#NO WONDER IT WAS A WAR OF FIVE FUCKING KINGS

[mossytrashcan]

the way in which everything would’ve been fine if everyone stopped playing in theon’s face unprompted is driving me insane. bro will express loyalty to the starks and everyone will be like “erm actually you’re a greyjoy and you should die” MF DO YOU WANT HIM TO BETRAY YOU????? WHY?!! STOP!!!!

[madamechrissy]

Took you Like a Shot Masterlist

Chapter One - Chapter Two - Chapter Three - Chapter Four - Chapter Five ( final)

Pairings- Rich Frat/fuckboi Toru x Preppy Sorority reader

Summary- One VERY drunk encounter between your greatest rival ever - on your last day of college- leads to you being knocked up. Satoru Gojo, a fuckboy, fratboy, rich little jerk, has been a rival of yours since you all met in College, every damn grade you fought for he got with ease. He crashed every Sorority party you threw. The two of you are so infamous in your rivalry, your friend groups were rivals, and for some reason, life is playing some damn joke on you both. Now... you have to tell him the news - but how Satoru takes it surprises you. Can you both raise a baby together!? And do you even really know each other?

Contents/Warnings- gonna be flashbacks to the rivalry/that night, nerdjo but make him a fratboy, enemies to kind of begrudging partners, but then as the pregnancy progresses, they fall in love hehe- fluffy and smutty, MDNI -will have explicit sex etc, art in the banner by Yuana on X - finished! WC 42k

Playlist -preview below!- headcanons - here & here - Fratboy! Sukuna here

It had been an absolutely filthy night, that led to your doctor coming in and informing you three months later-

'You're pregnant'

You came in for a normal checkup, you're on the pill and you have no sex life, aside from one encounter over three months ago. A filthy, questionable ass encounter with what so happened to be your former 'bully' - rich boy, frat boy, pretty boy, pretentious boy- Satoru Gojo.

For years, the two of you were rivals, not just academic either, since you were both top of your class all through college, but at everything. He'd hold your notebooks high and laugh at you, he'd try to ruin and crash every sorority event he could. Known as the Queen and King of the campus, you ran the rivaling Sorority to his Fraternity. The amount of times you all had gone toe to toe was literally notorious, even your best friends hated each other on your behalf, starting an entire war between you all.

You have no clue how it happened, still, how the two of you had the best sex of your life at that damn party, fueled by drinks but also something you'd never admit- you've always wondered. Hearing those stories about his... skills, seeing his perfect body and the way his pretty lips smirked so cruelly your direction, even after all these years- how it all led to this moment.

'Hah, sweets, ya finally admit I'm good at something?' Satoru had murmured in your ear, while he'd had you bent right over some bed at some party- both of you were seniors in college on your last and final party, finally you thought you'd be rid of him, of this ass of a man. He was going to live the rich life, working for his family, you were moving on to a whole different career.

'One t-thing... that's it...' You had cried out when his cock had shoved in so deep, making you cum all over him, his fingers gripping your hips while he'd pumped deeper and deeper, impossibly until he'd been right on your cervix. 'F-fuck!'

'Fuck... you had a pussy like this and we've been fighting!?' Satoru is whispering, resting his snowy locks against your neck, biting it with sharp teeth as you milk his cock. 'so greedy, huh?'

'S-shut up, mnh- just... keep... there, there shit!' Satoru had slammed right against your cervix, feeling you pulsing around him, it had been too good, too tight, too fucking wet, he'd paused then, looking at your arched ass, your skirt shoved over your hips. 'Keep g-going, please...'

'M'gonna cum, tho-she's too tight- shit can I?'

Your drunk ass had said- sure. You're precise on that pill, every day your alarm goes off in the morning, you take it. How could...

"Pregnant!?" You repeat. Unbelievable. No fucking way. You...

"Yes sweetie I suggest prenatal and an ultrasound, hmm?" The nurse says so sweetly, as you feel sick to your stomach, which your hand goes down to touch.

Pregnant. With rich, notorious fuckboy Satoru Gojo’s baby- now you would have to tell him!?

Shit.

[whyisaravenlike-awritingdesk]

In Another Life, You Still Would've Turned My Head (ao3)

For @sjmromanceweek day 5 and the trope of... uh... white knights?

It's 1461, and after fighting in the bloodiest battle England has ever seen, Yorkist knight Cassian sprints from the battlefield in order to persuade the woman he's loved secretly for three years to come away with him. But now that the crown has switched hands, Nesta Archeron is the daughter of a run-away traitor, wanted by the king, and still the most stubborn person Cassian has ever met. And in such dangerous times, all he can do is hope that she just takes his hand. (Wars of the Roses AU)

England, 1461

There would be ballads, someday.

Poems and songs and epic-fucking-tales told by candlelight; a minstrel’s wages paid tenfold if he’d sing about the battlefield Cassian had just turned his back on, with the mud of the killing field still clinging to his greaves.

Like it mattered, now.

Thirty thousand dead and a river of blood spilled in the name of a crown that Cassian had just plucked from the ground and handed to his brother with both hands. He’d marvelled, at first, at the weight of it balanced between his fingers, but as he looked at that hollow crown, the metal smooth and polished, he wondered if it had always been so lacklustre. If the shine had always been so dimmed, or whether that was just the light of the afternoon sun, clouded by the smoke of the hundred small fires burning before a thousand canvas tents. 

He hadn’t ever thought that when he made Rhys king, it would feel so empty. 

Because what did gold matter, now? What diadem mattered, when the crown on Rhys’ brow meant that the woman Cassian had loved from afar, in secret and in silence, had just been hauled into the firing line?

The blood had been so thick that Cassian had been able to fucking taste it. The plate armour Rhys had paid handsomely for— dented now, scratched. The hilt of his sword, practically bruised from his grip. Everywhere there was blood and mud and shit, the screams of the injured and the dying. Broken spears had jutted up from the ground like broken wings, and all across the field lay the battered remains of men who had fought and died for what they believed in— the king they had believed in, whoever that might be. 

Rhys was king, now.

In a victory that was so complete and encompassing it was almost dizzying, his brother was the king now, and Cassian might have smiled at the victory had the blood not been so thick on his hands or his heart not one second away from beating right out of his chest. 

Other things mattered, now.

So Cassian had kneeled for his new king for all of one moment before rising to his feet, throwing aside the helmet that was battered beyond repair, and calling out until his voice broke for a horse to carry him— any horse at all.

Right then and there, he’d been willing to give his brother’s newfound and hard-won kingdom for a fucking horse.

Because a white rose was sewn into the tunic that covered his breastplate, and hammered into the steel beneath too, decorating his pauldrons and vambraces both. But she lived under the banner of a red one— a Lancastrian rose to his Yorkist. Cassian had woken that morning as a rebel about to wage war on the king, but Fortune had saw fit to turn her wheel on that field today. As the sun set, he was the brother of the man who wore the crown now, and where Nesta Archeron had woken that morning as the daughter of one of the wealthiest members of the gentry… she was ending it as a pauper. 

His rise had been her fall; his good fortune her destruction. 

He couldn’t let that stand. 

Wouldn’t let that stand, especially not when Rhys ordered all of the old king’s most loyal adherents to be rounded up and brought before him to kneel, and Cassian glimpsed her father at the edge of the field, already running for the hills. So Cassian had bowed to that crown - nearly five hundred years old already, with a patina of age and glory that ought to have brought him to his knees with awe - and then turned away, telling his brother in no uncertain terms that he’d be back to help secure his new kingdom once he’d dealt with something far more pressing.

Then he’d raced like the devil himself was at his back, and kept going and going and going, long after the sun had set. 

And now his spurs clattered on the cobblestones as he dismounted, his stiff muscles protesting each move as he tied his horse to a post with hands aching from holding the reins for more hours than he’d bothered to count, and a sword for even more before that. He tipped his head back to feel the cold night air brush against his neck; a welcome relief given the plate armour and heavy chain mail that he still wore.

God, not even Rhys knew how much of the world Cassian would let burn for her. 

Not a single soul alive knew how much Cassian had yearned for her since the very first day he’d glimpsed her across the hall at one of the old king’s Christmas banquets, when the entire court had been gathered, before they’d descended into war. He had spoken to her since, small snatches of precious conversation they’d stolen when backs were turned, but none of them knew just how madly, desperately, and irrevocably devoted he was to Nesta fucking Archeron.

Perhaps it would have changed things, if Rhys had known exactly how much Cassian cared for the girl whose father had just refused to swear allegiance to the new king. But there had been no time to explain, and it didn’t matter now, anyway. 

Before him, the moonlight was a shard of silver splitting through the clouds, bathing the Archeron manor in an eerie, ethereal glow. Roses climbed the pale walls, and all was in darkness. Not a single candle shone inside, every window void of light, like those inside had stopped waiting for the master of the house to come home and were already expecting the enemy to come hammering on the door. 

Cassian was the enemy, he supposed. With that white rose on his chest, so at odds with the red one he’d glimpsed on Nesta’s father’s banner today, as crimson as freshly spilled blood… yes, technically Cassian was the enemy.

But he could never be her enemy.

It was why he’d raced to that manor, allowing neither hunger nor thirst nor fatigue to slow him. He’d switched horses thrice, determined to let nothing on this God-given earth stop him. He hadn’t even wasted the time it took to change from his armour and it glinted weakly now, the moonlight glancing off the planes of it that weren’t covered in blood. 

Because Rhys would arrest them - arrest her - as soon as daybreak came. Cassian would bet his life that there was already a contingent of soldiers on the way, ready to apprehend the daughters of Sir Henry Archeron and bring them to court, where they could be kept an eye on and ensure their father’s loyalty. And Cassian knew what that meant. Each of the three sisters would be married off to some minor, inconsequential lord and shipped off to whichever corner of England was the least likely to rise up in rebellion against the new king. They would be sold off into marriage to lessen their value, their threat, and though the part of Cassian that had led Rhys’ vanguard in battle knew it was the right move…

He couldn’t let it happen.

So he didn’t bother to quiet his steps as his spurs rang out against the stone of the courtyard, an announcement in and of itself, and he didn’t bother, either, to knock on the thick wooden door with the skin of his knuckles. No— Cassian banged his armoured wrist against the door, loud enough to wake the dead.

And within moments, as though she had been waiting as soon as his horse crossed into the courtyard, Nesta Archeron pulled open the heavy door on creaking hinges, a scowl on her face that was enough to send him to an early grave as she stood on that threshold between them, half concealed by the shadow, with the moonlight only barely gracing the angles of the face that had haunted his dreams ever since he’d laid eyes on her.

And though she tried to keep that scowl in place, her pale hand fluttered to her chest as she took in the sight of him, silvered fully by the moon, and surely looking as wild as anything. And as though there was nothing else she could think to say, Nesta breathed,

“You shouldn’t be here.”

***

“Where else would I be?”

His words were smooth, and the smile that pulled at his lips was wry with a hopeless sort of sincerity, but still there was an edge in his voice, serrated by exhaustion, like the hours of travel and battle both had taken their toll on a body that simply refused to give in to the need for rest. 

God, he was a mess. 

The armour, moulded so perfectly to every plane of his body, was dulled instead of polished, and somewhere along the way he had discarded his helm and his gauntlets, as if preferring to feel the wind on his face and the leather of the reigns against his palms as he raced to her in the dying light, crossing miles like they were inches. His surcoat was covered in blood and dirt, and Nesta didn’t know what it said about her that instantly she began to pray that it wasn’t his own. God save her, she didn’t even think to ask after her father, not until—

“Your father escaped,” Cassian said, almost as an aside as he took a step forward. His eyes were fixed to hers, like she was a cardinal point he couldn’t hope to navigate himself without, and as he moved, the sword at his hip clinked against the armour he still wore. Idly, casually, he balanced his wrist on the pommel, curling his fingers around the decorated handle, and when Nesta noticed a fresh cut right across his knuckles - like he’d taken off his gauntlets during battle and been caught short - she didn’t like the way her focus centred on that one cut. Not when it was clear by the look of him that he had left a string of more serious wounds in his wake today. 

How many lives had he ended on that battlefield today? How many women had he made widows? 

But his eyes were unfailing, his gaze steadfast. Like he was her most devoted servant.

She forced herself to think of the matter at hand. The danger facing them now, without her father to protect her name or that of her sisters.  Deep down, she’d always known that he’d abandon them to their fate if the battle went south for him. That he’d save his own skin before thinking of theirs.

“He fled the field?” Nesta asked.

Cassian snorted. “He never entered the field, love. He spent the entire battle at the edges and when it was clear his side was losing, he fled. He’s probably half way to France by now.” He took another step forward, his face turning grave as shadow fell across half of his frame. “You need to come with me.”

Nesta blinked. “Excuse me?”

“You need to come with me.” He hesitated a moment before adding, “Please.”

The entreaty alone was almost enough to make Nesta agree. Here was a man who begged for nothing, who asked for nothing, standing before her and saying please. 

