is all it took for the dam to break her sinful cries echoing throughout the room while you fucked her gently through her high.

Rhaenyra’s limp body collapsed beside you her head resting comfortably on your still-heaving chest her hand snaking to join her husband’s cock as his thrust became harder his hand moving to apply pressure to the delicate column of your throat, “Such a fucking Good Girl making her Queen cum so hard.” Keening happily at his praise you clenched around him as Rhaenyra’s expert fingers worked circles against your throbbing clit, “Fuck! I shall fill your pretty cunt full of my dragonseed.” Groaning as you gripped him tighter his body lowered capturing your lips in a searing kiss being sure to do the same to his wife as her ministrations against you sped up, “Would Īlva Sȳz Riña like that?” (Our Good Girl)

“Please..” Whimpering your hand tugged harshly against his silver locks the merciless pounding of his cock driving you impossibly closer to the edge of your high, “I want it all. Kostilus, Ñuha Dārilaros.” Your breathy words seemed to have their desired effect as the muscled body above you tensed a series of vulgar grunts leaving his parted lips as he fucked you full of his cum which was enough to tip you over the edge your tight cunt clenching around him milking every drop until his exhausted body slumped atop you. (Please, My Prince)

Laughing quietly at the sight Rhaenyra removed her hand from between the two of you moving from the bed to clean herself before returning mere minutes later with a damp cloth in hand, “Let her breathe Daemon!” Chastising him she shoved the larger man from you till he lay breathless and panting beside you while she cleaned you carefully aware of how sensitive you were, “That’s much better Dōna Riña.” (Sweet Girl)

Settling herself into your side she scattered mellow kisses all across your blissful face, “If I see that cunt so much as look at you again, I shall take Dark Sister to his head.” Having regained his breath Daemon grumbled earnestly rolling onto his side to kiss your temple his arm laying across your waist positioning you flush against him his hand rubbing patterns into the skin of Rhaenyra’s hip.

[midnight-shadow-cafe]

The Emperor’s Gaze

Pairing: Emperor Geta x reader

Warnings : Fluff

Authors Note: I hope you enjoy! I couldn’t get Geta out of my mind so… here we are 🤭🤭

Word Count: 2.5k

Masterlist Part 2

MDNI18+MDNI18+MDNI18+MDNI18+MDNI18+

The palace was a labyrinth of marble corridors and gilded chambers, each corner a testament to Rome’s wealth and power. For those who served its rulers, it was also a maze of rules, where a single misstep could lead to ruin. You had learned this early, keeping your head low and your presence quieter still.

Your role as a maid was one of humble necessity—sweeping the floors, polishing silver, ensuring the tapestries hung just so. Others gossiped about the palace’s intrigues, but you avoided such folly. It was better not to know.

Tonight, however, was different. The air was heavy with expectation. The emperor himself, Geta, had returned from a victorious campaign, and the palace was alive with revelry. You had hoped to avoid the feast entirely, yet a last-minute order sent you to the grand hall with a pitcher of wine in hand.

The moment you stepped inside, the scale of the event hit you like a wave. Braziers cast a golden glow over the sprawling chamber, their flames reflected in polished bronze shields mounted on the walls. Senators and noblemen lounged on silk-draped couches, while musicians played softly in the background. The scent of roasted meats and spiced wine hung thick in the air.

At the far end of the hall, seated atop a raised platform, was the man himself. Emperor Geta.

He looked every bit the ruler of an empire. His dark crimson robes, edged in gold, flowed around him like a mantle of fire. The laurels on his head gleamed under the light of the chandeliers, but it was his presence that truly dominated the room. Leaning back in his chair, he surveyed the hall with a mix of boredom and subtle amusement, his dark eyes flickering over each guest as if weighing their worth.

You kept your gaze fixed firmly on the floor as you approached the head of the table, clutching the pitcher so tightly your knuckles turned white. The clamor of conversation around you seemed deafening, yet you moved unnoticed—just as you preferred.

Until you didn’t.

As you leaned forward to refill the emperor’s goblet, your trembling hands betrayed you. The lip of the pitcher brushed his fingers, and before you could pull back, he spoke.

“Stop.”

The single word was quiet, yet it silenced the room. A hush fell over the feast as all eyes turned toward the emperor—and you.

Your breath caught in your throat as you froze, the pitcher still in hand. Slowly, hesitantly, you straightened.

“Look at me.”

It wasn’t a request.

For a moment, you debated disobedience. Maybe if you bowed deeply enough, he’d let you slip away unnoticed. But something in his tone—firm yet curious—compelled you to obey. You lifted your gaze, your heart pounding so loudly you were certain he could hear it.

When your eyes met his, the world seemed to shrink.

His face was sharp, regal, yet there was a warmth in his deep brown eyes that you hadn’t expected. He studied you in silence, his gaze moving over your face with the precision of a man who missed nothing. Your breath hitched, your pulse racing under the weight of his scrutiny.

“What is your name?” he asked, his voice cutting through the silence.

You swallowed hard, forcing your voice to steady. “Y/N, my lord.”

“Y/N,” he repeated, the syllables slow and deliberate, as though savoring them. His lips quirked into a faint smile, one that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “How long have you served in my palace?”

“Two years, my lord.”

His head tilted slightly, as if considering your answer. The room seemed to hold its breath, the tension thick enough to cut with a blade. You felt the stares of the assembled nobles boring into you, some curious, others envious.

“Two years,” he mused, almost to himself. “And yet, I’ve never noticed you before.”

Your cheeks burned with a mixture of shame and confusion. Was that an insult? A compliment? You didn’t dare ask.

Geta’s gaze lingered on you a moment longer, then he leaned back in his chair, dismissing you with a slight wave of his hand. “You may go.”

You didn’t need to be told twice. Bowing deeply, you retreated as quickly as decorum allowed, your hands trembling as you clutched the empty pitcher. The whispers began before you even reached the doors.

Back in the safety of the servants’ quarters, you pressed your back against the cool stone wall, your heart still racing. What had just happened? Why had the emperor singled you out in such a public way?

Unbeknownst to you, Geta’s thoughts lingered on the timid maid with the downcast eyes and steady voice. In a hall filled with Rome’s finest, it was you who had caught his attention.

And he wasn’t the type to let such curiosity go unanswered.

——

The next few days passed in a haze of unease. Though you tried to immerse yourself in your duties, the memory of the emperor’s gaze lingered, as vivid as if it had happened moments ago. Whispers of that night followed you through the palace—servants and guards speculating about why the emperor had spoken to you, of all people.

You did your best to ignore them. You were a maid, nothing more. Whatever had sparked his interest that night would surely fade.

Or so you thought.

It began subtly at first. A guard would appear in the kitchens as you worked, delivering a cryptic message: “The emperor has requested his chambers be attended to by Y/N.” The head housekeeper, though confused by the unusual request, complied without question. After all, one did not defy the emperor’s wishes.

And so, for three mornings in a row, you found yourself alone in his private quarters. The rooms were grand, draped in rich fabrics and adorned with treasures from across the empire. Yet they felt oddly… personal. A small desk near the window held stacks of parchment, the ink-stained quills hinting at late-night writings. A sword, its hilt worn with use, rested casually against the wall.

The first two mornings passed without incident. You worked quickly, cleaning and tidying without lingering, half expecting the emperor to appear at any moment. But he didn’t.

Until the third morning.

You had just finished smoothing the folds of his bed’s silk coverlet when you heard the door open behind you. Your breath caught, and you turned slowly, clutching the edge of the bed to steady yourself.

There he was, dressed in a simple tunic, his firey hair slightly tousled as though he’d only just risen. Without the laurels and formal attire, he looked younger, almost approachable. Almost.

“Y/N,” he greeted, his voice warm yet carrying the weight of command.

“My lord,” you replied, bowing deeply. Your hands twisted the hem of your apron nervously as you straightened, unsure of what to do or say.

He stepped further into the room, his gaze locked on you as if he were trying to solve a riddle. “Tell me, do you always avoid looking at me, or is it just since the feast?”

The question startled you. You glanced up, meeting his eyes briefly before looking away again. “I…I did not wish to presume, my lord.”

A soft chuckle escaped him, and he crossed the room to stand before you. “Presume what? That I’m a man who enjoys being ignored?”

You blinked, unsure how to respond. Was he teasing you? Testing you?

“You intrigue me, Y/N,” he said after a moment, his tone shifting to something quieter, more genuine. “In a palace filled with people clamoring for my attention, you shy away from it. Why?”

You hesitated, the words caught in your throat. Finally, you spoke, your voice barely above a whisper. “Because attention in this palace is… dangerous, my lord.”

He tilted his head, considering your answer. “Wise,” he murmured. “But perhaps unwarranted.”

Your eyes snapped up to his, surprised by his response. His expression was unreadable, but there was no trace of mockery in his tone.

“Dangerous or not,” he continued, “I find myself drawn to you. And I’ve never been one to ignore my instincts.”

You didn’t know how to respond to that. The room felt impossibly small, the air heavy with the weight of his words.

“Tell me,” he said, stepping closer, “what do you think of me?”

Your heart leapt into your throat. What was he asking? Why was he asking? You couldn’t afford to offend him, yet honesty seemed just as perilous.

“I think…” you began cautiously, your eyes darting to the floor, “that you are a great emperor, my lord. Respected. Feared.”

He laughed, a deep, genuine sound that caught you off guard. “Feared,” he repeated, shaking his head. “And are you afraid of me, Y/N?”

Your silence was answer enough.

Geta reached out then, his hand brushing your chin. Gently, he tilted your face upward, forcing you to meet his gaze. His touch was warm, unexpected.

“You don’t need to fear me,” he said softly, his eyes searching yours. “Not when I intend to protect you.”

Your breath hitched at his words, your mind spinning. Protect you? From what? From whom? You opened your mouth to respond, but no words came.

For a moment, the world seemed to stand still, the two of you suspended in the quiet intimacy of that moment.

Then a knock at the door shattered the silence.

Geta’s hand dropped, his expression hardening as he turned toward the door. “Enter.”

A servant appeared, bowing low. “My lord, the council awaits your presence.”

Geta nodded, his composure returning as swiftly as it had slipped. He glanced back at you, his gaze lingering. “We will speak again, Y/N.”

And with that, he was gone, leaving you alone in the room, your heart racing and your thoughts tangled in a web of confusion and anticipation.

——

The following days passed in a strange blur. You carried out your duties with the same diligence as always, yet your mind was consumed by the emperor’s words: *You don’t need to fear me. Not when I intend to protect you.*

What had he meant by that? Protect you from what? And why had he chosen you, out of all the people in the palace, to share such a promise?

The whispers among the staff had only grown louder. They noticed, of course—the way the emperor’s gaze lingered on you when he passed through the halls, the way he seemed to seek you out in moments when no one else dared approach. You tried to ignore it, but the weight of their eyes was impossible to escape.

