#I love the silhouette of the the sword hilts

[flowerandblood]

The Price of Pride (14/?)

[ canon • Aemond x Royce • female ]

[ warnings: kind of fingering, targcest stuff, smut, the angst, sexual tension, imprisonment, abuse of power ]

[ description: Prince Aemond finds a solution to the disproportion in the number of dragons between Dragonstone and King's Landing: he decides to find dragon blood and, like his half-sister, train dragon riders. He takes as his target the daughter of Daemon Targaryen and Rhea Royce, whom he abducts and imprisons in the Red Keep. Slow burn, darkish, insolent, arrogant Aemond. I have combined several requests here: (dragon blood female & prisoner female). ]

* English is not my first language. Please, do not repost. Enjoy! *

Next chapters: Masterlist

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"Tell him the truth. Lying to my grandfather serves no purpose anyway. He's a skilled player. You have to win his trust." Said her betrothed, walking around her chamber with his hands folded behind his back as if it was simple, while she sat on her bed, looking at him in horror.

Lord Hightower had many reasons to doubt her loyalty, starting with her treacherous bloodline to the fact that, in all probability, Gwayne had convinced him that she had forced her way into his grandson's heart through his bed like a simple whore.

She lowered her gaze, fiddling with her fingers in nervous reflex – her lēkia approached her and knelt before her on one knee, taking her hands in his, slightly rough from holding the hilt of his sword.

"My grandfather is loyal to our family. I trust him. Do it, zaldrītsos."

Otto waited for her in the royal gardens in complete solitude, under one of the beautiful ancient arbours overlooking the sea. The day was sunny and hot, so she was dressed in one of the gowns of fine, thin fabric that she had ordered with her Prince's permission – she could have worn a garment belonging to his daughter, Queen Alicent, but she feared he would perceive it as an attempt of manipulation.

She was to be honest with him, as her betrothed demanded.

She sighed quietly, seeing his seated silhouette in the distance, silver trays full of lemon and apple cakes, caramelised dates, grapes and strawberries on a small white table in front of him. She blinked, coming closer with a rattle of stones under her feet, standing in front of him, feeling her heart stop in her throat.

Otto gave her a gentle, reassuring smile and held out his hand in front of him, pointing to the empty chair across from him, seeing how tense she was.

"My Lady. Thank you for agreeing to speak to the grumbling old man and listen to his concerns." He said lightly and she swallowed hard, sitting down, placing her hands on her thighs.

"Treat yourself. My daughter loves caramelised dates." He said and reached for one himself, taking a bite of it.

He chewed it and swallowed, nodding appreciatively, as if indeed their flavour appealed to him too.

"Do you know what my grandson's – and your betrothed's – favourite dish is?" He asked, looking at her curiously, as if he was challenging her.

She raised her eyebrows and shrugged her shoulders, involuntarily grinning with amusement.

"I don't think such considerations occupy his head. He rarely delights in food, and if he does, it is more in the privacy of his own mind." She said calmly.

Otto hummed under his breath, as if her answer satisfied him, and nodded.

"Our Prince is a man of principle and loves simplicity. Deliberations on trivial things bore him and arouse his frustration, just like the romantic courting of women." He said, spreading out comfortably in his chair, placing his hands on the armrests, asking her the obvious question between his words.

How had she managed to seduce him?

She huffed under her breath and turned her gaze away, looking out at the sea stretching around them, the pleasant fresh breeze and shade cooling her sun-warmed skin.

"Like any man, he is not fond of empty words. He chooses his own deliberately and expects others to do the same. Unless he becomes enraged – then his fury erupts like a volcano." She said lightly, for some reason feeling no fear at the thought.

She had ceased to fear him long ago.

She knew that even if he wanted to, he wouldn't be able to truly hurt her.

"The letter you found in your chamber was sent to you on my command." He said calmly.

She froze, staring blankly ahead, feeling her heart begin to pound like mad.

It was a trial, she suddenly realised.

He wanted to see if she was trustworthy.

For some reason, a wave of sadness and disappointment rippled through her heart.

She naively believed for a moment that her person could occupy her father's mind.

Otto continued, hearing her silence full of disbelief.

"I need to know what you want, child. I need you to put your desires into words so that I can understand what kind of person is sitting right in front of me to become my grandson's wife." He said slowly, as if carefully choosing every thought that left his lips – his voice was gentle and soothing, as if he was trying to reassure her that what she was going to say would remain their secret.

She lowered her gaze, feeling her heart pound like mad in terror – not because she was afraid of him, but because his question startled her.

She didn't know what to answer.

She had never thought about it.

Until now, she had only been the fulfilment of his desires, she thought with shame, playing with her fingers, feeling certain Otto would take her silence as a bad sign, proof that her intentions were not pure.

"I am what he wants me to be." She finally muttered, feeling tears of embarrassment under her eyelids burning as much as if they were living fire.

Lord Hightower looked at her in silence and twisted in his seat with a creak of wood, as if surprised by her answer.

"Do you wish to marry him?" He asked, and she nodded without thinking.

"I want to be by his side. His presence fills my soul and heart with a strange peace. When he is beside me, I am no longer afraid. Of my father, of war, or of what will happen to me. I am not afraid of death or dragon fire. Sometimes I think it would be better for me to die in battle than to live to see the moment when I realise I have lost his affection." She choked out in a trembling voice, feeling the heavy tears one by one run down her cheeks – she was wiping them off the warm skin of her face with her hands, but they flowed anyway.

Why had she said that?

Why was she letting him know her weakness?

Maybe because deep down she hoped that he would kill her one day, she thought.

That he would not let her live to see the day when her husband would love another woman.

"Our Prince holds you in a respect and esteem that he has never bestowed on any woman before. He allows himself to be vulnerable and weak in your presence. Men, dear child, experiencing physical fulfilment without a soul bond, feel an emptiness after the act. Their desire is like a cry of desperation for purely childlike attention and tenderness – then, in his chamber, seeing him in your embrace, I saw a boy who feels protected and comforted. I'm afraid that my grandson fell in love with you."

She swallowed with difficulty, choking on her own tears, looking at him in disbelief, her heart pounding in her chest like mad.

I'm afraid that my grandson fell in love with you.

She shook her head, feeling that she could not accept those words.

He desired her, he enjoyed her, he was fond of her, but he did not love her.

"I dearly loved my late wife. She was my closest confidante, my beloved friend, the most beautiful of women. She was strong, and my grandson is weak. Filled with complexes, he lives to prove his worth, power and strength, not seeing that he is crushing the efforts of many years, made by me and his father. He needs guides, trusted advisors who love him and who want him to prevail. I know that it was because of you that my grandson told his brother about his plans regarding Rook Rest's. I know that you advised him against plotting behind Aegon's back and sought to rally them. You advise our Prince wisely and I wish you to be his wife. As the daughter of the Lady of Runestone, you are the blood of the Kingdom of the Mountain and the Vale, which will be crucial to us when the siege of Harrenhal begins. Your task to the Kingdom will be to rally the Lords against Lady Arryn's will and to stop my grandson from acting recklessly and violently. Do you understand what I have in mind?" He asked calmly, and she nodded quickly, wiping her hot, swollen cheeks with her hands.

"Yes."

As she was fitting her wedding gown, letting the servants and seamstresses check the length of the sleeves, she thought about Otto Hightower's words and how much they surprised her.

He was a shrewd and enlightened man, of that she was convinced – he also let her know that he did not see her as an enemy or a threat, but as an opportunity for them and the Kingdom as a whole.

For some reason, something in his words and the way he said them comforted her – she felt that, at last, the burden of the war and the Crown would partly fall off the Prince's back, allowing someone more experienced to advise him on difficult and complicated matters that would have overwhelmed the wisest of men.

She shuddered as the door to her chamber opened and her betrothed stepped inside, searching for her with his eye.

"No!" She squealed, fleeing behind the light-coloured three-door screen standing nearby. "It brings misfortune. Leave."

He shouldn't see her in her wedding gown before their nuptials.

She heard his sigh of impatience and his lazy footsteps on the other side – when he stopped the servants bowed to him and left the chamber, leaving them alone.

"What did he say?" He asked calmly.

She sighed quietly, stepping closer to the wall of thin material behind which she could see the shadow of his tall figure.

"That he wishes me to win the support of the Lords of the Vale for you. That I would help him control your impulsive nature." She said, and he snorted, frustrated, turning his head to the side.

"Is that how he sees me? As an uncontrollable animal to be tamed?" He asked with a regret that made her swallow hard, her fingers touching the fabric as if she wanted to touch his chest.

His heart.

"No. But he and I know what your anger means and how dangerous it can be. That it is only when its first wave passes that your coolness and common sense returns to you. There is a fire running through your veins – that is your nature. We do not want you to burn in the heat of your own fury, regretting later the deeds done in a sudden burst of rage." She muttered and heard him draw in a breath, as if her words pained him.

"He is disappointed in me, then." He said coldly and she closed her eyes, feeling helpless against his low self-esteem.

"No, brother. He wants your victory, exactly as I do. If you craved sweet lies, you would allow Larys Strong to pour poison into your ears, surrounding yourself with lords who would praise you and your greatness. You, in your wisdom, sent for your grandfather, who is sincere, who cares for you and your family."

"Ours." He corrected her, and she smiled involuntarily with gratitude.

"Ours."

She heard him take a step towards the screen, his forehead pressed against the material – she did the same, on the other side, hearing his quiet breath.

"– I desire you –" He whispered, and she sighed, feeling his words in her nipples, her lips, the tips of her fingers and her throbbing, swollen cunt.

"– let's last until our wedding – let's make this the night we've waited and longed for –" She said in a breaking voice, feeling that she was losing the battle with herself, his scent, his presence, his closeness making her grow hot.

"– what are you suggesting? – that you won't spend upcoming nights in my bed? –" He exhaled, placing his hands on the screen wall, and she felt a wonderful shiver of pleasure run down her cheeks, along her breasts and down her spine.

"– lēkia –" She gasped and they both sighed as the door to her chamber opened and Lysa stepped inside, holding in her hand the jewellery casket she had ordered for the occasion.

"– leave us, brother –" She whispered in a trembling voice, feeling her womanhood pulsing greedily around nothing, a drop of her wetness running down the inside of her thigh.

"– visit me tonight –"

"– I can't – for at least a few days let me pretend I have dignity –" She mumbled and heard him swallow hard, as if her words caused him pain.

She knew he hesitated, that he wanted to say something more, but resigned – she saw him turn and move towards the door, Lysa bowed to him as he left the room without a word.

She exhaled loudly, stepping out from behind the screen, and Lysa gave her one warm, comforting smile.

She was her only friend.

"They have arrived, my Lady – hair adornments, a dagger and a necklace, matching your instructions in every detail." She said, tilting the lid open.

She smiled broadly as she came closer, seeing the objects lying on the cushion – a thin, delicate golden chain with sapphires framed so that they looked like three water drops – two small and one large that was lying between them – her hair pins in the shape of forget-me-nots, also made of sapphire stones, and a long, beautiful dagger, her gift for her future husband.

She had chosen her jewellery deliberately – her wedding gown was sewn from fabrics in light blue tones and browns – she wanted to show her future husband her devotion to him and her own allegiance to Runestone at the same time.

According to what she had heard, King Aegon began to slowly awaken, but he was dazed and was merely babbling, fed with the milk of the poppy by the Maester – they wanted to spare him the pain, which must have been immense anyway, looking at how much of his skin had been burned in the fire.

However, the fact that he was regaining consciousness worried her Prince, who pushed for the nuptials to take place as soon as possible – he was afraid that his brother, as soon as he found out about it, would forbid the Septon to marry them out of sheer spite.

They renounced grand ceremonies and processions – their subjects were starving, and they did not want them to think that during their great suffering they were drinking wine and dancing, mocking them.

"Thanks to my spies, we were able to prevent great misfortune – a dozen inconspicuous boats arrived under cover of darkness from Dragonstone to King's Landing, filled to the brim with food. They were to be passed on as gifts from Queen Rhaenyra to her subjects. Instead, the food will be distributed on the streets of the city just before your nuptials, so that the whole Kingdom can rejoice with you." Said Otto during the Small Council meeting – her future husband had dismissed his mother in revenge for her affair with Criston Cole, thus freeing up a seat at the table.

As she was a dragon rider and would be participating in the war, she needed to know what was happening, so she was specifically assigned a seat in the Small Council, right next to the Prince Regent's grandfather.

She threw her cousin a quick glance and saw that he was looking at her as well, his grin indicating that he was more than pleased.

"Excellent." He said.

Her betrothed, in keeping with her wishes, had allowed them to spend the nights before their nuptials apart, she knew, however, that he was frustrated and made that known whenever he could.

"No. You stay, hāedar." He said when he closed the meeting and she stood up as did everyone else gathered.

She swallowed hard when she heard the door close – she saw out of the corner of her eye that he stood from his seat and approached her with a lazy, unhurried step.

She gasped as she felt his large hand on her waist, wandering up and down, his other hand without any warning slipped under the fabric of her gown from above and squeezed softly her silky, plump breast.

She pressed her lips together, suppressing a quiet moan of pleasure when she felt his parted, moist lips run over her neck, leaving a wet, sticky trail on her skin, his hot breath making her cunt, swollen with desire and longing, clench greedily around nothing.

"– stop –" She muttered, grabbing his wrist as his hand from her waist and hip slid down between her thighs, closing on her womanhood.

"– are you touching yourself? – hm? –" He asked coldly and she shook her head, panting heavily as she felt his hard manhood pushing against her buttocks, a drop of cold sweat dripped down her back.

"– no – I suffer just as you do, lēkia – please –" She mumbled and cried out, tilting her head back as his fingertips began to gently tease what was under the material of her dress, a wonderful wave of heat surging through her loins.

"– mmm –" He hummed and let her go, leaving her alone, thirsty and quivering with desire, walking out of the room without even giving her a single glance.

Contrary to what her cousin thought, it wasn't just for him that the wait for their night together was agony – her betrothed demanded that since he couldn't touch her, she couldn't either.

She knew that he also did not satisfy his urges in any way, which made him more mischievous – he would lurk for an opportunity for them to be alone and put his hand between her thighs to caress and tease her, whispering in her ear.

"– beg, and maybe I'll fuck you –" He hissed, her hand clenched on his arm.

"– n-no – please, please, stop –"

He let her go then, his jaw clenched in annoyance and some kind of awe, as if he didn't think she could really stand it – her whole body screamed before his eyes that she wanted it, and yet she still refused him.

It was a sign of strong will for him, proof that her words were not empty and her decisions were final.

On the day the nuptials were to take place, the entire Red Keep was put on its feet – Otto feared an attack from all sides, including poisoning, so guards personally chosen by him went to the Sept, as well as to the kitchens, to keep an eye on the cooks and make sure they didn't add anything to the food.

She was surprised by this, but she felt relieved that her future husband's grandfather was watching over everything.

From the morning, Lysa and the other servants had been helping her put on her gown – it fitted her body perfectly, revealing her cleavage and shoulders – the sleeves of the bottom dress clung to her arms, while the sleeves of her top dress, the blue one, was slit at the elbows, falling all the way to the ground.

Some of her hair was pinned up in a bun at the back of her head, decorated with small sapphire flowers, while some fell in waves down her back.

A necklace completed the look – it adorned her long neck and accentuated the colour of the fabric of her gown, however, she actually hoped that this and her sapphire hair adornments would be the only things left on her body during their wedding night.

She shuddered as the door to her chamber opened and she saw Queen Alicent before her – she stepped down from the small dais and bowed to her as did her servants, whether she wanted to or not having to show her respect.

The Dowager Queen stopped before her and sighed, folding her hands in front of her.

"Do you know what kind of man you will marry? Who my son is?" She asked, and she swallowed hard, wondering how a mother could know so little about her own child.

She thought she was simply afraid of the answers to the questions she was asking herself and didn't want to know them, separating herself from who her son was in her mind.

"Yes, Your Grace." She said calmly, looking her straight in the eye. "Our Prince holds you in deep esteem and hopes to earn your praise."

She saw Alicent's lips twitch, her eyebrows arching in an expression of regret, as if her words had caused her pain, her large brown eyes filled with nothing but sadness.

She nodded, as if accepting her words in her heart, and gestured to her servant, who held a small chest in her hand.

"I wish to offer a blessing to you and my son. I ask that you accept this small gift from me, along with my desire for you to be protected by the gods themselves." Said the Queen and opened the lid – she saw a fine gold chain with a small pendant in the shape of a seven-pointed star.

She nodded, looking at it, wondering if, when she went to see her son, she would find at least a few warm words for him.

The journey in the carriage through King's Landing seemed to last for ages to her – the streets were full of happy people – Lord Hightower, according to his plan, began handing out food to the people, leading to a sudden outburst of joy.

The smallfolk, in keeping with his desire, saw this event as a sign, recognising that the gods had supported the marriage between the Prince and his relative by sending them revelry, putting an end to their hunger.

However, for how long will the supplies stolen from Princess Rhaenyra last?

When will their suffering begin anew?

She swallowed hard at the thought that the war had to end as soon as possible, but both her future husband and Dragonstone knew that neither of them had enough advantage to bring the other to its knees.

When she arrived before the Great Sept and the carriage doors opened in front of her, she froze, feeling panic – the people around her were shouting her name, throwing flowers, reaching out to her as if she were some kind of semi-divine being, a symbol of the life they would never know.

She felt overwhelmed and stunned, alone among the crowd, small without her dragon and bow, dressed in a long gown like a doll.

For some reason she wanted to cry.

"My Lady." She heard a voice in front of her, then saw Otto Hightower walking towards her between the guards. "My Lady, give me your hand."

She swallowed hard and did as he asked, placing her palm on his, rough and large. With his help, she walked down a few steps to a small wooden platform, and from it to the ground, feeling that her legs were trembling with fear.

"I am not your father, but I will be more than happy if you do me this honour. It is a difficult journey and no young woman should have to walk it alone." He said calmly, and she looked at him with big eyes, noticing something in his gaze that could have been sympathy or simple concern.

She had always dreamed of someone looking at her like that.

The way a father would look at his daughter.

She nodded, thinking in the back of her mind that if she let go of his hand she would just fall, her legs soft as cotton wool.

As she walked with Lord Hightower into the Great Sept, she heard the sound of trumpets, young girls, daughters of lords and knights throwing flowers at her feet.

It all seemed unreal to her – the temple around her was so gigantic that it took her breath away, the great, tall statues of the Seven Gods towering over those gathered to form a circle, enclosing the entire structure.

At the very centre, on a raised platform stood the altar at which stood the Grand Septon and her betrothed, a sweet emotion squeezed her throat as she looked at his face.

Though he stood erect, with his hands folded behind his back like a statue, she could see that his gaze was hot, vulnerable, his eye large, his lips parted in a heavy breath as if he longed to cry at the sight of her – the fact that she had chosen not the colour of his or her lineage, but his colour, the blue of his sapphire, something only he could understand, the expression of her devotion, her understanding, her affection.

When they stopped at the steps Otto let her go, but she, seeing her cousin's face felt more confident – she grabbed the front of her gown and lifted it, not wanting to step on it, climbing slowly upwards, her steps echoing loudly around her.

She sighed quietly as she stood in front of them, not daring to look at his face, feeling that if she did she would cry for some reason.

It was really happening.

She was to become a wife.

She looked at him and it was a mistake – she felt a squeeze in her throat when she saw him draw in the air loudly when his gaze met hers, as if he felt something deep inside himself that frightened him, his lips slightly parted in a shuddering breath.

"You may now cloak the bride and bring her under your protection."

Her cousin swallowed loudly, looked at the Septon and then behind him, nodding – Gwayne Hightower approached him with a long black cloak embroidered with green threads from which the figure of a three-headed dragon was formed at the very centre.

The crest of their family and the colours of the Hightowers.

She bowed humbly as he threw the cloak over her shoulders with a sweeping gesture, making sure the material did not slip, and she closed her eyes.

He took her under his protection.

"We stand here in the sight of gods and men to witness the union of man and wife: one flesh, one heart, one soul, now and forever. Cursed be he who would seek to tear them asunder." Said the Septon – her betrothed extended his hand to her, standing proud and upright, so she placed her palm on his – the priest entwined their joined hands with a wide, bright ribbon.

"In the sight of the Seven, I hereby seal these two souls, binding them as one for eternity. Look upon one another and say the words." He said, and they looked at each other, her heart pounding in her chest once before they both opened their mouths and their lungs left the words spoken surprisingly confidently and calmly.

"Father,

Smith,

Warrior,

Mother,

Maiden,

Crone,

Stranger

I am hers | I am his

and she is mine | and he is mine

from this day, until the end of my days."

They fell silent, and though she thought he would not do it, that it would be beneath his dignity, he took her hot cheek in his hand and leaned down, looking at her as if he held the entire heritage of Old Valyria in his fingers.

"With this kiss, I pledge my love." He whispered, only a quiet sigh escaping her throat as his full, fleshy lips pressed against hers in a deep, warm, moist kiss, so tender and soft that she felt a single, lonely tear run down her cheek.

My love.

When he broke the kiss he didn't move away for a moment, just looking at her, and she smiled in a way that must have made him happy, because he smiled too, shyly and sweetly, like a little boy.

They were husband and wife.

[novaursa]

The Flames We Loved (to devour)

This is one of my darker works. If it's not your cup of tea, skip it. The story gets progressively worse with each chapter. You have been warned.

- Summary: It started with Harrenhal and the year of false spring, where you danced with a dragon trying to calm his flames.

- Paring: daughter!reader/father!Aerys II Targaryen

- Rating: Explicit 18+

- Previous part: to mend

- Next part: to cry wolf

The early morning sun barely breaks through the thick canopy of trees as Rhaegar rides ahead, his heart pounding louder with every beat. The cold air stings his face, but he barely notices. His thoughts are consumed by you—his twin, his sister—lost somewhere in the Kingswood with their increasingly unstable father. Ser Barristan and Ser Gerold ride close behind him, their expressions grim, but Rhaegar feels as though the world is closing in on him with every second that passes without finding you.

Suddenly, the black silhouette of Aerys's stallion looms ahead, its dark coat slick with sweat and stained with something darker. Rhaegar's breath catches as his eyes lock on the horse. Blood. His heart races even faster, panic surging through him as he calls out your name, his voice breaking. “Y/N!”

No response.

His gaze darts to the right, where your white-gray mare stands, her reins missing, the beautiful creature now stained with blood, her eyes wide and wild. The sight sends a shiver of dread down his spine. He yells again, this time his voice louder, desperate. “Father! Y/N!”

Silence presses down on them for a long, torturous moment before Ser Gerold spots movement in the distance, his voice steady but tense. “There, my prince. They're coming.”

Rhaegar’s eyes snap to where Gerold is pointing, and his breath stutters. From the thick of the forest, Aerys emerges, dragging the body of a dead doe behind him. At his side, you walk slowly, your head lowered, your steps unsteady. Aerys seems wholly unbothered, his expression a mask of triumph as if nothing unusual has occurred. 

Rhaegar spurs his horse forward, his mind racing, his throat tight with fear. “Father!” he shouts again, but Aerys ignores him, his attention fixed on the dead doe.

Ser Barristan and Ser Gerold exchange uneasy glances, their hands resting on the hilts of their swords. They are stunned by the sight before them but trained enough to maintain composure.

Aerys stops just short of the group, casting an almost lazy glance at the knights before addressing them. “Strap the doe to Barristan’s horse,” he commands casually, as though nothing at all is amiss. “We shall have it for dinner.”

The knights hesitate, their eyes flickering toward Rhaegar, but at Aerys’s expectant look, they obey, working quickly to secure the doe, though their hands tremble ever so slightly. Rhaegar’s eyes are only on you now. His heart clenches as he sees the state you’re in—your once-pristine clothes are torn, stained with dirt and blood, and your face is pale, haunted. But it’s the wound on your neck that catches his attention first.

A wolf bite. The jagged teeth marks mar your pale skin, the wound hastily cauterized, the burned flesh an angry red. His eyes sweep over you and find more—scratches, cuts, bruises—all signs of a fight, a struggle. His heart twists in his chest as he realizes how close you must have come to death.

He slides off his horse and takes a step toward you. “Y/N,” he says softly, his voice shaking with both anger and fear. “What happened? Let me—"

But before he can reach you, Aerys’s arm snakes around your waist, pulling you roughly against him. “She will ride with me,” he declares, his voice edged with a possessiveness that sets Rhaegar’s teeth on edge. “Her mare is without reins, and I will not have her ride unguarded.” His grip on you tightens, his fingers digging into your side. He doesn't even glance at the blood-stained horses, as if the danger you'd faced meant nothing to him.

Rhaegar clenches his fists, his fury barely restrained. “She could have died!” he snaps, his voice rising. “You led her into the woods, and she—" His words cut off as he looks at the bite on your neck again. The sight makes his stomach churn. “Look at her! Look at what happened!”

Aerys finally meets Rhaegar’s gaze, and the madness in his eyes flashes, but his voice remains calm, unbothered. “And yet, she did not die, did she, my son?” He smirks, a cold, humorless thing. “She is stronger than you think. The wolves are dead, the doe is ours, and my daughter is unharmed.”

Rhaegar’s anger flares hotter. “Unharmed?” His voice cracks, disbelief laced with fury. “She’s covered in wounds! Look at her, Father! How can you be so—” His words falter, unable to find a term to describe how callous Aerys is being.

But Aerys only tightens his hold on you, his fingers brushing lightly over the burned wolf bite on your neck. He looks almost proud, as if the injury were a mark of honor. “She survived,” he repeats, his eyes flicking back to Rhaegar. “And she will ride with me now. We are done here.”

The finality in his voice leaves no room for argument. Aerys turns his horse, pulling you with him, and you don’t resist, though your eyes flick to Rhaegar’s for the briefest moment—filled with something he can’t quite place. Exhaustion, fear, perhaps even resignation.

Rhaegar watches helplessly as you are lifted onto Aerys’s horse, his chest tight with frustration. His gaze burns into Aerys’s back, seething with anger at how easily his father brushed aside the danger you had faced. How close you had come to being lost, and how little it seemed to matter to him.

He mounts his horse again, but the fire in his chest remains, his thoughts whirling with the realization that whatever hold Aerys has on you, it’s stronger than he ever feared. He looks over at Ser Barristan and Ser Gerold, both knights just as shaken but silent, obedient.

“We return to the Red Keep,” Aerys calls out, his voice unnervingly cheerful as if the events of the night had been nothing more than a game. “We have dinner to prepare.”

Rhaegar tightens his grip on the reins, his jaw set, his mind already racing for a way to pull you out of the madness that had wrapped its claws around you both.