And yet she could not accept.

No matter how much her heart yearned, how much her soul ached.

She could not accept.

“I’m not going anywhere,” she said firmly, her eyes rising briefly to the lintel above her head, the stone carved with the Archeron family crest. The seat that had been occupied by an Archeron for centuries, ever since the Norman Conquest. What would become of it, if she were to vacate it now? 

The scar that split Cassian’s eyebrow was pulled taut as he frowned. His hand darted out, closing around her arm, his fingers warm through the fabric of her sleeve as he held her. As though he hadn’t thought the better of it, hadn’t bothered to check himself. And it didn’t matter what future Nesta might have imagined once, in the dark when she was alone. It didn’t matter that, once, she might have harboured dreams of him being the one she slept beside each night and woke up to each morning. None of it mattered; he should not have been touching her. 

Not like this.

She pulled back, stepping entirely into the shadow.

His hand dropped into the empty space between them, a void that felt impossible to bridge. 

“Your father is enough of a landholder in this county to make his loyalty imperative to whichever king sits on the throne,” Cassian said slowly, keeping his voice low. “And since he’s made it clear that he won’t accept any king save the old one…”

“My father is one of the king’s chief moneylenders—“

“Not anymore, sweetheart,” Cassian interrupted. His armour clinked as he took another step, as he reached for her again, his fingers falling just short of hers. He left his hand there, hanging in the air for a moment, as if waiting for her to reach for him. She wanted to. God in heaven, she wanted to. But the moment stretched and in the end his fingers curled towards his palm as he let his hand drop back to the pommel of his sword, leaving neither of them satisfied. “And your daddy isn’t powerful enough or wealthy enough anymore to warrant Rhys keeping him alive. He’ll make an example of him, and it won’t be long before he throws him in the Tower.”

Nesta paled.

Her relationship with her father was… complex. It was her duty as a daughter to obey him, and yet… the man had proven himself a fool on more than one occasion since her mother’s death. He had been lucky, lately, that his ventures had given him enough revenue to loan his gold to the king in order to fund this godforsaken war, but it was luck, not strategy, that kept him in a position of influence. And if Cassian was right, her father’s luck had just run dry.

Fortuna no longer smiled upon the Archerons or the Lancastrians, and they would all of them go down with that ship unless they abandoned course and chose another.

“Rhys won’t let your father live,” Cassian repeated, eyes wide and silvered by the moon, like he was hoping to convey each ounce of his desperation with his gaze alone. “And I won’t let you die with him.”

He shook his head, errant curls escaping the leather band he’d used to keep his hair back from his rugged face. His scar was stark in the moonlight, evidence of all that he had fought for, and when he held out his hand again, bloodied fingers and all, Nesta could have sworn there was a tremble there, an apprehension that said he didn’t know what he’d do if she refused him again.

“Please, love. Come with me.”

There it was again. That word— please.

His brother had just taken the crown of England with both hands. He was one of the most powerful men in the entire kingdom now, and yet he stood before her and said please.

“Come with you where?” Nesta asked, her voice rising even as she looked at that proffered hand and felt herself leaning towards it. “What will you do, secret my sisters and I away somewhere where Rhysand - your brother, your king - won’t find us? How long will you lie to him for?”

Cassian’s face was hard. “I’ll figure something out,” he said.

Nesta huffed a laugh. “Ever the tactician, I see.”

“When it comes to you?” he said, his eyes clashing with hers, as sharp as the blade at his side. “Sweetheart, you ought to know by know that I am never fully in possession of my faculties when you’re around.”

She turned her face away.

She couldn’t bear it. The honesty in his voice, the earnest drag of his eyes across her face. 

“It would ruin me, Cassian. And both of my sisters.”

Another step forward, another inch she allowed him closer. “I won’t let it. Just allow me to do this. Allow me to make sure you are safe.”

Nesta swallowed. She could feel her resolve wavering, melting like wax above a candle flame. And when she looked at him, taking in the marks of battle as if for the first time, she felt her heart splinter and crack. To think she could have lost him— that he could have been felled on that field today, and she would never again have seen those eyes, or that smile, or wondered what it was to feel his touch.

“My father won’t ever kneel,” she said in a whisper. “He’ll never kneel for Rhys, no more than you would for the old king.”

“No,” Cassian mused, reaching forward boldly, as if he could sense the erosion of every last one of her reservations, and with gentle fingers he tucked a piece of her unbound hair behind her ear. Her skin sparked at the touch— his bare fingers against her skin. “But then, the only person in this world I’ll truly kneel for is you.”

Her lips quirked, a smile trapped at the corner of her mouth. “Don’t tell Rhysand that.”

“He’d forgive me,” he said softly, an echoing smile gracing his own face, curving his lips and revealing a flash of teeth as he tilted his head, studying her as if she were the sunrise after an endless night. And when neither of them moved and the silence stretched, Nesta felt her heart pounding in her chest like a drum and suddenly felt the need to touch him too, for nothing else than to remind herself that he was alive.

His armour was cold against her fingers as she trailed her hands over his shoulders, the smooth silver plate a chilling contrast to the warmth of his fingers when he lifted a hand and brushed the backs of her knuckles with his own. Her heart keened when she trailed over the tops of his arms, feeling each dent in the metal where a sword or spear or arrow had tried to pierce his skin. There was sickening scratch, too, stretching from his ribs to his stomach that Nesta knew would have been the end of him had the armour not been there to save his life.

But he wasn’t dead, she reminded herself.

He had survived, when so many hadn’t.

Survived, and raced like the hounds of hell were at his heels to reach her. 

“Was it terrible?” she asked quietly, tracing that deadly scar along his breastplate before her eyes dipped to his wounded hand; that thin line across his knuckles a shard of glass piercing her heart, like she was the one who had been dealt the injury. Without thinking, her hands slid from his armour to take that hand and lift it up into the moonlight, her thumb tracing a delicate path along the bones of his fingers. They had never been so close as this— skin on skin, her fingers swallowed by his as he turned his hand over and pressed their palms together, the heel of her hand sitting so perfectly in the centre of his. 

He didn’t need to ask what she had meant. 

“It was battle,” he said, with a blithe shrug that didn’t quite land as truthfully as he had hoped. His eyes shuttered, like he had seen true horror on that field today and wished, now, to chase away the memory with something sweeter. “Battle is always terrible.” 

His voice quieted, his lips parting on a breath as he lifted his free hand and dragged the back of his curled fingers down her cheek. Nesta savoured his warmth, but felt a shiver crawl along her skin as he reached her jaw; felt the fingers that were still wrapped around hers flex as he added,

“But I knew what I was fighting for.”

“And what was that?”

“A world where you and I don’t have to be on opposite sides. A world where I could finally be worthy of you.”

Because before, when Rhysand had only been the king’s cousin and Cassian just a household knight, her father hadn’t even spared him a glance. When she had first seen him, at the Christmas festivities three years previous, there had been no hope of them even speaking together in public. When he had first asked her for her name, it was on a chance meeting in an empty courtyard, when she was on her way to find her father and he was on his way to the stables. When he had first smiled at her, it was from beneath a helmet, just before he closed his visor at the Easter joust. Touching him had been out of the question then; a fantasy she reserved only for the darkest of nights. 

But as the adopted brother of the new sovereign, Cassian had suddenly been elevated to one of the most eligible men in the entire kingdom. 

Not that Nesta had ever really cared about any of that. Not really.

“You were always worthy of me,” she whispered, feeling herself slipping farther and father down a slope that she knew there would be no hope of climbing back up. 

His fingers still lingered at her cheek, his face tipped down so that the tip of his nose was just barely separated from hers. She could feel his breath on her skin, could see each and every scar he’d ever earned. 

“It doesn’t matter now,” he whispered. “Just— come with me. Tell me you’ll come with me.”

Her eyes closed, his thumb running back and forth across her cheekbone in a slow, measured caress. It was one she wanted to savour, a feeling she didn’t ever want to be without. Because how could this man end lives with those hands and yet hold her so tenderly, like she was the most precious thing in the world to him, even when his fortune had changed so drastically today?

As if he could tell what she was thinking, he said,

“None of it matters as long as you are safe. The crown, the riches. I care for none of it.”

“Don’t you have a mighty coronation to prepare for?” Nesta asked, opening her eyes and raising a brow. “Ermine robes to be measured for and golden spurs to be fitted?”

He laughed, and the sound rumbled from deep in his chest and through hers, until she felt it like an ember, glowing in her very centre. 

“For all I care the kingdom can go to hell, now.”

“You don’t mean that,” she breathed.

“I do if it means losing you.”

And good God, how could she ever withstand that? How could she ever hope to defend herself against the way he looked at her? The way his touch was so soft against her cheek? The way he all but signed his heart over every time he asked her to come away with him?

And the truth was - the terrible, damning truth was - that she didn’t even want to deny him.

Not anymore.

So when he looked at her again, his thumb sliding down from her cheekbone to trace the curve of her lips…

Nesta nodded.

There were no words between them; none were necessary. She watched his throat move as he swallowed, throat left exposed by his lack of a helm, and as her hands travelled back to his shoulders, he nodded once too, lips curving as understanding passed between them like a current. There was no going back now, not as Nesta felt the hand that had lingered by her mouth moving to her neck, Cassian’s fingers spanning her nape as—

All at once, he hauled her mouth to his. 

Nesta felt her gasp get caught in her throat, felt it die as his lips moved against hers in a kiss that was neither tender nor tentative but far more substantial— something alchemical, turning even the most innocent of touches into a brand. Shock gave way to something sweeter, surprise yielding to hunger as she melted against him, her fingers slipping on the silver plate at his shoulders and coming to rest right above his heart as he banded an arm around her waist to steady her, to keep her standing as her knees threatened to buckle. Her fingers curled against the metal, cursing the barrier between her skin and his as she searched for something to grasp, wanting to feel the planes of his chest beneath her palms and settling, instead, for cool, hardened steel. Still, as Cassian tilted her head back and kept her pressed tight against that armoured chest, pouring every ounce and facet of his desire for her into that one, singular, kiss…

She caught fire.

That first kiss, so destructive and beautiful and certain to be the making of her and the damnation of her at the same time. Because, she thought as his thumb stroked the hollow at the base of her throat, how could she ever hope to kiss another after this? How could she hope to ever forget it, the way his touch sank into her skin? Or the way he pulled back to let her breathe, only to pepper her jaw with a hundred more kisses, soft and sweet this time, yet fervent enough to have her chasing his lips all over again, like it wasn’t sin itself to let herself fall.

And all she could think was… 

He’s not dead.

He’s not dead.

And this… God, this felt like living.

And so when Cassian pulled back to study her face, it was her, this time, who grabbed him by the neck and pulled his face back down, demanding another kiss, one he was all too willing to give. Demanding more, when her back arched and his fingers splayed at the base of her spine. Demanding everything he had, in return for everything she was in return.

And he met her, stroke for stroke for stroke.

Like this was a battle of a different kind, but one where there was no losing side. There was only his body and hers, and the slow surrender of every single one of her defences, yielding, parting, lowering with every swipe of his hand across her spine, every brush of his tongue against hers. Suddenly it didn’t matter who she was or who he had been; didn’t matter that his brother had just taken the crown and her father was on the run. Her hands skated up the column of his neck, searching for whatever skin she could find, and when his lips dropped to her collarbone, smiling against her as he nipped at the skin he found there, Cassian’s broad palms dropped to her waist, holding her in place as he looked up at her with a glint in his eye that wouldn’t have been out of place if he had been the one to win the crown today.

“Say it,” he whispered, before lowering his mouth back to her neck, lining her throat with more kisses until he reached her jaw. “Let me hear you say it.”

She quirked a brow. “Say what?”

“Say that you’ll come with me. That whatever happens tomorrow and beyond, we’ll face it together.”

Nesta placed a palm against his cheek. “Together,” she nodded.

And then, with an insatiable sort of hunger driving her to madness, she let herself smile properly for the first time in an age as she dragged a hand over that damned plate armour and hummed. 

“Now,” she said as Cassian tilted his head, his eyes glittering with amusement. “Are you going to come inside and let me take off that armour, or are you going to stand in the doorway all night?”

Taglist: @asnowfern @podemechamardek @c-e-d-dreamer @lady-winter-sunrise @starryblueskies7 @melphss @sv0430 @that-little-red-head @misswonderflower @fwiggle @tanishab @xstarlightsupremex @burningsnowleopard @hiimheresworld @wannawriteyouabook @hereforthenessian @valkyriesupremacy @kale-theteaqueen @moodymelanist @talkfantasytome @pyxxie @jmoonjones @unlikelypersonalknight1

[11queensupreme11]

ASJDJDHDDHD I TOTALLY FUCKING FORGOT APOLLOOO I'm sorry king 💔 I didn't mean to throw shade but the shade kinda eclipsed ur whole existence I did not remember you existed 😔💔 the favouritism is so real with me. At least Percy loves you 💞 Not me tho I would drawn the line at the nymph harem and your habit of putting humans through horrors via doomed dick. Ty for having him Percy, now nobody else has to. Our Queen making sacrifices for us every day..