It was on a quiet afternoon, as you scrubbed the marble floors of the palace’s western wing, that your solitude was once again interrupted. The sound of boots echoed down the corridor, drawing closer with each passing moment. You didn’t look up, assuming it was a guard or another servant on an errand.

“Y/N.”

The sound of your name, spoken in that familiar voice, sent a shiver down your spine. You froze, your hands stilling against the wet cloth. Slowly, you turned to see him standing there, his arms crossed over his chest. He was dressed simply again, his tunic and cloak free of the heavy embellishments he wore in public.

“My lord,” you said, bowing your head quickly, trying to mask the nervous flutter in your chest.

He stepped closer, his boots clicking softly against the marble. “Is this how you spend your afternoons? Scrubbing floors?”

You dared a small smile, though you kept your eyes lowered. “It’s honest work, my lord.”

His expression softened. “Honest, perhaps. But a waste of your talents, I think.”

You blinked, startled. “My… talents?”

He crouched slightly, bringing himself closer to your level. “Do you know what intrigues me about you, Y/N?”

You shook your head, your breath caught somewhere between confusion and anticipation.

“You see things others don’t,” he said, his voice low. “You understand the dangers of this palace, the way power twists and turns. But you also carry yourself with grace—humility. It’s rare.”

You stared at him, unsure how to respond. Was he testing you again? Trying to unsettle you? Yet there was no trace of malice in his tone, only sincerity.

“I don’t belong in your world, my lord,” you finally said, your voice barely above a whisper.

“No,” he agreed. “You don’t. And perhaps that’s why I find you so… refreshing.”

His words hung between you, their weight heavy with unspoken meaning. You felt your cheeks flush under his gaze, your heart racing in a way you couldn’t control.

“Come with me,” he said suddenly, standing and offering his hand.

Your eyes widened. “My lord, I—”

“No arguments,” he interrupted, his tone firm but not unkind. “You’ve spent enough time scrubbing these floors. Humor me for a while.”

Hesitating only a moment, you placed your hand in his. His grip was steady, warm, and surprisingly gentle as he helped you to your feet. He led you through the palace, his stride purposeful yet unhurried.

The halls grew quieter the further you went, until you found yourself in a secluded garden, hidden away behind towering marble walls. The air was cool, the scent of blooming jasmine filling your lungs. A small fountain trickled in the center, its soft gurgle the only sound.

“This is my favorite place,” he said, releasing your hand and turning to face you. “Away from the politics, the noise. No one comes here without my permission.”

You looked around, awed by the serene beauty of the space. It was unlike anything you’d seen in the palace—a haven untouched by the chaos of court.

“Why did you bring me here?” you asked softly, your voice barely carrying over the sound of the fountain.

“Because I want you to understand something,” he said, stepping closer. “In this palace, you’re right—attention can be dangerous. But it can also be a shield.”

You frowned, confused. “A shield?”

“Yes.” His eyes locked onto yours, their intensity stealing your breath. “As long as my attention is on you, no one else will dare harm you. They won’t dare use you to get to me.”

Your chest tightened at his words. Was this his way of protecting you? Claiming you as his, if only to keep the vultures at bay?

“But why me?” you asked, the question tumbling out before you could stop it. “I’m just a maid. Why would you risk your reputation for someone like me?”

His lips curved into a small, almost sad smile. “Because you’re the first person in years to see me as a man, not just an emperor.”

The weight of his confession left you speechless. He took a step closer, his hand reaching out to brush a stray strand of hair from your face. His touch lingered, his fingers warm against your skin.

“You don’t have to answer now,” he said softly, his voice a low murmur. “But when the time comes, I want you to trust me. Will you try?”

You nodded, unable to find your voice. His smile grew, a flicker of warmth crossing his otherwise guarded expression.

“Good,” he said, stepping back. “Now, come. There’s more to this garden I want to show you.”

And as you followed him deeper into the hidden sanctuary, you couldn’t help but feel that, for the first time, the world might not be such a dangerous place after all.

Next

Hope you enjoyed! Please consider liking and reposting! -Midnight💜

[darklydeliciousdesires]

Regal Fever - An Aemond Targaryen/Reader One Shot Story.

You are a whore within Madame Sylvi's brothel, and Aemond is your customer. It's literally a smut fest and nothing more, so enjoy, my loves!

Words - 3,804

Warnings - Smut below the cut, minors DNI!

The house of pleasure run by Madame Sylvi is perhaps the nicest of the brothel’s littering Silk Street, where whores ten a piece of silver can be found, each of them ready and waiting to spread her legs for her paying customer.  

You, however, much like the women you share the space with, are most certainly not ten a piece of silver whatsoever. 

“Oh, yes, dear,” Sylvi told you upon your seeking work within her establishment, many moons ago now. “You are a pretty one. Many a gold coin would be offered to lay with you.” 

And so there you are, whore to the highborn, the noble and the royal. Well, no regal gentlemen have lain with you as yet, but you often quietly wonder whether the princes of the realm might ever cast their gaze in your direction. They visit fairly often, after all.  

The attentions of the ailing King Viserys’s eldest son, you could do without, Prince Aegon a rude, boorish and cruel young man. His younger brother, however, hmm. The quiet confidence Prince Aemond carries himself with, paired with such chiselled, immaculate features, with him you would certainly keen to feel his Targaryen fire beneath your skin. 

Alas, he seems to gravitate towards the madame exclusively, unbothered by the wanton looks and lustful promises whispered to him by any other whore. With the night of the full moon seeming to bring out more in the way of clientele, your fellow working girls all parading themselves in swathes of silk that leave little to the imagination, some teasing the audience with decadent fan dancing, you think little of it when the younger prince himself arrives. 

Much like always, you simply continue to work the room looking ravishing for anyone but him, unmoved by his presence. After all, his visits are more frequent than most, and he rarely pays attention to anyone other than Sylvi herself. Although tonight, with Sylvi already hosting a man within her bed, it seems that the prince must make another choice. 

You cannot help it, though, to observe out of the corner of your eye, seeing him speaking with Lexia, a beautiful woman with endless braids of spun silver creeping down her back, contrasting like stars dotting a midnight sky against her deep, caramel flesh. Some whisper that she is a bastard of Targaryen lineage, rumours of her being fathered by Baelon the Brave abounding.  

Fitting, that he should be drawn to her. The Targaryen’s are known to sometimes favour their own blood, after all. 

However, after she has spoken with him, likely making him privy to the fact that Sylvi herself is otherwise engaged, he nods and moves on, Lexia continuing to tantalise the patrons with her soft, exotic dance moves. 

Your heart skips a beat as his gaze sweeps the room, searching for something, or rather someone. You busy yourself with refilling goblets of wine and laughing at jokes that aren't particularly funny, your mind whirling with the thought of the prince choosing another tonight. But then the air shifts, a palpable tension building as footsteps draw nearer. You dare not look up, even when the other women’s whispers grow louder. 

In the corner of your vision, you see the prince’s boots stop before you, and your breath catches. Slowly, you raise your eyes, your own curiosity overpowering your attempt at indifference. Your nerves send little tremors to your face, though, feeling your cheeks and lower lip gently begin to quake. 

He stands over you, casting a long, imposing shadow. The room seems to fall away, the noise of laughter, instrumental chimes and conversation fading into an indistinct hum as your entire focus narrows down to the prince before you. 

“Your name?” His voice is smooth, yet compelling. Also, deeply arousing too, you note.  

“Jasmine,” you reply, trying to keep the nervous wobble out of your voice, though you know the prince likely catches it. 

“Jasmine. Like the tea,” he repeats, savouring the taste of it on his tongue, as he likely would upon tasting the flower you named yourself after. It isn’t your born name, merely one you chose for the job. Something a little exotic, as Madame Sylvi suggested. 

He steps closer, the scent of leather and a hint of something spicy filling your senses. “I have been watching you.” 

You blink in surprise. “You have?” 

He reaches to you, tucking your hair behind your ear. Immediately, you flinch, and you aren’t sure why. Whenever Sylvi makes brief mention of him, she utters nothing to make anyone believe he’s anything less than gentlemanly. As a Targaryen, he’s likely still tyrannical and power thirsty, he certainly exudes that, but for women, perhaps something may soften.  

“Sweet thing, I mean you no harm.” Still, you aren’t sure whether or not to believe his statement, held fast in the bewitching stare of his lone violet eye. His presence carries with it a weight of dominance, after all, the prince reaching to trail a tapered finger along the curve of your jaw. “Quite the contrary, in fact, since I am told that Sylvi is otherwise occupied.” 

His lips curl, tilting into a roguish smile, watching as you gape, words not immediately coming to you. “You... y-you choose m-me?”  

Your stutters amuse him, yet there is a slither of impatience there in his silky drawl, you note. “I would not be standing here before you with my cock half-hard already if I did not. After all, one whore is as good as another, or perhaps you might be better, hmm?” You drop your gaze a little, the prince hooking his fingers beneath your chin, forcing your eyes to return to his. 

“Take me to your bed, Jasmine.”  

Setting the wine jug down upon a nearby silk swathed table, you turn back to him, extending your hand. He doesn’t notice to begin with, too transfixed by the soft round of your bare breasts to see you ready and waiting to lead him away.  

“My prince...” 

“Hmm?” He clears his throat, his cheeks flushing a little, fingers gently curling around your dainty hand. A cocky smirk tilts his mouth, not ashamed at all to have been caught falling into his lewd thoughts. “Pardon me. I was quite enjoying the view.” 

Your reply is but a seductive smile, leading him through the throngs of people over to the back of the brothel. Your bed area, much like the rest, is bordered by lacy curtains that give privacy between the little den of inequity and the main room itself.  

Reaching to part the fabric, you both enter, Aemond seating himself at the end of the round bed, fashioned with sumptuous velvet sheets and many large pillows made of the same. You’re about to ask him what he desires of you when his large, elegant hands come to bracket your waist, pulling you near, his mouth pressing a kiss between your breasts. 

The silks knotted at your hips come undone in his hands, gliding to the floor, his tongue licking a circle around your nipple. His mouth closes, sucking until it furls against his tongue. It makes arousal spark into life, a plus in your job, to be genuinely wet and keen for the man you are to lay for, rather than slicked ready with the assistance of exotic oils. 

“I was about to ask what you desired, my prince,” you purr, Aemond looking up at you, his eye glinting amethyst in the glow from the candlelight.  

He hums quietly, releasing your nipple, blowing upon it gently before his teeth snap in a soft bite, that glint in his eye turning a little wicked. “I desire your nipples in my mouth presently.” He then turns his attention to the other, his hands wandering in slow glide up your back. “Gods be good, you have perfect tits.”  