As the Red Keep looms into view, its towering walls rising against the pale morning sky. The sound of hooves echoing off the courtyard stones is the only break in the stillness as your group rides through the gates. Rhaegar’s eyes never leave you, watching the way you slump slightly in the saddle, how your head remains bowed, your usual grace diminished by exhaustion and the wounds that mar your body.

Aerys dismounts first, moving with a practiced ease that belies the night’s strange events. He turns toward you, his hand extended in a gesture that seems almost gentle as he helps you down from the horse. His fingers are firm as they curl around yours, pulling you close to him once again. The movement, meant to appear fatherly, holds an undercurrent that Rhaegar can't ignore, and his heart tightens in his chest as he watches you lean into Aerys, either out of habit or necessity, perhaps both.

Behind them, Ser Barristan and Ser Gerold move quickly to deal with the dead doe, strapping it to be taken to the kitchens as Aerys had commanded. They work silently, their expressions tight, as if still processing the strangeness of what they had witnessed in the Kingswood.

As soon as you and Aerys step onto the cobblestones, a small crowd of courtiers approaches, led by none other than Tywin Lannister. His green eyes sweep over the scene, his expression carefully schooled but sharp. Tywin, always the lion, seems to notice everything—the blood on your clothes, the anger on Rhaegar’s face, the strange energy that still clings to Aerys. The Hand of the King wastes no time in moving forward, his cloak trailing behind him like a shadow.

“My king, Princess Y/N,” Tywin greets, his voice measured but holding an edge of concern. “We were all concerned when word came that you had gone hunting and did not return at nightfall.”

There is a slight emphasis on we, as if Tywin were reminding Aerys of the court’s need for stability, for leadership—things that had grown increasingly tenuous under his reign. His gaze flicks to you, lingering briefly on the bite mark on your neck before moving back to Aerys.

Aerys, however, seems entirely unbothered by the scrutiny. He smiles that strange, cold smile of his and gestures to the doe now being handled by the knights. “We had a successful hunt, Tywin. The princess and I felled the beast ourselves. We shall feast on it tonight.”

Tywin’s eyes harden briefly, though his face remains impassive. “Of course, Your Grace. The kitchens will prepare it as you wish.” He pauses, glancing back at you, his gaze narrowing ever so slightly. “Princess, I trust you are well?”

Before you can answer, Aerys’s arm tightens around your waist, pulling you to his side, his fingers possessive as they rest against your hip. “She is unharmed,” Aerys says, his voice cutting through any further inquiry. “My daughter is stronger than the wolves in the forest. They did not stand a chance.”

Rhaegar, still mounted, watches the exchange with growing unease. His eyes flicker between you and Aerys, his jaw set tight. He dismounts his horse swiftly and approaches, his worry turning to frustration as Aerys continues to act as if nothing had happened. He steps forward, trying to catch your gaze, but you avoid his eyes, your body stiff beneath Aerys’s touch.

“Father,” Rhaegar says, his voice low but filled with barely restrained anger, “she could have died. The wolves—”

“But she did not,” Aerys interrupts sharply, his voice rising. His eyes gleam with that unsettling mix of fervor and madness as he glares at his son. “And do not forget, Rhaegar, that I was there. I protected her through rest of the night after the attack, as any father would. My daughter is alive because of me.” He smirks, his grip on you tightening even further, almost as if daring Rhaegar to challenge him.

Rhaegar grits his teeth, his frustration barely held in check. He looks at you, his voice softening when he speaks again. “Y/N, please, let me—”

“She stays with me,” Aerys snaps, cutting Rhaegar off once more. He pulls you close, his voice lowering into something more dangerous. “Or do you once again doubt my ability to keep her safe, my son?”

The threat is clear, and Rhaegar knows better than to push further, at least not here, not with the courtiers watching. His eyes burn with anger and worry, but he nods stiffly, stepping back to let Aerys lead you away.

As you and Aerys turn toward the keep, Tywin steps aside, his sharp eyes following your every movement. He says nothing more, but Rhaegar knows that the Hand of the King has seen enough to understand the growing fracture between father and son—and knows about something far darker between you and Aerys.

The crowd watches silently as Aerys leads you inside, his arm still wrapped around you. Rhaegar lingers in the courtyard, his fists clenched at his sides, his heart heavy with the knowledge that this—whatever this twisted bond was between you and Aerys—was spiraling out of control. And he was powerless to stop it. For now.

Tywin approaches Rhaegar as the courtyard empties, his expression unreadable. “You have every right to be concerned,” he says quietly, his voice low enough that only Rhaegar can hear. “But this… This will require patience, my prince.”

Rhaegar says nothing, his eyes still fixed on the doors where you and Aerys had disappeared, his heart filled with a dark, suffocating dread.

The water in the bath is warm, though it does little to ease the aching sting of your wounds. You sit still, your hands gripping the edge of the tub as your servants work quietly around you, their soft footsteps and hushed whispers barely audible. They wash away the blood and dirt from the night before, their hands gentle but trembling, aware of the tension that clings to you like a shadow. The pain from the wolf bite on your neck pulses in time with your heartbeat, and the burns from where the wound was cauterized throb with every movement.

You try to ignore it all—the sting, the bruises, the way your body feels foreign and fragile. Instead, you focus on the water, the way it ripples with each soft brush of the servants’ hands. But even the warmth of the bath can't drown out the memories of the night before, the feeling of Aerys’s hands on you, the madness in his eyes, the way you had clung to him afterward despite the fear that had gnawed at your insides. The fear that still lingers.

The servants exchange worried glances, their hands hesitating every time they touch you. You can feel their concern, the way their eyes flick to your face as if expecting you to react, to say something—anything. But you remain silent, detached, staring blankly at the water. You know they’ve seen the marks, the bruises, the burns. They’ve seen the blood and the way your body bears the evidence of the struggle with the wolves, but they don’t ask. They never do.

One of them, a younger girl with trembling hands, wrings a cloth and gently presses it to the bite on your neck. You flinch at the touch, and she gasps softly, stepping back as if she’d burned you. The other women give her a reproachful look, but you say nothing, your gaze still unfocused.

The door creaks open suddenly, and the servants freeze, their eyes wide with fear. You hear the sharp intake of breath from one of them as they step back, hands trembling, and your heart drops when you see him—Aerys, standing in the doorway, his presence filling the room with a tension so thick it’s suffocating. He says nothing at first, his gaze sweeping over the scene before him, lingering on your still form in the bath.

"Leave us," Aerys commands, his voice low but with a dangerous edge that brooks no argument.

The servants don’t hesitate. They scurry from the room, heads bowed, leaving behind the water and the scent of herbs and fear. The door closes behind them with a soft click, and now it’s just the two of you. You don’t look at him, your gaze still fixed on the water, though your heart races in your chest.

You hear him move closer, his boots clicking softly against the stone floor, until he kneels beside the bath. His hand reaches out, brushing a lock of wet hair away from your face, his fingers lingering longer than necessary. You flinch again, but this time, you don’t move away.

Aerys’s voice is soft, almost tender, when he speaks. "The dinner tonight will be a grand affair," he says, as if the events of the previous night never happened, as if your body isn't covered in wounds from the wolves and your spirit isn’t weighed down by the twisted bond that holds you both together. "The doe I’ve hunted—it will be served as a feast for all to enjoy. You will sit by my side, of course."

You swallow hard, your throat tight. The thought of sitting beside him at that table, of pretending everything is normal, makes your stomach turn. But you know there is no choice. There never is.

"You should wear something fitting," he continues, his fingers trailing down the side of your face now, grazing the edge of the bite mark on your neck. His touch is light, almost reverent, but the shine in his gaze makes your skin crawl. "Something to show your beauty. To remind them that you are a Targaryen, born of fire and blood. You were magnificent last night, Y/N. You are always magnificent."

You don't answer, your lips pressed into a thin line. The bathwater ripples as he shifts closer, his eyes fixed on you, waiting for some kind of response, but you can’t find the words. You can barely breathe, let alone speak. The pain in your body is nothing compared to the weight in your chest, the suffocating realization that this is your life now. That it has always been this way.

Aerys’s fingers brush your collarbone, and he leans closer, his voice dropping to a whisper. "We are bound together, you and I. No one understands us, not like you do. You keep me grounded, my daughter, my princess. You keep me... sane."

The irony of his words hangs heavy in the air, but you say nothing. You’ve heard this before, countless times. And each time, the grip he has on you tightens. Each time, the madness seems to creep a little deeper into him—and into you.

He stands slowly, his gaze lingering on your face, and then, with a final stroke of your hair, he turns toward the door. "Rest now," he says. "Tonight, you will shine."

As the door closes behind him, you let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding. The water in the bath is cooling now, but you don’t move. You sit there, staring at the ripples, trying to ignore the sting of your wounds and the heavier sting of the reality that has settled over you.

The grand hall of the Red Keep was alive with the clinking of goblets, the low murmur of voices, and the scrape of silverware against plates. The air was filled with the scent of roasted meat, herbs, and wine, but there was an undercurrent of something else—a unease that hung like a heavy fog over the room. The courtiers, lords, and ladies in attendance spoke in measured tones, their smiles practiced and polite, but their eyes kept flicking to the head of the table, where Aerys sat, you by his side.

You had taken your place as he commanded, wearing the gown he had insisted upon—a deep red, the color of dragonfire, edged with black. It clung to you like a second skin, the fabric light but suffocating, as though it were part of the weight you carried. Rhaella had wisely remained in her chambers, claiming illness, though you knew she simply couldn’t face this spectacle. Not tonight.

Aerys, of course, was in high spirits. His mood was unpredictable, always swinging between manic glee and cold calculation, but tonight, he was content. He had his doe, the prize of his hunt, and you beside him, his favorite child. His dragon princess. His hand rested on your thigh beneath the table.

You kept your face composed, doing your best to appear the part of the princess of the realm, the true daughter of the dragon. Your back straight, your head held high, you made no outward sign of the turmoil that churned inside you. Instead, you smiled when necessary, nodded at the appropriate moments, and allowed Aerys’s hand to linger, even though every touch felt like a brand on your skin.

Across the table, Rhaegar sat with Elia and their children. A light breeze swept in through the hall, tugging at Elia's dark hair, and for a brief moment, your eyes met Rhaegar’s. In that one glance, you tried to convey everything you couldn’t say aloud—the reassurance that you were still here, that you were still fighting, even if it didn’t look like it. His expression softened, worry creasing his brow, but he nodded once, a silent acknowledgment of the weight you both carried. You felt a flicker of comfort in his understanding, but it was fleeting.

The meal was served with great fanfare—platters of roasted meats, bread, and fruits carried in by a long line of servants. At the center of it all was the doe, the one Aerys had so proudly dragged from the Kingswood, its meat roasted to a dark, glossy perfection. The lords and ladies offered the king their compliments, some braver ones daring to speak directly to him, praising the hunt and the meal.

You watched as the first slices of meat were served to the table, the doe taking pride of place on Aerys’s plate. He cut into it with sharp, deliberate motions, a satisfied gleam in his eyes as he took his first bite. Then, the rest of the table followed suit.

You picked up your knife and fork, forcing your hand to remain steady as you sliced into the meat on your plate. Aerys watched you, his gaze sharp, waiting for you to taste the prize of the hunt. You brought the fork to your lips, forcing yourself to chew and swallow. But the moment the meat hit your tongue, a strange, rancid taste flooded your mouth.

It was off. The meat was foul, as though it had been left out in the sun too long, the flavor cloying and rotten. You tried to suppress the instinct to gag, swallowing it quickly before you could give yourself away. Your stomach churned, and for a moment, you were convinced something was terribly wrong. The meat—how could everyone else be eating it without complaint?

Around you, the lords and ladies continued to eat, their faces betraying nothing. Some even offered more compliments, one or two brave men toasting Aerys’s prowess in the hunt. You glanced at Rhaegar, watching as he took a cautious bite, and though his face remained impassive, you could see it—the brief tightening of his mouth, the flicker of unease in his eyes. He had tasted it, too.

Yet no one said a word.

Aerys’s hand shifted on your thigh, his grip tightening as he leaned closer to you. “Do you enjoy the meal, my daughter?” he asked, his voice low, almost intimate, as though the two of you were sharing some private joke. His breath was warm against your ear, sending a shiver down your spine.

You nodded, forcing a smile onto your lips, though your throat felt tight, the rancid taste of the meat still lingering at the back of your mouth. “It is… perfect, Father,” you whispered, your voice barely audible over the noise of the hall.

Aerys smiled, satisfied with your response, and you could feel his gaze linger on you, studying your every move. The weight of his attention was suffocating, his touch on your leg an anchor that kept you bound to this twisted reality.

As the dinner continued, you forced yourself to take another bite, trying to mask your discomfort, though each morsel seemed worse than the last. You glanced around the hall, wondering if anyone else had noticed the strange taste, but all you saw were polite smiles and empty words of praise. The air felt thick with something unspoken, a creeping sense of wrongness that clung to you like the aftertaste of the meat.

You swallowed hard, trying to focus on the voices around you, but the feeling that something was terribly wrong lingered in the back of your mind. You wondered if it was just you—if the rot you tasted was somehow your own, a reflection of everything you had become in the shadows of Aerys’s madness.

You forced yourself to focus on the conversations around you, even though the foul taste of the meat still lingered on your tongue. Aerys’s hand remained on your thigh, his grip possessive, as if reminding you that you were his—always his.

From across the table, you saw Lord Qarlton Chelsted lean forward, clearly emboldened by the king’s good mood. Aerys was smiling, pleased with the compliments and attention he was receiving. Lord Qarlton, ever the opportunist, chose that moment to speak, his voice carrying over the din of the hall.

“Your Grace,” he began, his tone measured and deferential. “We’ve received a message from Lord Stark of Winterfell. He writes to inform us that he and his son, Brandon Stark, are preparing to journey south to the capital.”

At the mention of Brandon Stark’s name, you felt a subtle shift in the air. You paused mid-bite, your fork hovering just above your plate. You didn’t have to look up to sense it—your father’s mood had turned from jovial to something darker. The shift was felt, a sudden chill that spread through the hall, freezing the words on Lord Qarlton’s lips.

“They come,” Qarlton continued, oblivious to the change, “so that Brandon may wed his betrothed—your daughter, Princess Y/N—as agreed upon, so the alliance between House Targaryen and House Stark may be sealed.”

The words hung in the air like a lead weight, and you felt your body stiffen, your entire being focused on the silence that followed. The warmth of Aerys’s hand on your thigh turned cold, his fingers unmoving, and you knew without looking that his eyes were fixed on Lord Qarlton, that dangerous gleam of madness lurking just beneath the surface.

Qarlton, unaware of the growing storm, mistook the silence for attention. He pressed on, his words careful but hopeful, clearly believing that he was reminding the king of something important. “It was, after all, a match made by your own hand, Your Grace. A union between the blood of the dragon and the wolves of the North.”

The silence in the hall deepened. You could feel Aerys’s fury building, like the slow burn of wildfire, just waiting for the spark that would set it ablaze. His hand tightened on your leg, the pressure enough to make you wince, though you dared not move. He was no longer a king in high spirits. He had become a predator, and Qarlton had unwittingly become his prey.

The rest of the hall seemed to sense the shift as well. Conversations stilled, and the once-brave lords and ladies who had been complimenting the meal moments before now avoided making eye contact with the king. Even Rhaegar, seated across from you, had gone still, his eyes sharp and watchful.

Qarlton, realizing too late that something was amiss, faltered. He glanced nervously at you, then at Aerys, as if only just now understanding that the king was not in the mood for such discussions. His earlier confidence drained from him as the king’s silence stretched on, heavy and oppressive. The realization seemed to dawn on him that Aerys had forgotten—or perhaps chosen to forget—the match he had once made between you and Brandon Stark.

You dared not look at Aerys, but you could feel the air around him vibrating with a barely contained rage. His fingers dug into your thigh, the touch no longer possessive but punishing, as if the mere mention of Brandon Stark had provoked something dark and primal within him.

At last, Aerys spoke, his voice low, venomous. “Brandon Stark?” he repeated slowly, as though testing the name on his tongue, his lips curling into a cruel smile. “The wolves think to come south and claim what is mine?”

You stiffened at his words, your breath catching in your throat. Aerys’s grip tightened further, his nails biting into your flesh, but you forced yourself to remain still. The entire hall was watching, waiting for his next move, for the explosion that seemed inevitable now.

Qarlton, pale and visibly shaken, tried to backpedal. “Your Grace, I—”

Aerys’s gaze snapped to Qarlton, his eyes burning with fury. “You dare remind me of promises made to wolves?” His voice, though quiet, was filled with a dangerous edge, each word like a lash. “Do you think I am in the habit of giving away what belongs to the blood of the dragon?”

Your stomach churned, the dread pooling in your chest. This was worse than you had anticipated. Aerys’s rage was rising, and the mention of your betrothal—something he had arranged himself long ago—was now a threat to him, a reminder of a promise he had no intention of keeping.

You cast a fleeting glance toward Rhaegar, who sat rigid, his expression carefully controlled. His eyes met yours for a brief moment, and you could see the same fear reflected in them—the same knowledge that this dinner was teetering on the edge of disaster.

Aerys released your leg suddenly and stood, his eyes fixed on Qarlton with a hatred that sent a shiver through the hall. “Brandon Stark will never have her,” Aerys growled, his voice like the hiss of wildfire. “No wolf will ever take what belongs to me. My daughter is mine, and mine alone.”

The hall was deathly silent. The courtiers sat frozen, no one daring to speak, no one daring to move. You felt your heart hammering in your chest, your pulse racing as the weight of Aerys’s claim pressed down on you like a vise. You didn’t have to look at him to know that his madness had fully taken hold, and there was no reasoning with him now.

Lord Qarlton, his face ashen, wisely bowed his head, murmuring, “Of course, Your Grace.”

The silence in the hall stretched on, the tension so thick it was suffocating. You sat frozen in place, your pulse thundering in your ears as Aerys’s words echoed in the vast chamber. The king’s declaration—Brandon Stark will never have her—hung in the air like a death sentence, and no one dared to challenge it.

Except Tywin Lannister.

The Hand of the King rose slowly from his seat, his movements measured, deliberate, as though carefully navigating a minefield. His green eyes, sharp as ever, flicked briefly to you before settling on Aerys. Tywin, always composed, had the look of a man who knew the stakes of what he was about to say, but he spoke anyway, his voice calm and authoritative.

“Your Grace,” he began, “the match between the princess and Brandon Stark was made many years ago. It is a matter of duty, not just to House Targaryen but to the realm. The North expects this alliance to be honored.”

Aerys turned his gaze on Tywin, his eyes narrowing, the light of madness flickering behind them. His hand still rested on the table, his fingers drumming against the wood, as though the idea of this marriage were some small, bothersome matter to be crushed beneath his heel. His lips curled into a sneer.

“Duty?” Aerys spat the word, his voice dripping with disdain. “You think I care about duty, Tywin? You think I care about some wolf coming south to take what is mine?”

Tywin didn’t flinch, though you could sense the weight of the moment pressing down on him. His voice remained even, his words carefully chosen. “This was your arrangement, Your Grace. You made this deal with Lord Rickard Stark yourself. It is your word that binds this match, your promise that the North depends on.”

For a moment, Aerys was silent, his gaze locked on Tywin. Then, a bitter laugh escaped his lips, a sound that sent a shiver down your spine. “My word?” Aerys said, his voice rising in pitch, his laughter turning sharp and cruel. “I made this deal? I promised my daughter to the wolves? You must be mad, Tywin, or perhaps you think I am.”

Aerys’s hand slammed down on the table, the force of it sending goblets and plates rattling. “You lie!” he shouted, his voice cutting through the hall like a blade. “You and your schemes, Tywin. Always thinking you can manipulate me. Always believing you can twist my will.”

The court watched in stunned silence, not daring to breathe as the king’s fury grew, his eyes wild and bright. Tywin, however, stood his ground, his face unreadable, but you could see the flicker of something in his eyes—perhaps frustration, perhaps resignation. He knew the king was beyond reasoning, but still, he pressed forward, his voice steady.

“Your Grace, I only remind you of the truth. This was your will. You commanded this match to strengthen the realm.”

Aerys’s laugh rang out again, high and brittle. “My will? My will is my daughter here, beside me. She is not some tool to be bartered away to the wolves. You would have me send her north, to be taken by Brandon Stark? I will not allow it.”

His words struck like a hammer, each one filled with venom. His fingers dug into the table, knuckles white, and you felt a cold shudder run through your body as his gaze flickered to you. The possessiveness in his eyes was visible, as if he had forgotten entirely the political game being played, as if his sole concern was keeping you close, at his side, and away from anyone who might take you from him.

Tywin exhaled slowly, the subtle stiffness in his frame the only sign of his growing frustration. He spoke again, this time more cautiously. “Your Grace, the Starks have sent word. They expect this alliance. We cannot afford to insult the North. It would cause a rift—”

“Enough!” Aerys roared, standing so suddenly that his chair scraped back with a screech. He pointed an accusatory finger at Tywin, his face twisted in rage. “I will not be lectured by you, Tywin! You dare presume to tell me what I must do with my own daughter? You think I care about the North, about your precious alliances? I am the king, and my word is law.”

The hall fell into an even deeper silence, if such a thing were possible. The courtiers sat frozen, their gazes darting between Tywin and Aerys, unsure of where this would lead. Even Rhaegar had gone still, his eyes flicking toward you, filled with quiet worry. He knew as well as you did that Aerys was on the verge of something dangerous, something irreversible.

Tywin, sensing the precariousness of the situation, bowed his head slightly, a calculated gesture of submission. “Of course, Your Grace,” he said quietly, though there was a sharpness to his tone that you could hear beneath the surface. “I would never presume to challenge your will.”

Aerys, still glaring at him, seemed to hesitate, as if weighing Tywin’s words, the room, and the power he held over everyone within it. His fingers twitched, his madness still crackling in the air, but for the moment, he seemed satisfied with Tywin’s retreat.

He turned back to you then, his expression softening, though his eyes remained dark. He reached out, placing his hand back on your thigh, his voice lowering as he spoke only to you now, though loud enough for all to hear. “The wolves will never have you, Y/N,” he murmured, his tone a twisted mockery of affection. “You are mine. You will always be mine.”

You swallowed hard, your hands trembling slightly in your lap as the weight of his words settled over you like a shroud. You felt the eyes of the court on you, and though your face remained composed, inside you felt the creeping dread of what Aerys’s declaration truly meant.

Tywin, still standing, gave a curt nod before sitting back down, his face set in a grim mask of professionalism. But you knew that this was not over—not truly. The alliance with the Starks had been thrown into jeopardy, and now the political landscape would shift beneath your feet, all while you remained trapped in Aerys’s tightening grasp.

You could feel Aerys’s grip tightening on your thigh, his fingers digging into your flesh as the situation in the hall pressed down on you both. You knew him too well—knew the signs, the way his eyes gleamed when his mind began to unravel, the way his voice dropped into a low, dangerous whisper when he was on the edge of something dark.

The hall was still, conversations picking back up only in hushed whispers, and you could feel the weight of every gaze on you, waiting to see what the king would do next. You couldn’t afford to let him spiral further. Not here. Not now.

You turned slightly in your seat, your hand slipping under the table to gently rest on his wrist, your fingers brushing against his knuckles in what you hoped was a calming gesture. You kept your voice low, soft, meant only for him. “Father,” you began, your words carefully chosen, “there’s no need to worry. I’m not leaving you. No one is taking me away.”

His gaze shifted to you, the fire in his eyes still burning, but there was a flicker of something else—something like doubt, uncertainty. His lips pressed into a thin line as he leaned closer to you, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. “I did not make that match,” he hissed, his words sharp, his eyes searching yours as though looking for some confirmation of his own version of reality. “That is not my will.”

Your heart clenched at his words, though you kept your face serene, composed. You knew the truth—had known it your entire life. The match with Brandon Stark had been arranged before you were even old enough to understand the significance of it. Your father had made the promise himself, sealing the alliance between House Targaryen and House Stark with your future. It had been your duty, your destiny. And yet here he was, rewriting the past in his mind, casting aside that promise in favor of his possessive insanity.

But you couldn’t contradict him. Not now. Not when he was so close to the edge.

You forced a gentle smile, your hand still resting on his. “Of course, Father,” you whispered, your voice soothing, even as your heart raced. “You made no such match. There is only your will, and I will always follow it. No one can take me from you. I belong here, with you.”

His grip on your thigh loosened slightly, his expression softening just enough for you to see that your words had reached him, if only for a moment. The madness in his eyes dimmed, replaced by a strange, toxic affection that sent a shiver down your spine.

“You see?” he murmured, his voice almost tender now. “You understand. You are the only one who does, my daughter. You are my true heir, the blood of the dragon. You will never be taken from me.”

You nodded, your heart heavy with the weight of the lie you were telling. You couldn’t bear to challenge him, couldn’t risk provoking him further. And so, you leaned into the role he had cast you in—the dutiful daughter, bound to him by blood and fire, the one person who could calm the storm inside him.

“I will never leave you, Father,” you whispered again, the words tasting bitter on your tongue even as you forced them out. “I am yours. Forever.”

Aerys studied you for a long moment, his eyes searching your face as if trying to find any hint of deception. But when he found none, he exhaled slowly, his body relaxing just a little, the tension in his shoulders easing. His hand slid from your thigh, coming to rest on the table beside his goblet, and for a moment, it seemed as though the worst of the storm had passed.

The hall continued to murmur around you, the courtiers still on edge, but the immediate threat had diminished. You allowed yourself a small breath of relief, though you knew this reprieve was only temporary. Aerys’s madness was always lurking beneath the surface, ready to flare up again at any moment.

Still, you had bought yourself a little more time. And in that time, you would do whatever it took to keep him calm, to prevent the darkness from consuming him—and you—entirely. Even if it meant continuing to play this role, pretending that the world he imagined was the only one that existed.

As Aerys lifted his goblet to his lips, his hand now steady, you caught another glance from Rhaegar across the table. His expression was one of deep concern, but there was also a flicker of pride in his eyes—he had seen what you had done, how you had managed to bring Aerys back from the edge.

The feast dragged on, though you barely registered the conversations and laughter around you. The sounds of the hall were muted by the thrum of your own thoughts, each beat of your heart a reminder of the careful game you were playing. Aerys sat beside you, his mood teetering between satisfaction and a dangerous edge, his hand never far from yours. You continued to smile, nod, and offer the occasional response, but your mind was elsewhere—focused entirely on keeping him calm, keeping him stable.