ALSO YES!! THE BEELCY KIDS ASK WAS ALSO ME!!! I forgor my new designation bc I was so sleep deprived 😭😭 but I'm so glad you recognised me!!

(ALSO added comedy for the dimension hopping demon spawn, but I feel like even if she wouldn't let it slip intentionally bc she doesn't want to minimise their inter-dimensionnal war crimes and shit, depending on the timing some of the kids would be having what amounts to a toddlers temper tantrum to her because of how fast the gods age. So she just distracted lying drops the bomb that "anyway I'm really sorry but he's only five so I'm hoping he'll maybe grow out of it with lots of special attention and guidance" and the universe inhabitants are just like??? THAT EVIL MF IS FIVE?? MY UNIVERSE IS HANGING ONTO A THREAD BC A TECHNICAL TODDLER BE BEEFING WITH US??? That or they're looking at her like she's crazy like 'lady.. this mf is NOT five do you see the DEVIOUS way he's looking at me when you turn your back...'

Also all I can say is RIP if any of them end up on Penacony. One of the kids would end up either murdering or making a pet out of that Death entity or whatever that shish kebab'd Firefly and Sunday would be having an aneurism because they're shattering his influence and ruining all his plans. Unless he gets lucky and its Cu's daughters (or maybe the Apollo kids depending on how well-behaved and non myrdery they are) that end up there, they'd probably be the most well-behaved and have a blast!!! Until their daddy shows up and then the planet is under threat for sure, they better hope he's too focused on his daughters to think about the implications of a planet that encourages them to experience all their dreams 😭 especially if his brain cells start putting in work and he figures. Dreams coming true. Hmm I wonder if my hopeless romantic daughters might've been imagining 👹 B O Y S 👹

Circumstances would go so differently depending on which kids end up where... God forbid this is all happening synonymously.. One of the Beelcy kids is going around swallowing plants because they were hungry and they looked like good snacks or smthn (and Beel is too distracted flexing on Ruan Mei or smthn like pshh you call THAT a SWARM? Watch this im gonna end your whole career and many species) and Cu's daughters are innocently frolicking somewhere and too innocent to consider that they're putting whatever planet they're on in danger just by being there even if they're being the goodest of girls 😔 bc daddy's a 👹 menace 👹 (If they do end up on Pencacony they'd probably be besties with Robin if she's still around there and not on tour or smthn. Sunday better keep his distance tho lest they get.. too attached... and start thinking 'wow!! A bestie AND a perfect Disney prince for a boyfriend HUSBAND!! This is great 🥰' Daddy would NOT approve)

💫

(from 💫 anon)

that entire first paragraph 😭😭😭 "Ty for having him Percy, now nobody else has to" DAMN YOU'RE KILLING HIM WHAT DID HE DO TO YOU LMAO 😭😭😭 our poor boy (i'm just kidding, flame him harder 👹)

also you're right percy WOULD just casually drop the bomb that the being(s) destroying their universe is just a wittle baby five year old

percy: pls help me find my babies 🥺

and then the babies in question are these psychos:

💀💀💀 she'd be 1000% serious too, cuz those literally ARE just babies to her ahshadfv hdvb 😭

AND CÚ CHULAINN'S DAUGHTERS IN PENACONY ASHFGHWGV

percy probably finds them all there first and they excitedly tell her all about the super cool dreamscape and she's like "oh what the heck, sure. i'll try it out, i can use a vacation!" so she joins them into the dreamscape while her husband's out losing his shit looking for them 😭😭😭😭

anyway, you know how you gotta fall asleep in the dream pool thingy to enter the dreamscape properly?????

imagine poor cú chulainn getting into the reverie hotel and finding his daughters and wife all knocked out in different rooms inside this weird pool thingy not waking up and he just fucking LOSES IT. HIS BABIES ARE UNCONSCIOUS HIS WIFE IS UNCONSCIOUS WTF IS HAPPENING. WHO DID THIS TO HIS FAMILY. CEARBHALL'S ASS IS GROUNDED

when in actuality, they're all having the time of their lives in the golden hour ashfahfv 😭😭😭😭😭

and then he eventually learns about what's going on and then loses it again BECAUSE WHAT IF THEY'RE TALKING TO 👹BOYS👹?! WHAT IF OTHER 👹MEN👹 ARE DROOLING OVER HIS WIFE???? WHERE'S THAT IDIOT SON OF HIS, HE SHOULD'VE STOPPED THIS 👹👹👹👹👹👹👹

also, i love the differences between the percy babies 😭😭😭😭

the sécy daughters in the hsr verse (except maybe luisne tbh 💀):

meanwhile some of the other percy babies 💀:

[darklydeliciousdesires]

A Storm of Stars - Chapter Seventeen.

Well, guys, here we are at the final chapter of Aemond and Aemella's story. Thank you for being such a wonderful audience while I told it, I appreciate you all so much :)

Summary: The Targaryen twin stars. Two sides of the same coin. Aemond and Aemella Targaryen, second children of King Viserys I and his queen, Alicent Hightower, had spent their entire lives almost as one, the lines blurring where one twin ended and the other began. What started as an inseparable sibling bond eventually bloomed into a deep, limitless love.

A day would come, though, when their love story - famed for generations to come - would be tested by the one who sought to tear them apart. When the storm of stars descended, nobody who had wronged them would come away unscathed. 

Words - 6,060

Tag list - In the comments. Please DM to be added.

Warnings - 18+ content throughout. Incest, mentions of child loss through miscarriage. Minors DNI.

Previous Chapters - One Two Three Four Five Six Seven Eight Nine Ten Eleven Twelve Thirteen Fourteen Fifteen Sixteen

“Your troops now move forward to march on Harrenhall, your grace. We have also received word this morning from Corlys Velaryon, who offers his deflection to you on the condition that he remain Lord of Driftmark, retreating there with his granddaughters. 

“I presume after so much loss, the man simply wishes for his life to return to some semblance of normality, rather than supporting the rebellion of your uncle. This now leaves us with the issue of Rhaenyra’s heir. Jacaerys we could perhaps placate in his own quest for the throne by the offer of Lord of Dragonstone...” 

His eyelids fluttered, leaning onto his hand as the words of Criston Cole became muted, slurred, Aemond feeling himself falter. 

“Your grace?” Something shook his arm. His grandsire’s voice. “Your grace?” 

He sat up with a start, closing his eye momentarily to avoid the discomfiture of knowing smiles all greeting his return from ten seconds of unintentional slumber.  

“My lords, I do apologise,” he spoke, reaching for his goblet. “Even with a nursemaid in attendance, a new child reaches sleep shattering wails.”  

Grand Maester Orwyle nodded kindly. “We understand, your grace. Would you care to reconvene at a later time today, perhaps take leave and rest a while?” 

“A king cannot rest at a time of war, whether that war is coming from afar, or from his very loud, very irascible newborn son.” Clenching his jaw, he stifled the yawn that threatened its way up his throat. “Please, Ser Criston. Continue.” 

“I was at an end, almost, your grace. As I proposed, offering Jacaerys the title of Lord of Dragonstone may perhaps be enough to make him realise that in a losing war, with allies turning cloak left and right, it is perhaps his wisest decision.” 

Aemond frowned, finishing his drink, nodding towards his cup bearer for an immediate refill. Gods, he was exhausted. Wine would have to serve as his fortification in the absence of decent slumber.  

“I do not wish to bargain our ancestral seat to a bastard,” he stated crisply, sipping his wine. “I’d sooner fucking give it to Daemon.” A pause followed, the king’s biting sarcasm settling as his small council waited on his thoughts.  

The silence of the room was then disturbed by a noise, the sounds of a babe wailing beginning to flitter through the air. Despite an entire night of squealing and refusing to settle, Aeryn was in good voice still, it appeared. It had been a week since his birth and already, Aemond was beginning to recognise what the pitch and urgency of his cries, all slightly different to the other, were coming to mean.  

This one he recognised instantly, Aeryn’s howling specific in its call to one person. His daddy. 

“No bargaining. No offers. Allow the Sea Snake to keep Driftmark, but he must attend court and swear his loyalty by bending the knee. As long as my uncle and nephew remain free, they pose a threat to my reign. They either relinquish their separate claims and live in exile from Westeros entirely or face the consequences of their continued campaign against me. Those are my terms, my lords.” 

Otto felt his clenched insides slowly unknitting themselves to hear a set of conditions so fairly given by his grandson, Aemond’s good sense and logic prevailing. While he and his daughter had been living in quiet dread of a second tyrannical ruler coming into power, another they would desperately have to tether, it seemed Aemond was settling into his position much better than they had begun to fear.  

“Now, moving forward. Lord Jasper, what is the state of play with the Iron Bank currently?” the king then questioned, steepling his fingers together before him, trying as the rest of them did to ignore the continued conniptions of the royal family’s newest member.  

While he attempted to concentrate, Aemond cursed Ceira, wishing she had taken a different direction in which to walk with his son and attempt to rock him into rest, although he realised he would not likely cease until he had gotten exactly what he wished for.  

“While the crown’s debt does remain manageable at this point, I would like to advise that we perhaps consider the raising of levies. I feel it would be in poor taste to tax the people further, given the recent spate of so many of the poorer hungering for as long as they did...”  

The wailing grew louder, Aemond’s thoughts interspersed by Lord Jasper’s continued financial summary. 

“For the love of the gods, woman. Take him elsewhere. Surely, she realises that we cannot give our tasks the utmost attention while there is a backdrop of howling?” 

“As I see it, your grace, perhaps the most efficient course of action would be to impose a slightly inflated export tax on our goods moving across the water to Essos...” 

“The fucking Red Keep is vast enough a castle. Why in the world is she sequestering herself so nearby?” 

“Even a smaller amount of coin per shipment would soon reap a beneficial sum...” 

And still, the crying grew ever louder, Lord Jasper increasing the volume of his words, Aemond’s nostrils flaring slightly as he tapped his index finger rhythmically against the table in mild vexation. 

“I cannot abscond my regal duties, yet I equally cannot put up with this cacophony for much longer. And it is I whom he wails for. Seven fucking hells…” 

The king in him was irritated by the nursemaid’s folly, but the father in him softened. “One moment, Lord Jasper.” Rising from his seat, he strode for the door, the small council all exchanging glances. A few moments passed, the sounds of the little prince’s cries falling to hush, the king returning with said little prince in question held against his chest. 

Taking his seat once more, the faces that greeted him all bore mild to moderate disbelief, a little baffled at the sight. “He will settle now, and in the interests of my concentration, if it is I who must calm him then so be it. Continue, my lord.”  

It was an unprecedented sight, to see the king sitting there somewhat happily with his infant son lying quietly in his one-armed embrace. To witness a father take such a hands-on approach with his child – the presiding monarch of the realm too, no less – was very out of the ordinary. It would be fair to say that Aemond was quite unconventional, though.  

After all, he had already sat his queen upon the council, her grace absent that morning as she continued to recover from her labours. 

As Lord Jasper resumed his report, detailing the financial state and strategic options available with the Iron Bank's current stance, Aemond's thoughts wandered momentarily to the precarious balance he was attempting to navigate – the duties of the crown weighed against the responsibilities of fatherhood. The counsel of his advisors buzzed in the background, each word a thread weaving through the intricate tapestry of strategy and governance.  

His gaze softened as he glanced down at Aeryn, still peacefully resting, his son so very content there against his chest. He had no clue at all over the weight that would one day rest upon him, when he sat in that very chair himself. All he could hope for was that by the time his son reached the Iron Throne, it would be to preside over a more peaceful realm.  

Once the meeting was at its conclusion, Aemond returned to his quarters, carefully handing the baby to Ceira. 

“I once again must offer my profuse apologies, your grace, for walking with him close to your small council chamber,” she spoke, gulping a little with nervousness. The way the king had eyed her when he had arrived to retrieve his son from her arms had been a little chilling, but as soon as he’d held his little boy, that freeze had thawed.  

“Take him in the other direction next time. While I do not seek to push aside my duties as a father, you must understand my duty to the crown prevails when I am absconded to meetings. You are never to forget that, Ceira. Do you understand?”  

She nodded, swallowing hard. “I do, your grace.” 

“Good.” Placing a kiss to his son’s head, he turned to move to the living quarters, finding Aemella in the armchair, her arms folded upon the arm, head rested down in slumber.  

A tender smile warmed his face, leaning to press a soft kiss upon her temple. He wouldn’t wake her, knowing how tiredness ached deep right to her bones. As Ceira had warned, Aeryn had indeed leaned to fussiness, refusing to feed from the wetnurse, his sole insistence centred to his mother’s breast. This left her shattered, waking three times a night to feed him. 