Perfect is how he touches them, too. Nothing less than you’d expect from a man who has lain with Sylvi herself for as long as he has. The madame shows a man how to pleasure a woman, should he be willing to learn, and from her cries of ecstasy throughout the brother whenever she has the prince within her bed, you know for certain that he has indeed been willing. You also recognise the difference between genuine ecstasy and a fake performance; if anyone has an ear for it, it is a whore. 

His hands creep around, stroking the swell of each breast, his mouth still delighting the left with sucks, the pebbled peak circled by his tongue as he reaches to your mouth, pushing two fingers against your lips. 

“Suck them,” he orders huskily. “Get them nice and wet.”  

Obediently, you open your mouth, receiving them against your tongue, sucking them with all the sensuality you would show should it be his cock between your lips. It's a little hint for him, a preview, if you will, over what he will soon enjoy.  

Pulling them away, he fixes you with an intent gaze, hand moving down your body, his other grasping the back of your thigh. “Move astride me, sweet girl. Splay those pretty petals for your prince.”  

You do, and he shifts a little further back upon the bed. “That’s it. Good girl.” His praise sends your insides to flutter, his wettened fingers pushing between your legs, breath catching in his throat. “Oh, I needn’t have bothered,” he grunts, your dew bathing his digits, Aemond bringing those gloss-slicked fingertips to his mouth and sucking with a faint, hungry moan. “Plenty wet enough for me already, I see.” 

“My prince cannot be surprised,” you purr, your fingers moving to his hair, weaving through the endless strands of cascading silver. “Not with how handsome he is, nor with how aptly he sucks upon a pair of tits.” 

Something darkens those handsome features for a fraction of a second, almost like he cannot believe there is any sincerity behind your assertion that he is handsome. It’s a tiny little dip in the confidence he has exuded in shades thus far, but you catch it.  

Any man likely would suffer such, being maimed at such a young age as he was, still a young man of only six and ten in years. Why should a prince be any different? Beneath the confident way he carries himself and royal title, he is but mortal flesh and blood. 

“I am not,” he begins, recovering himself, “merely pleased over how keen the little whore is to receive her prince.”  

His fingers return to the soft wet of your folds, teasing until the petals of your sex splay further for him, long strokes making your breath hitch. You gasp when those long, tapered digits meet your swollen little pearl, a shaky sigh fluttering from your mouth, Aemond gently clasping your jaw and guiding your lips to his.  

“Gevie,” he mutters against your mouth, kissing you again, his tongue gently rolling in silky swirls against yours. 

“What does that mean, my prince?” you ask, your fingers curling at the nape of his neck. 

His mouth moves to your throat, hot kisses pressed lightly. “It means beautiful. For you are, little whore.”  

Your lips curl into a crescent, his words and the pleasant stroke of his fingers causing your insides to hum, those fingers then slipping, teasing where you stream for him before pushing inside. While he seeks out a spot within that has you clenching tight, he uses the heel of his palm to press against your bud, gently rocking his hand into the sweet cavern of your sex, his mouth returning to your throat as you moan softly. 

“That’s it, sweet thing,” he moans throatily. “Let me hear you.”  

Your cadence trills in the air like song, and it is no amped up performance for the sake of his ego, his fingers working pure magic in the soaked mess of your cunt, while his palm grinds so deliciously against where you spark for him.  

“Tell me, Jasmine. How much do you ache for this to be my cock within you?” A little hint of teeth at your neck has you gasping, his dirty words even more so. “Or perhaps, you yearn for me to lick at the honey of this sweet cunt before I fuck you?” 

And you thought it was you who had to ask of his desires...  

“Whatever my prince wishes, I will be willing,” you whisper, lightning beginning to softly flicker at the base of your spine. “But if I may be so bold, my prince?” He raises an inquiring eyebrow. “You are overdressed. Allow me.”  

He continues to touch you around the removal of his clothes, a perfectly chiselled physique beneath blemish free, alabaster skin revealed to you. Gods, he is utterly divine, a creation almost too perfect to be real.  

Once he is as bare as you, he takes you at the hips, moving your body to the centre of the bed, settling himself before you. His hand smooths a stroke down your legs, widening your thighs, his lips following until his tongue begins lapping at your apex. 

Oh, gods. He’s good.  

Rarely do you find a man who thrives on giving pleasure to you when he is the one paying for your services, but the keenness Aemond goes about it with, you are left in little doubt that burying his mouth between your legs is exactly where his pleasure lies. You can always tell when a man genuinely enjoys it, thirsts for your womanhood.  

Thirst Aemond does, sucking upon you like you are sweeter than a ripe, Dornish peach, pressing the flat of his tongue against your tingling bud, wide licks having the sonnet of your cries rending the air. The amber of the candles glinting in his eye make the violet hues burn like purple fire, the prince watching as you lose yourself to his mouth. 

“That’s it, sweet thing,” he praises, “fall apart for me.”  

His mouth closes over your tender bundle, his cheeks hollowing as he sucks. It snaps through you like the heat of a summer storm, balmy and heavy, glimmers fizzing up your spine.  

“Oh, oh, you are incredible, my prince!” you wail, one hand clutching the velvet beneath you, the other tangling in his hair. “Gods be good, how I am going to repay the favour until your knees knock.”  

He sits up slowly, licking the sheen of you from his lips. “And who am I to refuse such a pledge? Although it would be a shame to give up this.” His thumb swipes through your folds, his eyebrows rising. “Maybe I do not have to just yet, though.”  

Moving, he settles upon his back, jerking his head. “Come here. You know exactly how I want you.” 

Indeed, you do, moving to arrange yourself in the way he desires, facing away from him as you straddle his chest, bending forward, feeling him tug your hips. He brings you to his mouth, sucking upon you as you take a hold of his cock, reaching beneath the pillows to locate your bottle of almond oil. You need it not for your own lubrication, but gods, how men love the feeling of their cocks worked with a slippery hand. Plus, it tastes nice. An added bonus.  

Decanting it, you push the stopper back in, returning your hand to him, slicking his entire length from base to tip. His cock is much like him, long and well-formed, Aemond groaning low around his suck upon your folds as he feels your hand working him in a slow, deft glide.  

That moan only deepens when you bring him to your mouth, sucking his cockhead, tongue working the tip in the kind of serpentine flicker that has his chiselled abs tensing beneath the press of your breasts. Steadily, you allow him into your mouth inch by inch, tightening your lips around him, your hand pulling at what remains and cannot fit, feeling him pulse against your throat.  

By the stars, the sounds it pulls from him. An aroused man is truly a feast for the senses.  

While your head begins to bob slowly, tongue touring every vein and ridge of his hardness, he continues to thoroughly attend to you with his mouth. The blade of his tongue stiffens, letting you grind against it, removing it only to suck upon you with hunger. 

The crest you felt near to before arranging yourself atop him is reignited, ecstasy pulsing, your muscles cording as you moan around his cock. Sinful fever reaches its peak, his tongue fluttering over your bud rapidly, big hands grasping your arse, a well-timed and equally well-placed smack to the left cheek the catalyst to your topping.  

“Fuck... gods... oh!” He brings you to a skittering, wailing eruption, hips quaking as they drive back against his mouth.  

“Mmm,” he groans, his tongue gentling against you. “You taste even sweeter when you come.” Moving his mouth, he scatters kisses to the back of your thigh, hands massaging your arse. “I want you on my cock. Now.” 

That little hint of dominance from him brings you back instantly to who he is, moving obediently to his command, straddling his hips.  

“No,” he speaks, his hands grasping your waist. “Turn around. I want to watch you, see your eyes as you ride me.”  

He shuffles back to lean against the mass of pillows, welcoming you onto his lap with smouldering kisses as you steer him to your streaming hole, gliding down on every last girthy inch of him with a soft mewl. Gods be good, he feels amazing, stretching your cunt, your folds splaying around the thick of him, your mouth hanging open in exclamation.  

“I’m going to dream of this cock, you know, when I have to fuck someone who’s lacking. It’ll be you who I’ll be thinking about.”  

He smiles, all arrogance and pride. “Of course. Feels good, doesn’t it?” While he might’ve let his demeanour slip momentarily earlier, not truly believing your compliment over his handsomeness, the same does not extend to his cock, it seems. He knows exactly what he has.  

“Good? My prince, it is divine.”  

Satisfied by your answer, he leans to you, sucking your nipples, hands stroking up your back as your body rocks against his. It’s contained for only a short time, your hands moving back to support yourself on his thighs, feet pressing flat either side of his hips as you begin working yours in a figure of eight.   

His cock hits you at every angle, scraping your depths at you watch his brow crease, mouth agape, groaning as you fuck him with all the finesse you’ve learned in reducing a man to a quivering wreck beneath you. You can feel yourself streaming down his length, his eye fallen to watch you split wide around him, the sounds of your groans and flesh smacking together filling the air as you begin to ride him hard.   

“That’s it. Gods, fuck, that’s it, my sweet little whore,” he rasps. “Fuck me.” 

By the gods, how you do, moving your hips in the way that has him entranced, tethers him, yanks him to mindlessness. You watch his eye focusing on you before it rolls back, his mouth dropping open as his head thuds against the pillows, unmoored for a few moments. 

His gaze then returns to watch you sinking up and down his thick length, your cunt glossing his shaft, the wettened sheen glinting in the candlelight. You slow a little, giving him a moment to truly enjoy the sight, every vein and ridge of his cock dragging your walls beautifully, your hand smoothing over your skin to reach where you’re joined with him.  

Stroking where you are fused, your fingers dampened adequately, you rub little circles upon your bud, glimmers suffusing, Aemond focusing on the sight only momentarily before bringing his thumb to his mouth, sucking it, reaching to knock your hand aside. 

“Allow me, sweet thing,” he rasps, his smirk growing wicked, “trust me, you shall need both hands to hold on.”  

When his hips buck up, the power behind the movement almost unseats you, and you reach to draw his thighs up behind you, leaning back, your hands tightening in their clutch. He arrows your cunt with vigour, the sound of his cock slamming into your sopping walls filling the air, the voracity of his fuck knocking the breath from you. 

“Look how well you take it,” he praises, loving the sound of your frantic wails as he continues to assail you, spearing up into you rapidly. “Yes, that’s it. Let me hear those helpless little cries.”  

He’s sending you to the edges of the heavens above, the pleasure almost biting, your verbal exclamations seeping beyond the confines of your bed, adding to the erotic choruses of the brothel. Each snap of his hips has heat misting up your spine, shocks of lightning breaking from strikepoint to strikepoint, your walls beginning to flutter madly around his shaft. 

By the time he’s grunting hard and spilling thick and hot into you, you’re falling apart upon the deep punch of his cock, his thumb rubs sending pulsing skitters through your clit. The nirvana of it flushes wild through your blood, all that was frantic slowing, his hips coming to rest down once more as you both pant furiously. 

It’s still ebbing away gently as you dismount him, your thighs shaky, lying down beside him. By all the gods... he’s nothing short of a truly magmatic fuck.  