At last, Aerys rose from his seat, the sound of his chair scraping against the floor silencing the murmurs in the hall. You followed him, your body moving automatically as he reached down, taking your hand in his. His grip was firm, as he pulled you to your feet, and you could feel the shift in him—the change that always signaled the start of something darker.

He led you from the table, his hand never leaving yours, and as you glanced over your shoulder, you caught sight of Varys, his pale face unreadable as he watched you both. The Spider's gaze lingered on you for a moment longer before he turned back to the rest of the court, his expression a mask of quiet contemplation. It unsettled you, the way Varys could watch without judgment, his intentions always hidden beneath layers of ambiguity. But you had no time to dwell on it. Aerys was already leading you away.

The moment you stepped out of the grand hall, the air changed. The warmth and light of the feast were replaced by the cool darkness of the secluded corridors, the only sound now the soft echo of your footsteps on the stone floor. Aerys’s hand tightened around yours as he led you deeper into the castle, away from prying eyes, his pace quickening.

You knew this part of the keep well—these quiet, shadowed hallways where no one dared to follow the king. It was here, in the darkness, where Aerys’s mood often changed, where his madness could take hold in ways that the court would never see. You felt the shift in him, the way his breath quickened, the way his fingers gripped yours tighter, pulling you closer to him as the light from the torches dimmed.

When he finally stopped, it was in a small, dark alcove, the shadows thick around you. The only light came from a single flickering torch in the distance. Aerys turned to you, his eyes gleaming with something wild, something unholy, and you could feel it—the familiar pull, the dangerous edge that always ignited something deep inside you as well. No matter how much you feared his instability, there was a part of you that was drawn to it, just as you were drawn to him.

“You are mine,” he whispered, his voice low, filled with a dark reverence. He raised a hand, brushing his fingers along your cheek, down to your throat, where the wolf’s bite had left its mark. His touch was possessive, his eyes fixated on the wound. “No one else will ever have you. Not the wolves. Not the North. You belong to me.”

You nodded, your breath catching in your throat as his words stirred something deep within you. His madness was infectious, seeping into your veins, making your pulse quicken. 

Aerys’s hand slid down to your waist, pulling you flush against him, his lips brushing against your ear as he spoke in that dark, unsettling tone. “Do you know what I’ll do if the wolves come for you? If that Stark boy dares to set foot in my capital, thinking he can take you from me?”

You shivered at his words, your body responding to the dangerous edge in his voice, though your mind recoiled at the thought. You knew what he was capable of. You had seen it, felt it, time and time again.

“I’ll burn them,” he whispered, his breath hot against your skin. “I’ll burn them all. The Starks, their sons, their lands. I’ll burn Winterfell to the ground if they dare to challenge me.”

Your heart raced, a mix of fear and something darker coursing through you. You knew he meant every word. Aerys had no boundaries, no limits when it came to protecting what he saw as his. The darkness in his eyes, the gleam of fire that always lingered there, told you that he would follow through on his threats without hesitation.

“They think they can take you from me,” he growled, his hands tightening on your waist, his fingers digging into your skin. “But I will burn every last one of them. I will make sure the North never forgets that the blood of the dragon runs through your veins. You are mine, and I will never let you go.”

His words sent a chill down your spine, but there was a part of you, buried deep, that responded to the intensity of his claim. You had been raised in this world, forged in fire and blood, and no matter how much you hated it, a part of you had always belonged to him. The bond between you was unbreakable, twisted and dark, and in moments like this, it was impossible to deny.

You tilted your head slightly, your lips brushing against his ear as you whispered, “I’m not leaving you, Father. I’ll always be here, beside you. No one can take me away.”

Aerys’s grip on you relaxed slightly, though the wild gleam in his eyes remained. He leaned back, studying your face as if searching for any sign of doubt, any flicker of rebellion. When he found none, he smiled—a cold, triumphant smile that sent another shiver down your spine.

“Good,” he murmured, his voice softening. “You understand, my daughter. You always have.”

He leaned down, pressing a rough, possessive kiss to your lips, and though your mind screamed at the meaning of it all, your body responded, as it always did, to the fire that burned between you.

Aerys's lips pressed harder against yours, rough and demanding, his hand gripping your waist as if he could mark you with his touch. His kiss was all-consuming, pulling you further into the insanity that had bound the two of you together for so long. Your thoughts, already spinning, suddenly drifted back to the Kingswood—to the wolf. You could still see it clearly, the large creature’s body lying still beneath you, its hollow, dead grey eyes staring into nothingness. Its final moments had been marked by your hands tightening the reins around its neck, cutting off its last breath.

You had saved yourself that night, but the image of the wolf haunted you still, a reminder of what you were capable of, what you had become.

Aerys’s hands moved now, one trailing down your side, sliding dangerously close to the intimate places he had always claimed as his. His touch made you shudder, a mixture of fear, disgust, and something you couldn’t deny. Your body responded, despite everything, despite the madness swirling around you both. His breath was hot against your neck, his lips moving against your skin, whispering sinister promises that made your heart race.

But the moment shattered abruptly as the sound of approaching footsteps echoed down the hallway.

Aerys froze, his lips still against your neck, his body tensing as a growl of annoyance rumbled deep in his throat. His hand gripped your arm, pulling you away from the wall with a swift, almost violent motion. Without a word, he yanked you toward one of the secret passageways hidden behind a tapestry. The stone door creaked open just enough for the two of you to slip inside before it closed again, leaving you in near darkness.

You clung to Aerys in the confined space, your heart pounding in your chest as you pressed against him, trying to make yourself as small and quiet as possible. His arm wrapped around your waist, holding you close, and for once, you were grateful for the way he pulled you to him. His body was rigid, his breath shallow but controlled. Despite his earlier frustration, he stayed perfectly still, like a specter hiding in the shadows.

The footsteps grew closer, and then two figures emerged, their voices low, whispering just outside the passageway. You couldn’t see them clearly, the thick tapestry muffling some of the sound, but you could make out fragments of their conversation.

“… the Starks … Aerys grows worse by the day …”

Your breath caught in your throat. They were talking about him—about your father. And you. You strained to hear more, but the words were faint, their identities obscured by the dark and the distance. You wanted to lean forward, to make out what they were saying, but Aerys’s grip tightened around you, silently commanding you to stay still.

“… the princess … she is the key … if the Starks arrive …”

Your pulse quickened, fear creeping into your veins. You knew how precarious your position was, how much danger there was in being caught between the madness of your father and the plans of those who sought to use you. These men—they were plotting something, something that involved you, the Starks, and Aerys.

You glanced up at Aerys, expecting to see the fury that always followed when he felt threatened. But he remained perfectly still, his face unreadable in this light. His chest rose and fell slowly, controlled, though his eyes gleamed with something ominous. You were afraid he might lash out, storm from the passageway and confront whoever it was that dared to speak of him in hushed tones, but instead, he held you tighter, his breath steady and measured.

The voices lingered for a few more moments, then faded as the men moved away, their conversation growing more distant until the hallway was silent once more. Aerys didn’t move at first, his body unmoving , but after what felt like an eternity, he exhaled softly, loosening his grip on you just enough for you to breathe again.

You stayed in the passage for a few more moments, both of you wrapped in the darkness. You could feel Aerys’s mind working, calculating, his mood shifting. You feared what he might do now, how he might react to the words he had overheard, but for the moment, he remained quiet.

After a long, heavy pause, he finally spoke, his voice low, menacing. “They speak of things they don’t understand,” he whispered, his lips brushing against your ear. “But we’ll show them, won’t we, my daughter? They’ll see that no one can take you from me.”

You nodded, your throat tight, unsure of what else to say. The threat in his words hung between you, heavy and undeniable. Whatever the men outside had been planning, Aerys would not forget their words. And neither would you.

[icarusignite]

An Eye for an Eye Ch.10

MASTERLIST / ao3 / wattpad

Pairing: Aemond Targaryen x OC

"I am malicious because I am miserable. Should I not be shunned by all mankind."

Summary: Lord Boros Baratheon of Storm's End is offered a chance to bend the knee to Rhaenyra Targaryen, and when he refuses, his ambitious daughter is more than happy to sacrifice him for his seat. And who better to support her cause than Daenys, the girl she has built a careful friendship with over the years for this very reason.

Word Count: 5.5k

The grounds of Dragonstone lay bathed in the soft hues of early morning, a tranquil aura hanging in the air like a whispered secret. Dew-kissed grass sparkled beneath the gentle caress of dawn's first light, while the distant echo of birdsong danced on the breeze, and Daenys Velaryon stood silently amidst the serene tableau, her figure a mere silhouette against the backdrop of the ancient stone walls of the castle behind her. 

Beside her stood the Queen with a furrowed brow, her expression etched with concern as she gazed upon her daughter, sensing the coils of tension that wound so tight inside of her that she dreaded the moment she wound finally burst. 

"Daenys," Rhaenyra's voice finally broke the silence. "Are you sure about this? You've only just returned. I cannot bear to lose you again so quickly."

The princess turned to face her mother, her eyes reflecting the weight of her decision. She reached out, taking Rhaenyra's hand in her own, the touch a silent reassurance. Pressing a tender kiss to her mother's hand, she then pressed it to her own forehead, a gesture of filial love and respect.

"I must do this, Mother," her voice resolute, her words inlaid with Valyrian steel itself. "I will return, and I will not return empty-handed. You have my word."

There was something dark in her tone, the same sort of vicious conviction that had hovered over her for the past few days, and Rhaenyra's heart clenched, a mixture of pride and fear warring within her. 

"If this is truly your path, then I will not stand in your way, but before you go, I have something for you."

As Rhaenyra's words hung in the air, Daenys's heart quickened with anticipation, her uninjured eye widening in surprise as her mother produced the unexpected gift from behind her, withdrawing the sword slowly, its hilt gleaming in the soft morning light.

Daenys's breath caught in her throat at the sight of the weapon, her gaze drawn irresistibly to its familiar form. Tears threatened to spill, but she fought against them, steeling herself against the tide of emotions that threatened to overwhelm her.

It was stunning; dark grey, almost black, with a ripple-patterned surface that was distinctive to Valyrian Steel. Daenys reached out, her fingers trembling slightly as they brushed against the cool metal, tracing the length of the blade with a reverence born of familiarity. 

Elegant in its simplicity, the longsword was devoid of the ostentatious ornamentation favoured by some, yet its beauty lay in the single sparkling sapphire embedded into the pommel, the colour akin to the clearest of seas on the calmest of days. It had been lovingly polished till it gleamed, well-loved and cared for despite the absence of its original owner, and just the sight of it brought back memories of laughter and the image of a smile that seemed permanently etched into Daenys's heart. 

When she met her mother's gaze, a silent question lingering in the air between them, Rhaenyra's eyes softened with unspoken understanding, her lips curving into a tender smile as she answered the unvoiced inquiry.

"It was his."

I know. 

Of course, Daenys knew. Her father had tried her with the very same sword. She had seen it every morning for years on end, and sometimes when he was feeling particularly generous, he'd let her spar with it. She had been curious about the fate of the sword, but it felt irrelevant in the face of his glaring absence, and she assumed it had been returned to House Velaryon along with the rest of his artifacts. 

"Laenor had never been one for fuss or frills, you know that. But he would have liked for you to have it."

How do you know what he would have wanted?

Did you have it the whole time?

Why give it to me now?

There were so many more questions to ask, yet the forlorn princess could not bring herself to utter the words, and for that her mother was grateful. Rhaenyra didn't think she had it in her to provide truthful responses to her daughter's inquiries and she was glad to be spared the impossible task. She still hadn't reached out to Laenor yet, despite Daemon's insistence that having another dragon rider on their side would be useful. It felt too unfair. Laenor deserved to live a life free from the burdens of court that weighed so heavily on him, far away from the prying eyes and wagging tongues of all those who sought to slander him. To drag him back into a war of the Hightower's creation simply felt too cruel, and yet a part of her yearned to have him by her side once more, if only to tame the fire she could see so plainly in her daughter's eyes. 

He was the only one who could ever mollify her, and by giving Daenys his sword, Rhaenyra liked to think she might stay her hand. Perhaps the memory of the father she had revered would placate her enough to prevent her from doing anything rash that would only endanger her further. 

"Will you name it?"

Daenys realized with some guilt that she could not remember what her father had named the sword. Try as she might, she could not dredge up the memory, and it left her feeling off-kilter. She would have to give it a new name, one befitting all it meant. 

"Queenmaker."

The sun was warm against her when Daenys set off for Storm's End, the waters below her were deceptively calm as she flew across. If she closed her eyes, the crisp morning air felt soothing against her face, and for a moment she could pretend that she was simply going out on a leisurely morning ride. The occasional stinging twitch in her face was remedied by the frequent sips from the flask at her waist, where a freshly brewed batch of the Grand Maester's tonic swirled. His words of caution echoed faintly in her ears as he repeatedly warned her not to overdo it, but Daenys didn't particularly care. It kept the pain at bay and if her fifteen-year-old self had taught her anything, it was that she was an expert at acclimating to poisons she wasn't supposed to ingest. 

She gazed at the horizon and took a moment to enjoy the delicate pastel colours that covered the sky, a seed of reluctance taking root in her heart. She wanted this to end well it was almost pathetically naive. She wanted Lord Borros to apologize for his disobedience and swear allegiance to her mother, and she wanted to return to her Queen without blood staining her hands. 

She just wanted to be her mother's little girl, unblemished and whole. She wanted to live in a world where her brother was still alive, and she was celebrating her name day with those she loved and who loved her in return. 

She just wanted-

There was no time for self-pity as the ground rushed up beneath her and her dragon landed in the courtyard with a mighty roar. Daenys felt a flicker of unease when one of the knights stationed outside flinched at her arrival. She had never elicited such a reaction before. She had never been someone to fear, and she wasn't sure how she felt about it. 

"I am Princess Daenys Valaryon, and I bring a message to Lord Borros from Queen Rhaenyra," she declared as she climbed off, head held high. 

The knight nodded, turning to lead her inside and Daenys felt a strange burst of nostalgia. She had made frequent trips to Storm's End to visit Lady Cassandra, and it hurt to think about how the place that held such cherished memories had become her brother's grave. 

Now, instead of recalling the moments of laughter and afternoons spent sprawled on the grass listening to Cassandra's melodic voice drifting through the trees, all Daenys could think about was Lucerys's final hours. She was walking across the same gravel courtyard he did, climbing up the same stone steps, and if she could just reach her hand through time, she'd grab him by the collar and drag him away from those foreboding doors. She'd pull him away before he ever entered, before he faced lord Boros, or her husband, before she lost him. 

But Daenys Velaryon was no magician or witch and she could not reach through time. She remained hopelessly stuck in her unfortunate present, making the same journey her brother did, and hoping that this time it ended differently. 

"Princess Daenys Velaryon," her accompanying knight announced.

There he sat, Lord Boros Baratheon up on his seat of stone, with a heart hewn from the same unyielding substance. He looked annoyed, a scowl painting his face as if someone had interrupted his breakfast. She met his eyes with an unwavering stare, though inwardly she bristled at the way his gaze lingered on her injury, appraising her with a calculating eye, his lips curling into a smirk

Daenys's hair, pulled back in tightly braided coils, left her face exposed, every line and contour on full display for an audience's perusal. She had allowed Maester Gerardys to pack her wound with salve and wrap it securely, but the scar was still visible no doubt, puckered and angry as it snaked its way down her cheek in a crimson line, a stark contrast against the pallor of her complexion. 

"Well, well, well. Look who we have here. Another one of Rhaenyra's pups?"

Do not be rude. Do not be insolent.

The one-eyed princess took a deep breath. She had promised her mother diplomacy. She had promised to at least try and be civil. 

"The Queen sends her regards," she uttered calmly. "And in her graciousness, she has offered Storm's End another opportunity to ally itself with her."

Lord Boros raised an eyebrow, propping his chin on his hand, suddenly curious. 

"Oh? Is that so? I'm afraid this is no good. The House of the Dragon does not seem to know who rules it, or perhaps it is only a certain faction that is unaware of the circumstances. There is a King now. King Aegon Targaryen, second of his name."

Another deep breath. 

"You have been misinformed then, my lord. There is a Queen. There only ever has been a Queen after the passing of King Viserys, and I sincerely request that you pledge fealty to her. Given your late father's loyalty and goodwill, your past impudence will be forgiven, I am certain. My mother is a forgiving woman."

You will find, however, that I am not.

The Lord of Storm's End laughed. He actually had the gall to laugh in her face, and Daenys felt something angry and violent simmer under her skin. She imagined Luke standing here, rooted to the same spot she was now. Sweet, gentle Luke who always needed assurance, who shied away from the mere mention of confrontation, who had been left all alone in this unwelcoming place with no hand to hold. 

"I humbly urge you to consider her offer, my lord."

"Well, I never...the insolence!" Lord Borros sputtered. "The disrespect that she shows House Baratheon, reminding me of my father's loyalty, and taking mine for granted."

"This kindness is all you deserve to be shown Lord Borros, particularly after breaking your house's sacred oath," Daenys hissed. "Or did you forget that your family swore their swords and banners when King Viserys named Queen Rhaenyra as heir? Is treason truly that effortless?" 

Her patience was wearing thin, and so was Lord Borros's it appeared. 

"Listen, you foolish girl. I shall say to you exactly what I said to your brother when he came begging. Tell your mother that the Lord of Storm's End is not some dog she can whistle up at need to set against her foes."

"How dare yo-"

"King Aegon has promised the hand of his son, the crown prince Jaehaerys to one of my daughters. I would be a fool to reject such a generous offer."

"Jaehaerys ?" Daenys looked bewildered, her frustration momentarily forgotten. "He is just barely out of infancy."

"A crown prince is a crown prince. It will still ensure that my bloodline will one day sit on the Iron Throne. A Baratheon will be king in the future."

"I am not here to bargain or barter with you. Only to present my mother's message of goodwill...so one final time, I strongly urge you to accept her terms, my lord."

"Rhaenyra should stop sending more of her children here disguised as diplomats. You would think she'd have learned her lesson after what happened to the last one, but no, that girl was never one for common sense. It is obvious that the progeny of House Hightower is not to be trifled with," Lord Borros sneered and Daenys's jaw tightened, sending a stab of pain through her face.

"That girl is your queen" she snapped, scowling. "Speak her name with the respect she deserves or do not speak it at all! My brother met his end on your lands. If you cannot take responsibility, then the least you can do is show reverence. My mother is the Queen of Westeros and the 7 Kingdoms, and you will refer to her as such!"

Lord Boros's smile grew as if he was dealing with a petulant child, and in that moment Daenys felt like one. 

Helpless. Foolish. Pathetic. 

"Ah, Rhaenyra really outdid herself this time. She sent me an ill-tempered little girl to argue matters of state. Like mother, like daughter I suppose, and this is why women are simply unfit to rule," Lord Boros waved a hand at her condescendingly as if to dismiss her. "Return home princess, and hope that your husband takes you back after your treasonous display."

This was her breaking point, marking the single moment where Daenys felt something solidify inside of her. It was hard to ignore the primal urge coursing through her veins, a fierce longing to unleash the fury that simmered beneath the surface. Her fingers twitched, the metallic tang of her father's sword calling out to her like a siren's song, its weight a comforting presence at her waist.

She could almost imagine it, the image clear in her head. She would unsheathe the blade, and charge forward, the sword slicing through the air like the Stranger's scythe, each stroke a symphony of destruction as she cut down all who dared stand in her path. The guards, loyal servants of Lord Boros, would swarm around him like a protective barrier, their swords raised in defence of their master, but they would be no match for her. 

The clash of steel would ring out like thunder, the sound of metal meeting metal echoing through the hallowed halls of Storm's End and Daenys's blood would sing when she would raze them all until all they lay at her feet. She would survey the carnage that lay in her wake, blood coating her skin from head to toe, a macabre tapestry of crimson that bore witness to the price of her vengeance.

There was more rage inside of her than she knew what to do with. 

Still, it would not be enough. Not yet.

The final strike would be reserved for Lord Boros, and she would christen her father's blade with the blood of a lord. Then perhaps the ache would stop, if only to be replaced by the rot of sin. 

But, the truth was, Daenys was no knight, no seasoned warrior hardened by years of training and battle. Even at her best, she could never hope to match the skill and strength of the trained sentries that guarded the castle walls. Her hands would tremble and she would find her sword suddenly much too heavy to lift. 

With only half-functional vision, her depth perception skewed and her movements hindered, any attempt to confront Lord Boros and his guards would be nothing short of suicidal, and despite her desperate desire to meet the Stranger, she could not do it here. Of all places, Storm's End would not be her grave. Her mother would not lose another child here. 

Delusions of grandeur could not change the harsh reality of her situation, and she felt foolish all over again. What did she even think to accomplish by coming here? She should have known this would happen, given the tales of Lord Boros's nature that his daughter had regaled her with. 

"Very well, my lord. I do hope you remember that Queen Rhaenyra Targaryen made every effort to avoid bloodshed; to settle things with civility. You should know that only you are to blame for what is to follow."

"Is that a threat, princess?"

"No," Daenys tipped her head in a polite bow. "A promise."

And then, with a final nod of dismissal, she turned on her heel and made her way toward the exit, the knight who had accompanied her inside, far behind. She knew her way around well enough, and just as she turned a corner at the threshold of the gates, the sound of running footsteps shattered the stillness, echoing behind her. Daenys turned, her heart quickening with anticipation, to find a dark-haired girl gasping for breath as she sprinted toward her.

It was Cassandra Baratheon, her face flushed with exertion and her eyes momentarily blown wide with surprise as she beheld Daenys's scarred visage. For a moment, neither spoke, the weight of unspoken words hanging heavy in the air between them.

Cassandra felt a pang of concern, a flicker of a flame that might have grown into a wildfire if she let it fester. She wanted to take her face in her hands and peel away the bandages, to inspect the nature of the injury and ask her who had done this to her.

Her dearest friend, one of her most beloved. 

She had a sinking suspicion that she knew the answer to her queries already, particularly after the show the one-eyed prince had put on just a few weeks ago. Cassandra had always found Daenys's eyes to be her most striking feature, and even now, she longed to brush away the stray strand of hair that fell over the bandage, to pull the truth from her like water from an old well.

But Cassandra Baratheon knew better than to pry, her curiosity tempered by their ominous circumstances. Daenys was not here as her friend, she was here as an envoy, and she no doubt held her family responsible for the demise of her brother. 

"I heard you came," she managed breathlessly.

Daenys gave her a tight-lipped nod in response, her expression unreadable as she met Cassandra's gaze.

"And you're leaving again?"

The Targaryen princess shrugged as if to say, what is there to stay for?

"I...do not share my father's sentiments," Cassandra muttered, her expression darkening. "You must know that."

She didn't know why it was so important that Daenys knew that, but it was. 

"You are his firstborn, his heir even," the princess finally spoke, her voice low. "I am sure your words hold some importance to him."

Cassandra snorted, "You don't truly believe that do you?"

Another shrug from Daenys. 

"I am not even his heir. He keeps waiting for a son who will never arrive, and he refuses me my rightful inheritance."

As Cassandra's quick steps closed the distance between them, Daenys felt a rush of urgency prickling at her skin. Before she could react, Cassandra's hands were upon her shoulders, her fingers digging into them, practically slamming her into the shadowed alcove, away from prying eyes and ears.

The suddenness of her action caught the princess off guard, her breath catching in her throat as she found herself crowded into the narrow space, the cool stone pressing against her back. It was strangely reminiscent of all the times they had hidden from Cassandra's sisters during their games, but the atmosphere between them now held none of that pleasant nonchalance. 

"If I were Lady of Storm's End," Cassandra's words were a harsh whisper, edged with determination, her gaze fierce as she met Daenys's. "I would not make the same mistake as my father. I would swear allegiance to the true queen of Westeros."

Oh.

This was a turn of events Daenys was not expecting. The last thing she thought she would see was Lord Boros's own daughter admitting to treason under his very roof, but perhaps she should have foreseen it. There was a reason that she was known as one of the Four Storms after all, and it had more to do with the fact that she became a force to be reckoned with once she set her mind to something. 

Before she could respond, Cassandra stepped back, her demeanour suddenly casual as she brushed imaginary dust from Daenys's shoulders with a bitter smile playing upon her lips.

"After all, who would know better than I what it's like to be scammed out of one's inheritance."

As Cassandra searched for something else to say, the right words to say, a multitude of thoughts swirled within her mind like a tempest threatening to break free. There was so much she wanted to express, so many apologies left unspoken and grievances left unaddressed. But none of it seemed meaningful enough, none of it could bridge the chasm that was quickly forming between them.

With a heavy sigh, she found herself at a loss, her gaze dropping to the ground as she struggled to find the courage to speak. She did not want to dredge up the painful memories of her brother's death and remind Daenys of her grief, so, with a sense of resignation, she settled on the simplest truth she could muster.

"I missed you."

I wish you had not married him.

As Daenys made her way towards the waiting form of Silverwing, her massive frame dominating the courtyard like a titan of old, Cassandra found herself rooted to her spot, unable to tear her gaze away from the majestic creature before her—and her dragon.

The dragon's silver scales glinted in the sunlight, each one shimmering like a star in the daytime, and it waited patiently for the command to take off, large unblinking eyes fixed upon its rider with a mixture of anticipation and impatience.

The moments stretched into eternity, but Daenys remained motionless, smoothing her hand down the beast's side, deep in thought. The dragon shifted restlessly, her massive form trembling with pent-up energy as she shook her head and unfurled her wings in a silent plea for departure.

Still, Daenys could not make herself climb on and take her leave. Not yet anyway. Not when Luke's pitiful face swam in her consciousness. Her encounter with Casandra had left her feeling hollow. Gone were the violent thoughts of setting the place ablaze, because while her enmity with Lord Boros ran hot in her veins, she had nothing against his daughters. 

She could not return home empty-handed though. She had made a promise, and of all the things she was, she was not a liar. 

Briefly, she wondered if Cassandra was making an attempt to convince her father, and how effective her words were going to be for a man who held no regard for daughters, even if they were his own. 

Daenys must have stood there for hours on end, and eventually, the sun began to dip lower in the sky, casting long shadows across the courtyard, tension hanging thick in the air like a storm waiting to break. 

Finally, the gates of the castle swung open with a heavy creak, and Lord Boros stormed out, his expression thunderous as he made his way to stand right in front of the massive dragon's agitated form. Flanked by four knights, his presence was imposing, his authority palpable in every stride.