With a little free time between his duties, he contemplated in joining her for a moment before deciding against it. Remaining awake might serve him better than napping quicky, then thusly feeling groggy all afternoon. He chose to settle with a book, reading a volume he’d been progressing through prior to his life being turned upside down by the ministrations of his late brother.  

With only two pages turned, though, the decision was made for him over whether he was to remain awake or resigned to sleep. Lamentably, it was nowhere near as lengthy as he needed it to be. 

“Hmm?”  

Waking with a start, he looked up in a daze to see his wife, holding the book he had been reading within her grasp. She winced, looking apologetic. “I am sorry, darling love. I was attempting not to wake you. The book was about to slide from your lap to the floor.” 

Reaching for her hand, he pulled her to sit beside him. “I think I only dozed for a short time. Nobody has come to retrieve me, so I doubt I have missed anything.” 

Ever bound to his duty, despite sleeping so little over the last few nights thanks to Aeryn’s incessant crying. “You missed him sneezing earlier. Between bouts of squealing for no reason.” 

It had become a little occurrence her husband lived for, to witness the tiny sneezes of his son. Not much melted the stoic demeanour of her husband, but when their baby sneezed, he couldn’t help but find it adorable.  

“Yes, he is in good voice with his conniptions,” Aemond remarked, taking the book from her and marking the place, reaching to put it onto the table. “He also partook of his first small council meeting this morning, though he slept through most of it.” 

Aemella was taken aback a little, viewing her husband quizzically. “Well, there’s a first.” 

“Ceira was touring the corridors in an effort to soothe him, but he was howling with the ‘daddy, come at once!’ cries. I took him with me so that he would finally give everyone’s ears a rest and settle.” He paused, frowning at her beaming smile. “Stop it.” 

“Stop what?” she exclaimed softly, reaching to stroke his face. “Your softness for our babe is truly endearing.”  

He snorted a little. “It was mostly out of practicality, so he would cease his noise.”  

Aemella wasn’t fooled for a second. However, she kept it to herself. The tenderness she witnessed in her husband towards their child was a thing of heart melting beauty. He still flatly refused to change his nappies, though. As king, perhaps it was only fair he decreed certain tasks to be beneath him. Aemella was not too fond of it either, truth be known. Others, though, he happily partook of without complaint.  

“And it was said that when the mighty black dread took flight, entire towns were darkened by his shadow,” Aemond read aloud from the book balanced against his thighs, Aeryn snuffling contentedly upon his chest later that night. “The same happens now, when your mummy and daddy take to the skies aboard their dragons, too.” 

Unknown to him, Aemella watched from the doorway, her heartstrings tugged at like harp strings at the sweet sight. “Your grandsire was the very last rider of Balerion, before he died of old age.” The babe then gurgled, shuffling his feet around as Aemond continued. “No, my son. Otto is your great grandsire. He is a Hightower, and they have no place aboard the dragons.” 

It made joy and humour bloom through her, the way Aemond would pretend the boy was asking him questions when he made noises, giving his nonsensical mutters a reply. And on he continued with it after another gurgle. 

“What will your dragon be like, you ask? Well, I suppose we are to wait and see upon its hatching. Do not be discouraged if it does not, though. Our ancestors claimed failed hatches to mean an ill omen, but the egg placed within my cradle did not hatch. Now I ride the biggest dragon in the world.”  

It was one of Vhagar’s eggs, laid a few moons prior that sat within the cradle of prince Aeryn, one which had been kept warm beside the fire in anticipation of his arrival. His parents saw it as a favourable omen, though, that for the first time in many, many years, the mighty dragon had laid a clutch at such a time, as if anticipating her rider’s offspring requiring a dragon of their own.  

“How long have you been standing there, hmm?” he asked, Aemella moving toward the bed, very happy to climb upon it and rest her weary limbs. 

“T’was not for long.” Reaching over, she stroked the soft, silver wisps of her son’s hair. “I find it lovely, when you read to him.” 

“He will be well-informed and well-read, this boy of ours. I always intended to begin this from day one by reading to him myself.” 

Her hand moved to his chest, gently stroking beneath his clavicle, shuffling closer to rest her head next to his shoulder. “You will be vastly different to our own father. I always knew that you would be, before you even vowed it.” 

While king Viserys had always appeared to make much more time for the twins than his other offspring, his presence within their childhoods could still have been at best described as fleeting.  

“I want him to know who I am,” he sniffed, closing the book and gently lifting Aeryn to place him into his mother’s arms. “I will be a father who his children can find safety and comfort in, not someone who merely turns them over to the nearest servant. This is not the way deep bonds are formed.”  

As his wife cradled their son, Aemond's gaze softened further, and he sighed contentedly. "I want him to see me not just as a king, but as a father who is present, involved, and loving," he mused, his fingers idly tracing patterns on the bedspread. "He will grow up understanding that while he bears the weight of our legacy, he is also cherished beyond measure."  

Aemella, with her concentration upon lowering her dress to allow Aeryn to latch, murmured her agreement, feeling the warmth of their son's small body nestled against her. In that tender moment, bathed in the gentle flicker of the fireplace, they found a profound sense of unity and purpose, as if the future of their family was being forged in the quiet strength of their shared devotion. 

“I think that beneath my tiredness, I am gladdened by his choice not to feed from the wetnurse,” she spoke softly, raising her son’s tiny hand to her lips and kissing his little fingers. “I enjoy the bonding of feeding him myself. I might not think quite as favourably when I end up with sore nipples, though.” 

Aemond raised an eyebrow. “I can always kiss them better for you.” 

She looked a touch pained, reaching to softly poke him between the eyes with her index finger. “You shall rein in those desires, husband. Until I am at least a little less broken from childbirth.” Her eyes fell to their child for a moment, a fleeting glance then meeting him with a sultry smile. “Do not assume that I do not burn for you still, though. The mind is willing, but the flesh is weak.” 

“I can wait.” he chirped, settling down beside her.  

The pledges that they made over the way they would raise their son on that night certainly stuck, as they would with every day and every moon that passed. As that time turned into years, the bonds they cultivated with their son only flourished further. Aeryn grew under the watchful eyes of his doting parents, thriving in an environment filled with endless love and unwavering support.  

Aemond's determination to be a father of both strength and gentleness never waned, and Aemella's nurturing presence became the bedrock of their family. Together, they navigated the challenges and triumphs of parenthood, always prioritising their son's well-being and happiness.  

Whether through late-night readings by the hearth or the tender moments of shared laughter, the legacy they built was one not only of royal duty but of profound familial devotion. The same promise was upheld to Aeryn’s eventual siblings, too, the Red Keep filled with the sound of children’s laughter, much to their doting parent’s delight. 

Except when perhaps the three Targaryen hellions were up to the kind of mischief they maybe shouldn’t have been... 

“Hide, quickly!” Aeryn whispered, grasping his younger brother’s wrist and tugging him down, he and Aurion muffling giggles behind their tiny hands, hearing the footfalls of their father’s boots echoing throughout the throne room.  

“I wonder where my boys are?” he called, seeing a wisp of silver hair behind the Iron Throne itself. Aurion was never all too good at concealing himself. “Verily, they shall find themselves in trouble should they not reveal themselves.”  

He kept his tone cool, yet Aemond could not bite back the grin as he quietly crept forwards towards the throne, his stealth meaning his sons screamed giggles echoed loudly when he finally located them.  

“There they are!” His eye widened, his face half stern, half adoring father. “And what in the name of the gods are you boys up to, hmm? You know you are not allowed in here.”  

“Playing battle!” Aeryn announced, brandishing his wooden sword and waving it around.  

“Can battle not be played outside? After all, we are finally enjoying summer upon us after the many years of winter.” Indeed, since Aeryn’s birth, the realm had been plunged into a cold that had lasted for six long years. 

“But we’ve been outside already, and the battle had to move within!” 

Aemond rested to his knee, reaching to ruffle Aurion’s hair. “Was this because the ladies of the court spoke of you disturbing their peace?” 

“They are boring!” 

At five, he would naturally think that. “Well, you cannot remain in here. Come on, shall we go and find your sister? Wherever you two happen to be, the third is never far behind.” 

She wasn’t either, the silent creeping of tiny, three-year-old feet sneaking up to smack him across the back with her own wooden sword. Just like her mother, she had never been one for dolls. 

“Got you, daddy!” his little girl shouted in triumph as he turned, feigning his death. 

“Oh, the princess has indeed slain the king!” he cried, lifting her aloft as he lay back. “Whatever is the realm to do without its illustrious monarch?” 

“Place me on the throne!”  

Of course, she’d say that. Aelora had made every single one of her demands known in great voice ever since she had learned how to talk. “I think Aeryn might take exception to that, my little darling.” 

“I would,” the boy vouched, puffing his chest as he rose to his feet. 

Aelora would not be dissuaded, though. “He will do as he’s told!” 

“I will not!” 

“You will!” 

“And that is quite enough squabbling,” their father interjected with, rising with the little princess in his arms. “Come along, let us go and find your mother.”  

While the boys dashed off ahead, their volume preceding them out of the throne room and through the corridors of the castle, Aelora remained within her father’s arms.  

“Daddy, daddy,” she began, her hands weaving into his long, silky silver tresses. “When can I go and see my pony?” 

Ahh, the tiny, yet ferocious beast she had so amusingly named Teddy. Twice since his purchase he had kicked Aemond, his shin and thigh a host to the semi circles of hoofprint bruises. “I have duties to attend to presently, but I shall allow some time before supper. Shall we ride out to visit with Vhagar?” 

“Yes!”  

The pitch of her response caught sharply within his ear, but with three children now, Aemond was very much accustomed to the noise. He often felt something was amiss if he were to go without it for too long, in the moments when their nursemaids would take them outside, or they would go off and ride under the watchful eye of Falion Sand to give him and his wife a few moments of peace.  

The little princess was still yet to be competent, led aboard Teddy by a stableboy around the paddocks while receiving her basic tuition. 

“Mummy!”  

Aemella had been arranging a bouquet of flowers she had collected from the gardens in a large vase quite contently when the shout of her name disturbed that peace. For her children, though, she was only too happy to allow it. 

“Hello, my little sweetling,” she spoke warmly, Aelora wriggling to be set upon the floor, dashing across their quarters and into her mother’s arms. “You look very jolly, I must say.” 

“Daddy is taking us to see Vhagar!” 

Oh, how she adored the mighty, elderly dragon. With only one of the eggs hatching for their children, Aurion’s small, bluish green and golden dragon Skyfyre, her little ones were obsessed with going to see the sole fully-grown dragon who tolerated their presence safely.  

“May I come along, too?” she asked, turning her head to receive a kiss from her husband. 

“You’d fucking better,” he whispered discreetly, “I am not herding them by myself.” 

Not that he would be alone, of course, but he preferred to have his wife at his side for extra support in minding their brood. As the king, his journeys were always under escort by members of the Kingsguard, newer knights Ser Brandon Tarly and Ser Liam Tyrell both accompanying the royal family on their ride out along the coast.  

When they arrived, predictably, the gargantuan dragon was sleeping. Her snores sent gusts of breath through the long grasses, the familiar whistle from Aemond rousing her from slumber.  

“Konīr ziry iksos, issa lovely uēpa riñnykeā,” he spoke warmly, lifting the princess from her pony, the boys waiting patiently once they had dismounted theirs and taking their mothers outstretched hands.  

“She is a lovely old lady, isn’t she?” she chirped, shielding her eyes from the sun as they slowly made their way towards the dragon. 

Aemond raised an eyebrow. “You understood that, what I just spoke?” 

“Kessa.” Aelora confirmed. Gods, this child. Bright was a complete understatement.  

Nearing her, they waited until she was fully awake, the beast lifting her head from the ground to lean forward, her noises soft in greeting, a content, low rattle within her throat. Sniffing them all in turn, she then met Aemond with a soft shove, the king smiling warmly at her, reaching to stroke the crest of her nostril. Predictably, she soon rested her mighty head to the grasses beneath her again, her huff ruffling the boys’ hair as they let go of their mother’s hands. 

“Be steady, my sons,” Aemella spoke, “remember your respect.”  

Aeryn and Aurion carefully approached her, the former stroking the huge plane of her lower jaw, his younger brother softly patting her dark scales. The tiny princes looked even smaller in her presence, her glowing amber eyes swivelling to view them, her knuckling noises continuing.  

“We love you, Vhagar,” Aeryn cooed, kissing her scales, the great beast huffing a soft snort. How she put up with much from her riders' little ones. Fyreclaw was not as welcoming, the king and queen never trying again to introduce their precious children to the often-ill-tempered beast. His loves were Aemella and Vhagar, with a mild tolerance begrudgingly shown toward Aemond. The list ended there.  

“Tell her in High Valyrian, my son,” Aemond insisted, “so that she understands you.” 

“īlon jorrāelagon ao, Vhagar.” he spoke perfectly, after a moment of pause to think on the words. Six, and he was tackling his language studies exceptionally well, now able to hold small conversations with his father and mother in their ancient tongue. 