Turning to you, he skims the apple of your cheek with his thumb. “Yes, my pretty little whore. You will be sweet for me again before I am to leave.”  

You are twice more, in fact, Aemond leaving a pouch of coins behind plentiful in weight. He glides from the brothel just as fluidly as he entered it, leaving you counting out Sylvi’s cut, swathing yourself in your silky robe before going to locate the woman herself and pass her a fistful of gold.  

She eyes you, a small smirk tilting her mouth. “Did you enjoy him?” Looking down, she examines her fingernails idly, picking at a stray cuticle. “It sounded as if you did, girl.” 

Little flashes from your night with him replay speedily through your mind, your heart quickening. “You taught him very well.” 

Sylvi’s knowing smirk grows, lifting her head a little before she turns to walk away. “You’re welcome.”  

Welcome, and completely spent. It’s a very good job he left you with enough gold to needn’t worry about taking another customer that night. As Aemond returns clandestinely through the streets back to the Red Keep, you fall down to your bed and into slumber upon sheets that still bear his scent.  

How you cannot wait for the day he might return to them again.  

A/N - Did you enjoy this story? If so, please be kind and leave a little comment/reblog. Thanks!

[jackalope-patronus]

An un-promised dance.

summary :: when faced with an unexpected rival leading up to the Yule Ball, Sebastian’s anger boils over. Part one!

note :: the reader is implied to be bisexual, although it is not explicitly stated. Parallels to the goblet of fire movie.

“A butter beer?”

“Yes, if you’re not too busy.” Poppy smiled, swaying from her heels to toe, a light pink colouring her face and nose.

The shorter girl had pulled you aside with a tug of your sleeve from your journey to crossed wands. “I’d love that Poppy,” you nodded, the kindness of her invite tugging at your lips, “when should I meet you?”

“When are you free?” She returned.

“Well, I have duelling practise with Sebastian soon, perhaps after then. I can meet you in Hogsmeade at sundown?”

Poppy nodded, beaming. “Perfect. I'll see you then.”

With a small wave, Poppy had skipped off leaving you warm from her sweetness. Being close to Poppy was much like earning an animal’s trust; specifically an animal that’s known not to like people, such as a cat or skittish rabbit. You treasured her friendship deeply.

“Fond of you, isn’t she?” Being the snake-like Slytherin he was, Sebastian had slunk to your side without detection whilst your mind lingered on the Hufflepuff.

“Sebastian.” You greeted, sighing away the surprise his presence brought you. “Oh, Poppy? Yes, I suppose so.” You nodded. The thought that others could see the softness Poppy held for you brought an undeniable brightness to your face.

“By your smile it seems you’re quite fond of her yourself.” Sebastian commented, a brow lifting at your bashfulness.

“Yes, well, Poppy is a good friend.” You waved his inference away and sighed. “Shall we get to crossed wands then?”

“Sure.” He shrugged, arms falling from crossing over his chest. “I was thinking— after duelling— would you suppose a visit to the forbidden forest? I’ve a—”

“Sorry, Poppy’s asked me for a drink. Perhaps another time?”

A hesitation irked his steps, but he continued forward. “Right then. Another time.”

The brunette’s casting could only be described as quick but distracted, as it had lately been. The two of you won, of course, but the lag in Sebastian’s attention had been obvious. It had been for some time. You had been duelling with Sebastian long enough to recognise when his spells lacked. His mind was always elsewhere.

I need to check in on him soon, you thought, but later. Poppy’s waiting on me.

From a distance, you’d seen Poppy waiting just outside Hogsmeade for your arrival, hands behind her back with a subtle pep in her stillness. Dipping the tip of your broom, you landed swiftly and tripped towards her.

“Every time I see you on that broom, you’ve gotten better and better.” She smiled.

“Imelda has been keeping me on my toes— or broom, I should say.”

“Don’t let her overwork you. Just because you’re the only good competition she’s got doesn’t mean you always need to be racing her.” Poppy stated, her brows furrowing cutely.

“Don’t worry Poppy, I rather enjoy it.” You smiled at her sternness.

“Alright,” She looped her hand through your arm. “Shall we go?”

“Of course.”

After asking Sirona for two butter beers to go, you and Poppy had ventured to a nearby garden to sit and watch the sun set, accompanied by idle chatter.

“So, how are you faring with extra assignments?” Poppy asked.

“Well.” You answered. “I can’t say it hasn’t been keeping me busy, I feel I’ve no time to explore anymore.” You'd been completing extra assignments since your fifth year, one would think you'd be used to them by now.

“You mean you’ve no time to get up to mischief?” She politely jabbed.

You hummed a laugh. “That, too.”

A silence permeated as you sipped from your beer. Poppy opened her mouth, inhaled with hesitation and then spoke. “Have you found a Yule Ball partner yet?”

You swallowed sorely at the reminder. “I had almost forgotten. No. Honestly I haven’t been thinking about the ball at all.”

“Right, of course. I wouldn’t worry. I haven’t one either.”

Who would you go with? The sudden question stung you, filling your head with possible candidates suddenly. Sebastian, perhaps Ominis, Gareth had always been playful towards you, perhaps even Amit if he got the courage. You ignored Sebastian coming to your mind again.

The choices were all well and nice, but the real question to consider was why hadn’t you been asked by any of them?

In all honesty, you somewhat expected Poppy to struggle to find a partner. Her head was always buried in the scruff of some magical creature and her closest friend was easily you. You decided perhaps remaining without a Yule date wouldn’t be so bad if you were with her.

“If that’s the case, we’ll have to go with one another.” You jested.

“Actually…” Poppy trailed, her gaze shifting away from you. “I was hoping to go with you.”

Your head titled to her in questioning. “Poppy?”

“I know it’s rather uncommon… but I couldn’t imagine going with anyone else.” Poppy’s pink cheeks caught your eye and you melted at her rays of blurted sincerity. “I don’t think I’d enjoy myself half as much if I wasn’t with you.”

“Oh, Poppy.” Her sweetness had soon overwhelmed you and you dropped your head to hide your bursting smile.

“Will you?” She asked.

“Of course Poppy, of course I will.” You nodded. Poppy had gasped in delight and leapt to hug you.

“Oh we’re going to have so much fun! I promise.”

“And then she asked me.”

The room smelt of burnt dittany and melting billy-wig sting slime.

Ominus’s eyebrow twitched up. “Sweeting? She asked you?”

“Yes.” You sighed, tone looped with softness for the Hufflepuff.

“And you?”

“I said yes, of course.”

His face scrunched, a kind of cringeworthy melancholy seeping in. The expression made your heart twang defensively.

“Have you an issue with Poppy attending the ball with me?” You asked, politely adding some dittany to your wiggenweld potion.

His expression dropped quickly, like he suddenly realised you could perceive him. “No, of course not. I just wouldn’t have expected her to be so bold.”

You readjusted in your seat.

“Who’s so bold?” Sebastian had taken his seat beside Ominis whose scrunched face had returned.

As you took a breath to answer, Ominis beat you to it. “Nobody.” He quickly uttered. Sebastian lingered on Ominis’s quick shut-down for a moment, but ultimately moved on with a sigh.

“Well, speaking of boldness, I believe I’ve lost my edge.” He murmured, exasperated.

“Have you?” You enquired.

“Half our year is full of girls, yet I’ve still no date to the ball.” His ink-less quill tapped his desk, his potion stand empty with no brew.

“That’s because you’ve yet to ask anyone.” Ominis said.

“It’s harder than it looks. I don’t see you with a partner.” The brunette returned.

“I do have a partner.” Ominis countered, very matter-of-factly.

“You do? And how’d you manage that?” Sebastian’s brow raised, giving you an incredulous look. You raised your shoulders as if to say I don’t know anything about this.

“I got the courage and asked, Sebastian.” He stated, clearly annoyed.

Ominis’s attitude placed Sebastian back in his seat and he thought on the blonde’s words for a moment, his brow furrowed.

You shook your head, amused, and continued to tend to your potion. Although, it might’ve been careless on your part to move, as Sebastian caught you in his gaze, like a predator spotting the ears of a rabbit move in tall grass.

“You’re a girl.” He stated. Ominis’s head was already in his hands.

“Oh well spotted.” You cautiously replied.

“Care to come with—” His blasé, although interrupted, was already putting you off.

“I hope you lot are making plenty of potions over all that chatter.” Professor Sharp’s voice cut through the room, calming the chatter but Sebastian continued, voice lower yet still managing to keep his indifferent tone.

“It’s one thing for a bloke to show up alone, for a girl it’s just sad.” He said.

An offended noise left your throat. “I won’t be going alone, because believe it or not someone’s asked me.”

That statement seemed to have taken him aback, because he stumbled to ask, “Well, who?” His tone now as offended as your own.

“Poppy.” You answered, returning to your cauldron as though you couldn’t care less.

“Sweeting? So she’s the bold one?” He looked between you and Ominis. Neither of you answered.

“She asked me just yesterday.” You proudly stated.

“So you’ve said yes?” He asked.

“She did.” Ominis muttered, his words laced in misery.

“I did.” You nodded.

Safe to say, the rest of the class was only filled with the bubbling of potions and entirely absent of chatter.

“He’s mad.” You uttered, index tapping the base of your wand aggressively. “Won’t so much as speak to me. Does he dislike Poppy?”

“I doubt he’s cared to even think of Sweeting until now.” Ominis had a creased, guilty look on his face, one that always appeared whenever he sat in the middle of an altercation between you two. Fights (or merely disagreements, as you would prefer to call them) with Sebastian were so uncommon that you’d only ever seen Ominis wear it one other time, back in fifth year. “I’m sure the way he sees it, it’s been yourself and him. Always.”

“If he really thought that, surely he’d have asked me right away. And what about you? It’s always been the three of us.” Ominis did, however, have some merit to what he said. Without Sebastian you two likely wouldn't have bonded and become as close as you had. Still, you were friends now, with or without Sebastian. You lingered on that assurance before your stomach fluttered grossly. Perhaps out of a moment of insecurity, you quietly asked; “Why hadn’t you asked me?” You flushed, embarrassed.

Ominis frowned regretfully. “Sebastian would be just as mad as he is now if I’d asked you, maybe more so.” He muttered.

“Possessive boy.” You stated.

Ominis’ hand brushed against your leg, his fingers gently lying on your thigh. It was a rare gesture, to have Ominis comfort you with a touch, but it was welcome nonetheless. “It’ll pass. It Usually does.” He assured.

“I hope so.”

Pass, it didn't. Sebastian had managed to remain stiff towards you in the coming weeks of the Yule ball. It pulled you further into Poppy's friendship, and further away from Sebastian and Ominis. Only greeting Ominis rarely, and Sebastian much less so. Truthfully, before the 'disagreement', your time spent with Sebastian and Ominis was already feigning. If it weren't for Sebastian's constant cold shoulder, this time spent apart would've felt like a natural progression of busy schedules, classes apart and no more adventures togethers allowing distance to drive the friendship apart.