Daenys's gaze flickered with curiosity as she noticed Cassandra trailing behind her father, her expression unreadable as she watched the scene unfold. But instead of joining Lord Boros at his side, Cassandra veered off towards a corner of the courtyard, beckoning for one of the knights to follow her. Daenys found the placement curious, but she had little time to dwell on it as Lord Boros's booming voice shattered the silence.

"You must leave at once. Your presence here is unsettling to my household, and I will not tolerate it any longer!"

Daenys met Lord Boros's gaze with a steely resolve, her jaw set in determination as she squared her shoulders and stood her ground. She knew that her presence was a thorn in his side, a reminder of the simmering tensions that threatened to boil over at any moment. But she would not be intimidated, not by Lord Boros or anyone else. She had a mission to fulfill, a duty to her family.

"I will leave when I am ready, my lord, but not a moment sooner."

Lord Boros's face darkened with rage, his fists clenched at his sides as he struggled to contain his temper. 

"This is certainly no way to convince me of an alliance."

"I am done trying to beg for an alliance with a man who has no honour," Daenys voice came out soft and measured.

Perhaps it was a foolish thing to say, but her grief was her rage and rage made one foolish. 

"You come into my home and threaten me. And then you say that I am the one without honour? It seems as though Rhaenyra needs to teach her children manners."

Manners? Where had manners gotten any of them? Her mother in all her sweetness had been betrayed by the one she called a friend. Her brother was the most well-behaved child there ever was, and he too had met his end. 

No, Daenys was done being well-behaved. 

"King Aegon will not stand for this," the Lord of Storm's End fumed. "The Baratheons are his allies. He will send men to deal with you. You will face severe repercussions for your rash behaviour. He will send his brother the Kinslayer to defend us even. One does not cross the likes of him and live to tell the tale. just ask your foolish brother, princess."

"I will deal with Aemond Targaryen when the time comes," Daenys spat, her husband's name poison on her tongue.

"You are no match for him. They don't call him the Kinslayer for nothing."

Daenys's fingers clenched into fists, her nails digging bloody crescents into her palms. 

"Killing my brother earned him that title! It is not a fearsome thing to be boasted about. It is a brand for killing a child. A child!"

"Blood is always shed at war, princess. This is the way of things. You would know if you were older and less naive."

If Daenys was capable of it, she would have laughed at him. She would have laughed at his suggestion and the ideas he put into her head, ideas of his own annihilation. It would have been amusing if it wasn't so horrific, if the thought of her desires didn't make her sick.  

Beside her, her dragon let out a growl, a jet of steam bellowing out of its nostrils and up into the sky. Behind her, Cassandra's words floated through her ears once more. 

If I were Lady of Storm's End, I would swear allegiance to the true queen of Westeros.

Her brother's baleful last words echoed in her mind as well, as he tearfully asked her when he'd see her again. 

You can't be the one to go first. I'd never be able to bear it. Just the thought of not seeing you for a few days is making me sick, forget an eternity. I'd never survive.

In a twisted sort of way, she had obeyed his final wish. She had not been the one to leave first. He had, and for that, she'd never forgive herself. 

If blood was always shed at war, then she'd show him just how true it was, consequences be damned. 

"Qēlos," she muttered to her dragon, using the High Valyrian name she had given it, though seldom used. "Dracarys."

The command was uttered so softly that only the great beast could hear, and it wasted no time, her instincts honed by centuries of obedience and loyalty. With a flare of its nostrils as the only warning, it unleashed a torrent of flame from her gaping maw, the searing heat engulfing the figures stationed directly in front of her.

There was no time for them to react, no chance for them to flinch or flee as the flames consumed them with merciless efficiency. Their eyes widened in realization, a silent scream of terror frozen upon their lips as the inferno consumed them whole.

The smell of acrid smoke and burning flesh filled the air, a sickening miasma that clawed at Daenys's senses and threatened to overwhelm her. She recoiled in horror at the sight before her, her stomach churning with a wave of revulsion.

She was now a monster, a purveyor of death and destruction, and the weight of that realization bore down upon her with crushing force. She had never taken a life, and now she had taken four. Tears pricked at the corners of her eye as she surveyed the charred remains of the men who had dared to oppose her, their once proud forms reduced to nothing but smouldering husks amidst the wreckage of the courtyard. Their screams had been cut short before they even had a chance to begin, their lives extinguished in an instant by her merciless fury.

Then, Cassandra strode forward with purpose, her expression resolute as she pressed a sealed letter into Daenys's trembling hands. The princess raised an eyebrow in question, her gaze flickering between the letter and her friend's determined expression.

"You may take this to Queen Rhaenyra," she commanded, her tone unwavering. "A letter from the Lady of Storm's End, swearing our allegiance to the true sovereign of Westeros."

How curious. Her father's charred corpse had scarcely cooled, but here she was already prepared to take his place. Daenys had to admit she was impressed. 

"And in return," Cassandra continued, her meaning clear in her piercing gaze, "we hope that as our ally, the queen will support our house in its future endeavours against our enemies."

Daenys nodded in understanding, "Then I leave House Baratheon in your capable hands, my lady."

"I hope that you will return to visit...often...to commemorate our new alliance."

"Perhaps."

"That will have to do for now, I suppose. Thank you, and farewell."

The lady took the princess's hands in her own, holding on for a few moments before she had to let go. 

"Try not to feel too guilty about it, princess. In times of war, extreme measures must be taken for the good of the people. And besides, he was never very good at being a father," she murmured into her ear. 

Daenys was unsure if she truly deserved Cassandra's gratitude or her words of assurance, and they did little to put her at ease, but she accepted it nonetheless. What else was there to do? Her guilt would not absolve her. What was done was done. 

As Daenys flew back to Dragonstone, she took several gulps of the Grand Maester's tonic, exhaling sharply as her wound throbbed anew. She thought this would have made her feel better. That it would fill the ache in her chest where the memory of her brother resided but somehow it had only made it worse. The emptiness became sharper and she wondered if Luke would think her a monster after learning of her actions. Would he have hated her if he had known that she was capable of this? She supposed there was a twisted comfort in not knowing. The fact that her darling little brother would never have to witness her becoming this horrific thing and that he only ever had good memories of her. 

She was no longer her mother's little girl, unblemished or whole. The world no longer contained Lucerys Velaryon and she would never again celebrate her name-day, because now it was the day he perished. 

Turning nine and ten had never been lonelier. 

She was a murderer. She had taken a life. She had killed a man in the courtyard of his own home, but at least she was bringing home a victory, she was bringing her mother Storm's End, and consequences be damned, she would be the scapegoat and bearer of every wicked deed the Blacks would have to commit to win the war. 

A/N: likes/reblogs/comments are highly appreciated, would love to hear your thoughts <3

[skyloftian-nutcase]

you wanted writing prompts, so consider-- Wars and Twilight, fatal injury version ("do you think I can keep the sword-" "youre bleeding out shut up")

Spirits above. No, no, no--

Twilight scrambled to Warriors, who was kneeling on the ground just beside the lizalfos he'd managed to finish off despite being skewered by it. They'd run into a horde of beasts on their own, and though they initially had been handling it with ease, the monsters had called for reinforcements and the situation had become dire quickly.

Sliding to his knees, the Ordonian caught his brother by the shoulder before the captain could collapse. Warriors was gasping for air, but somehow managed to flash a cheeky half smile. "That ended well."

"Captain--"

"Do you think I can keep the sword?"

"For the love of Ordona, you're bleeding out, shut up!" Twilight snapped as he desperately thought of what to do. The sword should remain where it was because pulling it would only make Warriors bleed faster. Twilight didn't have any potions, and Warriors' supplies were with Wind after the sailor had asked to look for something in his adventure pouch before they'd separated.

"It's all right," Warriors said, his mirth fading as he coughed and groaned. "I knew I'd go out like this. You live by the sword, you die by the sword. I... I'm at peace with this."

Twilight opened his mouth to protest and found he had nothing to say. This couldn't be happening. This was--this was so wrong, they weren't even in his era, his own people wouldn't be here, he--this wasn't right, this was stupid, there was no way his brother was going to die because they happened to be patrolling on their own and he couldn't defend him--

Warriors raised a trembling hand to cup his brother's cheek, a tired smile pulling at his lips. "I'm glad I don't have to die alone, though."

A sob tore out of Twilight then, and he placed his hand over the captain's, holding it there. The captain's smile grew warm, and he closed his eyes, his gasps growing more and more ragged.

Twilight's panic driven fixation on his brother's quickly deteriorating state was pierced by the sound of something rustling in the distance. He whipped his head around, tears trailing down his cheeks, rage and fear and desperation swirling in his chest and holding his voice hostage. When a silhouette formed and then turned into a familiar face, his words came out all at once.

"Help! Help, it's the captain, he's hurt badly, please--"

Time's eyes widened in surprise and horror at hearing his pup's pleas. He hurried over to them, already reaching for his pouch as he knelt on Warriors' other side.

"Pull it out," Time ordered brusquely, already pulling out a glowing bottle.

Twilight tried to argue, not wanting to hurt his brother, and Time repeated his order, more sharply than before. The rancher took a shaky breath, releasing the captain's hand as it fell limply from his hold. Then he wrapped his fingers around the hilt of the sword as Time held the captain tightly. A swift pull wrenched not only the blade, but a scream of pure agony out of Warriors, which was immediately harmonized with a gentle chiming of fairy magic. When the fairy had finished its job, Time pulled apart the tattered tunic to see that the wound was in fact gone.

Warriors whimpered, beginning to cry desperately. Time pulled him into a tight hug, burying the captain's face into his chest. He didn't move, and he didn't say anything to soothe the younger Link. Twilight watched the scene, emotionally spent beyond words, relieved and horrified and not sure how to process everything.

Warriors' sobs echoed in the air, and Twilight couldn't parse out of it was pain, relief, or anguish.

[the-lonelybarricade]

My Kingdom Come Undone - (1/3)

Summary: There weren’t many ways Elain was allowed to want. Most things were decided for her, every path laid down before she’d even been born, where she was simply expected to follow. Lucien, with his cunning eyes and smart mouth, was something that no one had chosen for her. And even if she could never have him, that couldn’t stop Elain from wanting him. Desperately.

An Elucien Royal Guard x Princess AU for @elainweekofficial's Day 3: Blood and Water prompt.

CW: Explicit content, eventual non-graphic violence.

Read on AO3

-

“Elain—”

Elain quickly turned her head to deliver a sharp hush between her teeth, pushing a single finger to her lips.

As was typical of any man, the Lord ignored her in favor of hearing his own voice. He whispered, “Do you know where—”

“Shhh!”

The sound was made harsher by her irritation, and it wasn’t lost on her that the shushing was louder than the whisper itself. But Elain had planned this all so carefully, and she wasn’t about to let Graysen ruin it by being a clumsy fool who had always been given what he wanted, so he’d never needed to hone his stealth. She had chosen this path through the garden purposefully, so that the soft moss swallowed each of their footsteps, and the thick canopy obscured them from the guard tower in the stone turrets just above.

She parted the vines of a large weeping willow, where yesterday she had already brought over a blanket folded neatly into a woven basket. Graysen watched, a smile creeping over his face, as she laid it over the dirt and primly climbed atop it.

“Well,” she said, flipping a lock of curls over her shoulder, hoping to expose more of the decolletage from the dress that she had also selected with purpose. “Are you going to join me?”

Elain could track the exact moment where all thoughts vacated his mind, and soon Graysen was kneeling between her legs on the blanket, bracketing her body with his.

“Everyone told me that you’re a proper lady,” he said, clearly having a difficult time moving his eyes away from the swell of her breasts. They trailed up, slowly, to her lips. He smiled like a man in a stupor. “I’m beginning to think they have not known you the way I do.”

“Perhaps you are a bad influence,” she said, breathlessly. His lips were getting closer, reminding Elain that for all her exuded confidence, she had not actually done this before, nor did she have any intention to.

“I would be honored to influence you further.”

Graysen’s hand was clammy and Elain did her best not to recoil when he pressed it against her shoulder, following the slope upwards, past her fluttering pulse, so that he could cradle his fingers beneath her neck. She was beginning to think she had not planned this carefully, afterall.

“Your highness.”

Oh thank the gods, she thought, ignoring Graysen’s frantic scramble off her body as light flooded the dim space. They both turned to its source—to the man who stood at the edge of the willow, an arm held aloft to part its vines. Sunlight shafted past his shoulders, gilding his silhouette like he were forcing them to bear witness to his magnificence. Though, there was nothing magnificent about his face. At least not presently. Where Lucien’s face was usually lovely, now it was set into a harsh, disapproving frown.

His russet and gold eyes flicked between Elain and Graysen. They settled on Graysen, who was shriveling beneath that gaze with none of the bravado he had assumed when he snuck out with Elain in the first place. It was the scar, Elain thought. The way it slashed through Lucien’s brow and the corner of his lip made his frown look all the more menacing.

“Lord Graysen,” Lucien said, voice flat. She noticed his free arm shift, so that his long, elegant fingers rested on the hilt of his golden sword. A tad too threatening for a guard addressing his charge and her company. “Your father is looking for you. Something about a scandal and a hushed pregnancy with a scullery maid. You wouldn’t know anything about that, would you?”

Cheeks growing redder by the second, Graysen mumbled an apology as he pushed his way out of the privacy of the willow tree. Leaving Elain, ever so briefly, in the company of Lucien Vanserra. His jaw was clenched, accentuating the muscle in his cheek. Elain knew he thought he looked very intimidating when he stared at her like that. And she would pretend it was shame that made her cheeks heat, so that he would never stop doing it.

“You didn’t need to embarrass him.”

Lucien snorted. “He did that without my interference.”

“Well,” she said, feigning obstinance as she laid back on the blanket. “It’s a shame you came all this way to interrupt us, because I intend to lounge beneath the willow whether the lord is in my company or not.”

With a long suffering sigh, Lucien ducked into the willow, letting the vines fall shut behind him. “Sounds like we have a lovely day ahead of us, then.” His voice was snide, like he was doing the opposite of what she wanted when he lowered himself to the ground.

Elain supposed, in a way, he was. She would have preferred if he sat on the blanket.

“I’m not stupid,” he added. Elain held her breath, nervous at what he put together, until he said, “I know the second I leave, you’ll slip right through those gates to sneak back into the village.”

“Hmmm, you caught me.”

Elain kept her voice elusive, knowing her unspoken satisfaction would cause him to stir. Because he hadn’t sniffed out her intentions—not even close. He still thought she had been sneaking out of the castle because she wanted to giggle and toss her hair at the pretty man who worked the counter at the confectioners shop. Lucien had been the one to barge in and drag her home, then, too.

It bothered her, a little, that he was so clueless. When she knew that he was clever and that she wasn’t exactly trying to be subtle. Making grand plans with dull lords for the chance to get a small, private moment alone with him. Sneaking out of the castle because she knew it meant he was the one who would need to chase her down. And yet he was tipping his head back against the great stump of the willow, finding the back of his eyelids far more interesting than the precious time he was made to spend alone in the company of the princess.

Elain knew Lucien hadn’t wanted this job. Not that he’d ever told her as much. He didn’t need to. With the exasperated way he conducted himself whenever she so much as blinked in his direction, it was obvious he resented his position at her side. What she didn’t know was why, when being a member of the royal guard was considered one of the highest positions for a knight.

“The confectioner, at least, has a skillset,” he noted, eyes still closed. Elain was grateful, because it allowed her to freely study his face. Even in the shade of the willow, Lucien seemed to glow from within—a copper fire that lived beneath his warm brown skin, so that he looked perpetually flushed with life. She thought if she could get close enough, she would be able to feel the heat of it, but Lucien always kept a careful distance between them. “And he could keep his sightline above your chest.”

She admittedly hadn’t liked that about Graysen, either.

“Perhaps I should visit him tomorrow.”

Nothing, not a flicker of movement on Lucien’s face to indicate that he cared.

Elain added, “I’m certain he has no affairs with a scullery maid.”

“That you know of.”

“He makes lovely apple tarts,” she tried, desperate for him to at least open his eyes and look at the low sweep of her neckline that she had selected specifically for him. He had once offhandedly mentioned that he found the lace trim appealing. Elain had even tugged it, slightly, so that if he did open his eyes, he would see the way the bodice pushed the tops of her breasts up, giving the illusion of cleavage.

“That he does,” Lucien hummed.

“Maybe we can share one.”

He opened his eyes, then. One after the other—dark russet, then gold. But they didn’t waver from her face, not even for a moment. The Queen’s guards were well trained. Though Elain had been often told she was beautiful, she wondered if Lucien even noticed.

Both scarlet brows raised to his hairline. “I’m included in this excursion, am I?”

“You’ll find a way to include yourself, regardless.” She sighed heavily. “You are incapable of turning a blind eye for even a second.”

“That’s my job,” he said dryly.

“To see that I’ll never be kissed?” She cried, like she wasn’t grateful every time Lucien interrupted.

He shook his head, causing his long red hair to fall over his shoulders. Today, half of it had been braided and tied into a knot at the back of his head, so that not an inch of his beautiful features were obscured. “It would be my head on the chopping block, if I let Graysen do to you what he did to that maid. Your mother has made it very clear who you’re forbidden from consorting with.”

“I don’t care what my mother thinks,” Elain grumbled.

“I do,” Lucien said. He pressed a hand to his throat. It was meant to be a dramatic gesture, but all Elain could think about was how much she wished to feel it wrapped around her throat instead. “I prefer my head attached to my body.”

“Well.” Elain crossed her arms, pushing her breasts up even further and still—still—Lucien’s expression remained neutral, his eyes trained on her face. “You’re not doing yourself any favors for the day I become Queen.”

“The Mother help us all.”

Elain scoffed. “I’m putting you first on the executioner’s block. For crimes against my patience.”

“Just as well,” he said, a smile playing at the corners of his full lips “That I will never be in a position to try you for similar crimes.”

She knew that she was an utter fool, to be insulted by a man and still feel butterflies in her stomach because he said it with a smile. It ought to have been offensive, and yet she wanted to giggle. She opted for grabbing a clump of dirt and chucking it at his shoes, instead.

“Treason,” she accused.

“Honesty,” he corrected, brushing the dirt off his polished boots.

It was like nothing she did could faze him. She wondered why she tried so hard, when it was clear he was uninterested and even if he was, there was nothing either of them would be able to do about it. Lucien hadn’t been lying, when he had said the Queen would have his head. Her mother was focused on finding Elain a suitable match to be the future King Consort, and a royal guard was several times removed from those plans.

But there weren’t many ways Elain was allowed to want. Most things were decided for her, every path laid down before she’d even been born, where she was simply expected to follow. Lucien, with his cunning eyes and smart mouth, was something that no one had chosen for her. And even if she could never have him, that couldn’t stop Elain from wanting him. Desperately.

Elain flopped onto her back, feeling the solid earth beneath the blanket. What would it be like, to be a flower with its roots stretching firmly into the earth, always grounded, never wondering what it was and what it wasn’t.

“Lucien?”

He had shut his eyes again, but this time she did not mind if he kept them shut. She admired the way his features relaxed when he wasn’t scowling—a rare sight, when they were together.

“Yes, your highness?”

“You owe me a kiss.”

“Pardon?”

A small peek over her shoulder saw that Lucien had sat up straighter, his brows drawn together. She would feel pleased she drew a reaction out of him, if it wasn’t clear he was disturbed at the prospect of kissing her.

“You interrupted me with the confectioner, which made me resort to sneaking away with Graysen.” She let some of her distaste show, wanting him to know that kissing Graysen truly hadn’t been a favorable option to her. A last resort that he had pushed her to. “And then you interrupted that, too.”

“I believe, princess, that your mother would have disapproved if you kissed the confectioner or the lord. I was acting in her name.”

Lucien loved to remind her, frequently, that he was not hers to command. It was her mother he reported to and Elain knew she constantly walked a fragile line of disobeying Lucien just enough so that she could steal these precious moments, but so that he wouldn’t be removed as her guard entirely.

“If my mother had her way,” Elain said, tasting each bitter word on her tongue, “I would remain chaste until the day she married me off to some man I’ve never met. I just want something that’s mine, Lucien. Something I’ve chosen for myself, that she won’t be able to take away from me. A kiss seems innocent enough.”

There was a moment of silence. She did not often speak this plainly with him, and she knew he was likely assessing this new information, trying to decide how best a knight should respond to his charge without betraying his loyalty to her mother. Ever calculating, ever dutiful. “Lord Graysen was intending to do more than kiss you,” he said, finally. There was an edge to his voice she found curious.

“I know.” Elain had not known about the maid, though, and she might have reconsidered if she had. “But I have the most annoying guard you’ve ever met, and I knew he would stop us before it got much further than that.”

“And if I had been late?” Lucien growled, fury twisting his once lovely features. “If I had been held up for whatever reason, and hadn’t been there to stop it from progressing beyond a simple kiss?”

Elain sat up, gaping at her guard. He had never used this tone with her before. She had seen him irritated, certainly, but never angry. Never at her.

“I knew you would come,” she said, simply. It had never crossed her mind that he wouldn’t—he always did. She had known it with more conviction than she had known where the sun would rise in the sky.

Lucien was still seething. It dripped into his voice, lacing its deep, honeyed warmth with gravel. “It was foolish to gamble with your body—“

“You weren’t this angry before!” Elain protested, feeling the backs of her eyes begin to sting.“You hadn’t seemed the least bothered when you saw him on top of me.”

“I had thought you wanted it!”

He stood, suddenly, pacing in the small space. Sunlight dappled through the willow vines, shifting across his uniform as he moved.

Elain suddenly felt angry, too. “Maybe if you stopped confining me, I wouldn’t be forced to take such drastic measures.”

“I am not the one confining you!” He snapped. His chest was rising and falling with rapid pace and his hands, though not rested on his sword, were clenched into fists. “I am keeping you safe. That is my only job. If you want to let some lordling fuck you in the dirt, be my guest. I will not be responsible for what your mother chooses to do in retaliation.”

Her lower lip began to tremble and Elain sank her teeth down in an effort to make it still. Lucien paused, his expression softening as he read her face.

“Elain—“

“I’ve had enough of the gardens for today,” she said, coldly. She pushed past the drapes of the willow tree, cringing against the sunny day they’d been evading. “I’m certain my mother is looking for me and she will be grateful that her most loyal guard has delivered me to her.”

It was unsurprising when Lucien stepped in front of her. So much taller that he was always catching up to her with burdensome ease. His posture had gone rigid, as unfeeling as his voice as he intoned, “This way, your highness.”

No longer her Lucien. Just any other guard, doing his duty and nothing more.

-

“Prince Koschei would make a fine match,” The Queen declared. She balanced a porcelain teacup delicately between pinched fingers, its saucer poised in her wrinkled hand below. The Queen raised it only midway to her mouth, never drinking, simply posturing like she might. Elain did not think the Queen was capable of enjoying tea. Of enjoying anything, short of her daughter’s misery.

“Prince Koschei is thirty years my senior,” Elain said, carefully. “Surely there are other, more appropriate matches—“

She was cut off by the clatter of porcelain as the Queen set the teacup and saucer down, hard, on the rich mahogany table.

“None so advantageous,” her mother said, sharply. “We’ve long had tenuous relations with our northern neighbors. An alliance through marriage could unite our peoples, promote growth for both our kingdoms—“

“And would he be content as a consort?” Elain interrupted, slamming her tea onto the table, too. It rattled in the saucer, causing the guards in the corner of the room to flinch.

But not Lucien. He stared straight ahead, eyes so distant she thought he likely wasn’t even listening to a word being said.

“It sounds more as though our Kingdom would simply be swallowed by another Rask monarch, merging as part of their territory.”

“Petulant child, you know nothing of which you speak,” the Queen said, crystal eyes narrowed. Besides her fair complexion, Elain shared little else with her mother. Her brown eyes came from her father, kind and warm in a way the castle had not known since his passing. And the golden brown hair tumbling in curls down her back had been passed down from him, as well. Not her mother’s straight platinum that, accompanied with her cool eyes and stern, narrow face, made her look better suited to rule a kingdom of ice than their warm, sea-faring lands.

“What about Prince Tarquin?” Elain asked, recalling the one time she had met him. He had seemed kind, more appropriate for her age, his claim to his own throne distant enough that she did not see him as someone vying for power. He would make a tolerable husband.

Her mother ignored her, pushing on. “Prince Koschei will be arriving tomorrow with a delegation from Rask. Perhaps meeting him will soften your opinions.” She met Elain’s eyes across the table, daring her to challenge. “If by the end of the week you have won his affections, we can begin discussing wedding preparations.”

Wedding preparations.

The tea curdled in her stomach, making Elain suddenly feel nauseous. She pushed from her chair, ignoring her mothers protests as she stumbled quickly out of the room. Elain had only the presence of mind to feel the wooden doors part beneath her palms, how the marble bit into her knees as she fell to the floor and puked into a potted plant.

A warm hand pressed into the center of her back, rubbing soothing circles as another gently lifted the hair from her face. Her mother, Elain thought, surprised to be comforted. But when she turned her head she glimpsed brown skin and scarlet hair and that turned another bout of nausea in her stomach.

Lucien was watching her puke. It was humiliating, but she supposed it didn’t matter now. She would likely be married against her will by the end of the week. Would he even still be her guard by then? The Prince would probably bring his own, insist his wife be policed by men he trusted, asserting his power when she was meant to be the reigning monarch.

When her stomach was emptied and Elain was left, gasping, her fingers grappling uselessly against the marble for something to hold onto, something to keep her upright, Lucien was there. Tugging her into his arms, lifting her from the floor. She was vaguely aware of being carried up the stairs, but was much more distracted by the feeling of being pressed against Lucien’s broad chest. He was warm, like she suspected, and he smelled like leather and metal and firewood. Not able to resist, she pressed her face against his throat, taking each breath greedily.

“Are you okay?” He murmured.

No—and yes. The yes was temporary. It would end the moment he set her down.

“That depends,” she said, shutting her eyes so she could listen intently to his pulse. Elain had estimated he was a man who was always steady, his every breath measured. But his pulse was beating wildly, too. “Can I hire you out as an assassin?”

He laughed, but the sound was humorless. “I don’t expect I’m skilled enough to assassinate a Raskan prince, not with all the men that would be guarding him.”

Elain bunched the fabric of his uniform beneath her fists, crushing the royal crest he bore above his heart. “What about me?” She whispered, only half joking. “You could do it in my sleep. I could go to bed peacefully, knowing I will not need to confront what tomorrow brings.”

“I could never lay a hand on you,” Lucien said, shutting his eyes like that confession pained him. “I have sworn an oath to the mother goddess that I would sooner die in pursuit of your safety.”