The dragon seemed to grow weary again, her eyes falling shut, Aemond running his hand over the point of her muzzle once more before the family departed. As they rode back to the castle, he kept his eye upon the skies, ever searching for the one who flew free. 

“He has not been sighted this far south for some time, darling love,” Aemella spoke, turning her attention away from where their children rode ahead, Aelora led as usual by one of the stable hands. “Wherever Vermax flies, tis’ nowhere close to here.”  

After the death of his rider at the hands of his stepfather, without Jacaerys’s claim to him, Vermax had since flown wild. He neither turned up at Dragonstone nor Kings Landing any longer, yet Aemond was always on the lookout for the erstwhile creature.  

Peace had been restored to the realm as of two years past, where upon the slaying of his stepson, Daemon had been threatened to be overpowered by those loyal to both Rhaenyra’s heir as well as the surging army of the Greens. Grossly outnumbered and with few remaining loyal to him or his claim, he had taken to Caraxes, flying out across the narrow sea.  

He had last been heard of arriving in Essos, he, his sons and his dragon taking up residence somewhere not far from Asshai. His daughters, it seemed, had wished to stay with their grandsire upon Driftmark.  

Aemond cared not for the finer details, only that the menace he had once so looked up to remained as far away from Westeros as possible. There, he would likely find another house to preside over, more battles to concern himself with, and an abundance of whores willing to fall to their knees for a Targaryen prince.  

He would be quite content with that, Aemond often thought. He did not discount that perhaps further into the future, he might encounter his rogue uncle once again. One could never truly tell with Daemon. 

“I would like for Vermax to settle,” the king spoke, placing his reins in one hand and reaching the other toward his wife, who mirrored his movement and laced her fingers with his. “Syrax eventually returned here, and I do hope to find another dragon. I seek for Aeryn and Aelora to possibly bond with them, if such is at all achievable.”  

Aemella looked upon him lovingly, touched that her husband wanted his children to have everything that they had and beyond. “If it is meant to be, then he shall come. Or he will return to Dragonstone, and mother will alert us to his homecoming.” 

In the years since her dismissal from court, Alicent had enjoyed a more sedate pace of life, thriving in her role as a grandmother, but ultimately seeking a place to call hers in which she could live in the peace that she craved. She had been granted it, as well as the title of Lady Alicent Hightower of Dragonstone, where she, the dowager queen Helaena and princess Jaehaera now all resided. 

Finally, a peace stretched across the realm, once in which the presiding monarchs knew their father would be proud of.  

Aemond's thoughts drifted to the days of old, a life that seemed very distant from all he now had, every battle and sacrifice that had led to him attaining it, too. He pondered the legacy he would leave behind for his children, not just one of power and prestige, but of wisdom and resilience.  

Chiefly, they could thank their wonderful mother for that, who never faltered in showing both qualities no matter what she came to face.  

As they neared the castle gates, illuminated by the setting sun, a sense of contentment washed over him. The realm was quietened in harmony, his family were safe, and the future looked brighter than ever. He squeezed Aemella's hand, grateful for her unwavering support and love.  

He had never forgotten that he had all of this because of her. 

Once supper had been served and eaten, the children were taken to their quarters, leaving their parents in peace to sit out on the terrace. There, they drank of fine wine and the tranquil atmosphere, on the first of what promised to be many a balmy summer evening to follow. 

“You look contemplative, love,” Aemella spoke, reaching for his hand.  

“I am.” His fingers skimmed her knuckles, wrapping her hand in the soft grasp of his own. “I find myself very thoughtful this evening, sweet wife. All that we have faced together that has led us unto this moment. It’s quite staggering when you contemplate the odds we fought against, in order to remain together.”  

His mind had turned over the many ways life could have ended up for them in the time between, wondering how he would have fared in a life of separation from her. He wouldn’t have, he always assumed, for without his darling Aemella at his side, he would have burned everything in his path in an unrelenting quest to bring her back to him once more.  

And if he didn’t, she’d have. 

“Destiny can be shaken, but it can never be changed in its charter,” she spoke wisely, releasing his hand and rising from her seat. Moving to him, she seated herself upon his lap, winding her arms around his neck as she pressed a kiss to his head. “You and I, we were always destined to have this.”  

He smiled, tucking his head beneath her chin, breathing in her scent. “I believe you are correct, precious one. There is more we are destined for as well, tonight especially.” 

“We are? What might that be?” she questioned, although she needn’t have. She knew the connotations of his huskily delivered words.  

He placed a kiss at her throat, standing with her in his arms. “An early night.”  

While peace and tranquillity swathed the realm in a sweet hush enjoyed by many, there was no such quiet in the king and queen’s quarters that evening.  

“My first,” he murmured, her dress falling to puddle at her ankles. “My last,” he continued, her undergarments being deftly cast aside. “And my only.”  

Laying her on their bed, his eyes and hands roamed her beautiful skin, mouth soon to follow. He heaped upon her every ounce of his adoration, her hands pulling him from his clothes, naked skin pressed together, kisses rapidly gaining fever.  

As the sun sank into the sky that evening, the temperate climate cooling a little, the heat between them only grew like a plentifully stoked fire. They were, as they’d always been, entwined on a level that went beyond the love and passions they shared, becoming one again and again.  

Twin stars forever orbiting the other. There was no everlasting love in history quite like the one shared between King Aemond and Queen Aemella, and there would be nothing like them again.  

Perhaps they were not twins stars after all. Maybe, the twins instead were comets, streaking through the sky beside one another, lighting up the dark with the blaze of their love before they returned to stardust. There was no denying, though, for as long as they reined, they twinkled the brightest for each other. 

While her love slept, Aemella found herself a little restless shortly before dawn was about to break, quietly creeping from her bed and sliding on her silky robe over her nightdress. Calling for Ginny, she asked for some tea to be brought to her, gently pacing before the door of her quarters while she waited for the beaker to be brought up from the kitchens.  

With her tea in her grasp, she ventured through the vast corridors of the castle, everywhere shrouded in tranquil quiet. Reaching her workroom, she took a careful sip of her cherry and chamomile tea, walking out to the terrace. 

“Good morning, my little beauties,” she addressed her various fledglings, all flourishing well beneath their spotless, glass domes. “We certainly look very pretty today.” Taking a small vessel of water, she lifted each with care, quenching their soil, doing her pruning where necessary as well.  

The dutiful care of her plants still filled her with a sense of purpose and accomplishment, coming to the very last, her favourite. Its orange blooms caught the rays of the rising sun exquisitely, Aemella certain it was surely the most beautiful rose she had ever grown, thrilled to see further buds forming upon its thorny stems.  

While the sleepy realm below her lay mostly quiet those days, she would always be prepared to defend what was hers, should she need to. Not for one minute did she expect her uncle to remain in his self-imposed exile within Essos, for one. However, if he did ever intend to darken their shores once again, she would be prepared for his arrival.  

The same would surely prove true for any other would-be threats towards her family, too. The queen certainly did go a long way to earn the nickname she was eventually given in years to come... 

“Still engrossed in your tale, princess,” Ser Davos observed warmly, entering the room given to the little girl there at Castle Black. “What part are you up to now?” 

Shireen marked her place, stretching her toes a little further towards the roaring hearth. “I’m reading of Queen Aemella’s fondness for her plants. In particular, how it was said she used a specific one to smite her enemies.” 

The knight sat down in the armchair close to her, widening his eyes a touch. “Aye. She was quite famed for that, so she was. She could have reduced her enemies to mere ashes in an instant aboard her dragon, but she was cunning. Some still refuse to believe it of her, so gentle and graceful as she was.” 

“What do you believe, Ser Davos?” Shireen asked curiously. 

He took a moment to ponder. “I think she did what she had to in order to protect her family, princess. After all, King Aemond I’s reign was very peaceful, until it wasn’t. And we all know that story, don’t we?” 

She smiled, flicking on through the pages of her book. “We do indeed. I think I am just coming to that part of their tale now, in fact.” Raising a dainty hand to her mouth, she covered her small yawn, her sweet eyes growing heavy. “I think it is a story for another time, though.” 

“Will you read it to me, when you get to it?” 

“Always,” she nodded. “Or I could read it with you and teach you, so that you can enjoy the books for yourself?” 

His heart could have burst with love. “You would do that for me?” 

Shireen placed her book down, rising to her feet, leaning to kiss the knight atop his balding head. “Of course, I would. Like Queen Aemella, I would do anything for those I love. I will retire now, though. Goodnight, Ser Davos.” 

Clutching her little hand in his, he smiled fondly. “Goodnight, princess.” 

Once she had departed for her bed, the knight reached for the book, lifting it to his lap and opening the pages. Though he did not understand the words, it filled him with a sense of hope that one day, he’d be able to without assistance. The illustrations, though, needed no such tutelage to understand.  

The illustration of the Sunset Rose was only one of them, the famed sigil synonymous with the very first woman in the history of Westeros to be named Queen of the Thorns. 

That tale, though, was indeed for another time.  

The End.  

A/N - Now, did you enjoy what you just read? Please remember, this is not Instagram. Clicking that heart does little, but a comment? Your author will be rewarded. A comment and reblog? Your author is throwing roses at your feet! It takes less time to do this than it did for you to read the chapter, too. Please, be kind and help support the fandom! :) 

[thedelusionreaderbitch]

Nikolai Lantsov x gn! Reader - Kings and fools

A/n: whoops, cannon? she died yesterday. also translations at the end

Summary: Being trapped in a Fjerdan lab isn't much fun, but things do start to get interesting when someone you recognize shows up.

Warnings: Swearing, implied death, implied torture, beating people up, prolly ptsd, just all around fun times.

[Pronouns used: You/your] [Pov: 2nd person] [Pairings: (romantic!) nikolai x reader]

You were going to laugh because of the sheer hilariousness of this situation. Never-mind, you were currently laughing your head off.

One of the guard's turned around to look at you with fierce eyes and smacked your face thrice just for little a giggle slipping past your lips.

"Tig!" He shouts at you in Fjerdan after hitting your face repeatedly. "Tig!"

But you could care less, because they obviously didn't realize who they had just captured, because if they had, they would be carrying a body bag instead. War would start between Ravka and Fjerda, or perhaps they would keep it a secret and invade Ravka knowing they had a dead king.

The King of fucking Ravka was shoved into your cell.

The Fjerdan guard scampered off probably because he had spent too much time on such a lowly prisoner not knowing if he used his fucking eyes he would see that he would be getting a raise within the hour.

Alas, he didn't and now you were stuck with an unwanted roommate.

"Are you okay?" He whispered to you, and your breath stopped.

You had not expected that, you had expected some arrogant fool, as kings usually were. Kings and fools were one in the same after all.

"What?"

"He hit you."

Blinking a couple of times, you just shook your head. "He was being kind."

The King narrowed his eyes. "Unless I'm mistaken, kind people do not hurt someone."

You wanted to say that it didn't hurt, but you were weak. The bruises forming would say otherwise, and lying wouldn't get you anywhere. Even so, the only way to survive this place was to be strong, someone slapping you three times because you laughed wasn't the worst you've experienced or seen. A slap was child's play.

"You'll soon find out kindness comes in more forms then one."

___________

It was Nikolai Lantsov's first true day in this hellish Fjerdan laboratory.

Now he would find out what you were used for.

"Get up." You kick his side as he groans on the dirt floor. "Get up, you babink!"

He throws his head up to look at you with curled lips.

"I certainly won't if you don't ask me nicely."

You have heard of his ability to charm, and you've heard of his large ego, you've found the only thing that's true is the latter. Nikolai has an incredible ego whether it be a facade or not it didn't matter. It was going to cost him his first real beating, and make all the other ones look like mercy.

"Unless you want one of the guards to kick the shit out of you, get up!"

He sighed, but quickly followed your orders and you vaguely wondered if he was used to giving orders rather then receiving them, or if he let all his generals do it for him.

You shouldn't be helping this poor fool, but some part of you still burned with the need to protect your country, and by extension of that the king. It was a part of you that dared to hope, it was weak, and the reason you were in this situation. You thought that hopeful part of you had died the first week you were here, and you knew they weren't coming for you. Despite being their best.

You should have known better then, just like you should know better know.

But you're a fool.

Somehow, for the next five months you manage to shield Nikolai away from the brunt of the nasty atrocities in this lab-rat prison. Both of you do your labor with no foul-language, or whimpers escaping. You manage to stay quiet and to get the guards off his, and your backs. It's a miracle considering he talks so much.

You just hope you can keep him out of the lab.

"So, you know how to speak Ravkan?"

Your back stiffens, and the cuts there sting a little as you do but you manage to ignore it in favor of glaring at the man who's sitting in your cell beside you. How he managed to remember you cursing at him in Ravkan that first morning is beyond you. Usually time will seep deep into bones until there's nothing but the memory of pain, and the moments of suffering. Having someone else there is dangerous, because it lessens the load and makes you a fool, for it gives you hope.