Although, you hadn't considered that reality.

And soon snow fell on the night of the Yule ball as you dressed yourself in your common room, only leaving once you'd adjusted the corset correctly and added a few pins to keep your hair remaining how you wanted it to the whole night.

At the bottom of the stairs on your way to the great hall, stood Ominis and Sebastian, both layered with suitable coats and button-ups. Sebastian was fumbling with Ominis' tie, pulling it straight and tight, although it bounced back to a wonky position. The first step you took had your heel clicking against the marble stairs, and like Sebastian could sense it was you, his eye-line swiftly lifted to take you in.

You felt hot slowly walking down towards them, especially when Sebastian’s face was so emotive. He’d never stared at you like that, and for a moment, you wondered if perhaps that would be the face he’d make watching his bride walk down the aisle. Certainly all the animosity he'd been holding these past few weeks had vanished.

“She’s here.” Sebastian uttered to Ominis, slack jawed.

“Describe her to me.” Ominis asked, and through the crowded voices, Sebastian only heard it as a mumble.

“She’s…” The words drawled from him like he’d been hexed. “Utterly stunning.. ‘fits her like a glove.” He murmured, his usually witty dialect failing him.

You reached the floor, well flushed with insecurity. “Hello, you two.” You cleared your throat, looking anywhere but at Sallow’s brown eyes or Ominis’ unreadable face.

“You look—”

“You look beautiful!” The compliment cut right through Sebastian’s words, then Poppy herself cut past him, enveloping you in a sturdy hug.

“Hello Poppy.” You smiled, wrapping your laced arms around her.

You blinked a glance at Sebastian, whose head hung low and eyes longed for you intensely. It made your body burn to see him so obvious in his attraction to you. Attraction, and regret.

“Let’s go, the dancing shall start soon.” She ushered, pulling you away.

Bless Poppy and her sweet dancing, her kind hold of your hand and the way she smiled up at you with such delight. But God, you could hardly be swept away by her when two burning eyes were watching you. Sebastian, sat on the sidelines, simmering. The magic of your beauty seemed to dissipate the moment Poppy had pulled you away. Ominis had seemed to abandon him and the loathsome aura he was creating.

At first it made you nervous. Truthfully this whole battle with Sebastian made you nervous, but as Poppy stepped with you to the sweet music, chest to chest you fell away from Sebastian and landed on the conclusion that if he couldn’t get over himself, you wouldn’t dwell on it. Of course, he still plagued the back of your mind.

You had decided, when the floor was emptied of most of the students, that it was time you took a dance with one of your friends and as Sebastian was still in too foul of a mood, you asked Ominis.

“You aren’t trying to make him jealous, are you?” Ominis’ hand tickled your side, his grip of your hand was insecure and fretting.

“Truely Ominis, not everything I do is because of Sebastian. You’re my friend too. I care for you too.” You peered over at the chair Sebastian had occupied for most of the night, it was now empty. Perhaps he’d finally retreated to the dorms. “Besides, I’d dance with him if he wasn’t so stubborn.”

Ominis’s furrowed expression returned, guilty and sad. “I should’ve asked you. It wasn’t right to allow you to go so long without a partner.”

“Oh truely, don’t pity me so much. Poppy has been a wonderful date.” You squeezed his shoulder, noticing it elevated his torn expression.

"I'm glad."

Your hand slid across his chest to fix the bowtie Sebastian had clearly done a bad job at tying. "Don't misunderstand me, I still would've love to come with you. I'm sure many would've liked to see us pair up, I know Professor Wesley thinks you're good for me."

"More like the lesser of two evils." The other being Sebastian, of course. You laughed and he seemed to be lightened by the sound. "Truthfully, the reason I didn't ask you first was—”

Before you could get a glance of their face, a body was now standing between you and Ominis. The smell of oak and flames told you it was Sebastian before you met his eyes.

“I think I’m owed a dance now, don’t you?” His tone held a surprise charm that gave you hope he’d dropped the foul attitude.

You glanced over Sebastian’s burly shoulder, to see Ominis already stepping back and allowing the two of you some much needed time. You hadn’t time to protest, Sebastian had already swooped you up, taking your hand and waist with a sure, tight grip that you’d be unable to escape with just your strength.

A silence fell, you waiting for Sebastian’s deserved apology and him likely waiting for yours. You decided you’d be lenient (as you often found yourself being with Sebastian) and speak first.

“No date?” You asked. His face became hard and you hoped he hadn’t taken offence to your inquiry.

“No, not really.”

“Not really?” You pushed.

“Not at all.” He finished. “Has Sweeting been treating you well? She’s a bit short for the waltz, no?”

You sighed, content. “She’s been wonderful. I’ve never seen her glow like this, unless of course she's surrounded by beasts.”

“Hm.” The hum seemed dismissive and it fuelled your suppressed annoyance with him. Sebastian could feel your hand twitch in his own.

“She’s been a true friend. I’d gone weeks without a partner to the ball, if it weren’t for her I would very well have ended up coming alone.” Sebastian hadn’t dignified your statement with an answer, clearly thinking otherwise. He looked over your head, eyes tight with angst.

“Perhaps if you’d not have spent so much time with Sweeting, you’d have been asked sooner.” He murmured.

“What?” You returned, pausing in your steps.

“If you weren’t off with your other ‘friends’ perhaps Ominis or I would’ve asked you sooner.” He repeated, tone low and annoyed.

“Sebastian—” but he hadn’t finished releasing his thoughts.

“You’ve got no time for us now. I remember when it was just the two of us, now you’re always off with Sweeting or Onai.” Sebastian snapped. You felt the air escape your lungs and dread sit in your stomach.

“Sebastian I don’t understand—”

“Of course you don’t, because you’re never here to know what’s going on with Ominis or I. When’s the last time you’ve truely spent time with Ominis? Uninterrupted.”

“Ominis and I’s relationship is fine. Don’t speak on behalf of him.” You asserted.

Sebastian groaned, unable to return with another argument, but he held you tighter and closer not releasing you from the stance. "She's using you. Sweeting only asked you because she didn't have a date."

"How dare you?" You gasp, utterly floored.

"I'm sure she loves to be prancing around with the hero of Hogwarts on her arm." He muttered, looking to the dance floor as if his mind was reliving watching you two dance together, dresses pressed together, hands holding and all.

"What? What? That's what you think?"

"Yeah, that is what I think."

“You know what the solution to all this is then don’t you?” You took a step back, attempting to tug yourself free.

“What?” He sneered, tightening around your hand.

“Next time there’s a ball, pluck up the courage and ask me before somebody else does!” You snapped your hands away, escaping his grip and the dance floor.

He didn’t respond but reached for you again. You continued to walk, utterly ruined by the fight and having no desire to speak more to him. He followed close behind, sputtering some kind of deter.

You two had come to a quick halt, when Ominis rounded a corner.

"Ominis." Sebastian uttered his name as though he'd come to rescue him from the fight.

"Where did you go?" You demanded, now bearing wet tears. Ominis open his mouth to speak, but you continued. "Never mind! Off to bed, both of you."

Ominis passed you, a new look of anger arranging his face as he walked with Sebastian up the stairs you had come down only hours ago.

"Suppose she thinks she's too good for us." Sebastian muttered, words like venom, dedicated to hurting you.

"Sebastian you've spoiled everything!" You called after him, the emotion in your throat cracking your words. They jogged up the steps, Ominis muttering something to him while you let a sob free and retired your sore legs to sit on the cold, stone steps.

Part two

[moonlight-joy]

Whispers of Fire

Fandom: House of Dragon

Summary: You are a healer with Valyrian roots, summoned to Dragonstone to tend to Daemon after a battle. Your forbidden past with him resurfaces when you realize that he still carries a dragon’s flame for you, even as he fights to stay loyal to Rhaenyra.

Pairing: Reader/Daemon Targaryen

The summons to Dragonstone arrived just after dawn. You had barely finished tending to a village boy’s fever when the raven’s sharp talons scraped across your windowsill. The parchment was sealed with the sigil of House Targaryen, its weight pressing heavily in your hands.

Prince Daemon Targaryen requires your presence.

You read the words over and over, your heart pounding like dragon wings against your ribs. It had been years since you last saw him—years since you left King’s Landing behind, escaping the whispers and the shame. You thought you had buried the past in the ashes of your old life. Yet here you were, summoned back to the man who once set your soul ablaze.

Daemon. Your dragon. Your ruin.

The journey to Dragonstone was quiet, the sea mist clinging to your skin as the castle loomed ahead, dark and imposing. By the time you reached the keep, night had fallen, casting long shadows across the stone halls. You were led to a chamber lit by flickering torches, the scent of fire and salt thick in the air.

And there he was.

Daemon sat near the hearth, a goblet of wine in his hand, his silver hair tousled and his tunic stained with blood. His violet eyes flicked up as you entered, narrowing with recognition. For a moment, neither of you spoke, the weight of the past hanging between you like a specter.

“You haven’t changed,” he said at last, his voice low and rough. “Still stubborn as ever.”

You swallowed hard, forcing yourself to meet his gaze. “And you’re still reckless,” you replied, your voice steady despite the tremor in your chest. “Some things never change.”

His lips quirked into a smirk, but there was no humor in it. “Like you and me?”

The words hung in the air, laden with unspoken memories. You shook your head, stepping closer to examine the gash on his arm. “You shouldn’t be drinking,” you said, your healer’s instincts taking over. “It’ll slow the healing.”

Daemon chuckled, a dark, bitter sound. “I’ve survived worse.”

“And you’ll keep surviving if you listen to me.”

Your fingers brushed his skin as you cleaned the wound, and he tensed beneath your touch. The silence stretched between you, heavy with everything left unsaid.

“Why did you leave?” he asked suddenly, his voice quieter now. “You never gave me a reason.”

You stilled, your heart aching at the rawness in his tone. “Because I had to.”

“That’s not an answer.”

You set down the cloth, meeting his gaze once more. “And what answer would have satisfied you, Daemon? That I couldn’t bear to be your secret any longer? That I knew I would never be more than your fleeting desire?”

His jaw clenched, and for a moment, you saw the fire in his eyes—the same fire that had drawn you to him all those years ago.

“You were never a secret to me,” he said softly. “You were my everything.”

Your breath caught, the confession striking you like a blade. “And yet you married her.”

“Duty,” he whispered. “It was always duty.”

You stepped back, shaking your head. “And what am I, then? A distraction from your duty?”

Daemon rose from his chair, closing the distance between you in two swift steps. His hand cupped your cheek, his touch both familiar and foreign. “You were never a distraction. You were the only thing that ever felt real.”