They were nearly to her room now, and the thought of Lucien setting her down was unbearable. She slung an arm around his shoulder, burrowing her face against the warmth of his neck. If she shut her eyes, if she willed this moment last, maybe she could stretch those next seconds into eternity.

One, two, three steps, where time passed the same as any other. Then they were through her bedroom door, and another few steps saw them standing above her bed. Her arms tightened around Lucien’s neck, the closest she would allow herself to begging not to be let go.

“Elain,” he said, gently. She liked it so much better than your highness.

It was the tremor in her arms that made her realize she was crying. That Lucien had said her name because he could feel it, wet against his neck. She thought he would pry her off of him, with that same cold distance he normally applied to their exchanges. But when Lucien saw that she wouldn’t detach of her own volition, he sat on the bed instead, cradling her to his chest. The gentleness shocked her, as did the hands that slid into her hair, lending comforting strokes while he held her.

He didn’t speak, and maybe it was the silence that mortified her because eventually she croaked, “I don’t want to marry him. I really would rather die.”

“And who would take the throne?” He asked, softly. “You have a duty to your people.”

“I’ll poison him, then,” she said. “I’ll slip it into his drink on our wedding night.”

“Now there’s something I finally would turn a blind eye to.”

Elain knew he was saying that only for her benefit, and she couldn’t resist a smile, which she hid against his chest.

Fingers still stroking her hair, Lucien said, “I’m not worried for you. Do you want to know why?”

She could hear the rumble of his voice in the back of his throat. Elain thought she would never be able to hear Lucien speak again, without thinking of how it felt to be pressed against him, to feel his breath at her temple, and those exquisite fingers curling against her scalp.

“Why?”

“Because you are clever, and so insufferably stubborn that I don’t think there’s a force on this earth that could bend your spirit.”

That was what finally coaxed her arm away from his neck, if only so she could pull away to glimpse his face. His eyes were burning, just like they had been beneath the willow when they were arguing. Glowing forges of copper and gold that made Elain swallow past the thickness in her throat. He was enraged, but not at her.

Her grip on his tunic loosened, releasing the now crumpled royal crest. She pushed her fingers out, stretching the fabric until her palm laid flat against his solid chest. His heartbeat reached up to greet her, reminding her with every improbable beat that she was in Lucien Vanserra’s lap, touching him. And from the way his eyes briefly shuttered beneath her too curious palm, she thought maybe he didn’t mind as much as he had always pretended.

“Thank you,” Elain said. It was little more than a whisper, but she felt as if she screamed it, for the way it scraped past her throat. She blinked, wetting her cheeks with the tears still clumped on her lashes. “For carrying me up the stairs, and for reminding me that I won’t be facing this completely alone.”

Lucien’s hand reached up, catching the few stray tears with his thumb. She could feel the scrape of his calluses—a texture she had never imagined when she thought of Lucien touching her face, yet all the more welcome for it. It made the moment feel more real, more tangible.

“It’s my job, your highness.” She could have wept again, that he’d defaulted back to her title, but he was still stroking her face. And he made up for it when he added, “So long as I am alive, you will never face anything alone.”

When he spoke like that, the temptation was simply too strong to resist. Elain caught his hand, so much larger and warmer than her own. She squeezed his fingers, leaning her face all the more into his caress. Elain shut her eyes, trying to memorize the feeling of his skin against her own. When she was lying with her husband and he was touching her, she wanted to retreat to this moment, pretend it was Lucien holding her.

She had almost worked up the courage to ask him to stay, so that she would have more than the memory of his hand against her face to draw from. But Lucien only allowed her to savor the intimacy a moment more, before he dropped his hands and lifted her off his lap.

“I’ll go fetch a maid to draw you a calming bath,” he said, with more stiffness than she would have liked. At his side, he was clenching and unclenching his fingers. Like he was trying to chase away the sensation of holding her.

Elain wracked her brain for something to say that could convince him not to leave, but Lucien was already striding toward the door. Leaving her with little more than the burning memory in her palms.

Soon the maids arrived, corralling Elain into a bath, and she didn’t see Lucien again for the rest of the day. At least, not in person. She saw him in her thoughts, occupying her mind while she let her body take control of her motor function. Breathing, eating, trying to make tentative peace with her mother at dinner. It was all colored by the unnamed emotion in Lucien’s eyes when he had swept his thumb against her cheek. It was much easier to think about him, and his callused hands, than the cruel Prince Koschei who would be arriving tomorrow with the intention of courtship.

So it was Lucien she tried to think about as she went to bed that evening, promising she wouldn’t be alone to face what awaited her. But even the phantom beat of Lucien’s steady heart wasn’t enough to keep back her anxieties. Try as she might to shut her eyes and imagine she was tucked against Lucien’s chest, sleep evaded her. Every time her consciousness started to drift, her mind conjured the face of a man more than twice her age, sharing this very bed with her.

Elain jolted upwards, pushing away the blankets that had become smothering against her damp skin. She was gasping, suddenly desperate for fresh air. Wearing only her nightgown, Elain climbed out of bed to follow the ribbon of moonlight that leaked in through the gap in the velvet drapes. She pulled the thick fabric aside, revealing the balcony doors and the bright stars that waited for her on the other side of the glass.

The handle was cool to the touch—startling against her sweaty palm, but a welcome reprieve. She pushed the door open, immediately greeted by a rush of night air that caressed her flushed skin, already doing wonders in calming her uneven pulse. Elain shut her eyes, trying to slow her breathing, to draw strength from the unyielding night sky.

“Your highness?”

She snapped her eyes open, whirling to see Lucien standing on her balcony. He was still wearing his uniform, the crest above his heart wrinkled from her earlier assault. He bore his golden sword at his hip and if that wasn’t enough to signal he was still on duty, then his rigid posture would have.

“Lucien?” Elain rubbed her eyes, wondering if she had fallen asleep after all. When she dropped her hands, he was still there, watching her warily. “I didn’t know there were guards posted on my balcony.”

Or that you were one of them. If she’d known all this time that Lucien was just outside her door while she slept, she may have come up with more inventive ways of getting them alone.

A ghost of a smile tugged at his mouth. “Your mother wanted me stationed here tonight, in case you attempted to run away.”

Elain was almost flattered that her mother thought she was capable of running away. She’d entertained the idea, and had even stepped onto the balcony earlier to scout the best path towards the gates. But it wouldn’t be like sneaking into the village, where she knew Lucien wouldn’t be far behind to bring her back. She had no idea where she would go—if there even was anywhere she could go, where Lucien wouldn’t be able to find her.

“If I ran away,” she asked, studying his face. The way his eyes surveyed her, noting the way she was dressed. “Would you chase after me?”

An odd look crossed his face. His voice was a little strained as he asked, “Would you want me to?”

Elain hesitated, uncertain of her answer. She would want him to chase her, but not out of duty to her mother. “I wouldn’t want you to bring me back,” she said. “I would want you to find me and stay with me. Like you promised.”

“Then yes, princess.” Lucien's eyes met hers. “I would chase after you, and I wouldn’t rest until I’d found you.”

Emboldened by his words, and the way he was looking at her, Elain took a step closer. “Would you let me run away now?”

“Dressed like that?” He asked, with a roughness to his voice that made her shiver. She would blame it on the cool air. Lucien cleared his throat. “I would let you, if that’s what you wanted, princess.”

She took another step, hardly believing her own brazeness. The wind pulled at Lucien’s hair, blowing close enough that it nearly brushed against her cheek.

Elain whispered, just loud enough that it would remain a secret between herself and Lucien and the wind. “What if I wanted something else?”

He tipped his chin down, casting shadow over his features so that all she could read was the rasp in his voice as he asked, “What is it you want?”

Gods, where to start? Elain took another step forward, the last of the distance between them, and returned her palm to that crest above his heart so she could once more feel the rhythm of his pulse. It was more calming than any hot bath or fresh air.

She dared herself to say it. The words were on her tongue, but still the jitter of her nerves made her hesitate. Would it be too far? It would be something no one could ever take back, something that would always be hers.

“You still owe me a kiss, Lucien.”

Lucien released a large exhale of breath. She felt the shift in his chest beneath her fingers. “Elain—”

He started to step away and Elain fisted the fabric of his tunic, tugging him closer. “Please, Lucien. I do not care about my mother or the prince. I don’t care about duty I just…” she gasped, searching his face, begging him to understand. “I need something that’s mine. I want to be touched for the first time by someone I—” love. “Trust.”

Beneath her grip, he took another long breath. Then he asked, words so precisely measured, “Do you want to be kissed by someone you trust, or do you want to be kissed by me.”

“Both,” she said, quietly. Then, feeling like a coward, she admitted, “I want it to be you Lucien. I have—” she was interrupted by breath expelling rapidly from her lungs, an exodus of her body preparing for the burden of what she was going to confess. “I have always wanted it to be you.”

Lucien could have gotten more from her, if he’d pressed. She would have confessed to the crime of loving him, of constantly making a nuisance of herself to get his attention. It was probably for the better that Lucien took mercy on her, so that it remained a weight she alone carried.

Any of his remaining reservations dropped with his hands as he grasped her around the waist. He lifted her with the same gentleness he had demonstrated earlier, spinning them so that he could set her down on the thick parapet. It left them eye level, allowing him to wedge his body between her legs and venture dangerously close. One of his arms banded around her back to steady her, while the other crept along her jaw, encouraging her face upwards.

Their eyes met as he leaned in. She could see him hesitate, like he wanted to say something. Elain surged forward, terrified it would be something reasonable, wanting to smother his logic before it had a chance to make them wiser. He groaned the second their lips met, which she took as an encouraging sign. Indeed, there was nothing reserved about the way his fingers slid and notched into her hair, how his arm tightened at her back to draw her closer to his body.

His mouth was soft, moving slowly against hers while she became used to the sensation. She liked the way he tasted, rich and earthen, like the smoke of an autumn bonfire. When he licked his tongue across her bottom lip, she parted her lips for him, shutting her eyes as her senses became hazed and overwhelmed with Lucien.

Elain clawed, blindly, for a way to bring him closer, tightening her grip on his tunic while her other hand tangled in his silken hair. Lucien’s tongue swept her mouth, rattling Elain to her bones, knowing she would never be rid of the taste of him. She was attending her own haunting, and she accepted it greedily, meeting him for every stroke. Until she was so consumed with him she couldn’t breathe.

They parted just enough to leave a space for hot, shallow breaths.

“I have wanted to kiss you,” Lucien said, low and rough and breathless, “from the moment I laid eyes on you.”

Then they were kissing again, like he couldn’t stand another moment of breathing air, and neither could she. Elain scooted forward on the parapet, not caring that her nightgown was riding up, only need to get closer to him, to wrap her legs around his—

“Elain,” he groaned, utterly wrecked. The hand on her back dropped to her exposed thigh, curling beneath it to hoist her legs higher.

She felt like she was on fire when she felt his hardened crotch against her stomach. There was no sound past the rushing in her ears and the way he grunted, weak and not at all warrior-like, when she shifted against him.

“Elain,” he gasped again, still kissing her. “Elain, we can’t—“

“Says who?”

“They’ll truly have my head,” he said, pulling his lips away long enough to utter the words, only to fall back to her like gravity demanded it. “Mother condemn me, I shouldn’t want this.”

“I want it, Lucien.” She ground her hips forward to illustrate her point. “I want it more than I can breathe.”

The hand braced against her thigh was trembling. She could feel it beneath her palm, the way his heart had become erratic.

“You’ve never been touched—“

“I want you to be the first,” she insisted, before kissing him in an attempt to distract his protests, which she knew were level-headed and rational. There was no room for such things when she was sharing his breath. Not when her body was hot and aching in a way that was only familiar when she was under her bedsheets, thinking of him.

With a resigned moan, Lucien lifted Elain from the parapet and carried her back into the bedroom. Even as he moved, precariously, through the dark, they could not stop kissing. Every second not touching him was a second wasted.

Elain was certain if she had allowed him a moment to pull away, he would have laid her down on the mattress with more grace. Instead they fell in a tangle of limbs and lips and tongue. She knew little about what came next, but she knew Lucien was far too overdressed for it.

She snaked a hand beneath the hem of his tunic, feeling carved muscle and a patch of coarse hair that led beneath the waistband of his trousers. Elain pushed up, scraping her nails along his abdomen, needing to hear him moan again, to taste it on her tongue.

Strong fingers seized her wrists as Lucien swore softly under his breath.

“I want to take my time,” he said, lowering her wrist back to the bed. Lucien sat up, leaning back on his knees where they rested between her thighs. Warm fingers skimmed her legs as he began pushing up the skirt of her nightgown. “If this is my only chance to touch you, I want to do it right. I want to worship you in ways a spoiled prince could never fathom.”

“All talk,” Elain teased, growing restless for every moment that passed where his lips weren’t against hers. She tugged at his tunic again, but Lucien pulled back, laughing softly.

“No more talking, then,” he said.

In a fluid motion, Lucien slid his hands up to bunch the nightgown above her hips. Cool air pressed in, scalding her in every place her body felt the absence of his. Elain dug her fingers into the sheets, resisting the urge to fly them to her face as Lucien’s heady gaze swept over her bare legs and the wet, silken fabric at the peak of them.

She heard a breath rush out of him, like he’d been struck in the stomach. Then he fell upon her, kissing her hips, her stomach, her thighs. Where his mouth couldn’t caress her, he laid his fingers, lavishing his affection anywhere he could find, until Elain thought she might burst from the ache in her chest. She would never recover from knowing him this way.

“Lucien,” she whispered, releasing her iron grip on the sheets to replace them in his hair instead. She tugged, overwhelmed with the need to feel the heat of his mouth over hers again. “Please—”

“You said no more talking,” he murmured, hooking his fingers into the fabric at her hips. She couldn’t breath as he tugged them down her hips, apprehension building once he’d finished with the task of disrobing her and his eyes roamed back to the apex of her thighs.

Elain could feel his body slacken and, impulsively, she began closing her thighs, trying to hide the sight from him. His hands flew to her knees, gentle in stopping her.

“Cauldron save me,” he whispered, ducking his head back between her thighs. “I am a ruined man, Elain.”

She wasn’t certain what he meant, but when she felt his breath brush against the wetness between her legs, she was less inclined to ask. Nothing could have prepared her for that first lick. When she felt the first soft, velvet heat of his tongue, her hips bowed off the bed. Lucien had to press her back down, holding her to his mouth as he licked her again, a slow stripe all the way through her center.

The sound that came out of her was somewhere between a whimper and a moan, so loud that she finally did let one of her hands fly to her face, covering her mouth to prevent anyone from overhearing. Ordinarily, Lucien might have teased her for it, but he was utterly lost, his eyes fallen shut as he explored her with his tongue, groaning softly like he was the one gleaning pleasure from it.

Her thighs began trembling, held still only by Lucien’s conviction as he licked up and swirled his tongue languidly around her sensitive bud. Elain bit her hand to smother the cries begging to escape, but she could do nothing for the way her hips canted against him, silently pleading for more.

As he continued lashing her with his tongue, one of his hands slipped lower, gliding easily through the mixture of arousal and saliva. A finger teased at entering her, and she felt her heart thunder at that very first push. She felt him still, gauging her reaction intently as he slowly pushed his finger further, letting her accommodate to the sensation of having something inside her. Elain whimpered, tugging at his hair again. She didn’t want him to stop, needed to feel his mouth move against her. Lucien tongued at her clit in response, causing them to moan in tandem when her body tightened around his finger.

The more he licked, the more she relaxed, until he was able to begin moving his finger in rhythm with his tongue, coaxing a heat into her spine she had never encountered when touching herself this way. The pressure built as he slipped another finger inside her and he began rubbing against a cluster of nerves that had her seeing stars.

“That’s it,” Lucien whispered, voice roughened with lust. “Come for me, princess. Come on your guard’s fingers.”

Her entire body clenched, seizing with the sudden onslaught of pleasure that crested over her, large and inescapable as a tidal wave. She smothered a scream behind her palm, vision turning white as Lucien continued moving against her, working her through the ravaging pleasure.

She collapsed into the bed once it passed, gasping. Lucien withdrew his fingers and with a final, sucking lick that felt more for his benefit, he raised his head from her thighs to meet her eyes.

“Would you like to go to sleep now, princess?”

“No,” she whispered, reaching again for his tunic. “Not until I’ve seen you undressed.”

“So demanding, you royals,” he murmured, helping her frantic efforts to get the fabric over his head. He unbuckled his scabbard, letting his sword clamber to the ground. Then she was unlacing his trousers, staring at the swath of red hair beneath his naval, suddenly overcome with the need to trace it with her tongue. Lucien groaned. “I can’t think straight with you staring at me that way, Elain.”

“Good,” she whispered, tugging both waistbands down his hips. “It puts us finally on equal footing.”

Elain finally understood why Lucien sounded as though he’d been punched when he saw her naked for the first time. It was akin to how she felt, when she pushed the fabric past his erection and saw a man, entirely naked, for the first time in her life. He was beautiful, all golden brown skin and lean muscle. And the appendage between his legs was large—much larger than the two fingers that had been inside her.

She stared at the flushed, gleaming head in fascination, trying not to let its size intimidate her. Slowly, uncertain if it was allowed, she reached forward to wrap her hand around it, surprised to find the flesh soft and rigid. It pulsed beneath her hand, and Lucien grunted as she ran a slow pump down his length.

“Lay back,” he said, the words nearly garbled.

They were both far too distracted to relish the rare moment of Elain doing exactly what she was told. Lucien aligned their bodies, his mouth finding hers again as he began running his length through her slit, coating himself in her arousal.

“Are you certain about this, Elain?” He asked. She could feel him shuddering from the restraint of keeping his body still, prepared to seize himself if she denied him. Elain couldn’t think of anything worse.

“Yes, Lucien, I’m certain. I—” she almost said it. She wanted to say it, wanted him to know how much she cherished him. But was that selfish of her, to tell him she loved him, only to marry another man by the end of the week? A courtship and marriage that he would be forced to witness, as her impartial guard. “I want this,” she said instead.

She thought she might have seen something—disappointment, or maybe relief—flicker in his eyes. It disappeared the moment he notched his head against her entrance, just enough that she whimpered at the pressure. Lucien immediately kissed her, trying to soothe the ache of the stretch by holding her with such devastating gentleness. His hand found hers, their fingers twining as he continued sinking slowly into her body.

“Fuck,” he whispered, his breathing suddenly ragged. Elain squeezed her eyes shut, breathing through the strange, somewhat intrusive sensation. “Elain—” She liked the way he said it, like he was choking, so overcome with pleasure he couldn’t speak. “Fuck. You feel amazing. Does it—Are you okay?”

“Yes,” she whispered, with a small shift of her hips that caused Lucien to groan.

He slipped his freehand between their bodies, expertly rolling his thumb over her swollen clit. “Is that better?”

It was answered with a buck of her hips and a small keening noise as Elain’s discomfort shifted almost immediately into pleasure. Her body relaxed, allowing Lucien to push further, until his hips were flush against hers, and there was not a single barrier that existed between them.

Lucien’s tongue swept back into her mouth, allowing Elain to taste herself on his tongue. They stayed like that for a small eternity, kissing sweetly while he continued rubbing between her thighs, letting her adjust to the way it all felt, until the pleasure began to drive her mad. She dug her fingers into his back, rocking her hips against his to urge him to move.

She could feel him smile against her mouth. “My beautiful princess,” he murmured, slowly sliding out. “Say it again, that you want me.”

He was the one who was beautiful, with his hair falling over them in a scarlet veil, his cheeks flushed and his eyes heady with desire. Elain brushed his hair away to see more of his face, hoping that loving touch conveyed all the sentiment she couldn’t yet force herself to confess. Then she used her grip on his hair to bring his mouth back to hers, kissing him again and again—feverishly.

“I want you, Lucien,” she said, breathlessly, between those awful moments where his mouth wasn’t slotted against her own.

He was teasing her now, holding himself just outside her body while he continued those torturous circles with his fingers. “So obedient like this, princess,” he broke their string of kisses to whisper. “If only I had known all this time, I just needed to offer up my cock to get you to listen.”

“Don’t be crude,” she complained, half in scandal and half in her utter desperation to feel his tongue and cock inside her again.

His hips retreated further, the smile on his lips turning cruel. “You don’t want my cock, then?”

“Lucien.”

“Say it, princess.” The fingers between her legs picked up pace, driving her to madness. “Ask me to give you my cock.”

Elain dug the backs of her heels into his backside, trying to encourage him forward. When he resisted, she whispered, “Please Lucien.” And when that, too, was ineffective, she added, “Please, give me your cock.”

That earned her another sweet kiss. “As my princess commands,” he said, thrusting back inside her.

With the combination of his fingers, it quickly spun her over an edge she hadn’t known she’d been approaching. Elain’s scream was swallowed by his lips as she shattered around him, her nails scraping mercilessly over his scarred back. Lucien groaned, continuing to thrust and work his fingers against her while hot fire burst behind her eyes, through her veins, branding her soul in a way that felt irreversible, until she was little more than the drifting ash of a wildfire.

“That’s it,” he whispered as she began to come down. “You’ve done so well, Elain.”

Lucien’s own rhythm started to stutter, and to her dismay he pulled out of her body, crying out as hot, white liquid spurted from the tip and landed on her smooth stomach. His breathing was labored as he leaned down to offer her another quick kiss, before disappearing into the bathing room. He returned with a wet cloth that he used to gently clean the majority of the mess on her stomach and between her thighs.

When he finished, Lucien slid into the bed beside her, drawing her flush against his sweaty skin. His hands raked into her hair, stroking along her scalp, reminiscent of the way he’d held her earlier that day.

“How are you feeling?” He murmured, chasing the question with a kiss to her damp temple.

“Incredible.” It was the truth, ignoring all the anxieties and trepidation that laid deeper. They grew harder to ignore the longer Elain thought of what waited for her on the other side of the dawn.

Lucien seemed to know it, because he hummed like he wasn’t convinced. “You should sleep,” he said. “You have a long day ahead of you tomorrow.”

Elain thought again of that man from her dreams, her mind’s overwrought projection of the one she’d meet tomorrow. Not yet prepared to face him, nor the coming morning, Elain shook her head and cured her face and against his chest.

“Will you stay?”

The words were muffled against his skin, but Lucien heard them well enough to answer, “I’ll stay.”

-

Elain woke to the sound of her chamber doors being thrown open. She scrambled immediately for the blankets, pulling them up to cover her naked body. The maid’s eyes were the size of saucers as she looked towards the bed. For a moment, Elain couldn’t speak past the panic that seized her, thinking they had been caught. The maid would surely tell her mother, and Lucien would be—

Gone. Lucien wasn’t there when Elain turned, expecting to find him equally exposed. The sheets were cold, telling her he had left long ago. Seeing as it had already been late into the morning when she found him on the balcony, she wondered if he had even gone to sleep at all. Had he simply slipped out the moment she drifted off? For some reason, that thought stung.

“Your highness,” the maid said, locking the chamber door before rushing to the wardrobe. She hardly looked at the clothes she threw over her arm. “You must get dressed immediately.”

The hairs on Elain’s arms stood on edge. “What’s wrong?”

She thought, in the distance, she might have heard someone scream. Her maid came to the edge of the bed, close enough that Elain could see her red-rimmed eyes.

“Prince Koschei’s men have stormed the castle,” the maid said. The crack in her voice made Elain wonder what, exactly, she’d witnessed in her race to get to Elain’s chambers. “They are on their way up, lady. You must run.”

The world seemed to slow down as Elain stumbled out of bed, every unsteady breath scraping past the heartbeat that rampaged her throat, her chest, her shaking fingers. She frantically shoved herself into the clothes and the accompanying cloak, the hood of which she pulled over her head.

Elain headed towards the balcony, intending to take the same route to the village she had once gone before, but the maid stopped her. “They’ll be expecting you to go that way, your highness.”

For a moment, Elain wondered if she was being naive following her maid out of her bedroom, towards the sounds of clashing metal and shouting men. Maybe she had been threatened to fetch the princess, and was sparing herself some awful fate through betrayal. Her fears ebbed as they snuck into a servant’s corridor together, the sounds of fighting abruptly cut off as the servant shut the discrete doorway.

“This way,” she whispered, guiding Elain through the narrow passage, down a set of stairs. On the other side of the wall, she could hear heavy, rushing footsteps heading up. They ducked into the servant’s quarters, which was frighteningly empty.

From far away, she heard someone shout, “The princess isn’t in her room!”

“Find her!”

Elain covered a hand over her mouth to keep from crying out, trying not to let her mind wander as to what they would do once they found her. If they were already in her bedroom, had the castle guards been overcome? Was… Was Lucien—

She was pulled abruptly from her thoughts as the maid hurried Elain across the quarters, into the scullery. The back door was open, but Elain heard footsteps approaching and pulled the maid up short.

“Quick,” she whispered, pulling up a tablecloth that they both ducked underneath.

Peering through the narrow gap between the cloth and the floor, Elain could see two pairs of polished boots pause in front of the doorway.

“The princess has escaped,” said a deep, masculine voice that she didn’t recognize.

“She couldn’t have gone far,” said another. One she knew as honeyed and graveled and full of sweet, empty promises. “I know the precise route she would have taken to the village.”

Elain stopped breathing.

“Find her, Lucien.”

And that second pair of boots, the ones she had thrown dirt on just the day before, knelt to the ground and plunged a familiar sword into the earth. “I will, your highness. I swear it.”

[lichfucker]

well. I'd like to hear more about brain damage in d minor and. obviously. silvermiranda revenge sex fic. obviously.

I just talked about brain damage in d minor in the last post so I'm just gonna skip straight to the silvermiranda revenge sex fic lmao

I simply think the most evil thing the writers of black sails ever did was decide that miranda should have ten years of absolutely atrocious sex and then die. she deserves better dick than the g-ddamn pastor.

originally this was going to be a scene in to cross running water, my massive vampire!flint au, but it made more sense as its own thing. it takes place shortly before the end of s1, after flint and miranda have their fight in 107. she's pissed at flint and wants to get back at him and correctly deduces that the most upsetting thing she could do to him would be to fuck his little thief. so she does! because I'm a feminist.

I've only written like 500 words of this fic—for a long time I was considering it "the fic I promised myself I would never write," because at that point I had never written smut before— so below the cut is literally the entirety of this fic as it currently exists:

James never comes when he and Miranda lie together. There’s no blame to be had for it, no resentment, no shame; it’s an understanding they’d come to long ago. He takes care of her, and then he takes care of himself. Most times she offers to finger him, and on occasion he accepts. He certainly enjoys it—she’d not offer if he didn’t—but still it isn’t quite what he needs to get there. Thomas always used to speak of the journey superseding the destination, when it came to sex: an orgasm is lovely, but it’s hardly the only thing that can be accomplished in the act. “They do call it ‘making love,’” he would say, “and love can be found at any point along the way, not merely at the climax.”