"You should stop asking questions you know the answer to." You muttered while rolling your eyes at him.

"That wasn't my question." He shoved your shoulder, if you weren't here he would have had more strength to not shove it so weakly. If you weren't here, you wouldn't wince slightly anyways, if he hadn't shown up this would have never happened.

His bright piercing gaze meet yours and you wanted to curse for your heart stuttering in your chest. At least you knew there weren't any grisha around to hear it.

Now, that very thought made you sick.

"What do you want to ask me then?" You ask him, as his eyes glint dangerously and you wonder whether kings are the fools, or if it's just the people who get caught in their snare that are.

"Three questions," He bargains. "Then I'll let you sleep."

Pursing your lips, you think about what could go wrong, but you find you don't care. You've been fearing for your life, and pain for over three years, if your name was still uttered around Ravka then Alina Starkov was going to come running for your rescue. It didn't matter if he found out who you were through some silly questions, it was just leveling the playing field. It wasn't fair, you mused, that you knew his identity, but he didn't know yours.

"Fine." You snap.

Plus, you were feeling slightly more sappy tonight, if he wanted to hear your sob story that he's already been told but has forgotten then he could be your guest.

"Where did you live?"

"Fjerda, then Ravka."

"What did you used to, do before all of this." He gestured towards the cell.

"I hunted down the people I used to work for." You speak rather curtly before facing away from him, unwanted memories flickering behind your irises. "I think that's enough questions for tonight."

But he grabs your chin and turns your head to face him as he shifts his body closer to yours so you were only a breath apart.

"I have one more question left."

"I hate you."

He smiled, "No you don't, drüskelle maleni."

You slapped his hand away from your face, and moved away from him with a furious expression written with the frown on your lips.

You thought if anything, he would know you as the spy, not as the drüskelle maleni - the drüskelle ghost.

That's what you were before, someone who had been raised to kill without thought, to someone who found humanity again. Then lost it as they had to repent for their sins.

"I'm sorry lapushka, I shouldn't have-" Nikolai tries to reach out for you, but even in your tiny cell do you manage to move away from him.

"Don't Moi Tsar." You hissed, quickly silencing the King. You didn't hear from him again that night

_____________

Of course the next day was shit.

Nikolai refused to follow any orders and you knew the guards were getting fed up with his behavior. Currently, so were you, did he just forget every lesson you taught him to stay quiet? Was he such a fool as to not realize that if he didn't stay hidden enough they would figure out who he was and he would be dead by morning?

Yet it was not in Nikolai Lantsov's nature to stay quiet, saints, you doubted he even knew the word.

If he was going to be this reckless than you couldn't help him, you wouldn't help him. What's the point if he was bargaining with his own life?

That's what you repeated to yourself anyways, as he was slowly getting dragged off.

"We're taking this demjin to the lab." One grumbled as they pulled Nikolai with a group of soldiers.

Your blood went cold, and your eyes started to fill with dread.

You had been in the lab, once, but they decided they didn't actually need you. Still, you got to see the people being put under terrible things, testing them to see how much the body could handle. There were crimes not even imaginable, so bad that when someone opened their mouth to speak about them, a scream got let out instead.

The unlucky ones would disappear once they crossed the border into the lab. The lucky ones would come back alive, maybe even a little maimed, but alive.

Maybe they weren't so lucky than, maybe the real curse is going through it than surviving it.

Djel, You prayed. Please let this work, for once let me save something instead of kill. Don't use me as your blade but as your shield. Just this once.

You ran up to the guards and tore them off of Nikolai, breaking their grip on him.

"Me jer jonink." You whispered to the King in your mother tongue, not quite knowing what you were asking forgiveness for. Perhaps it was for the way you snapped, or for the lives you've stolen, you don't quite know. Maybe it was for the way he laid his eyes on you, and you on him. The way you've protected him, and the way he's given you hope.

Kings and fools are one in the same.

"What do you think you're doing!" One growled, while the other two held down your arms against your thrashing.

Saving him. "Helping my country, Fjerda." You lifted your chin staring defiantly into their faces. Knowing that you were like them once, killing grisha, only to be shown mercy, and turned into a weapon against the Drüskelle. You could be that one last time, you could serve Ravka, even if it meant death.

You could serve your love.

"You should know that grisha anything but vile, they are good, they are-"

The guard not holding you down, knees you in the gut, causing your knees to tremble and your strength to waiver. Yet the men gripping your arms forced your legs to work, lest you break them.

"Grisha will run this country to the ground!" He yells at you, spit hitting your face.

You knew you had to go further if you wanted them to forget about Nikolai and his stunt of, existing.

Taking a breath you opened your eyes and hoped.

"Fel holm ve koop djet."

Immediately they start to drag you away from Nikolai who tries to shout, to get them to stop, but they ignore the King. Instead they seem to find enjoyment with bruising you up on your way to the lab.

Now you truly understood why you asked for forgiveness, because the look in his eyes as they pulled you away could only scream love.

Words 1843

-thedelusionreaderbitch

Translations:

Fjerdan:

Tig - Shut up

Drüskelle - Witchhunter

Demjin - Demon

Me jer jonink. - Forgive me

Fel holm ve koop djet. - Our home is better for it

Ravkan:

Babink - Barbarian

Maleni - ghost

Lapushka - Darling

Moi Tsar - My King

Grishaverse taglist: @kaqua @rika90 @thefandomplace @gallysonegoodlung @navs-bhat @sumsebien @dontjudgeabookbythecover @brekker-zenik @alohastitch0626 @brekkers-desigirl @emmsamultifan06

[separatist-apologist]

Burning Red

Summary: When Arina is brought with her father to Velaris, she sees an opportunity to escape the marriage she's desperate to avoid. She wants a smaller life- a simpler life.

One that doesn't involve a dragon.

For @erisweekofficial

Part Five of the Dragons Series | Read on AO3 | Wonderland | A Mythical Thing | A Fragile Little Flame | Amber Skies

-

Arina always did what was expected of her. In that way, she was a dutiful daughter to a king who had rather little interest in her. She dressed in whatever dresses were brought to her, smiled when she was supposed to and moved when she was told. And when her father said she’d be married to one of his most trusted advisors, Arina hadn’t complained.

Out loud.

But in her head, things were different. She said the word no and people listened. She screamed when she was overtaken with fury and cried when she was sad. She talked about more than the weather—and people cared about her opinions. 

Those were merely daydreams. The reality was far grimmer than even Arina was willing to admit. She was in a strange land, engaged to a man she hated and paraded about by both her father and Jack before the human delegations. 

Isn’t she beautiful? Jack must have said it a million times. Arina wanted to strangle him with her bare hands and then hang herself with her own hair. She was a decoration and nothing more, forced to play along with easy smiles and dead eyes. His words were the epitome of chivalry, the highest compliment. Everyone knew women didn’t have thoughts, after all.

Only beautiful faces—if they were lucky.

Arina didn’t like Prythian. It was teetering on the edge of war with a newly minted King that didn’t seem terribly concerned about his predicament. In fact, when she met Rhysand—who’d immediately told her to call him Rhys—she thought he found the entire thing amusing. Her own father hadn’t stopped ranting about the looming threat of the dragons, a threat that had once been eradicated.

Only to learn there were hidden kingdoms of them everywhere. Rather than dying out, they’d gone into hiding, rebuilt, and had returned. Arina hadn’t met one yet, and wasn’t allowed to—her father was terrified one would see her and steal her away in the night like they’d been doing to other women.

Jack, though, had told her once the dragons finished fucking, they began feasting. That wasn’t enough to keep her in her room when the night they were set to come. She merely wanted to see them. Her father and Jack had locked the door to her room, an adjoining chamber to the rooms they’d been given, too. Of course they had the keys—they could come and go as they liked, a thought that scared her far more than any dragon.

At least she knew death would come quickly with the monsters. With her betrothed, however…

As the sun set, Arina used a pin from her thick, blonde hair to open the balcony doors before tossing it to the neatly made bed in the corner. All the pearl pins in her hair made her scalp ache, though fashion always came before comfort. 

She wanted to run wild.

She envied the creatures in the distance, great wings beating along the wind. What did it feel like, she wondered? If she could have, Arina would have leapt from that ledge and taken off and no one could stop her. She’d fly to the very ends of the earth, build a little cottage, and live her days in total seclusion.

They’d call her a witch.

So long as they didn’t call her pretty.

None of the incoming dragons paid her any mind save for one. He wasn’t dark scaled like the others, with ribbons of color that wound around their necks. This one was pure orange, glittering in the sunlight like pure flame. Amber eyes found her as heavy wings beat closer and closer and—

She panicked, scrambling back in before he could perch those massive talons on the marble edge, open his gaping maw to swallow her whole. Standing behind the glass, she watched the creature peer in, wings still flapping. She pressed her palm to the glass as the creature huffed out a breath, fogging her view.

And when it cleared, the monster was gone. 

Arina woke to the sound of the door unlocking. It was morning if the golden light filtering in had anything to say about it. Jack appeared moments later, fully dressed in stark contrast to her with her unbound hair and her thin shift. Arina yanked the blanket up to her neck but he’d seen too much.

“You’re lazy,” he complained, gaze hungry as she pressed herself against the headboard behind her. “Why aren’t you up?

For another day trapped in this room?

“My apologies,” she murmured, praying he wouldn’t make her stand. Please, please, please—

“Get up,” he ordered, a cruel smile spreading across his aged face. He was a few years younger than her father but aging far worse. Heart pounding, Arina meekly slid from beneath the blanket so he could really look at her. In the patch of light, the thin material might as well have been nothing at all—it was see through and they both knew it. “Get dressed.”

Their eyes met again. “You can’t be in here.”

“You’re nearly my wife,” he bit out, clearly displeased she hadn’t just stripped naked. “I can be anywhere I want where it concerns you.”

Arina was going to be sick. “I—”

A loud knock on her bedroom door interrupted them both. Arina scrambled back, snatching the first gown she saw before vanishing into the bathing chamber. She’d narrowly escaped this time, interrupted by good fortune or fate, but Arina knew she wouldn’t get so lucky again.

She needed to leave.

Arina had spent years coming up with plans, mapping out escape routes and deciding how best to get as far as she could as fast as she could. She’d never mustered up the guts to do so, though, afraid of what would happen if she got caught.

Would Rhys look for her? And how hard? The real danger seemed to be the dragons and they were all currently occupied at the summit, arguing for peace and perhaps one human woman a month to eat or fuck or both. She was merely some minor Kings daughter. Sure, they’d look, but for how long and how hard? If she could just vanish into the woods, Arina thought she’d be fine. She could figure it out from there.

Make her way to a river or the sea, get on a ship and completely disappear. She’d change her name. Cut her hair, if she had to. Dirty her face, put on pants—whatever it took to never be recognized again. The trick was getting out, and Arina suspected she knew how. 

She came out of the bathing chamber dressed in a burnt umber dress made of crushed velvet. She’d pinned half her hair off her face and wore the same satin slippers she always did—she wasn’t permitted anything sturdier. That didn’t matter—she’d go barefoot if she had to.

Arina was only allowed one place in the palace without supervision, and that was the library. Everywhere else was off limits to her without a male escort, and if she asked Jack or her father, they’d tell her no. The library, however, was seen as acceptable.

And Arina loved to read.

Jack had mentioned it would be useful to have a well-read wife to teach his children, the thought alone enough to make her wish she was illiterate. The library was on the ground level of the palace, with doors everywhere. She’d spent the day reading, return after dinner, and then slip out. By the time Jack realized she was missing, Arina ought to have a full night on him. 

No one was at the door, so Arina left a little note just inside the room that anyone with eyes would see.

Went to the library.

She should have gone to breakfast. She couldn’t stomach the thought of sitting beside her betrothed, legs clenched tight to keep his hand from sliding too far up her thighs. Every meal was like that, making it impossible to truly eat. If she let her guard down for even a second he was trying to pull up her dress or touch her over the fabric. Every moment was a nightmare.

You can do this.

The only person ever in Rhysand’s library was a lonely scholar who merely nodded at Arina from his desk, spine permanently hunched. She offered him a smile she hoped seemed genuine, if only because it was. She picked a little chair half hidden in the stacks, close enough that she could slip between two and make her way out onto the veranda without anyone noticing.

And then she sat down, book in hand, and began her daydream. She couldn’t focus on the pages, anxious and desperate for time to move faster. 

Time seemed to slow down, and the library was more popular than it had ever been. An auburn haired man stepped in a little before eleven. He had a pair of familiar amber eyes and the kind of aristocratic features that marked him as royalty. She knew a prince when she saw one. He found her, though he didn’t come any closer. He didn’t speak at all. He simply turned from the room and left her to stare at the clock and imagine what she’d do when she no longer had to look over her shoulder. 

He returned later in the afternoon, and this time when the man’s gaze found her, he came to her, too.

“Your father is looking for you,” he said by way of greeting.