The air between you crackled with tension, the years of separation melting away as desire flared to life once more. You knew you should pull away—that you should walk out of the room and never look back. But you couldn’t. Not when he looked at you like that, as though you were the only thing keeping him tethered to this world.

“Daemon…” you whispered, your resolve crumbling.

His lips crashed against yours, the kiss searing and desperate. It was a kiss filled with longing, anger, and regret—a kiss that spoke of all the years you had lost. Your hands tangled in his hair, pulling him closer as his arms wrapped around you, holding you as though he feared you might vanish again.

When he pulled back, his forehead rested against yours, his breath ragged. “Say it,” he murmured. “Tell me you still feel it.”

Your heart thundered in your chest, every part of you screaming the truth. “I never stopped.”

The room blurred around you as Daemon lifted you into his arms, carrying you to the bed. The weight of his body pressed against yours, his lips trailing down your neck, leaving a path of fire in their wake. His hands were rough and calloused, yet they touched you with reverence, as though he were rediscovering something sacred.

“You’re mine,” he whispered against your skin, his voice a plea and a promise. “You’ve always been mine.”

“And you’re mine,” you replied, your fingers tracing the scars on his chest. “No matter how much we try to deny it.”

His mouth found yours again, the kiss slower this time—deeper, more deliberate. He tasted of wine and smoke, a reminder of the man you had once loved and the dragon he had become.

Clothes fell away, forgotten on the floor as your bodies pressed together, skin against skin. Daemon’s touch was both familiar and foreign, each caress reigniting the fire that had never truly faded.

As he moved within you, the world faded away, leaving only the two of you—two souls bound by fire and fate.

Afterward, you lay tangled together, the weight of reality slowly settling back over you. Daemon traced lazy circles on your skin, his expression softer than you had ever seen it.

“What happens now?” you asked quietly, your voice laced with uncertainty.

He sighed, pressing a kiss to your temple. “We figure it out. Together.”

“And her?” you whispered, the unspoken name hanging between you.

Daemon’s jaw tightened, but he nodded. “Rhaenyra is my queen. But you… you’re my heart.”

Tears pricked at your eyes as you cupped his face, forcing him to meet your gaze. “Then don’t let me go again.”

“I won’t,” he promised, his voice fierce with conviction. “I swear it.”

In that moment, you knew that no matter the cost, you and Daemon would always be bound by the flames of your past. And as long as there was fire, there was hope.

The whispers of fire between you would never fade.

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[iamnotoriginalphil]

Merry Fucking Christmas (Lady Lesso x f!Reader)

Synopsis: It's the work holiday party, and Lesso is wondering how it came to this. Especially when you look as beautiful as you do.

Words: 2.2k

Warnings: swearing, mentions of violence

Lesso had no idea how Dovey had roped her into the whole stupid endeavour. Nevers didn’t celebrate Christmas. Nevers tried to steal the presents from under trees and burn the turkeys. They didn’t string up little lights and hang wreaths. They didn’t drape crystal snowflakes along the ceiling or hang mistletoe unless it cursed those who walked under it.

So standing in the middle of the ballroom with the Christmas decorations her staff had helped put up, a sense of unease rumbled through her body.

There was a band at one end playing, the Ever staff sweeping across the floor in some kind of waltz, twirling princesses in the arms of their handsome princes. Her lip curled up at the image. Without students, there was an air of revelry usually kept from their charges, alcohol flowing far more than usual, more exuberance and less care about maintaining a proper facade.

The entire idea of a staff holiday party was absurd on so many levels.

Her fingers clenched on the metal head of her cane, biting into her skin until she felt the prick of pain. Standing to the side of the hall she could observe, keeping herself hidden away from the prying eyes of those looking to mock. From her vantage point she could see Dovey, her wide smile bright in the light cast from the chandeliers overhead. She sneered at the other woman’s joy. It was painful, knowing her side had contributed to the happiness of Good.

Watching Dovey at least brought her some relief from the single person she didn’t want to be caught staring at. She was being careful, keeping one of those infernal Christmas trees between her and you, lest she find herself doing something drastic like watching you as you laughed.

You were practically glittering in the soft lighting. The moment you’d walked in her breath had caught and she’d frozen, not able to think of anything outside of the fact that everything about you called to her. She’d had to promptly turn away, smacking Manley out of the way with her cane as she’d swept to the furthest corner of the room. There was no sense giving in to the impulse to steal you away and see how quickly she could bring tears to your eyes.

You lent into Anemone as you spoke to her, your eyes glittering under the light of the chandelier. A slow smile spread over your face, soft and joyful, the exact kind she was certain the inane professor taught in her classes. It was vapid and vacuous and had no substance at all. That was why her heart was pounding in her chest. Because she was so angry.

No other reason.

Your laughter was so light, floating on the air towards her. It shouldn’t have reached her ear, not with the band playing. But it was as if her ears were attuned to you. Her stomach clenched, fingers tightening on the head of her cane. It was becoming too much, an overwhelming impulse to do something rising in her.

It wasn’t going to be pretty if she let it take control.

Edging her way around the wall, she placed another one of the towering Christmas trees between her and you. The air smelt of pine and spices, the fires roaring, magic in the air. It was sickening. Her stomach turned.

She snatched up a goblet of mulled wine, wrinkling her nose at it. She downed it before grabbing another. It was warm, seeping through her veins until her fingers could relax again.

Leaning against the wall, she glowered over the rim of her goblet as you were swept onto the dance floor. One of the Evers, a shining prince in his full regalia, was holding you in his arms, stiff and proper. You shone as he spun you around the floor, keeping perfect time with the music. Her teeth ground together.

“Can’t you put that scowl away for one night? It’s the holidays.”

She shouldn’t have let herself lose track of Dovey in the milling crowd. The annoying voice with the lilt of joy was enough to make her burst a blood vessel. Although, the undercurrent of annoyance was pleasing.

“I have a reputation to maintain,” she replied.

“Even Manley is having fun,” she said, looking over at the man dance alone in the crowd. Her nose wrinkled but she’d painted the smile on and wasn’t about to let it drop off for that muold stain of a man.

“Well, he is a buffoon,” she snapped.

“Just try and enjoy yourself,” Dovey said, losing patience, “everyone else is.”

Her eyes alighted on you again, watching the way the baubles in your hair caught the light of the candles around the ballroom. As you spun, your skirt fanned out around you, the puerile shade of blue only making your skin glow with health. There was nothing harsh about you, all soft curves and delicate lines, making her grit her teeth. You certainly looked as if you were enjoying yourself.

She wanted to sink her teeth into you until you begged her to stop.

“Why not find a partner and dance? You’ll have fun,” Dovey said.

She wasn’t about to admit she’d never learnt to dance like this. Nevers weren’t taught how to survive in a ballroom. Stick her in a forest and she would be fine, a concerning cottage and she’d thrive, a disreputable inn and she would delight in the experience. But give her a dance floor and she was lost.

But you with your perfect hair and perfect smile were right at home in the arms of some prince waltzing over the dance floor.

“Are those some students sneaking into the party?” she asked, glancing over her shoulder.

“Where?”

Dovey whipped around and in her moment of distraction with the Never students crashing the party, she slipped away. Sneaking, that was another skill she possessed in great quantities. Catching one last glance at you, shining and sparkling like the jewel you were, she left the party behind with a snarl.

The icy wind bit into the skin of her face as she strode out into the gardens. The moon was high in the sky, full, casting silverly light down upon her as she found a secluded place to brood. Skulking in the shadows, she stared out at the forest, trees swaying in the wind. Snow fell about her, entirely too picturesque for her current mood.

The entire night could be filed under disaster, and not because she’d planned for it to be. She took a sip from the goblet she’d stolen from the Evers, the mulled wine warming her up from the inside out. She’d known the entire endeavour would be just another defeat to add to her long list. She pursed her lips, fingers tightening on the head of her cane until the pain of it soothed her. Pain was familiar and delicious. Pain never let her down. Pain was comforting when the rest of the world made no sense.

“It’s a beautiful night, isn’t it?”

The thing about Evers were they were light on their feet. Delicate footsteps were easy to miss when she wasn’t paying attention. But there you were, walking towards her with one of those perfect soft smile on your face, practically glowing in the moonlight. Snow fell on your bare shoulders, melting in your hair, getting caught in your eyelashes.

She had to tear her eyes from your figure, staring out at the forest again. With a wrinkle of her nose, she sneered at your question. She hardly wanted to be in a storybook winter scene. She was certain if she was then it would be as she was chased by pitchforks and swords. That’s how it usually went when someone was evil these days.

“Weren’t you enjoying the party?” you asked, voice bright and not discouraged in the slightest. Why were you never discouraged by her unpleasantness? She worked so hard at it.

“I’m not some Ever that can be charmed by decorations and music,” she replied.

“No, you want something more substantive, don’t you? You’re not interested in something as surface level as beauty,” you said.

Her eye darted towards you, sweeping over your form. You weren’t even hiding the way you were watching her. Your eyes were sparkling and your lips were tugging up into a smile that made butterflies erupt in her stomach like she was some simpering Ever. Beauty, it turned out, did very well for her when it was yours.

“Still, the dancing was fun,” you said.

“I’m sure,” she replied, “you should go back to it.”

All you did was shift closer to her, only an inch, but enough for her to stiffen. She could feel you, so aware of the space between your arm and hers. Her jaw clenched and she had to fight against the impulse to lash out and shove you away. If you fell, all the better. That would teach you a lesson about simpering in her direction.

“But I much prefer the view out here,” you said and you batted your fucking eyelashes at her.

Her heart should not be doing a backflip. She should not be feeling her cheeks flushing. Her gaze should definitely not be dropping to your pretty pink lips. She growled but you only inched closer to her again.

Only then you were close enough for her to notice the way you were shivering. The snowflakes were dusting your skin, slow to melt. You didn’t seem to care. If it wasn’t for the fact the air was still biting at her skin, she’d almost believe you weren’t aware of the cold. But you were shivering even as you lent towards her.

The only time she wanted to see you uncomfortable was when she was causing it.

Like when her nails dug into your skin and your eyes watered. Or when she threatened you and your eyes widened. Or when she pinned you up against a wall and your eyes sparkled.

“You should get back inside. Wouldn’t want you to freeze to death out here,” she grumbled.

“Lady Lesso, I had no idea you cared so much,” you said, but you were smiling and she thought you might be laughing at her.

“Get out of here,” she snapped.

Your shoulder brushed against hers. She should have been paying more attention and not letting you get so close. Just the heat of your body was making her head spin. Something was wrong with her. So very wrong.

“I can’t tempt you to come with me?” you asked.

You could tempt her to do so many things that were not appropriate for an Ever to do. She could corrupt you so easily. You’d be doing all kinds of things that would leave you a flustered mess. She wanted to see you beg.

“Just go,” she said.