So James never comes. Miranda never expects he will.

But he did, recently. James came with three of Miranda’s fingers inside of him, his fist around his cock, a sibilant hiss on his lips.

She’d asked him, afterwards, what he had been thinking about, her curiosity piqued, but he’d simply gone silent. At first she took it to mean that he’d been thinking of Thomas, and that the matter was too tender to withstand her lighthearted teasing, or perhaps that he’d sought to spare her the grief of giving voice to the empty space where once had stood the pillar that kept them stable. And yet it gnawed at her, benignly—Miranda knows the difference between James’ grief and his shame. The two are so entwined that most people cannot discern them, cannot see them at all behind the illusory rage crafted by their combined silhouette, but Miranda knows the difference. She likely knows it better than he does, himself.

She would have been content to keep the theory to herself, to hold onto it until such a time as it could withstand some teasing, until it could draw a flush onto his freckled cheeks rather than venom onto his tongue. She would have held it like a precious thing, a thing to be kept warm and safe until he were ready to care for it himself. She would have sheltered it.

And then James read her fucking letter. And then he besmirched and derided her, condemned her for the crime of wanting anything beyond this vapid, stagnant life. She deserves better than to have sat here for ten years going putrid in the Caribbean heat, and she deserves better than to sit here for ten more, and he had the gall to paint her villainous for it. So this suspicion of hers that the small writhing s trying so valiantly to force its way out through his gritted teeth may have been the aborted beginnings of a name, this suspicion which she had intended to cradle gently in her palms… well, now she intends to grip it the way he would the hilt of a sword: white-knuckled and deliberate. She would have had fun good-naturedly needling him with it. Now she is going to have a very different sort of fun.

[hinatahyugacute]

The shadow hokage and his lady Uchiha

In the soft glow of Konoha’s twilight, a silhouette stood atop the Hokage's office, cloaked in darkness as he surveyed the village. Sasuke Uchiha, the Shadow Hokage, had taken this position silently—no official title, no grand announcement. His role was more discreet, one that protected Konoha from dangers lurking in the shadows, far from the public eye. Though Naruto held the formal title of Hokage, everyone knew that without Sasuke, the village wouldn’t enjoy the same peace.

He felt a familiar warmth as he sensed another presence joining him on the rooftop. Turning slightly, he saw Hinata Uchiha, her lithe form gracefully moving toward him. The soft purple of her kimono flowed elegantly around her, a delicate contrast to her husband’s dark attire. Her long indigo hair cascaded over her shoulders, the color deepening as the dusk darkened into night.

“You came,” Sasuke murmured, his voice a blend of appreciation and mild surprise. In the silence of their bond, they often communicated without words, but tonight, it seemed he wanted to hear her voice.

Hinata smiled gently, a warmth in her eyes that softened her husband's perpetually stoic demeanor. “Of course,” she replied softly. “The children are asleep, and I wanted to see you.”

Sasuke turned, stepping closer to her as the village lights began to twinkle below. He felt the weight of his duties and responsibilities slip away in her presence. Together, they shared a silent understanding; though their lives were wrapped in duty and sacrifice, they found solace in each other. Sasuke reached out, his hand brushing against her cheek.

“It’s peaceful tonight,” he said, more to himself than her. Konoha, the village that had taken so much from him, had also given him everything he’d needed in the end: family, purpose, and a sense of belonging he’d never expected to find. And Hinata—Hinata had been there, quietly supporting him, loving him unconditionally. She was his steady light.

Hinata nodded. “It’s peaceful because of you, Sasuke. You’ve kept this village safe in ways most will never understand.” Her voice was soft but filled with pride, and she looked up at him, her lavender eyes reflecting her deep admiration.

“I don’t do it for them,” he replied, a rare flicker of vulnerability in his tone. He pulled her closer, allowing himself the indulgence of her warmth. “I do it for you. And for the children.”

Hinata’s eyes softened, her hand resting over his heart, feeling its steady beat beneath her palm. “You’ve given so much. Sometimes I worry…”

“Worry?” he repeated, his dark eyes searching hers.

“About the toll this takes on you.” She bit her lip, hesitating. “I know you would never speak of it, but I can feel the weight you carry, Sasuke. You protect everyone… but sometimes I wish you’d let yourself rest.”

Sasuke lowered his head, their foreheads touching, and let out a small sigh. “I know,” he whispered, almost inaudible. “But some things can’t wait.” His fingers tightened around hers, as if grounding himself in her presence. “And this… role… it’s something I chose. For our family. So that you, Sarada, and little Itachi can live in peace.”

Hinata’s expression softened, and she pressed her lips gently to his. It was her way of reassuring him, showing her support without words. The stars above them twinkled brighter as the night deepened, and in that moment, Sasuke felt something he’d rarely allowed himself to experience—contentment.

A sudden rustle below broke their silence, and they both looked down, their instincts sharp as they scanned the ground. A stray cat, prowling through the empty streets, gave them a curious glance before trotting away. Sasuke smirked, his hand lingering on the hilt of his sword. “Seems like the only threats tonight are the four-legged ones.”

Hinata chuckled softly, a sound that Sasuke found himself cherishing. “Then perhaps, my dear shadow, we can enjoy a moment of peace together.”

Sasuke relaxed, letting go of the tension he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. They sat on the edge of the rooftop, side by side, Hinata leaning into him as he wrapped an arm around her shoulders. She placed her head on his shoulder, closing her eyes as she enjoyed the stillness.

In the distance, they could hear the faint laughter of villagers, the sound of life carrying on peacefully below. Sasuke allowed himself a rare smile as he looked at the woman beside him. She had been his strength, his calm in the storm, his constant when everything else felt like it was slipping away. With her, he could be Sasuke, not the feared last Uchiha or the village’s shadow guardian—just a man who had fought to protect the ones he loved.

As the night deepened, Hinata lifted her head and looked up at him. “You’ve always been the shadow, Sasuke, but I hope you know you are loved by the light.”

Her words struck a chord deep within him, a part of him that he’d long kept hidden away. He knew he was difficult to love, that his life was far from easy to share. But Hinata had seen the worst of him, his brokenness and his strength, and she had chosen to stay.

Sasuke cupped her face, his thumb tracing her cheek. “I don’t deserve you, Hinata,” he said softly. “But I’ll protect you. Always.”

They shared a quiet moment, their breaths in sync as the stars continued to watch over them. Hinata placed a gentle kiss on his forehead, her lips lingering as she whispered, “And I’ll be here, always. Just like this.”

In the silence that followed, they simply held each other, lost in the profound comfort that only they could provide one another. In that moment, Sasuke felt complete. The man who once wandered in search of vengeance had found something far greater—someone who understood him, and a love that could withstand any shadow.

As they sat together under the vast sky, the weight of their shared history, their struggles, and their love wove around them, binding them closer. They were two souls who had found peace, even in the silence, even in the darkness. And as long as they had each other, they knew they could face whatever came next.

[spencerreidswhore187]

Hymn for Her (1)

Ava x Beatrice (Warrior Nun) 

Summary: The discovery of a resurrected Ava, believed to be lost, sends ripples through Bea's reality, filling her heart with both joy and trepidation. However, the reunion takes a harrowing twist when Ava, transformed by otherworldly forces, becomes an unexpected adversary, unleashing violence upon the Order of the Cruciform Sword. Ava finds herself entangled in a relentless battle against the forces of darkness, the mystery behind her descent into darkness deepens. Meanwhile, Bea grapples with the conflicting emotions of love and despair, haunted by dreams that connect her to Ava's tortured soul.

T/W:  Descriptions of violence, blood and gore. Brief mentions of alcohol, guns and other weapons. Please let me know if I forgot to add something.

Word Count: 1.1k

Part One: An Unholy Darkness

Part Two: Echoes of Darkness

Part Three: Whispers in the Shadows

Part Four: Dance with Shadows

Part Five: Embrace of Light

The dimly lit corridors of the ancient convent echoed with Camila's hurried footsteps as she moved through the shadows, her senses heightened by an unsettling premonition. The flickering candlelight cast eerie patterns on the stone walls that followed her as she moved. Camila knew she wasn’t alone. She clutched the hilt of her knife tightly, her eyes darting between the veiled archways.

As she turned a corner, she froze. There, standing in the gloom of the corridor, a figure cloaked in shadows.

“Turn around,” Camila demanded. Her voice was strong and commanding, long gone was the hesitant rookie. She’d died when Adriel killed almost every member of the Order of the Cruciform Sword - her family. Her sisters. 

The ominous figure turned slowly, raising their arms to lower their hood. 

Camila's heart leapt with joy, and without hesitation, she rushed forward to embrace them.

"Ava!" She exclaimed, relief flooding her as she wrapped her arms around her friend. "I thought you were lost forever.” 

Camila's heart leapt with joy as she rushed forward to hug her.

Ava's response was a tight embrace, her body cold and rigid. Camila felt a pang of unease but dismissed it as exhaustion. However, when she pulled away to look into Ava's eyes, she saw an unsettling emptiness within them.

“Ava?" Camila asked, a note of concern in her voice. “Are you alright?”

Ava's lips curled into a wicked, hollow grin, and her eyes gleamed with malevolence. Before Camila could react, Ava's hand shot out, gripping Camila's wrist with an unnatural strength. Panic flickered across Camila's face as she realised that something was horribly wrong.

In an instant, the corridor erupted into chaos. Lilith, adorned in snake-like scales, emerged from the shadows with a cunning smirk mirroring Ava's. The air crackled with dark energy as the two warriors launched their vicious assault.

The fight was swift and brutal. Fists, knives, claws flew; Camila fought desperately to understand the nature of Ava's transformation, but her friend's attacks were relentless and devoid of mercy. 

The convent's halls echoed with cries of pain and the distant chants of prayers. 

Beatrice, clad in her battle attire, moved through the dark corridors with a determined grace. As Bea approached the heart of the convent, a subtle shift in the air caught her attention. A feeling—a whisper of intruders trespassing on sacred ground. Her senses heightened, and her hand instinctively reached to lower the silver chain-link mesh that covered her face whilst she fought. 

Bea's eyes widened as she watched a figure phase through a wall in front of her. A silhouette, both familiar and haunting, stepped into the light.

"Ava?" Bea's voice, a mixture of surprise and joy, echoed through the sacred space. The silhouette, bathed in the soft glow of the halo, turned to face her.

Ava's form, once a source of comfort and camaraderie, now exuded an aura of dissonance. Her eyes, once warm and familiar, held an emptiness that sent a shiver down Bea's spine. The joy that had momentarily flickered in Bea's heart now gave way to growing distress as she took in the subtle changes in Ava's demeanour.

"Ava, you're back," Beatrice's words, a hopeful plea, hung in the air like an unanswered prayer. Her hand tightened around the hilt of her knife hidden behind her back, its divine essence pulsating in tandem with the uncertainty that now clouded the sacred space.

Ava regarded Bea with a dismissive glance. The love that used to linger in her eyes had been replaced by an unsettling detachment. "Beatrice," Ava's voice carried an air of indifference. "This doesn't concern you."

Bea, her determination undeterred, stepped forward. "Ava, what's happened to you? We can face whatever threat together. You don't have to do this alone."

A scornful laugh echoed through the chapel. "Alone? I'm not alone, Beatrice. I've found a power greater than anything this order could offer. A power greater than anything you could offer.”

Ava stepped forward, gently stroking Bea’s cheek as she drew her face close to hers, their lips were almost touching.

“Drop the knife,” Ava whispered. 

Bea's hands shook as she released the knife. It clattered on the stone floor. This was her opening, Bea knew she would hate herself for attacking Ava but it would be worse if she did nothing. It would destroy her to let this evil thing that controlled her, swallow Ava whole. 

Beatrice's movements were swift and purposeful, her strikes guided by the discipline instilled by years of training. Ava met her blows with an otherworldly finesse. They moved as one as if they were both part of the same heart-breaking dance. 

Beatrice's pleas for reason fell on deaf ears. Ava, consumed by darkness, countered with cryptic taunts and dismissive laughter.

"Ava, why are you doing this? What has taken hold of you?"

Ava's response was a mocking smile. "The OCS is blind, Beatrice. Blind to the true power that awaits those willing to embrace the shadows. You could join me, but I suppose that's too much to ask of someone shackled by their allegiance."

Bea, her resolve unwavering, pressed on. "I won't abandon our family for a path shrouded in darkness. There's still light within you, Ava. I won't let it be extinguished."

Fuelled by a love that transcended the shadows, Bea fought not just for the Order of the Cruciform Sword but for the soul of the girl she loved. Bea clung to a glimmer of hope, a belief that the Ava she once knew could still be saved from the abyss that threatened to engulf her.

Ava kicked Bea’s leg out from under her, causing the girl to collapse onto the floor. Ava climbed atop her, resting a leg on either side of Bea’s waist, pinning her down. 

There was no sound in the room except for their heavy breathing. Bea’s chest rapidly rose up and down. She knew she should be scared but it was hard to be anything but enamoured when this close to Ava’s sun-kissed face. 

If Ava wanted to kill her, she would be dead by now. And Bea would let her if it meant staying this close to Ava for another moment. 

Bloodied and bruised, Bea gazed at her with a mixture of sorrow and determination, but Ava was gone before another plea could leave her lips. 

As the dust settled and the wounded groaned in agony, the motive behind Ava and Lilith's unholy alliance remained shrouded in mystery. The battle had just begun, and the war between the nuns was about to reach a terrifying crescendo. 

A/N: Thank you for reading ◡̈

[flowerandblood]

The Temple of the God

[ Ares • Ettore x Aphrodite • female ]

[ warnings: incest obviously, sex content, fingering, smut, angst, violence, swearing, marital infidelity ]

[ description: Many men look at her with lust, however, no one's gaze is as terrifying as that of her brother, the god of war, cruel and cold, reminding her more of a barbarian than one of the kings of Olympus. He is known to care little about pleasing women in his brutal rapprochements with them, however, he surprises her with his attitude when he visits her one night. ]

This oneshot is my Valentine's Day gift to all of you. I love you, thank you for being here! I plan to come back to this couple in the future, let me know what you think! 💕

Part 2 − The Temple of War

* English is not my first language. Please, do not repost. Enjoy! *

My other works: Masterlist

_____

She could see it in the way he looked at her. She saw it in the light movement of his head, his raised chin, his slightly parted lips, his gait lazy, confident, careless, like that of a bear or a lion. He circled around her, angry and frustrated, unable to get what he wanted.

There was something animalistic in his nature, in his posture, in his aura, his gaze seemed to her empty, yet at the same time endlessly deep and dark; he could not concentrate on calm deliberation, there was a perpetual, irrepressible storm in his mind.

He would exert himself on the battlefields, at the head of armies of his heroes, with whom he would train and duel for days, their muscular, broad bodies often completely naked, glistening with sweat and oil.

She watched them sometimes from the windows of her chambers on Olympus. Their great wars and pointless exercises aimed at making them tear their opponents to shreds, with one sword cut depriving them of their members, wallowing in their blood.

Her brother did not abhor carcasses, decay, murder, cruelty, she thought he fed on it, his enemies knew no mercy from him, their pleas clashing with the cold stone that was his heart.

Her nature was the complete opposite of his and they both knew that they had nothing to offer each other. However, whenever he caught sight of her silhouette, walking in the company of her servants, river and mountain nymphs, entertaining her with conversation, he did not take his piercing, hot gaze off her, his lips pressed into a thin line; he turned the hilt of his sword as if in a trance then, drifting away with his thoughts.

He did not desire her, he wanted to devour her.

She knew that he had cohabited with many women, including her maidservants, who later lamented to her that he was brutal and cruel, that he did not know or understand what female fulfilment and joy were, did not know the women's bodies and their secrets, because he was only interested in his own fulfilment.

One day she visited him while he was practising with his warriors; they were wrestling and throwing each other to the ground, the one who gave up had to pat the other on the shoulder.

They were completely naked.

Seeing her, several of them covered themselves, knowing full well who she was, ashamed that she might judge them or their bodies, mock them and expose them to the ridicule.

She, however, approached her brother, looking straight into his eyes beaming with utter black emptiness, his broad chest adorned with drops of sweat rising and falling in heavy breathing.

He stood before her without any sign of embarrassment, his eyes roaming all over her body, judging apparently how her flesh presented itself in her soft velvet-like translucent white robe, pearls braided into the curls of her hair. They stared at each other for a moment in silence, as if testing each other, her face, like his, expressing nothing.

"Stay away from my servants, brother. They have complained to me that you are hurting them." She said at last, his jaw clenched at her words, his nostrils quivering in impatience.

He didn't answer.

He never answered.

She turned away, heading back towards the cloisters, feeling the thirsty gazes of the men turning behind her, disappearing at last into the halls of the gigantic ancient palace.

Men craved her for many reasons, one of which was the urge to prove to themselves that they could be desired by the goddess of love herself.

It was a great oversimplification, however, because of her experience this is what she came to be called, people, men and women, began to offer prayers to her begging her blessing in their marriages, asking for her intervention in matters others would have been afraid to whisper about.

She blessed ardent loves, burning to the core.

Yet she herself, though she was ashamed to admit it, had not experienced one herself.

Every time she thought it was the one, the man she believed to be her beloved died, or betrayed her by following another goddess, bored. Her heart was broken so many times that she allowed herself to be approached by men only to give her physical pleasure.

Her husband, Hephaestus, was a good and warm-hearted man. He spent his days in his great forge located in the heart of the volcano, in which the fire flowed constantly. She visited him there rarely, the dust and noise there was unbearable for her.

Although they both had respect for each other and a kind of cordiality, he preferred to devote himself to his work. He did not understand her needs, just as she did not understand his, for which she did not blame him.

Their marriage, unlike that of Zeus and Hera, was more peaceful, both of them resigned to their roles and didn't get in each other's way.

She knew, however, that before her father, ruler of the thunderbolts and all of Olympus, had decided to marry her to Hephaestus, it had been the God of War himself who had furiously demanded her hand, believing that she was his to claim.

Their father did not share his decision, apparently fearing his violent nature and what kind of husband he would turn out to be.

Her brother then disappeared for years, sinking into great wars and battles, the earth trembled from his rage, from the peaks of their heavenly mountain she heard the cries and moans of his enemies.

That day, after what she had told him, he came to her at night.

Completely naked, without a trace of embarrassment on his face, he walked slowly across the cold stone floor towards her bed, draped with a canopy and translucent curtains, which he pushed aside with an impatient flick of his hand, passing between them.

He stopped when he caught sight of her bare figure, looking at him with furrowed brows she raised on one elbow, feeling no shame whatsoever, yet unable to stop the squeeze between her thighs and the heat in her lower abdomen noticing that at the sight of her body his manhood twitched and swelled.

"Get out." She said coolly, but he only hummed as if he was considering something. She turned on her back, ready to scream if necessary, knowing her servants would come to her aid and her brothers would drag him away from her.

She was curious, however, to see what he would do.

She looked vigilantly at his silhouette walking slowly towards her, with his big cold black eyes and tense body he reminded her of a wild animal preparing to attack.

She thought he was about to throw himself at her and try to take her against her will.

He, however, sat down beside her; his large, wide hand raised and, in an uncertain, calm movement, ran down her thigh, his fingers digging into her skin as if he wanted to see what it felt like.

"− like velvet −" He murmured low, breathing through his mouth as if he was trying to calm himself; she seemed to notice on his face something of childish curiosity, as if she and her body was something unremarkable and completely incomprehensible to him.

His hand went higher, to her breast and began to rub and play with it, as if he liked the shape of it and how pleasant it was to the touch. She sighed quietly, realising with disbelief that what he was doing and how he was behaving was making her wet, her fleshy insides pulsing with tension.

Finally his fingers ran over her neck and face, his thumb stopped and parted her plump, glistening lips; he leaned over her as if he wanted to get a proper look at her, his warm breath enveloped her skin, the smell of his sweat seemed primal, masculine to her, her body involuntarily quivered at the thought.

He kissed her, kissed her as if he wanted to devour her, his caress full of chaos and impatience, of his hot, sticky lips, of his wet tongue, of his saliva and teeth. She gasped into his mouth, surprised to feel what he was doing between her thighs, her heart pounding like mad.

He groaned low into her mouth in surprise and tightened his fingers on her cheeks, panting hard as her hand gripped firmly his hard, swollen manhood.

She gasped for air when she felt how generously he had been bestowed by the heavens; she gave him a few slow, encouraging squeezes sliding her hand from the fat, pink head of his cock to it's very base, his hips involuntarily began to respond to her movements.

"− harder −" He commanded, closing his eyes, his hand involuntarily squeezed her breasts, too hard and without sensitivity. She hissed quietly, clamping her hand tighter on his length, wanting to cause him pain; he growled feeling it, digging his fingers into the skin of her cheek, looking at her with rage.

"− not like that − more gently −" She explained, clamping her hand over his, showing him with the strokes of her fingers how he should caress her, directing his thumb to her nipple.

"− rub this place − ah, yes, just like that −" She mumbled, tilting her head back, feeling his impatient breath on her, watching her and her reactions with interest, surprised apparently at how she was able to change in a matter of moments.

She felt his length tremble in her grasp when he heard her first, quiet moans.

"− that's enough −" He said impatiently, laying down on top of her, his large hands, rough from holding the sword, gripped her thighs, wanting to spread them apart and finally possess her, her fingers tightening on his sweaty, muscular shoulders.

"− no − not yet − touch me there −" She mumbled.

He looked at her with a gaze from which her whole body froze, it seemed to her that his irises were completely black, menacing, burning with a desire that destroyed and devoured.

For a moment he didn't move, breathing heavily as if he was considering her words; she licked her lips realising that he had never done this before.

He had never touched a woman down there with his fingers or his lips, never caressed her before he owned her.

She swallowed loudly, sliding her hand down to his, in a gentle motion encouraging him to sink his fingers into her hot, leaking womanhood.

She heard him draw in a loud breath at the sensation, foreign and unfamiliar, tense, he rested the weight of his body on his elbow, leaning to the side, watching from the corner of his eye what he was doing to her.

"− here, brother − touching me here will give me pleasure −" She whispered, guiding his fingertips to the bud hidden between her folds, showing him how to tease her clit with circular, slow movements.

She parted her lips, feeling the pleasant tingling in her lower abdomen, her hips involuntarily began to respond to his strokes.

"− only here? −" He asked lowly, furrowing his eyebrows, his stony face expressing concern at her words knowing that the place she was showing him was outside and not deep inside her. She sighed quietly, guiding his middle finger to her slit; he looked at her face, gasping out loud, feeling the way her fleshy walls resisted him, hot and sticky.

"− not only − can you feel it? − right here −" She whispered, directing him to the spot inside her just above her opening, between her muscles. He shuddered all over, licking his lips, dried apparently from emotion, his erection hard and swollen, twitching involuntarily, betraying how aroused he was.

"− yes −" He exclaimed, digging his middle finger into the spot she showed him, his thumb teasing her pearl, clearly wanting to see what would happen when he started touching both places at once. She moaned loudly, tilting her head back, delighted at how unexpectedly pleasurable the sensation was.

"− gods − put it inside me −" She mewled, feeling that she no longer cared about retaining any remnants of her dignity, her free hand sank into his hair, pulling him close. He grunted loudly into her mouth like an animal throwing himself at her body, her fingers dug into the bare skin of his back, a moan of exertion escaped her throat when immediately the thick tip of his cock began to push against her tight walls.

"− wider −" He exhaled with a grin that was disturbing to say the least as with an impatient, confident thrust he forced her to let him in deeper. She breathed loudly, unable to believe how hard he was stretching her and threw her head back, a drop of sweat running down her long neck.

"− brother −" She whispered, something in the way she said the word made him lose his patience, his length began to slam into her in a fast, brutal rhythm, each time rubbing the spot inside her from where she could see the stars; it seemed to her that everything around her was spinning, the fingers of his hand cupped her cheeks, forcing her to look at him.

"− no, fucking look at me − look at me and listen to what my cock is doing to this weeping cunt − pathetic −" He hissed out through clenched teeth, as if he was both furious and proud at the same time. She whimpered helplessly, a loud smack echoed around them each time his thighs hit the bare skin of her buttocks, there was something lewd and definitive about the sound, proof of how wrong she was.

"− mghm −" She babbled, feeling like he was going to pierce her, the movements of his hips quick and aggressive, full of desperation and desire, their breaths embarrassingly loud and raptured. They stared at each other with their mouths wide open, as if they couldn't believe in what was happening.

"− what does it feel like, brother? − what does it feel like to fuck your own sister? −" She gasped, heard his surprised sigh at her question, his cock quivered hard inside her, his fingers dug harder into the soft skin of her cheeks, causing her pain.

He was moving so fast inside her that he was hardly slipping out of her, her fleshy walls, all leaking from her moisture, were no longer resisting him.

It seemed to her that he wanted to reply something, but the pleasure took his speech away; he leaned over suddenly and pressed his forehead against hers, panting loudly, his hot breath enveloping her face.

She could smell the masculine scent of his sweat, from which her cunt began to throb around him, her fingers traveled down from his back to his buttocks, stroking them with movements that could be called tender.

"− it feels good −" He whispered, looking at her with a gaze that sent shivers through her, at the same time animalistic, empty and full of something she couldn't name, desire as dark and disturbing as the night around them. The sure, loud, deep thrusts of his hips made her breath get stuck in her throat, she thought with horror, feeling a pleasant tickle in her lower abdomen, that she was about to come.

"− it feels right −" He muttered and ran his tongue over her lips, something in the way he said those words, in this shameless, lewd gesture, in the way the tip of his fat cock rubbed her again and again at the spot of her greatest pleasure made her melt in front of him.

She involuntarily tilted her head back and closed her eyes, a soft, helpless moan of delight broke from her throat as a wave of wonderful heat and relief shook her body, her walls began to squeeze him, sucking him inside.

"− fuck − fuck-fuck-fuck −" He merely muttered before sighing loudly.

She felt his hot seed spill inside her, filling her, and although she rarely allowed anyone such an honour, she was unable to deny him.

She stroked his naked buttocks with calm movements full of affection, in some subconscious, natural reflex, he continued to thrust into her for a moment longer, looking down at her with his mouth open wide in pleasure.

They stared at each other, breathing loudly, and she raised her hand, letting her fingers run over his temple, his cheek and his clearly defined long jaw. She saw him close his eyes for a moment, as if he wanted to remember this moment and this feeling.