“Don’t tell him I’m here,” she replied.

“You left a note,” the man replied with the faintest hint of amusement. “The whole palace knows you’re here.”

“So you’re, what? An errand boy?” she replied, certain that would wound his fragile ego. 

The man smiled, and Arina wished he hadn’t. He was beautiful, radiating cool warmth she wanted to get closer to. That kind of impulse would only lead to ruin, so Arina remained in her chair, trying her best to stare him down even though he towered over her. He was build like a warrior, muscular and broad beneath a cream colored coat and wine red pants. His black boots cut just below his knee and were so polished she could see the lights gleaming off the leather. 

Even his hair was perfect, pushed off his face in a faux casual sort of way—she knew he’d spent time agonizing over each strand. Something about him seemed a little fussy. Still, his strong jaw, high cheekbones, and full mouth were reassuring, in a way. 

She wasn’t sure which way, only that the sight of him settled that restless impulse racing through her. 

“Have you eaten?” he questioned, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. Maybe he was restless, too.

“I’m not going into that dining hall.”

His expression darkened. “Why not?”

Arina couldn’t tell him the truth—he wouldn’t care, besides. “I don’t know you.”

A muscle jumped in his jaw. “I won’t hurt you.”

“Not intentionally,” she said without thinking, half drunk on the power she felt just saying whatever she wanted. His eyes blazoned with heat that wasn’t for her.

“Did someone hurt you here?”

“What do you want?” she demanded. Arina wasn’t telling this man anything. He’d betray her inevitably, even if he thought he was some sort of chivalrous hero. 

“Come with me.”

“No.”

He sighed, and if he’d been less principled, she imagined he would have stamped his foot, too. “Please?”

“”Oh, well since you asked so nicely,” she replied, tapping her chin as she pretended to think about it, “no.”

The man let out a frustrated growl. “I’m not going to deliver you to your father or the dining hall.”

“I’m not allowed to leave without a male chaperone,” Arina informed him primly.

The man ran a hand down his toned chest. “Am I not a man?”

He had her there. “I don’t think you count.”

“Then your father should have been more specific,” he replied smugly, offering her a hand. Arina didn’t take it, though she did stand. What did it matter if she went with him? She was leaving that night regardless, and if she was caught, being alone with him was hardly the end of the world.

“What’s your name?”

“Eris Vanserra,” he said promptly, looking as though he were omitting a lot of facts.

“Should I call you Lord? Or Prince?”

A slow smile spread across his face. “Neither. Just Eris.”

Liar, liar. Still, she followed after him, annoyed by his longer legs and quick gait. He was definitely some spoiled nobleman at best. He walked like it—like women had been throwing themselves at his feet since he’d grown into his masculine features. Or, at least, he walked like he knew he was handsome and that annoyed her, too.

“That makes you sound a bit like a prick, you know,” she informed him, coming out of the library half in his shadow. He’d paused in the wide hall, looking in every direction and Arina, uninterested in getting caught, stood behind him as though no one could see her.

He glanced over his shoulder. “I’ve been called worse. Why are you hiding?”

“I’m not…” But it was no use. They both knew she was lying. Eris sighed.

“This way, princess.”

“How do you know I’m a princess?” she demanded, back at his side once they turned the opposite direction, heading toward a part of the vibrant, moonstone palace she’d never seen. It was so airy and open here, with windows that towered toward the skies and swirling marble floors she could have eaten off of. The palace was far emptier than the one she lived in, and she wondered why. Didn’t Rhysand have a court? Friends? Enemies who liked to live luxuriously? Even the servants were sparse, slipping past before seemingly evaporating to mist.

“Everyone knows. It’s all your fathers advisor speaks about—the beautiful princess we’re all forbidden from speaking to.”

“Betrothed, you mean,” she said. Arina didn’t know why she told Eris that. Maybe she wanted at least one person to understand why she left. And something about him made her think he might impede the search for her. Misdirect, cause a little mayhem, slow them all down so she could slip away. 

He ground to a halt and Arina, who was still picturing how he might mess everything up for her father, slammed into his shoulder. 

“Betrothed?” Eris asked, his voice lethally soft.

“Sorry if you were angling for an arranged marriage,” she replied blithely, trying to keep the fear from her voice, “but I’m already promised.”

Arina held up her hand and the little gold band that sat on her third finger to wiggle them in front of him. “This trip is just a last stop before the—- hey what are you doing?”

Eris grabbed her wrist in one hand, fingers a vice to keep her from pulling free. With the other, he wrenched that ring off her finger and flung it out a nearby window. 

Arina shoved at his chest for all the good it did. “What was that for?”

Eris looked wild, more animal than man with his heaving chest and flared nostrils. Staring down at her, Arina waited for his explanation. Eris took a breath through parted lips and then said,

“Come on.”

“That’s it?” she demanded, trailing after as he walked forward as if nothing had happened. “What is wrong with you?”

“I didn’t realize you were so in love,” Eris sneered as a muscle began jumping furiously in his jaw. 

She grabbed his arm in an attempt to stop him. “It’s not—I’m not in love— but you won’t be punished—”

Eris spun around again, that wildness magnified. “Punished? Punished how?”

“I…just…can you go find it, please?” she whispered, hating herself for how pathetic she was. Eris looked at her for another long moment.

“Later.”

Arina didn’t argue, though she also didn’t believe he was going to try very hard to track it down, either. She’d need to stay out of sight for the remainder of the day, or keep her hand hidden if she didn’t want to be found out. The last thing she needed was to be locked up and so badly bruised there was no point in sneaking away. She’d be too noticeable with a black eye. 

Eris took her to a private patio, laid out with enough food to feed five people rather than just two. The little table was the only thing sitting against the marble, with an unmatched view of the rising mountains in the distance. 

“Eat,” Eris said, pulling out a chair so the legs scraped the ground. “I’ll….I’ll find your ring.”

“Thank you,” she said, heart racing. He’d brought her here to eat with her? “You don’t want to stay?”

He did. Hesitating, fingers holding the golden knob of the glass door, she watched as the man warred with his thoughts before shaking his head. “You eat. I’ll be back.”

He vanished back indoors, leaving Arina alone again, though without half as much misery as she usually felt. There was an inherent trust to his absence—he’d return and she didn’t need to worry. Arina didn’t know how to explain that typically she was the one no one trusted. 

Sitting in the chair, she let herself eat more than she would normally to compensate for the journey she knew was coming.

Eris returned not long after, eyes sweeping the table. “You barely ate anything.”

“I’m one woman,” she replied. Eris leaned his body against the doorframe, ankles crossed like the arms over his chest. “Did you find the ring?”

“No.”

Arina sighed. “Great.”

There was a pause in which she thought he might apologize for what he’d done, or at least explain why he’d done it. He didn’t. “You can stay, if you like. I’ll cover for you.”

“Why would you do that?”

Eris stared at her for a moment. “I like the sound of your voice,” he said, his own strained as though he’d had to push them out against his will. No one had ever said that to her before. 

“You want to listen to me talk?” she questioned.

Eris crept an inch closer. “Yes.”

Arina looked down at her empty plate. “I wouldn’t know what to say.”

He shrugged. “You don’t have to speak unless you want to.”

“I should…I should go back, actually. Before someone realizes…” Arina stood abruptly, annoyed when Eris shifted so his body was blocking her only exit. 

“What would they realize?” Eris asked in that lethal, soft way of his. “Why are you being held prisoner?”

Arina shoved past him. “They’re your laws,” she snapped, angry he wanted to both uphold the rules that allowed men to treat her like property while also being indignant when they were enforced. “Take it up with yourself.”

“Not my laws,” Eris replied softly. Arina turned, heart racing in her chest. He hadn’t moved other than to face her, still leaned against the door in that casual way of his. Eris reached for his collar, slipping one of the buttons out so she could see the glimmer of orange against his fair skin.

Scales.

“We don’t treat our females so cruelly,” he told her. 

“Because you killed them all,” she whispered, suddenly afraid. He was a dragon? No one had told her that their human forms looked like that. She’d expected a man who was more monster than anything, but Eris seemed painfully human. With deft fingers, he rebuttoned his jacket, hiding the proof he was more than just a man. 

Eris didn’t smile. “Is that what they tell you?”

“It’s the truth,” she replied, taking another step backward. “You killed your women and now you’re stealing humans—”

Eris barked out a laugh so loud it drowned out the rest of her accusation. There was no mirth on his expression, no amusement etched over his features. Only blazing hatred staring right back. Arina turned, too afraid to listen to whatever lie he’d offer up. She didn’t want to hear his justification, why he thought his people were owed more women to destroy as well.

And she didn’t want to be part of it. If he’d taken an interest in her, that was a bad sign. Arina made her way back to the library, heart racing painfully. He knew she was here—he could simply follow after her should he choose to. 

Curled up in a chair, Arina thought the day had gone from bad to worse. She expected, though, to be left alone for the remainder of it. That was naive. The whole thing had been naivety because Jack, too, tracked her down with relative ease. 

“Up,” he said, startling Arina who’d been engrossed in a book. “Is this how you waste your time?”

She was on her feet in an instant, wincing when he grabbed her upper arm with unnecessary force to jerk her closer.

“You’re hiding,” he accused, brown eyes searching her face for proof he was right. “Where were you this afternoon?”

“Here,” she said, though she knew that wasn’t true. It must have shown on her face because Jack shook her hard enough to make her teeth rattle in her skull. 

“I was here,” he said, breath sickly sweet against her face. Arina wanted to turn her head and knew better. Instead she cast her eyes downward, wondering if this hadn’t been Eris’s little plan all along. “You were nowhere to be found.”

“Then I was in my room,” Arina said, hiding her hand in the folds of her skirts so he wouldn’t see the missing engagement ring, too. “I had to use the restroom—I’m allowed to move freely—”

He hit her. Arina couldn’t even stumble backward to escape it, held in place by his punishing grip. Tears smarted in the corner of her eyes, swallowed before she could burst out sobbing. She wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction, wasn’t going to let him see how thorough of a job he was doing at breaking her down. 

“You’re not allowed to breathe unless I will it,” Jack hissed, face inches from her own. “You will go nowhere, do nothing unless I say you can. If I tell you to stand in a corner for the rest of the day, you’ll smile and thank me for it. Do you understand?”

Arina didn’t dare look at him. “Yes.”

“I told your father bringing you here was a mistake,” Jack said, still in her personal space. “You’re not smart enough to understand your place in all this. You are simply a woman.”

Arina wanted to go to her room and see what her face looked like. Jack, however, dragged her to the dining hall where Rhysand himself was already seated, a goblet of wine in one hand. Beside him was a man clearly marked by red dragon scales, sprawled in a chair as he spoke with an easy familiarity. Jack paused when he saw him, clear frustrated, before shoving Arina into a chair.

Across the long table sat Eris—not the nobleman's son, or the prince, but the dragon. He, too, had wine in his hand though it was all but forgotten as he stared her down.

She didn’t want to look at him, either. Arina was tired of being humiliated by men. She was back to being decorative, though how true that was wasn’t made clear until she was sent back to her bedchamber midway through the meal as a little show of power. Just as dinner was set before her, Jack instructed her to leave with a servant, plate untouched. 

No one stopped him. 

In truth, Arina was grateful for it. Anxious and miserable, she’d nearly tripped to escape both men and dragon, all of whom ignored her in favor of a strained conversation she hadn’t been paying attention to. There was no point in locking the door—and Arina knew she wouldn’t be left alone that night. 

Jack would stake his claim the only way men knew how. He’d marked her face and then he’d mark her body, rendering her worthless to every other man and completing what her father had begun. Arina went to the mirror, relieved to find there was no bruise on her face—only a fading red handprint that would be gone by morning.

She could be gone before he ever arrived, too. Pulling the pins from her hair, Arina went to the locked door, slid one of the pins into the lock, and opened the door. Everyone was at dinner drinking and talking and engaging in what she could only assume was a dick measuring contest. Maybe the dragons would eat the men and forget all about her. 

No one tried to stop her. Not when she ran through the halls or burst outdoors. None of the guards said a word when she crossed the expansive lawn for the little city below—and not one person cared when she pushed open a gate and made a break for the forest.

Arina hadn’t brought anything else with her.

But she was free. 

ERIS:

Eris stood atop a parapet, watching his little mate walk into the city.

Good. 

Beside him, Cassian sighed. “If you kill them, it’ll start a war.”

“Wasn’t that what you wanted?” Eris questioned, ignoring the urge to chase after her. He had her scent lodged in his nose—he’d find her easily enough once the sun set. His business was here for at least another hour. “My armies?”

“That’s what I want,” Cassian agreed, crossing his arms over his chest. “Not what my king wants.”

“Is he hoping for more slaughter, first? Proof that humans are barbaric? I think we all remember what they’re capable of—and what kind of diplomacy they offer.”