Your fingers were warm against her chin as you turned her face towards you. Your teeth had sunk into your lower lip and it took a great amount of self control not to take the invitation and sink hers in too. Leaning closer, your breath ghosted over her lips.

“What are you doing?” she demanded but her voice came out more breathless than she was hoping.

“Celebrating,” you replied.

Your lips brushed hers, soft and gentle, the exact way she expected Evers to kiss. Saccharine sweet, the exact kind of kiss that would spark true love. It shouldn’t make her heart flutter.

But then you pressed closer, kissing harder, your tongue running along her lower lip. Your fingers tightened on her chin, holding her in place and she found herself opening to you. You tasted like champagne and chocolate and all she wanted was more of it. The goblet tumbled from her had as she pressed it to the small of your back, hauling you as close as your full skirt would allow. You moaned, and it was filthier than anything she could have expected to come out of you.

You drew away, eyes slow to blink open, lips kiss swollen. She felt dumb struck, like lightning had struck her out of the sky. The blood in her veins was thrumming, the same way it did when she managed to pull off a particularly brilliant piece of villainy. Your lips curled up into a small smile, and you stepped back.

Her fingers clenched around the empty air, not liking the lose of your warmth. You chuckled, fingertips brushing over her cheekbone before you clasped your hands in front of you like the good perfect Ever you pretended to be.

“Merry Christmas, Lady Lesso,” you said, voice such a nice timbre it went through her like a shudder.

She watched as you disappeared back into the shadows, returning to the party she’d abandoned. Turning back to the forest, her hand rose to her lips, unbidden and unconscious. They still tingled from the feeling of yours against them, the taste of you still on her tongue.

Merry fucking Christmas indeed.

[ignitedminds27]

WIZARDS RAISE YOUR WANDS. TODAY WE BID FAREWELL TO OUR BELOVED PROFESSOR MINERVA MCGONAGALL. THE FIERCE, INTELLIGENT, AND KIND-HEARTED TRUE GRYFFINDOR.

[slytherin-princess-x]

Slytherinmas day 28

New year wishes

Theo x y/n

Warnings: Nothing but a whole lotta fluff

Word count: 1262

A/n: sorry for the late one I rewrote this so many times to make sure it was perfect for you guys xoxo

The Slytherin common room buzzed with energy as the clock inched closer to midnight. The flickering green flames in the fireplace cast a warm glow over the room, illuminating the lavish decorations that hung from the stone walls. Streamers in shades of silver and emerald fluttered overhead, and a lavish feast sprawled across tables, laden with an assortment of delicacies. I could feel the excitement vibrating in the air, but my mind was elsewhere.

Everyone around me seemed to be caught up in the revelry, laughing and toasting with glasses filled with sparkling butterbeer, but I found it hard to concentrate on anything but the way your eyes sparkled when you laughed. I had been searching for you since I stepped into the common room, weaving through the crowd of students clad in their best robes, feeling a gnawing urgency to find you before the clock struck twelve.

“Oi, Theo!” my friend Draco called from across the room, a glass of fire whiskey in hand. “Come on! Join us!” He was flanked by a couple of his usual entourage, but the laughter they shared felt distant. I offered a distracted nod but kept scanning the crowd.

Where could you be? You had mentioned you would come, and I could almost picture you in that elegant dress that hugged you in all the right places. The thought alone sent a thrill through me and blood rushing round my body. I pushed through clusters of students, trying to catch a glimpse of your familiar silhouette, but all I saw were the faces of people I barely knew, or cared about for that matter. I needed you.

The music swelled, and I could hear the laughter growing louder. In a desperate attempt to keep my composure, I poured myself a glass of fire whiskey, the vibrant colors swirling together in the goblet. I took a deep breath, hoping the taste of the sharp drink would calm the anticipation swirling in my chest. But it only heightened it.

I paused for a moment, my gaze lingering on the large clock that hung over the mantle, its hands moving steadily toward midnight. I scanned the room again, hoping against hope that I would spot you before the countdown began. As I turned, I felt a sudden surge of determination wash over me. I couldn't let the night pass without at least having a moment with you.

I slipped into a quieter corner of the room, where the noise faded just enough for me to think. I could still see the revelry happening in the main area, but I focused on what I wanted. You.

Then, just as I was about to lose hope, I saw you across the room, sitting near the window under a table. Your laughter floated toward me like a beacon as you scrolled on your phone, and my heart raced. You looked radiant, framed by the soft light spilling in from the moonlit grounds. I felt an urgency welling up inside me, and I knew I had to get to you before the year changed

“Y/n?”

“Oh hey teddy.”

She looks up at me with that lopsided smile, no thought behind her beautiful eyes.

”Y/n, mi cara. What are you doing under that table, it's almost midnight.”(My dear). I can't help but question her offering my hand to help her up just as I notice her holding something.

“Uhm, well apparently if you eat 12 grapes under a table at Nye, good things will come to you in the year ahead. Pans did it last year and she got with draco on Valentine's.” I can't help but laugh slightly at her reasoning.

“So you’re doing this....how do you say it...ritual? For a boyfriend?” She shakes her head at me, a bashful smile plastered her face tucking a strand of hair behind her ear

“More for good luck teddy, but I wouldn't complain of a boyfriend came along with it. Come sit, I have plenty of grapes left for you” The small giggle that leaves her lips draws me in, shes like my own drug but she doesn't even know it. I comply, obviously, sitting beside her under the table my head ducked uncomfortably so I didn't whack it off the table.

“My good luck better be not getting neck cramp“ I huffed ever so quietly earning a small hand on my arm and her head on my shoulder muffling her laugh

“If you get neck cramp I'll give you a massage to make up for it”

She bats her eyes at me. I know she's joking but the thought of her hands dragging across my body can only send shivers up and down my body, kind of hoping I do hurt my neck.

I fixate on her eyes, her hair, just her. She breaks our eye contact with a nervous laugh.Like clockwork my hand reaches under her chin turning her head back to me. My eyes flicker all over her face, the way she nervously licked her lips gently biting her bottom lip. Without thinking I let my thumb rub her bottom lip pulling it from between her teeth. Her chest rises and falls more frequently heat rising up my neck as I realize what I did. Fuck, theo. I pull away clearing my throat.

“It's almost midnight, when do we have these?” I lean over her grabbing a handful of grapes.

“Uh- have what?” I suppress the smirk on my face nodding towards the grapes in her hand

“Those Principessa” (princess) she fumbles around to pick up her phone and the time read 11:59. Chanting began all around us

“10…”

“Shit we’re 2 grapes behind” she laughs putting one in her mouth

“9….”

“Hurry up teddy” I laugh at her muffled words her mouth filled with grapes, dio mio she’s gorgeous, even with her mouth filled to the brim with grapes. I watch her with an amused smirk as she picks up a grape, parting my lips and putting it in my mouth with that goddamn innocent look on her face. Fuck. Grapes. Grapes. Think about grapes, Theo. Mental images of feeding her grapes naked in Italy definitely isn’t helping

“5…” god 5 seconds and I’ve only had 1 grape. Fuck sake I want this, nah I need this. Yeah this definitely isn’t about the grapes anymore.

“3..” her laugh infects me, my mind, my body. My heart.

“2…” I can’t breathe when she isn’t near, I can’t go a day without hearing her call me Teddy. That stupid name that never leaves anyone else’s lips.

“1…” I watch her throat bob finishing her good luck thing. 1. ‘Happy fucking new year’ I tell myself before grabbing her throat and leaning in to kiss her. It was tentative at first—a soft brush that ignited a thousand butterflies in my stomach. I could taste the sweetness of the grapes her breath, and I was lost. She responded, tilting her head slightly to deepen the kiss. My heart soared, and I lost myself in the moment. It was everything I had imagined and more—her warmth enveloped me, grounding me while lifting me at the same time.

The kiss grew more urgent, more alive. I pulled her closer, wrapping my arms around her waist, feeling the softness of her body against mine. She fit perfectly, as if we were two pieces of a puzzle that had finally clicked together. I pull my head back holding her jaw so she’d facing me and not look away all cute and flustered.

“Is that enough luck for you?”

Taglist: @yootvi @redeemingvillains @littlemadamred @smut-anarchy

[novaursa]

Ashes of the Faithful

- Summary: After Faith of the Seven has sent an assassin to kill you, Maegor declares war against the gods.

- Pairing: niece!reader/Maegor I Targaryen

- Note: This story is part of Fire and Blood series, and it happens right after Fragile Hope. The masterlist is pinned to the top of my blog.

- Rating: Mature 16+

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

The flickering light of torches casts an eerie glow over the Great Hall, illuminating the black banners emblazoned with the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen. The air buzzes with the voices of lords and ladies gathered to celebrate Maegor’s victories and his long-sought return to the Iron Throne. A bitter smile plays across your lips as you shift your hand to rest protectively over your stomach, feeling the soft, burgeoning weight there—the promise of Maegor’s heir. After years of separation, of exile and whispered prayers in the cold halls of Dragonstone, you’ve finally returned to his side, bound by his unbreakable will. Maegor’s unwavering gaze follows you as you rise to mingle with the guests, his expression one of fierce pride and possessiveness.

The evening wears on, and you share fleeting glances with your husband from across the hall, silently marveling at the sheer force he exudes even from a distance. Though your union remains contested by the Faith, and many openly despise him, none would dare deny the power Maegor wields. The hall quiets as he rises to make a toast, raising a goblet of wine.

"To House Targaryen, unbroken and bound by blood and fire," he declares, his voice a low, dangerous rumble that commands attention. "And to my queen, who carries our future within her.”

The guests raise their goblets, voices mingling in a chorus, though you can see the apprehension in some eyes, the covert glances exchanged by certain highborn lords and pious knights, wary of the Faith's condemnation.

As the applause fades, you make your way toward the shadows for a brief respite from the crowd, grateful for a moment to gather your breath. But in the next heartbeat, the chill of steel presses against your throat, and you realize—too late—what is happening. The assailant’s voice is a venomous hiss in your ear, dripping with fervent conviction.

“Your unholy union will end here, for the gods do not suffer blasphemy.”

You struggle, reaching instinctively to shield the precious life growing within you, but the assassin’s grip is unyielding. A muffled shout erupts somewhere in the hall, and the clash of steel on steel fills the air. In the chaos, you’re suddenly yanked backward as Maegor’s knights descend upon the attacker. The glint of Maegor’s own sword, Blackfyre, catches the torchlight as he strides forward, his face a mask of pure, unrestrained fury.

His voice is a low snarl. “Who sent you?”

The assassin glares defiantly, his eyes bright with fanatical zeal as he spits, "The Faith will never bless your bastard line."

The words are met with the brutal swipe of Maegor’s fist, sending the man sprawling. Maegor’s rage is unmistakable, a tempest waiting to be unleashed. He barely spares a glance for the blood pooling beneath the assassin as his gaze shifts to you, his voice softening, though the raw intensity remains.