"− there is no place for me to rest − no haven where I can take refuge − here is my only true temple −" He gasped in half whisper, as if he were revealing to her some shameful secret that was tormenting him. She swallowed quietly, feeling his body cling to hers, her breasts pressed against his bare, broad chest, his face snuggled into her hot cheek, his soft manhood still throbbed deep inside her.

"− my home −"

_____

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[nickel-ii]

[It's the middle of the night. Both in real life, and the dream.

Nickel finds himself in a lavish room, where he somehow doesn't feel out of place. He was just following ██████, someone he trusted- or thought he could, at least. He thought he was alone- because of course ██████ was gone, suddenly, but the presence behind him made him turn around.

Dark Choco stood in the darkness- a silhouette he could never mistake, even after so many years. His son. He thought he knew what was coming, but he didn't.

"You failed me." The voice echoed hauntingly, and even the sound of the wind over the walls was silent, leaving nothing else but the echo of his own failures.

"I did," he found himself replying, somber, voice even deeper than usual, though not in a way that hurt. "I am sorry." He didn't know what he was apologizing for. "The responsibility for a son's sins lies upon the shoulders of his father, and it was my own sins that caused this."

His son scoffed, sneering with none of the hesitation he remembered him having. "Save me your sympathies. 'I never taught you love'? You have never loved. I know why I wield my sword." He raised his sword. "But do you know why you wield yours? You will turn out just like me."

"A violent murderer."

Nickel lowered his head in shame, and then the sword came down upon his neck-]

-he awoke with a startled shout that faded into a choked gasp as he bit it down, eyes wide and scared. What was that? His- the encounter hadn't gone like that, his son hadn't killed him- he didn't have a son. His head hurt.

He reached around his bed for the sword, gripping it with a familiarity he didn't know was there, holding it not by the handle, but rather oddly like a sai (around the hilt) so the Soul Jam matched where it was supposed to be. It was a comfort, surprisingly so, and it helped calm him down.

"Ffffuck," he hissed underneath his breath, still visibly shaken. "Fuck." He was not going to be like that. He was not. He hadn't done anything like that to a Dark Choco, let alone know a Dark Choco to do that to.

So why did he feel so guilty?

This was fucking with his head.

...he had to stay strong.

( @thegoldentrophy @dice-anon @ask-cheesy-ii @itz-bow-xd )

[taylorswordsemporium]

“You who protects the coming generation...”

“Eh?” Velvet blinks, green eyes suddenly coming back from far off in space. Who...? She focuses on the metal swirl in the glass case before her. Right, museum trip, her wife and daughter wanted to come to the ancient metalwork exhibit. The woman looks over at them, wondering when they separated and moved along. Sure, the triangle-cut amethyst in the silver cuff is pretty, her favorite gemstone, but she isn’t a magpie. And it’s far from the only pretty, shiny thing in the room.

Time to join back up with them, now that her head’s back on straight. Velvet bounces over to her family. Rain, and their daughter Quinn. Both the loveliest ladies on the planet. She grabs Rain in a hug with one arm, and drums on Quinn’s head with her free hand. “Mmm, you two enjoying the trip, so far?”

“You bet, Mama V!” The littler of her girls peeps happily, smiling brightly with a missing tooth. Quinn’s growing up, fast... Velvet’s so proud.

“Having a great time, babe.” Rain twists about in the hug to give Velvet’s cheek a kiss. “Find something you like, back there?”

Velvet can’t help but blush and chuckle. “The silver arm cuff with the amethyst caught my eye, I guess. Something about it definitely did something to me.” She squeezes Rain. “How about you two?”

“Big black sword.” The other two girls state in unison, pointing to the artifact on display on one end of the room. Definitely an eyecatcher, that. Velvet steps up to it, looking over the various placards describing how it may have been forged, and what cultures may have thought what about the process of making such an intimidating and heavy weapon.

“Creepy. The ruby at the bottom looks like an eye!” Velvet smirks, looking back at her daughter. “Sauron?”

“Yeahhhh~” Quinn giggles. “Bet it was a super evil guy that used it! Big and scary, riding the biggest horse he could find!”

“You’re saying ‘Sauron’ like she’s read Tolkien or knows what you’re talking about.” Rain rolls her eyes. “If you think our 8 year old has the patience for a Lord of the Rings marathon, feel free to suggest it.”

“Hey, she likes all this forging stuff, she might like a long movie about evil jewelry.” Velvet pats Quinn’s head again.

“...How long?” Quinn looks between her mothers.

“It would be a whole weekend, for sure.” Rain nods, folding her arms.

“Ooooh... No, too long.” Quinn shakes her head, starting to wander off to some other exhibits. Swords and metals are cool, but there’s lots of stuff to explore, at the museum! Her mothers follow along, Velvet taking up the rear.

Velvet takes a look at the arm cuff on their way past it. A violet glow shines inside her pupils, unseen by all.

Maybe it would have been seen, if the entire building wasn’t suddenly rocked by a black-robed figure exploding an entire wall down to leap in and grab the hilt of the black sword. The crystal in the guard glows, and a wave of energy bursts forth from the weapon, shattering the glass around all the exhibits and sending the artifacts and other items flying.

Velvet pushes her family to the floor, blocking them from being hit from any of the shattered glass or launched metal. The arm cuff, by force of fate, bounces into her hand.

The world goes dark around Velvet, and she hears the voice from earlier.

“You who protects the coming generation. Forces of evil are gathered and prepared to end the lives of all humans on the planet...”

Velvet stands and turns toward the source of the voice, finding only a glowing purple silhouette holding the cuff in its left hand. The museum seems to have disappeared, leaving the two of them standing amid nothing.

“...Me?”

“You, born of the blood of lavender, with a soul of love and devotion. Your destiny comes to you. Do you accept the duty of defending the world from coming destruction?”

This is... This has to be a dream, surely? Velvet looks down at her hands, wondering what she may have eaten or drank to set off such a nightmare... Then again, for a nightmare, it’s surprisingly peaceful, explosion aside. Maybe she should just go forward with it. “...To keep my family safe, anything.”

“Take the blade, Edge of Delta. Strike down the evils awakening to destroy.”

Velvet takes the arm cuff and clasps it onto her arm, the amethyst shining along with her eyes, as her mind re-enters the world.

The woman awakes, taking control of what seems to be her own body. It seems to feel a bit lighter, and she has a glowing triangular blade in her right hand. The weight of metal presses down on her skin, from the new armor that now covers her.

Oh, she’s crossing her blade against the black one from the display. That’s probably not good. As best she is able, she pushes forth, purple strands of hair waving in and out of her face from the force of the clash.

Edge of Delta, huh? Not a very heroic name, so it probably belongs to the sword. She’ll come up with something nicer, later. For now, this cloak-wearing asshole has to get gone!

[moonstonedrawsrandomly]

Conflict of interest 1 🟢

*swearing*

Noelia walked into the room where Bishop Leshy was. It was quiet, and quite humid. Seeing the monsters crawl on the walls was unsettling. No guards, no followers, no nothing.  Leshy moves in the darkness

“Something moved”

“Don’t be startled, Grip me tightly!”

Hades said. She grips the hilt of the sword tightly. Now she can see the silhouette of Leshy. She shivered

“Little lamb, you finally came to me.”

Leshy towered over the little lamb. She stared at him, wide eyed. His eye was bandaged, still bleeding after millennia of treatment.

“Even with HIS power, you are no match for me…many have come and have fallen before you… and you will as well! come, let us end this quickly. “

This fight was nothing like the smaller worms, he looked absolutely threatening. And he hits hard. Even without his appendages, he is a threat to behold.

‘Sheesh! No wonder many fell to him so easily! He ain’t nothing to sneeze at!’

She thought. Still gripping Hades tightly.

“You dare join HIS side?!? The side of the traitor we locked away?!? You deserve to die a painful death like the others!”

As she evaded his attacks, her mind wandered. What other poor lambs were caught in the same position as she was? Men, women, maybe even children? Why were WE involved?!? WHY US?!?

Leshy got a good hit in before she was flung across the room, hitting an enemy and losing Hades. Hades transformed back to his hat

“Lamb! Over here!”

Before she could get up, her leg was grabbed and she was flung towards the ceiling twice, she laid there limp.

“And such, the last one falls-“

Not realizing the ceiling was coming apart. Leshy gets out of the way, while Hades grabbed Noelia.

“Get up lamb! You have a job to do!”

“Hurry up and fight!”

“Worthless! All you lambs are worthless! You are the lamb of prophecy and THIS is what you do? Just to die here”

Surprisingly, Noelia gets up, but instead of picking up Hades, she picks up a stick in the opposite direction.

“That’s more like it, now fight-“

THWACK!

“Ow! What the-“

CRACK!

“Ow! Stop!”

“ILL FIGHT YOU! HOWS THAT?!?!”

Leshy stood there, kinda in shock at what he is seeing. The lamb picked up a stick and just started beating up Red crown. Leshy was, actually amused.

“Well, this is quite the outcome. Beat him lamb, beat him within an inch of his life!”

Leshy cheered her on as she got angrier with the hat

“I DIDNT ASK FOR THIS!”

“I don’t care if you did!”

Despite Leshy being impressed with the stick beating from noelle AND the fact that this vessel had some sense to retaliate, the bickering began to get sad at this point. Leshy pounded on the wall.

“Well, this is just getting sad then. Tell you what lamb, leave this place, and I will spare your life”

Noelia, with a black eye, turns to leave. Red crown was pissed

“You’re just going to leave? Do you have no morals?!?”

Noelia looked back at him with pure distaste, and disgust

“Your asking ME if I have morals?!? This is not my fight! It never was! YOU can fight him. I’m going home”

She said. Leshy looked at the red crown.

“For once I agree with the lamb, this isn’t her fight…it never was. I don’t suppose you will fight me without a vessel, Red crown. I could always just crush you where you stand…after all…it would be nice to bring you to my dear Shamura. I’m sure he’d love to turn you into a statue for his desk”

Knowing that he’d be outnumbered, he retreats to find Noelia.

“The Bitch…”

Hades muttered under his breath. He ended up returning to the camp, only to realize that the camp was strangely deserted. He floated everywhere, but couldn’t find anyone around.

“The temple, it’s mass time anyway”

He perked in and saw the few people in her cult, patching her up.

“It’s okay dear leader, you’ll get them next time!”

“It’s so strange for the red crown to just leave you like that. What an awful companion”

They whispered. Noelia shook her head

“I’m not proud of my behavior either, so we’re both even. Oww…”

She said. One of the subjects, a cow looked upon her.

“Will HE get mad? He won’t kill you, will he?”

“If he does, who cares…if he doesn’t, I don’t care…”

Finally, one of them spoke up, the Cow did

“I care!”

They said. Looking into the eyes of their leader. It seemed like the sentiment was shared with everyone else.

“You rescued me from great peril, so I care 💯 if you die! Please don’t die!”

“Please take care of yourself as you did for us!”

“Promise us!”

They said, they were almost sobbing. Noelia realized that the Church of Hope, really does depend on not just her, but her followers. Almost like a big family. Noelle, gets up all patched up.

“The Church of hope depends on the Faith and Hope of its people. Where there is Faith, there is Hope and where there is Hope, there is Strong faith”

She said. One of the followers said this:

“If anyone says that it is hopeless, we should say ‘we don’t speak those words in the Church of Hope. There is always hope for tomorrow! The good guys always come out on top!’ “

Noelia, after all of that, finally smiled. Her followers smirked and smiled back.

She then looked out the window. Seeing Hades.

“Thank you everyone, but I’m afraid I need you all to head back to your chores. Hades has returned.”

They all left, one follower leaving the door open so that Hades can fly in. He doesn’t say anything.

“Fine. I’ll speak first-“

“THE ONLY THING YOU SHOULD BE SAYING AND DOING IS GROVELING AT MY FEET FOR FORGIVENESS! I am an entity of the one who waits and I will NOT be treated like that”

“Then leave”

“Where did you get this level of disrespect from? In front of the one who waits you acted like a scared little lamb, but for me you are this bratty little Bitch!”

“Oh really? Then kill me then! I didn’t ask to be reborn a slave to the one who waits! I DIDNT ASK TO HAVE MY LOVED ONES KILLED IN A MEANINGLESS QUARREL! I’m atheist for gods sake!”

“And I didn’t ask to assist you!”

“THEN DONT!”

“YOU KNOW THAT IS NOT AN OPTION!”

“I didn’t want to kill anyone, I can care less about the one who waits and his problems! The bishops sealed him away? Good! But how because of HIS PROPHECY, my whole species was wiped out! He didn’t even ask me how i felt, I was just sent to do his bidding! I didn’t even get to meet my family! All dead because of HIM”

Noelia , in tears points to the altar, Hades can see the portal open up. HE is listening now. A tentacle quietly creeps towards her.

“So why should I WILLINGLY agree to this? No, I refuse! I won’t do it! He has nothing to hurt me over, I don’t even want to run an evil and despicable cult just for someone to rule the world. So just kill me!”

~if that’s what you want~

The tentacle grabbed her tightly and sucked her into the portal. Hades looked on.

“Hope you got what you deserved, Bitch”

He said. Then he sat on the alter.

“The one who waits will have to pick someone else to do his bidding from now on, I wonder who he will pick”

He said. Noelia was sucked into the dense underworld that is HIS domain, a terrifying domain in itself. When she is brought to the domain, she doesn’t scream or yell for mercy. She is eerily quiet. Too quiet.

“What is this? You don’t fear me lamb?”

“Just kill me and get it over with”

“No, it’s too much fun to watch you and red crown fight. You both being miserable was quite humerous.”

Noelia’s face did not change.

“Ah, do not fret, if I wanted to kill you, I would have done it by now. But you have too much promise my dear…but I believe an explanation will help you rekindle that faith you have in me”

He begins. It’s a lot of things

“-The bishops saw my incredulous power that they were afraid of it, including the highest Bishop, Shamura. They sealed me away so that they can stay in power-“

Noelia nods. She doesn’t believe a single word coming out of his mouth. She is skeptical, however, her being defiant isn’t doing her any good. Despite she doesn’t care if she is killed, doesn’t mean he will keep her. But then he says this.

“How about this. If you do a good job, I will keep you alive to serve me, how does that sound?”

Noelia nodded. Then the portal opened up again.

“Good, then get along with Hades so he will work with you, after all, neither of you can survive this world without each other.”

In the real world, the tentacle spits Noelia out. At the shock of Hades.

“I thought you were dead”

She picks up Hades, and walks to the backroom with him.

“I have to change the plan, rest, we will go back out eventually to take down Leshy, but before we do that…”

She stopped

“I need to ask him a few questions”

TBC

[mysterylilybenson]

Maze of Shadows

The moon's pale light barely pierced the dense canopy of trees as Brielle ran through the forest, her heart hammering in her chest. Each ragged breath burned in her throat, but she pushed on. She had no choice. Behind her, the village of Valenbrook was a dark silhouette, imprisoned in a curse so powerful it seemed to warp reality itself. Its once lively streets were silent, its people trapped in a nightmarish sleep. Among them was Elias- her love, her anchor. She would do anything to save him, even if it meant walking straight into the jaws of death. The forest whispered warnings around her, branches clawing at her clothes as if trying to hold her back. The Sorcerer Elkor's magic pulsed in the air like a living thing, growing stronger as she neared her destination: the cursed Maze of Thorns. It was said no one who entered had ever returned, but the ancient spirits had told her there was a way. Deep within the Maze, hidden among its deadly traps and illusions, lay the Heartstone. Only by retrieving it could she hope to break the spell and free Elias and the rest of the village.

Brielle's grip tightened on the hilt of her short sword. I'll save him. I won't let this curse take him. The twisted vines of the Maze rose before her, like massive snakes coiling and writhing, black thorns glistening with a deadly sheen. The entrance stood open, beckoning her into the unknown. She hesitated for only a moment, gathering her courage, before stepping through. Immediately, the atmosphere changed. The air grew thick, suffocating, and the sky above darkened as if swallowed by shadows. Brielle glanced around, her senses on high alert. The Maze was alive, and it wanted her to fail. The path ahead was narrow, flanked by walls of writhing vines that seemed to pulse like veins under skin. Every step she took was followed by low hum of dark magic, like a heartbeat growing louder.

Suddenly, the ground beneath her trembled, and she stumbled. Vines exploded from the walls, lashing out like whips. Brielle ducked and rolled to the side, slashing her blade in a swift arc. The sharp edge cut through the nearest vine, but more came. They slithered along the ground, curling around her ankles, pulling her back. Her pulse raced as she hacked at them, her movements quick and precise. Black ichor from the severed vines, splatting the ground like blood. With a growl Brielle ripped herself free and sprinted down the path, the walls of the maze closing in behind her. The whispers in the air grew louder, mocking her.

"You will fail...You will die here....Elias is lost to you."

Ignore it. She clenched her jaw, forcing the voices from her mind, her focus on the task ahead. But the Maze wasn't done with her yet. The shadows shifted, and from the darkness, a figure emerged. Elias. He stood there, his golden eyes soft, his hand outstretched toward her. "Brielle...please....help me..." His voice was a plea, weak and vulnerable. Her heart twisted. She took a step forward, but something held her back. The spirits had warned her that the Maze would play tricks on her mind, twisting her deepest desires against her.

"Elias," she whispered, her hand trembling. But she couldn’t afford to be swayed. This wasn’t him—she knew that. She gripped her sword tighter, raising it between her and the figure. "You’re not real," she growled, her voice raw. The illusion flickered, and Elias’s form twisted grotesquely, his mouth stretching into a wicked grin. His eyes turned black as the figure lunged at her, its form shifting into a nightmarish creature, all claws and fangs. Brielle sidestepped the attack, her sword flashing as she slashed at the creature’s arm. It let out an unearthly screech, but before it could recover, she drove her blade through its chest. The creature dissolved into shadow, the whispering voices around her momentarily silenced.

Brielle’s chest heaved as she stood over the fading remnants of the illusion. She couldn’t let herself falter again. Time was running out. The deeper she went into the Maze, the more relentless the attacks became. Shadows crept along the walls, taking the shapes of things she feared and loved—Elias’s face, her parents, her own reflection twisted into monstrous forms. Each step felt heavier than the last, her strength waning, but she pressed on. Suddenly, the path opened into a wide clearing, and Brielle skidded to a halt. At the center of the clearing stood an ancient tree, its bark shimmering with faint golden light. At its base, resting on a stone pedestal, was the Heartstone. It glowed with a pale light, pulsing like a heartbeat. Relief surged through her, but it was short-lived.

The ground beneath her feet rumbled. From the shadows around the tree, something stirred. Vines thick as tree trunks twisted and merged, forming into the shape of a massive beast—an amalgamation of bark, thorns, and brambles, its eyes burning with an unnatural fire. It let out a deafening roar, its massive limbs crushing the earth as it stepped toward her. Brielle didn’t hesitate. She darted forward, narrowly avoiding the beast’s clawed swipe. The ground shook with the force of its attack, sending her sprawling. She rolled to her feet, gripping her sword tightly as the beast charged again. It moved with surprising speed for something so massive. She barely had time to dodge as its claws scraped the ground where she had stood moments before.

With a swift lunge, Brielle drove her sword into the creature’s side. The blade bit deep, but the beast hardly seemed to notice. It swung its arm, catching her in the ribs and sending her flying across the clearing. She crashed into the ground, pain exploding through her body. Gasping for breath, she staggered to her feet, blood dripping from a cut on her forehead. The creature roared, charging again, but Brielle was ready this time. As it lunged, she leaped onto a low-hanging branch and propelled herself onto the beast’s back. It thrashed wildly, trying to shake her off, but she held on, her sword flashing as she drove it deep into the back of its neck. The creature let out an ear-splitting screech, its body convulsing as the light in its eyes flickered.

With a final roar, the beast collapsed, its massive form disintegrating into vines and leaves. Brielle tumbled to the ground, her limbs trembling from the effort. She had no time to catch her breath. The Heartstone was within reach. Stumbling toward the pedestal, she reached for the stone, its light warm beneath her fingertips. But as she lifted it, the ground beneath her feet began to shake violently. The walls of the clearing twisted, and a chilling voice echoed through the air.

"You think you’ve won?" Brielle spun around, and from the shadows emerged a tall figure cloaked in darkness. Elkor. His red eyes gleamed from beneath his hood, a cruel smile playing on his lips. “The Heartstone won’t save them.”

Her heart pounded. “You’re lying.”

Elkor chuckled darkly, his voice filling the air like poison. "You don’t understand, do you?" He stepped closer, the ground shifting beneath his feet. "The village… Elias… they were never real."

Brielle’s breath caught in her throat. No. It couldn’t be true.

"You were the one cursed, Brielle. Not the village. You’ve been trapped in this Maze for years, trapped in a prison of your own mind." Elkor’s words slithered into her thoughts like venom. "The Heartstone? It’s the key to unlocking your own imprisonment."

Reality began to warp around her. The village, the faces of the people she loved—all illusions, all fabrications of her mind. She had been the one trapped in a dream, a test of her own spirit. As the weight of the truth crashed down on her, Brielle fell to her knees, the Heartstone slipping from her grasp. The Maze dissolved around her, its dark walls fading into the cold emptiness of a barren wasteland. Elkor’s voice faded into the wind as the last remnants of the illusion crumbled, leaving Brielle alone, her heart hollow with the weight of her lost reality. There was no village. No Elias. Only the curse she had been trying to escape all along.

[thestoryden]

A Burning Cole

Jacaerys Velaryon x Cole!Reader

Warnings: Violence, Tension, Language

Word Count: 3k

A/N: This started out like any other request, but it took on a life of its own. I have been writing bits of this all week, and I looked at the date and it was Sunday. I figured I should post it at least part of it before the end of the week. There will be a second part in the future. Thank you for reading, much love.

Masterlist / Taglist / Requests: Open

Your sword clashes with Aemond’s, the metal sings. He again swings and you catch his blade with your hilt. He locks his hilt with yours and uses it as a brace. The dirt of the training yard goes up in a puff of dust as he pushes you down to the ground. The point of his weapon is inches from your face.

“Well done, Cole.” He congratulates you.

He lowers his blade and sticks out his hand. You grab on to it and he brings you to your feet. You loosen the tie from your thick dark hair to let it down and shake out the sweat. Besting Aemond would be no easy feat, but you knew if you did that, he would allow you to fight along side him in the future.

Ser Criston comes into the court yard. He motions for both of you to come over. Criston’s face looks rather serious.

“Father,” You greet him.

“You must go get ready we have just received word that Rhaenyra has landed.” He commands.

“But we are training.” You protest.

“Yes, and the Crown must be ready.” He says firmly.

“I am only a ward of the Crown, my readiness does not-.” You argue

“Go,” He orders.

His face has such a stern look to it. You had not remembered it looking like that for some time. You do not take the time to wish Aemond good bye, not wanting to incur further wrath from your father. Instead, you hurry to your room.

Your shoes slap against the stone walkways as you run. You slip through the wooden door to be met with a very unhappy servant. You grimace as she puts her hand on your shoulder.

“Sorry Celia, I got caught up in training.” You say weakly.

She gives you a disapproving look and then sits you down in a chair. She hands you a wet rag and works on drawing your hair into a tight bun with a single braid running to it on the side. You wipe the grime and sweat from your body as you huff.

“This is pointless I am wasting time I could be training.” You complain.

Celia flicks the back of your ear. You scoff. With any other noble person, she would have been punished for her slight, but you were a bit different. You had grown up with Celia running around the streets of Kingslanding, both of you were fishermen’s children.

Or at least Celia was, it had been apparent when you were born that your dark hair was not from either of your parents. When you had come in to your sixth year it had become to much for your family to bear, your father insisted you be taken to whoever had sired you. Your mother complied and that fateful day you had found yourself in the training yard face to face with Ser Criston Cole. Your mother had always told you knights were brave and gallant. You had never met one other than the gold cloaks and so you believed her.

Ser Criston took you in and told you that evening you would go to pray. You watched him train the young princelings all day. When evening came and the sun set Criston took you to a court yard. There was a huge tree there that branched out over the whole area. He kneeled on the grass with you and took your little hand in his. You still remembered his words.

“It is a terrible life to live as a bastard, so we will pray to the gods that your life will be good, in the next.”

He had you close your eyes and guided you through a prayer one to the old gods and one to the new. He then held you tight to him. The metal of his armor felt cold and suddenly white hot pain in your back contrasted it. That is when a voice called out.

“Stop this!”

You looked up to see a young woman with brown hair. She was dressed in a green gown with a large silhouette.

“Is she yours?”

You watched as Ser Criston looked down at you. He wiped away tears from your face and then his own.

“Do not worry, I will take care of this.”

The woman took Ser Criston’s white cloak, wrapped you in it, and picked you up. They carried you to the maesters and you survived your wound. It took many maester and many stitches and the woman held your hand through the whole ordeal. The woman you would later learn was the queen. You took such favor with her after that night that it resulted in the crown legitimizing you.

You snap back to reality and Celia has finished your hair. She combs down the fly aways and uses a scented oil. It smells like roses and thyme.

“Is that really necessary?” You sigh.

“Yes,” She says, “You might even catch one of the prince’s eyes.”

“I’d rather not,” You say, “I hardly think they’ll remember me. It has been years.”

Celia turns to your bed, “I did the best I could on short notice, but the queen was very particular about how she wanted you dressed”

You huff, “So no pants?”

“No pants.” She affirms.

You stand up and go to the bed. Three green gowns lay on top of the covers. One with gold embroidery, another with a stiff silver collar, and the last is such a dark green it almost looks black. You pick it up and hold it to your body.

“Think I will blend in with the whole family?” You giggle.

Celia ignores your comment and starts preparing the dress. You strip off your clothes and allow her to fit you in to the dress. She straightens it out and goes to fetch a necklace. She takes out a thin gold chain with a small seven-pointed star on it. You removed your own necklace and turn it over in your hand. It is similar but your star is carved from a particular kind of wood and looped on a steel chain. She trades you and you fasten the gold one around your neck.

“It is important to look unified.” Celia reminds you.

She mumbles something about needing more green and begins rummaging through a small chest. She pulls out all manners of ribbons and baubles and begins attempting to match them with what you are wearing. She is determined to make you look like a presentable lady. She decides to pin velvet ribbons in to your bun. She is fishing through the chest again when there is a knock at the door.

A small serving girl peeks in, “My lady Queen Alicent has requested you wait with the princess.”

“Yes, I will go soon.” You reply.

She leaves and you look to Celia.

“Are we finished yet?”

She looks you over and her face goes pale.

“Shit, I forgot your underskirts, the silhouette will not have enough volume.”