"Are you hurt?"

You shake your head, reaching a trembling hand toward him. "Our child… I feared…"

He clasps your hand in his, grounding you with the weight of his presence. “No one will dare harm you again,” he promises, his tone as unyielding as iron. His thumb brushes over your knuckles, a rare display of tenderness that only you are allowed to see, and in his eyes, you catch a glimpse of the lengths he would go to keep that vow.

The assassin, barely conscious, is dragged upright by Maegor’s guards. Without hesitation, Maegor approaches, towering over the man like an avenging shadow. “Tell me the names of those who sent you,” he demands.

When the man remains silent, defiance flickering in his gaze, Maegor lifts his sword. Blackfyre’s blade gleams ominously in the torchlight, and his words are laced with icy finality. “If the Faith dares to send another of your kind, I will burn their septs to the ground. And you will be the first to watch.”

A ripple of fear passes through the onlookers, their expressions a mix of awe and terror as they watch their king take vengeance. Maegor turns to you, his voice softer. "Return to your chambers, Y/N. I will handle this."

Though you hesitate, knowing the bloodshed to come, you nod. "I trust you, my king," you whisper, pressing a hand to his cheek before leaving.

In your chambers, guarded on all sides, you try to steady your breathing. The shadows outside flicker, signaling the torches carried by men as they move through the halls. Soon, shouts echo from the square below, where you know Maegor has gathered his court to witness the assassin’s fate, a display meant to instill fear in any who would challenge his claim—or threaten his family.

As you sit, the quiet hum of life within you reassures you. Whatever comes, you and your child are shielded by the relentless force of Maegor’s love, a love bound in fire and forged through blood.

Hours later, he returns, smelling faintly of smoke and steel, his eyes softening when they meet yours. "It is done," he murmurs, his voice a mixture of exhaustion and conviction.

You reach for him, pulling him close, and whisper, "Thank you, Maegor. For us… and for our child."

He presses his lips to your forehead, a rare, almost reverent gesture. "No one will take you from me, Y/N. Not the Faith, not the realm. None can come between us."

And in that moment, beneath the pale moonlight, you believe him.

The dawn breaks in a haze of gray clouds, but for you, the morning feels no less ominous. You watch from a high window in Maegor’s hall as Balerion, the Black Dread, spreads his wings wide across the sky, casting an enormous shadow over the land. Maegor’s resolve is unshakable, and he has vowed that the Faith will answer for their transgressions. He has given orders, brief and absolute, his voice carrying the weight of his fury. None could miss the look in his eyes—the wildfire rage that demanded to be sated.

As he prepares to mount Balerion, he approaches you, his gloved hand reaching out to tilt your chin upward, forcing you to meet his gaze. His eyes, dark and relentless, seem to devour you.

“This realm has mocked me for the last time, Y/N,” he says, his tone simmering with a quiet rage that sends a chill through you. “They do not know loyalty or respect; they only know fear. I will make them remember it.”

You rest a hand over your belly protectively, feeling the faint stir within you, as if the child growing there senses the dread. “And the Starry Sept?” you ask quietly, knowing all too well what its destruction would mean, not only for the Faith but also for the Hightower family—his late wife’s kin.

His lips twist into a cruel smile. “That den of false gods and hypocrites? It shall be the first to burn. None will dare to insult my queen again.”

You nod, feeling an odd mixture of fear and awe as you stand beside him. The Maegor before you is no longer just a man—he is a storm incarnate, a maelstrom of fury bound to a creature of fire and shadow. “They will see Balerion’s flame from miles away,” you murmur, almost to yourself.

He leans in, his hand settling over yours on your stomach, where his heir grows. “I do this for you and for our child. So you will live without fear. So our child will not know a world that questions his right.”

You swallow, feeling the intensity of his words and knowing that, in his twisted way, Maegor does love you deeply—perhaps as much as he can love anything. “Come back to me,” you whisper, pressing your forehead against his. “Return to us, Maegor.”

He gives you a rare, almost tender smile, before pulling away, the steel in his eyes returning. “Wait for me, Y/N,” he says, his voice firm. “By the time the moon rises, the Faith will feel the fire of House Targaryen.”

With that, he mounts Balerion, and you watch as they rise into the sky, becoming a dark silhouette against the dawn. The moment they disappear over the horizon, you turn back into the hall, nerves tingling with the knowledge of the destruction to come.

The Starry Sept in Oldtown stands proud as it always has, a beacon of the Faith’s ancient power. Its towering walls, adorned with stars and golden trimmings, seem almost untouched by the passage of time, a testament to its sanctity. The Faith Militant, dressed in their glinting silver armor, stand guard outside, their hands resting on the pommels of their swords.

And then, a shadow falls over Oldtown.

The people in the streets look up, gasping, children screaming as they behold the black shape in the sky, his massive wings blotting out the sun. The bells of the Starry Sept toll, signaling a warning, but it is already too late. Balerion lands with a bone-rattling impact, his claws digging into the earth just outside the grand doors of the sept. Dust and debris fly as the ground trembles beneath his weight. The Faith Militant immediately raise their shields and swords, but they are little more than ants to the dragon that towers over them.

Maegor, seated upon Balerion’s back, calls out, his voice echoing like thunder through the city. “I am Maegor Targaryen, your rightful king! And I declare the Faith Militant enemies of the realm!”

There is a murmur of defiance from the knights below, and one of the septons dares to raise his voice. “You blaspheme, Maegor! The gods themselves deny your union. You will face judgment!”

Maegor lets out a short, humorless laugh, glancing down at the man with disdain. “Then let your gods protect you from my wrath.” He raises his arm, signaling to Balerion.

With a rumbling growl that reverberates through the stone walls, Balerion opens his jaws, and a torrent of fire bursts forth, consuming the sept’s doors in an instant. The flame spreads with terrifying speed, licking up the stone walls and turning them to blackened, smoking ruin. The Faith Militant try to flee, but Balerion’s fire is relentless, consuming them as they run, their silver armor melting, the flesh beneath charring to bone.

The people of Oldtown watch in horror from the streets and rooftops, their faces pale, their voices strangled with fear. Maegor’s voice rises above the roar of the flames, clear and unyielding.

“This is what happens to those who defy the Crown,” he shouts, his voice filled with the fury of a man wronged for too long. “To those who think they can take my queen from me.”

The sept’s grand structure crumbles as the fire sears through wood, stone, and glass alike. The stained glass windows, depicting scenes of saints and the Seven, shatter in the intense heat, raining shards upon the Faith Militant and those unfortunate enough to be nearby. Balerion’s fire leaves no sanctuary, no corner of the sept untouched. Statues of the gods melt under the flames, the Seven themselves reduced to ash and rubble, as if even they cannot withstand Maegor’s wrath.

From his perch atop Balerion, Maegor watches with an unsettling satisfaction. His expression is grim, merciless, as he surveys the destruction below. The High Septon himself, garbed in his white and gold robes, flees the Starry Sept, clutching a holy tome to his chest as though it might shield him from the flames. Maegor’s gaze locks onto him, his mouth twisting into a sneer.

“You, who claim to be closest to the gods, will not escape their punishment,” Maegor calls, his voice carrying across the square.

The High Septon falls to his knees, raising his trembling hands in a plea. “Spare me, Your Grace! I have served the gods faithfully—I am but their humble servant!”

Maegor’s face hardens, the glint in his eyes cold and unfeeling. “Your Faith sent assassins after my queen, my child,” he growls. “You will burn for that.”

With another signal, Balerion releases another torrent of fire, engulfing the High Septon in a scorching blaze. His screams echo through Oldtown, a terrible symphony of agony that seems to reach even the highest towers of the Hightower itself. The onlookers, paralyzed by fear, watch as the flames consume the last remnants of the Starry Sept and those who served within it. The High Septon’s cries fall silent, leaving only the crackling of fire and the distant sobbing of townsfolk horrified by the display of power.

As the Starry Sept collapses in a smoldering heap, Maegor directs Balerion to soar higher, circling the ruined city below. His gaze sweeps over the Hightower, a place where he once lived when he took a wife from among their daughters—a wife who dared to defy his queen, to question the place of Y/N at his side. Her blood, like that of the septons below, was shed without hesitation. Maegor has always ensured that no voice rises above his own, not even those of the gods.

But now, his voice rings out again across Oldtown, a decree that none can ignore.

“Let it be known throughout the realm,” he declares, “that the Faith Militant and any who align themselves with the false righteousness of the gods shall face the same fate. No man, no god, no Septon shall question the rule of House Targaryen or my right to claim my queen.”

The words echo in the silence, seared into the minds of all who listen, the weight of them settling upon the city like a brand. And then, with a final glance down at the burning ruin below, Maegor commands Balerion to rise, leaving a trail of smoke and ash in their wake.

Hours later, Maegor returns to the capital, his armor and cloak singed, his face streaked with soot but unbowed. You wait for him at the entrance, heart pounding, watching as he dismounts Balerion and strides toward you, his gaze hard and impenetrable. Yet, as he nears, that hardness softens, if only slightly, as his eyes meet yours.

Without a word, you reach for him, pressing a hand to his chest, feeling the heat still radiating from his armor. “You’ve done it, then,” you murmur, barely above a whisper.

He nods, his hands coming to rest on your shoulders, his grip firm but protective. “No one will dare threaten you again. They have seen what becomes of those who defy us.”

You meet his gaze, searching for the man beneath the rage, the one who has risked everything for you, who will stop at nothing to secure the life of the child growing within you. “And the Faith? Will they stop?”

His jaw tightens, and his voice lowers, almost gentle but carrying a fierce undercurrent. “If they don’t, I will burn every sept in the Seven Kingdoms until not a single one remains.” His hand slips to your belly, resting there possessively. “They will never again come close to you or our child.”

You nod, feeling the weight of his promise, the depth of his wrath. Maegor may be feared, hated even, but in his own brutal, unyielding way, he is yours, and he will keep you safe no matter the cost.

He steps back, exhaling, his eyes never leaving yours. “Tonight, let the realm know that House Targaryen’s fire is boundless,” he says, his voice softer now, almost a murmur. “I will destroy all who oppose us. And in time, they will kneel, knowing they have no choice.”

In that moment, you feel a surge of fierce pride, not only in Maegor’s power but in his loyalty, however ruthless. With him, you will carve a place in this unforgiving world for your child, even if it must be forged in flame and blood.

“Then let them see,” you reply, matching his intensity, feeling the strength of his determination coursing through you. “We will stand together, and the realm will learn to fear us.”

Maegor’s hand tightens over yours, a silent vow exchanged between the two of you. And as he pulls you close, pressing a lingering kiss to your forehead, you know that whatever comes next, you will face it together—bound by blood, fire, and an unbreakable loyalty that no god or mortal can shatter.