“It is fine, I’ll be able to access my weapons better.”

You begin strapping your weapons to your body. First your daggers around your upper legs, you check to make sure the handles fall just below the edge of the pocket slits in your gown. You carefully tuck your knives into their slots just underneath your sleeves. They are thin and made of a single piece of metal so they are barely noticeable under your cuffs.

“No sword this time?” Celia notes, “You’ll almost look like a real lady.”

“I highly doubt anyone will mistake me for such.” You jest back.

You say your farewells and head to Princess Helaena’s apartments.  When you get to her door you can here wailing from the children’s room. You enter into her room and see her pinning a creature to a board.

“Helaena? Is everything alright?” You ask.

She brushes a stray bit of hair from her face, “Yes, the children had a rough morning.”

Her face is slightly flushed and her brow is wrinkled.

“As have you by the looks of it.” You comment, “Come, let us walk the grounds you need air.”

“It is just dreams that trouble me,” She retorts, “Besides, I am not finished pinning this.”

You pause for a moment, “I will help you catch bugs in the garden.”

She looks up at you with a grin and dashes off to get a stack of small boxes. You take two of them in your arm and link your other arm with hers as you head down the hall. After some time of navigating the hallways, you find yourself outside.

“This is not the way to the garden.” Helaena objects.

“No, but the training ground has beetles.” You say.

“I never thought of that.” She replies.

When you step into the dirt yard. You see Aemond practicing with Ser Criston. Practicing may not be the right word the are so focused in that it could count as a duel. A group gathers around them to watch them move back and forth. You leave Helaena to join the circle. Across from you two boys watch the intricate frighting. Finally, Aemond catches Criston’s mistake and then Aemond take the opportunity to put Criston at sword point. The nobles all clap.

“Well done, my prince.” Ser Criston congratulates him, “You will win tourneys in no time.”

“I don’t give a shit about tourneys.” Aemond bites back.

You hold in laughter. Aemond switches focus.

“Nephews, have you come to train?” He asks.

Your eyes are drawn to the older of the pair. He has warm brown hair and soft eyes. He opens his mouth to say something but is cut short by the Velaryons arriving. Everyone turns to watch their arrival. You find it strange that despite being Velaryons the princes arrived separately. The older boy whips back to the dispersing circle and catches you staring at him. You lock eyes with him and it causes you to tense up. He peers more intently and starts to make his way towards you. Aemond steps in front of him, blocking his path.

“Training?” Aemond asks.

“Yes, just give me one moment.” He replies.

He weaves around Aemond and then is standing so close you are practically toe to toe with him. He looks into your eyes and a small smile works its way up his lips. Irritation spreads across Aemond’s face.

“I said would you like to train?” Aemond repeats, his voice deepening.

“Just a moment Aemond.” Jacaerys replies.

He offers out his hand. You breathe and try to remember all of the courtly manners Celia had hammered in to your brain. You gently place your hand in his. He takes your hand and kisses the back. You withdraw it with an unwelcoming grimace.

“I didn’t catch your name.” Jacaerys comments.

“You can call me Cole.” You say shortly.

“That is an unusually name for a girl.” He replies.

“It is my house name, the only one of my names that should matter to you.” You snip back.

Aemond has no patience for this pageantry. He puts his sword to the prince’s back. Jacaerys stiffens where he stands. He smiles sheepishly.

“A moment Lady Cole.” He says tightly.

“We do not have all day, Nephew.” Aemond says, “Let us train or let us be done.”

“Yes, let’s.” Jacaerys says, “Lady Cole, do you care to watch us?”

“My apologies, I promised Princess Helaena, I would accompany her in the gardens.” You reply.

“What a shame, I guess I will have to meet you there then.” Jacaerys says coolly.

“I guess you will.” You say politely.

You walk off towards Helaena. You finally take in a breath and realize that your face is heating up. Helaena is looking at a plant trying to catch something.

“My princess, should we venture towards the gardens?” You ask.

She looks up at you her eyes almost glazed over, “Yes.”

She begins muttering to herself. You help her up from the ground and place your hand on her back to guide her. She seems as though she is in a trance.

When you make it to the garden Helaena’s state has not improved. There are attendants flitting about the gardens, you wave one over and ask for pillows to be brought for the princess. You help Helaena lay down on a bench as the attendant places pillows under her. You sigh and sit down on the pathway. You struggle to fix your skirts the way you want to.

“Damn this dress.” You curse.

Helaena stirs slightly, but then goes back to her words. They fall out in strings like poetry, but you can not make sense of them. You sigh and put your head in your lap. You often find yourself worried about the state of your host family. They raised you and made you what you are, but you know your love would not hold them together forever. Everything seems to be fraying at the seams. You feel a hand rest on your shoulder.

“Lady Cole?” The voice asks gently, “Are you alright?”

You look up and Jacaerys is looking down at you. You run your hands over your face and sniffle.

“Prince Jacaerys, I am fine.” You reply weakly.

He helps you to your feet and looks over to the princess.

“Is she alright?” He asks, gesturing towards the bench.

You brush off your dress and see that Helaena has fallen asleep.

“She will be, I will have a guard carry her to her apartments.”

You have an attendant fetch a kingsguard and he carries her away.

“Does that happen often?” Jacaerys asks.

“I wish it were not so, but the princess is often plagued by dreams.” You reply.

Your face falls. You realize you have said to much, made the Crown look weak.

“Pardon me, I did not mean the princess is flawed or” You try to keep up with your thoughts.

“No one is infallible,” Jacaerys says, “Well except for me.”

A smile breaks out on his face and you find it infects you and spreads across your own. You laugh a little.

“Your words are a great comfort, my prince.” You whisper.

“Jace is fine.” He replies, “You are a ward of the crown after all.”

“What do you mean by that?” You ask pointedly.

“Well, you are the crown’s responsibility, and by extension my responsibility as I am the future heir.” Jacaerys replies, “I would want to be familiar with someone who was my responsibility.”

You blush, “You are too kind, my, um, Jace.”

“Your Jace?” He pokes.

Your face gets even hotter.

“I suppose I wouldn’t mind being your Jace.” He smiles tenderly.

“It is beneath my station,” You say embarrassed.

“Maybe, for now.” He says a hint of curiosity in his voice, “But I could change that.”

“Your joke has gone too far,” You seethe.

You run off down the path.

“Wait!” Jacaerys calls after you.

He chases you through the gardens. Knocking over attendants and breaking flowers off bushes. You are quite a bit faster than him, but eventually you collapse under a large apple tree. Exhaustion grips your body and you can barely keep your eyes open. The sun makes your face feel warm and you cannot keep yourself upright. When Jacaerys catches up to you he finds you curled up under the tree.

He gently shakes you awake. You groan and he slips his arm under you helping you sit up. Your eyes open and you see his face looking down at you with concern.

“Please, I do not wish to be tortured anymore by your cruel jokes.” You beg faintly.

“It was not a joke,” He implores you, “I was genuinely struck by your beauty this morning in the yard.”

You are not sure whether to look up at him or chastise him for being so brazen.

“Besides I have no other half yet.” Jacaerys whispers.

He stands and reaches up towards a hanging branch. He plucks an apple from it. He sits back down with you and splits the apple in two. He offers you one of the halves. You accept it.

“You must think me a true lady.” You laugh.

You think Celia would be very proud that all her training and work brought you to this moment. Ensnared with a prince, the future heir no less.

“Are you not?” Jacaerys questions.

“Well, my attendant had done her best to make me look like one, but in reality, I spend most days in the training yard fighting.”

You take one of the flat knives from underneath your cuff and cut out the core of the apple. You bite into the apple and sweet juice sprays into your mouth. Jacaerys tilts his head to the side.

“Well, you look quite refined.” He smiles sweetly.

You open your mouth to speak but are cut short, by a very out of breath squire. He huffs and tries to get out words.

“Gods, boy, just speak.” Jacaerys laughs.

“Cole, Aemond, wants you in the training yard.” He coughs out.

“Well, my other prince calls.” You sass.

You drag yourself to your feet, and slip your arms under that of the fumbling squire. You help him to a near by attendant and arrange for him to be cared for. You hear shoes hitting the pavement then coming to an abrupt stop behind you.

“Wait when will I see you again?” Jacaerys asks.

“I suppose, you could watch me practice this evening, Jace.” You reply coolly.

“At least let me accompany you to your apartments.” He insists.

“How could I refuse.” You say sarcastically.

He loops his arm with yours as you walk through the garden together. You feel the eyes of the lords and ladies of the court. Even a few attendants’ stare. You hold your head up high.

“We must be quite the spectacle.” Jacaerys laughs uneasily.

You tire greatly of their vicious stares that you have been fighting off since the day you arrived at the palace. Trying to blend in the best you could with what little knowledge you had of court politics. Today that changes, you decide to lean in to it and you rest your head against Jacaerys’ shoulder. A small choir of gasps come from the garden.

“Is something the matter?” Jacaerys whispers.

“No, just in love I think.” You reply with a smile.

Taglist: @sinlist @isabel2you @cedricsleftelbow @groovyponypatrollamp @ofherscarlettwitchways @aprilsimonsstuff @tnu-ree @pinkydevil16 @guijh103 @severewobblerlightdragon @thegirlnextdoorssister @thanyatargaryen @zgzgzh @fultimefangirl @esposadomd @you-bleed-just-toknowyouarealive @missusnora @eonnyx @winxschester

[jammatown919]

Please Don’t Take My Sunshine Away

Jinx rather enjoyed her reputation. She was The Loose Cannon, one of Zuan's most feared criminals, the terror of Piltover, and gods was it fun.

Everywhere she went, she carried an aura of danger, discouraging anyone too boring from messing with her while simultaneously attracting worthwhile playmates who would give her a good, exciting fight. Only one person was fully immune to it, and that suited Jinx just fine. Lux was all she needed, the only person who truly mattered in any capacity.

As long as she had Lux, the entire rest of the world could hate and fear her. In fact, she preferred it that way. Her reputation was her second favorite thing, after all.

Until, of course, it put her first favorite thing in danger; and in the middle of date night, no less.

The first few hours had gone by smoothly, and with a tameness that Jinx could only stand if Lux was around. Lux had bought them dinner from Jericho's, the real nice stuff that Jinx had tasted only one or twice throughout her childhood, and then brought Jinx up to a rooftop near the top of the fissures for a sort of picnic.

Their conversations shifted wildly by the minute, just the way Jinx preferred. One minute it was Lux's hilariously low spice tolerance (but she looked so cute trying to pretend the food didn't bother her), the next it was Jinx's current pet project, then it was astrology and suddenly Lux was squinting up through the fissures trying to place constellations she couldn't see.

They stayed well after their food was finished, and Jinx would have been more than happy to stay all night, had she not noticed Lux beginning to fall asleep. In an effort to keep the night going as long as possible, she had suggested something a bit more exciting, and presently the two of them were walking back to Jinx's workshop so that Lux could be properly introduced to that new beloved project.

Keeping to the backstreets to avoid Jinx drawing too much attention, they made their way at a leisurely pace, ducking their heads together to continue their conversation in hushed voices.

In that moment, they were completely relaxed, fully focused on each other, and then Jinx suddenly straightened, acutely aware of unwanted eyes on them.

"Jinx?" Lux inquired softly. Though she'd yet to notice the source of Jinx's agitation, her hand went to the hilt of her sword, tucked safely into a scabbard at her side. "What's the matter?"

"I don't think we're alone." Jinx absently plucked Zapper from his holster, eyes flicking about, searching for movement.

There.

A silhouette in the alleyway they'd just cut through, frantically scuttling backward in a futile attempt to avoid detection.

"Blondie, light," Jinx requested in a whisper, and a moment later the space was illuminated by a tiny ball of light sitting in Lux's palm.

Their stalker surged forward at the same time Lux threw out her other arm, sending a bolt of bright gold that struck his chest and stopped him in his tracks. His body went rigid, though Jinx could see muscles straining against Lux's invisible hold, and only then were they able to get a clear look at him.

He seemed about their age, muscular and among the better fed of Zuan's people. In his hand was a very nice little gun, almost as well-kept as Jinx's collection, pointed directly at her head.

"Looks like I owe you one, Blondie." Jinx turned to the mage, more praise on her tongue, only to falter at the rare, magnificent sight before her.

She could recall very few times in which she'd seen Lux as utterly pissed as when she marched up to that frozen man and, in a single motion, snatched the gun from him and pressed it firmly to the underside of his chin.

"You've got about two seconds to explain what the hell you think you're doing," she hissed, eliciting a pleasant shudder from Jinx. Oh, she loved it when Lux got like this.

"I'd say something if I were you," Jinx said lightly, because the man was taking far too long to respond. "Or y'know, don't. I think I'll like what happens if you don't."

Their captive's eyes darted between them briefly before settling on Lux, cold and calculating and dangerous, but before either of them could really process this, he was moving again. He seized Lux by the wrist, forcing the gun up and away from him, and after a brief struggle wrenched it back from her entirely.

The light in her other hand expanded, ready to be used offensively, only to go out in an instant as he pistol-whipped her so hard that she immediately lost consciousness.

Jinx's eyes adjusted quickly to the darkness (small perk of containing more Shimmer than blood); enough so that she was able to see with decent clarity as Lux hit the ground with an unpleasant thud. Even worse, she could see the bastard raising his gun again, ready to pull the trigger and send her one good thing somewhere she could not follow.

"You gonna let her die too?" Mylo's impish voice demanded from somewhere in the back of her mind.

Absolutely fucking not.

With Lux on the ground, Jinx could now shoot without fear of catching her in the crossfire, and she did so readily, relishing in the advantage that her target could not see nearly as well.

Zapper caught him in the shoulder, sending a jolt throughout his entire body. He stumbled back, and Jinx darted forward to deliver a swift kick to his gut that forced him even farther from the prone mage. In a panic, he fired three shots, each missing her by a spectacularly embarrassing margin.

Without much effort, Jinx knocked the gun from his hand and shot him in the knee, watching as he collapsed heavily onto his back. If he'd been hired to kill her, she almost thought his client deserved a refund, but then she remembered that this client would be partially responsible for what had just happened to Lux, and suddenly she hoped they'd been ripped off as much as humanly possible. Not like this guy would ever get to use the money, after all.

Briefly, Jinx considered keeping him alive long enough to inquire about this potential client, but with a glance over her shoulder she realized that Lux still hadn't moved, and that concerned her infinitely more. She shot the man in the head and, slipping Zapper back into his holster, turned away without another thought.

"Blondie!" Jinx shouted, and quickly closed the distance between them. She dropped to her knees at Lux's side, nauseated by the dark, wet spot at the mage's hairline. "Shit, Blondie."

Her fingers hovered over the wound, hesitant to touch anything for fear of making it worse. Should she try parting the hair to better inspect the injury? She thought it best to know exactly what she was dealing with, but it would be sensitive and, if Lux was at all conscious, painful to touch.

"You with me, Sunshine?" Jinx asked softly. She opted to avoid the head and instead give Lux's shoulder a few gentle prods.

There was no response, and so she decided to risk it. Gingerly, she took the sticky clump between her fingers and began to pull it from the damaged skin. More blood rushed down Lux's face as it came away, to the point that Jinx didn't even get to see the wound before she felt compelled to let the hair cover it again.

Oh, this was bad. Terribly, horrifically bad. She'd seen people dead from injuries like this.

"No, no, no, please," Jinx muttered frantically as she began to rock Lux's shoulders. "Blondie, please, wake up. I need you to wake up."

Several agonizing moments passed. Nothing.

"Don't you dare," she hissed for lack of anything better to say. "Don't you dare leave me. What am I supposed to do without you, huh?"

She hated that she already knew the answer to that, because it had happened twice before. She knew exactly what it was to lose everyone who gave a damn about her. It felt like the end of the world, and it was, in a way. The end of her little world, where she was safe and happy and loved and actually okay for once in her goddamn life.

Her world with her sister was long dead. Her world with Dad had been torn apart by her own hands. But her world with Lux? Somehow, she thought losing that would be worst of all.

And just when she thought she would, that Lux would remain still and vacant beneath her, a soft groan reached her ears.

"Lux?"

"Mm?" Lux moaned back, brow furrowing as she struggled to open her eyes.

"You hear me, Blondie?"

"Mmm..."  Lux hummed, and finally managed to look up at Jinx. She seemed dazed, and perhaps not entirely aware, but she was awake and responding, and that was enough for the moment.

Relief flooded through Jinx's body, manifested in tears pouring down her face. She brought Lux close to her chest and held her tight, nuzzling into the side of her neck.

"Don't scare me like that," she murmured into Lux's ear, unable to contain her watery laugh as the mage nuzzled back and lifted her arms to weakly encircle Jinx's middle.

"Jinx?" Lux's chin rested heavily atop Jinx's shoulder, and her jawbone dug in as she spoke, though Jinx couldn't have cared less.

"Yeah, Blondie, it's me," she said.

"No, I know," Lux replied, perhaps more aware than Jinx had initially thought. "Just... what happened to him?"

Jinx pulled away, momentarily confused until she realized that Lux had been staring over her shoulder, directly at the body she'd left behind. Unsure of how much Lux remembered and unwilling to say anything that might upset or frighten her in this state, Jinx opted for the simplest explanation she could think of.

"He wanted to take you away from me," she whispered. Lux's brow furrowed, and she kissed it gingerly. "But I didn't let him. I wouldn't let anyone."

"I wouldn't either," Lux replied, as seriously as one could with that exhausted, vaguely slurred voice. "Not ever. 'Cause I'm yours."

The declaration of loyalty did not go unnoticed, but Jinx's relief was quickly giving way to some notion of guilt. She had done absolutely nothing to do deserve such devotion. What she had done was unintentionally put Lux in this situation in the first place. After all, that man had only been after one of them.

"You're too good for me, Blondie," she sighed, and pressed their foreheads together. "I'm sorry you got caught up in this."

"Not your fault," Lux murmured.

"He wasn't here for you," Jinx shot back, far more assertively than intended. She tried to lose the tone as she continued, but it merely shifted into something smaller and more pathetic. "He hurt you because you were with me. I dragged you into this, and I couldn't even keep you safe. You could have died and it would have-"

Lux's hand on her face effectively shut her up. It was gentle, trembling and threatening to slide right off her cheek, but determined to stay there and provide comfort Jinx was certain she didn't deserve.

"You didn't hurt me," Lux said firmly. "You saved me. I'm still here because of you."

Jinx laid one hand over Lux's, holding it in place. She kissed it once, on the wrist, and leaned into it.

"I'm here," Lux continued with what was probably the biggest smile she could manage. "Right here. Not going anywhere."

"I'm gonna hold you to that," Jinx replied. "Now what do you say we get out of here?"

Lux hummed in agreement, and Jinx slipped her arms beneath her girlfriend's body to lift them both off the group. She took a moment to steady them, then set off in the direction they'd been going before the attack.

She watched Lux carefully as they went, partially to ensure she didn't fall asleep and partially because she didn't know what to do with the rest of the protective energy built up in her chest. She wanted to take Lux away and hide her somewhere no one else could ever get to her, but she had a feeling that wouldn't go over well.

In fact, pretty much any method to prevent Lux from defending Jinx at her own risk was less likely to be accepted than to start a fight that Jinx wouldn't win. It was just Lux's nature to protect her own.

So, it would have to be Jinx's nature too.

"I'll do better," she murmured, low enough that she didn't think the half-conscious mage could hear. "Next time, they won't get near you. I won't let anyone hurt you ever again." ---- If you enjoyed this, please reblog to share it with others! That is literally the only way content creators get any recognition on this site; likes unfortunately don’t really do anything. Thank you for reading!

[hellogoodbye14]

Veiled Silhouettes - Part 6 (Gwynriel)

Part 6 is all things gwynriel banter, an unexpected, protective and loyal pet and a jealous Azriel.

Side Note for Fic: This series was meant to have finished but because of a few requests, I’ve been working on continuing it. For the past two months its been a whirlwind streamlining the major story but I’m so happy with it now that its done. This fic will be updated frequently so rest easy loves. No more 2 months MIA sessions 😂

Gwyn felt Azriel come up behind her long before his front met her back. She instantly felt warm and blushed as the memory of words said in the morning rushed back at her.

Here?

She took a deep breath.

I will catch you.

She shivered as he leaned down. The breath from his lips dancing along the arch of her ear.

I have you Gwyn.

“Okay, good job Gwyn. Maintain this position.”

Gwyn shook her head a bit as she heard the words Azriel said in the now, penetrating her mind.

He frowned down at her a bit.

“Everything okay?”

She gave him a reassuring smile, “Yeah no, I’m good.”

He nodded then pointed towards the ranger near the eastern post.

“We need to cross the boundary near there and get into the keep.”

Gwyn peered around the bush to check whether the enforcers from earlier had finished their round.

“And Koschei’s second is inside?”

Azriel nodded.

“We get inside and we gather as much intel as possible.”

“Okay but how exactly are we planning to get rid of that ranger there?”

Azriel was silent for a moment and then the next words made Gwyn roll her eyes.

“I think we should knock him out.”

“Oh, so that when he wakes up he can harp to everybody that Night Court spies infiltrated the keep?”

“Yes, it’s a risk and any information we get may be compromised but you got a better idea?”

Gwyn bit her lip and gave the ranger in question a second look.

“We need a distraction.”

A “v” formed between Azriels dark eyebrows. His hazel eyes like dark honey, sparkling gold.

“What distraction?”

“Follow my lead, Shadowsinger.”

————————————————————————

This was a bad idea. No scratch that, this was a terrible idea.

His shadows wisped near his ears, urging him to settle down.

Settle down Singer….

No affirmation from his shadows would help him from worrying. Gwyn was strong and brilliant but if this didn’t work, she’d be surrounded by hundreds of Koschei’s guards in a second.

He leaned down behind the lovrata bush, just south of the eastern wall. He sniffed at the rustic scent of the flowers on it. Gwyn’s Ryget happened to be resting on his front paws in the bush next to him. The beast was ready to pounce if anyone would dare hurt Gwyn.

At first they were behind the same bush but there was barely any watching space. One had to watch through the limited space in the middle of its leaves. Anytime Azriel tried nudging Nero aside for a better view, the ryget growled and bumped Azriel away. Eventually Azriel moved to the bush on the side grumbling about the annoying beast who had attached itself to Gwyns hip.

Azriel watched Gwyn behind the tree. She was supposed to be stepping out any minute now. Gwyn paced back and forth, she was muttering something to herself.

Maybe she changed her mind? Azriel felt a rush of relief.

A second later, she bent down and shook out her long auburn curls before flipping them back over her shoulders. The move, Azriel noted was to add volume to her already glowing locks. She then pinched her cheeks and patted down her cotton wool dress before lifting the hood over her head.

Guess she didn’t change her mind.

Gwyn glanced at him from the distance and gave a two finger salute. It was his sign to get ready and climb the near tower wall while she was busy distracting the ranger. How she was going to distract him, he had no idea. But she said she had this and he trusted her.

Gwyn stepped out of tree line, and the guard raised his hand to the hilt of his sword for a second before dropping it. His eyes in wonder and Azriel could imagine why because he was pretty sure his own jaw had almost dropped to the floor. Gwyneth Berdara had transformed.

The waves of her hair were texturized and fluffed, her cheekbones shimmered like candlelight. But the thing which stood out was her walk. She walked with such grace, it wad as if she was floating. Her hips swayed to the rhythm of nature around her. It was absolutely entrancing.

Azriel always knew Gwyn was beautiful but like this? Absolutely owning her grace and beauty… she was a goddess. Her teal eyes imploring, she looked at the ranger.

“I’m so sorry sir, I’m a bit lost. I was wondering if you could help me?”

The guard shook his head a bit.

“Uh… umm. Miss, you are not allowed to be on these grounds.”

She raised both her hands as if in prayer, “I do apologise. Sincerely. It’s just that I am new to this court.”

She chewed on her lip a bit. The rangers gaze was focused just there.

Dipshit.

“No, no milady.” He shook his head again.

“You need not apologise. Where would you like to go?”, he asked, this time offering a kind smile.

Azriel saw her motion her hand to side, a sign telling him to hurry up.

He shook his head. Right. Climb the wall. Yeap.

He quickly started to scale the wall as Gwyn kept up conversation with him. The ranger had already told her the way but he was now sharing every detail of his life. Gwyn’s laughter echoed and he couldn’t help but pause and listen. His own shadows dancing to the melody.

“Those roses are beautiful milday, even better than the one’s in spring dare I say.”

Gwyn offered him a smirk, “Oh is that so?”

He offered a besotted smile in return.

“Yes, theres a few just near the river. Let me fetch you some.”

The guard started turning towards the wall and Azriel stilled. But Gwyn touched the guards arm and he instantly turned towards her.

“Oh no sir. You are too kind but it breaks my heart to see flowers broken.”

Azriel quickly finished the rest of his climb.

“Surely a beautiful lady such as you deserves beautiful flowers.”

Azriel couldn’t help but roll his eyes. Laying it on a bit thick mate.

Gwyn blushed and traced her foot in a half circle.

“Maybe you can show it to me the next time I stumble here?”

The guard offered her a bow.

“It would be a pleasure. My name is Unqet.”

“Im Rachel.”

He smiled at her and she offered him a sweet goodbye.

As soon as Gwyn crossed the side of the wall, and the guard went back to looking ahead, Azriels shadows wisped down from the roof and encircled Gwyn. He pulled on the leash and she was airborne. He quickly gathered her in her arms and his breath was knocked from him when she looked up at him smiling bright. Not the fake smiles dipshit got. This was the real one. The special Gwyn Berdara smile.

Her eyes were lighted up in excitement.

“Dude that was so fun!”

“Had a good time with Uncat?”

Gwyn snickered as Azriel put her on her feet.

“His name was Unqet.”

Azriel rolled his eyes, “No one normal can be named that Rachel.”

“I think its a cool name.”

“No. It’s really not. I dread to think what you’ll name your child.”

Gwyn pursed her lips.

“Rain, of course.”

Azriel just stared at her.

“Why do you hate your future kid?”

Gwyn snorted and lightly pushed him towards the stairs on the right.

“It’s a cool name. And what I meant to say was, your shadows giving me a ride was really fun.”

Azriel felt his shadows wisp higher, as if puffing their chests in pride.

Azriel gave her a smirk. A devilish one really. He tucked a loose strand behind her ear and leaned in close.

“The shadows and I are at your disposal for all kinds of rides.”

He could have sworn the freckles on her cheeks turned brilliantly bright over her blush.

She gave him a playful nudge while simultaneously rolling her eyes.

“You’re such a flirt.”

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