“It’s…complex…” Cassian said. Eris bet it was. There were no females left with which to mate with, and the dragons were coming to realize their mates were humans, now. They were curious and desperate—they wanted to start lives, have families. The war had come to his own shores, and though they’d managed not to be totally decimated, Eris didn’t have half as many people as his father had once commanded before he’d vanished, taking his mother and a brand new child born in the middle of war.

Eris never had found them. He assumed they were buried in some unmarked grave, unmourned and lost to even time itself. Eris was bitter about all of it. Humans didn’t live as long as his kind and reproduced far faster. They had an abundance of women they treated poorly, children they neglected and abused, and wars they started simply because they were bored.

Why should he be the bigger man? His mate had come to dinner reeking of fear, her face swollen with a handprint while the offending male had sat like a king, unbothered by the other humans who ignored her entirely.

And Rhysand had floated into Eris’s head, warning him against the violence he was contemplating. He could have incinerated them all with only half a thought.

You’ll frighten her.

She would forgive him—Eris was certain of it. She was already scared, but maybe she’d feel less scared knowing she didn’t have to keep looking over her shoulder. He could make her queen of whatever land she called home, could unite their territories—

“A month,” Eris said, looking at the warrior beside him. “Tell your king he has a month to decide before we withdraw. This time, if he chooses cowardice, I will lock our borders and you will fight the humans alone.”

“And if he decides on war.”

Eris grinned, “You can count on my support. We could attack them now, take their territories and decimate their armies before they had a chance to respond.”

“If I had my way,” Cassian mumbled. “Diplomacy is wasted on them—they make promises they intend to break while taking as much from us as they possibly can.”

“They only understand violence.”

“Rhys thinks we’re not better if we destroy them like they destroyed us.”

“The world would be better without them,” Eris said, wishing he could still see Arina. She was merely a dot on the horizon, long vanished into the woods. “Will Rhys be angry if I kill a human King.”

“Undoubtedly,” Cassian said glumly. 

“If it were his mate—”

“But it wasn’t,” Cassian said with a touch of finality. And it never would be, was the unspoken rest of that sentence. Rhys would never have sat across a table, forced to endure what Eris had while another male forced him to pretend none of it mattered. 

With the conversation done, Cassian turned to leave before hesitating. “If you wait, you could misdirect her family. Buy her time.” It was tempting— “She’s alone.”

If Cassian agreed with him or not, Eris couldn’t say. He didn’t turn to look, unconcerned with the other males' approval. Cracking his neck, Eris inhaled slowly before shifting into his dragon form. This was how he preferred to be—how all his kind preferred to live. Wings outstretched, scales warmed by the sun. 

He could see better in this form, could move faster, was a true predator. Besides, Eris didn’t like all the pretending he had to do around the humans, who hadn’t realized he was a dragon. Not one human ruler knew the Western Isles were controlled by dragons on purpose. Eris let them believe they’d been killed and he was what remained, hiding all traces that marked him in an effort to keep his people safe.

Some might call it cowardly, but Eris called it survival. 

Taking off, Eris inhaled the crisp, early evening air. There, beneath the stench of humans and the familiar smells of nature, lay vanilla and lime mixed together. 

Arina. 

She didn’t like him—he’d seen the fear and disgust on her face when he’d shown her his scales. Maybe it would have been better to pretend to be a human to gain her trust, but Eris wanted her to know from the outset who he was—so that when she finally claimed him, it was him, and not some pretend version of himself. 

She was going to be angry with him. If she knew he was flying over the treetops looking for her, she’d be angry before he ever touched the ground. That was a risk he was willing to take in the name of keeping her safe. He knew there were predators prowling, who would see an unarmed, defenseless female and decide to make an easy meal of her.

They’d think twice if he was there. 

Eris found her walking through the bramble, dress held in one hand to keep from dragging across the ground. He dipped, catching how her neck craned to look. He was big, wings knocking against branches before he took on his two legged form to hop beside her.

“I was looking for you,” he said, hoping his smile was charming. 

“Go away.” She tried to sound authoritative, but there was a streak of mud on her cheek and she was breathless from running.

“Where would I go?”

“Anywhere else?” she said, stalking off. Eris caught her easily thanks to his longer legs and how often he trekked through the wilderness on his own. She’d never survive without him.

“And leave you to die? Or worse?”

“What’s worse than death?” she demanded, turning that beautiful face toward him. The hand print was still faded, though the insult remained, branded against his very soul. It was the gravest of insults. She didn’t understand and Eris didn’t know how to make her.

“Your impending marriage,” he said, forcing out the words through his teeth. Her head whipped around, slapping golden curls against her cheek. Eris wanted to touch her so badly it made his bones ache. His entire life, Eris had believed like many other males of his kind, that he simply did not have a mate. Mates were said to be equals—gifts from their Mother goddess. And Eris didn’t believe he’d been granted one. Why would he, of everyone? 

He’d recognized her the moment he flew in, had felt an almost painful tugging in his chest that directed him toward her. She’d been watching on the balcony with the pair of greenest eyes he’d ever seen in his life. She’d retreated indoors and Eris knew better than to go barging in, though it hadn’t stopped him from scouring the palace looking for her the next morning. He just needed to know for sure.

He’d taken one breath in that library and had known the truth of things. After that, everything felt like a dream. He’d gone to Rhys and asked what the rules were—could he simply take her? That's how things had been when he was a child and Eris thought he was fine with the repercussions of such an act if it got her far, far away from the impending war. It had been Rhys who informed him that Arina was engaged and that he was expressly forbidden from kidnapping her.

Bullshit.

There was no rule saying he couldn’t guide her back to his home, however, which was why Eris was trailing after her like a lovesick puppy. Which, he supposed he was, even if it annoyed him. 

“You think death is better?” she asked, some of her dislike melting into a different emotion.

“He hit you,” Eris replied, curling his fingers into fists. Talons burst from his fingers, slicing open his palm before he could get himself better under control. “I think I’d rather be dead than endure a lifetime of that.”

His father had died before Eris could kill him, but he knew from first hand experience he didn’t want to waste his life trapped with his abuser. 

Arina sighed, picking up the pace again. “What do you know about it?”

Too much. Eris nearly told her, desperate for connection—to show that their experiences were mirrored, their suffering shared. A rustling in the trees caught his attention, stopping him as he inhaled. 

Wolves.

She was walking straight to them if the scent on the wind was any indication. Jogging after her, Eris attempted to reach for her but Arina was too prepared.

“Don’t touch me!” she hissed, jerking away. Her recoil made his whole body ache with hurt, causing him to forget, for just a moment, why he’d gone to her in the first place. Was he truly that offensive to her? Would she rather go it alone when he was right there?  

“I…”

They both halted at the sound of a braying wolf far, far in the distance.

“We need to go,” Eris said, voice icy. “I’ll take you back to the palace.”

“No!” she gasped, turning wholly toward him. “Please—anywhere else.”

“I’ll take you to my home,” he replied cautiously, expecting her to also reject it.

Arina’s green eyes narrowed. She’d fight him even as her throat was being torn out. “And where is your home, exactly?”

He could just scoop her up and take her. He didn’t need to ask—it was merely a formality. “The Western Isles.”

“All the way out there?”

“Look, I would love to discuss this with you but we are moments from a bloody death. Agree to come with me or I will simply—”

It was too late. Eris shifted with enough time to wrap Arina within the spiked plating of his tail, but not fast enough to avoid razor sharp teeth sinking into his throat. The wolf simply came with him as he rose higher in the air, shaking viciously in an attempt to bring him down. Emboldened, more of the wolves came running from the thick trees for both him and Arina. 

Eris panicked. He was used to fighting only to save himself, or as part of his military—not to keep his newly acquired mate alive. She was defenseless, without a weapon and in satin shoes. If they caught her, she’d be dead before Eris ever learned another thing about her.

Before he ever saw her smile.

With a taloned claw, Eris ripped the wolf from his throat and flung it against a tree, ignoring the pained scream it barked out. With his tail, Eris swept a wide arc around the pair of them as Arina came closer, saying words he couldn’t make out in the chaos.

He was in trouble. Blood poured from his wound and breathing was physically painful. Reaching for Arina, Eris held her in that same claw as he tried to take flight. More wolves latched onto his legs, ripping and tearing through his plating for the flesh below. Eris bellowed, fire erupting from his ruined throat in an inferno that only served to ruin him further.

Instinct had taken over his good sense. He needed to protect his mate or die trying. And the way things were going, Eris wasn’t convinced he’d survive. 

She might, though. Eris managed to get the starving animals off him and take flight, veering wildly to the left, and then the right, as he tried to settle himself. He could hear Arina distantly, her screams enough to set him on edge. She was afraid.

Well, he was, too. 

Managing to right himself, Eris soared as high as he dared. His vision was blurry, his breathing labored and each beat of his wings felt like a monumental task. He wasn’t certain he was up for it. Still, he flew with no real destination in mind. He wanted to get her away from the humans that, even traveling on horseback it would take them days to reach her. Eris needed to lay down. 

Darkness seeped into his vision just as he saw a clearing. A large lake lay in a valley, hidden by high, snow capped mountain peaks. The Illyrian Mountains, he realized. Cassian might find them—might find Arina, should Eris die. 

“Not the lake!” Arina cried as Eris began to descend. In truth, he hadn’t realized he was so low to the ground. Cradling her against his chest, he crash landed in the grass, likely breaking a few bones on his way down. Arina seemed unharmed, pulling from his grasp to stand on her feet. Her hair was windblown, eyes wide with fear and there was speckled of blood against the brown of her cheek. 

“Are you okay?” she whispered, reaching for him before pulling her hand back against her chest. Eris supposed it was too much to hope that she’d touch him before he died. He tried to assure he was, but the words wouldn’t come out.

He was still a dragon.

Trapped in his form, all he could do was huff out a breath and hope she was safe. His eyes closed.

And Eris was gone.

[magalidragon]

🏒 the deal 🎶 | “Sometimes people sneak up on you and suddenly you don't know how you ever lived without them.”

HAPPY BIRTHDAY @youwerenevermine! 🥳🥰😘🤗🎂🎈🎊🎁 Okay fine whatever so I am a few hours your time early, but I was so excited to share and honestly, the world is going to end soon and I wanted to get ahead of the game. I went back and forth over what to do for you and couldn’t decide so went with this. The original hockey boyfriend Mr. Garrett Graham and sassy Hannah Wells! It is Jonerys meets THE DEAL! I hope you like it! So grateful to this fandom for introducing me to you! Love you bby! 😘

There was a very strong possibility Jon Snow had made a terrible mistake making this deal with Daenerys Targaryen. He figured it was easy enough; she was a smarty pants and could help him get his grade up in what was supposed to be an "easy A" philosophy class and keep him from getting benched. In doing so, he'd pretend to date her and the guy she had a crush on-- fucking Robb, his own damn cousin-- would see her as a bit more than weird silver-haired purple-eyed Dany and want to ask her out. Since Robb wanted anything he couldn't have-- particularly if Jon had it first.

Now he was watching Robb openly flirt with her and was squeezing his beer bottle so hard he figured he'd be benched not for his shitty philosophy grade but for having to get stitches in his stick hand. It was supposed to be an easy quid-pro-quo. A deal. Started off more annoying than anything else-- Dany could not have cared one single snowflake that he was Queen Alysanne University's star left winger and frequently let him know it. He honestly appreciated it, even if he had to really wear her down, chasing her all over Winterfell to get her to concede.

That had honestly been fun. Then there were their random long conversations after studying. Topics ranged from the best pizza toppings-- pepperoni and more pepperoni for him, while she saw nothing wrong with pineapple on her pizza-- to the best Marvel movie-- he didn't mind that movie about 'The Eternals' while she thought it sucked and liked 'Ant Man' more, all the way over to which House of Commons member should win the two highly competitive ridings near Winterfell or who really won the War of Five Kings?

He also had admitted to her some things he'd never shared with anyone. That he might be the aloof "Ice Man" of QAU hockey who could get any girl he wanted, he actually played that image outside of his truly private life. In reality he just couldn't think of girls, he was too busy trying to do his best to keep his grades up to get a very difficult degree in metallurgy and cultural anthropology while also making sure he didn't lose his rookie contract with the Winterfell Wolves professional hockey team.

Just like he knew all she wanted was to get the bonus money from the School of Drama and Music's winter showcase to help with her mother's medical bills, back in Pentos. That her dream was to sing on stage at the King's Landing Opera House.

All of that swam in his head, those conversations and late nights, sitting out in the quad on a blanket while she quizzed him on long dead Maesters, or that time she'd come to one of his games and he'd scored a hat trick, so she ahd to come to every singel one afterward.

He had done his job; he talked her up to Robb. He lingered in the living room of his and Robb's shared house when they would talk, just in case there needed to be extra prodding. Now they were on a bloody, fucking date.

"Jon, buddy, let go of the beer. The beer didn't do anything to you. Come on man, there you go." His friend and other roommate, Satin, carefully pried his fingers off the glass neck, moving the bottle to the oak bartop. "Alright, so when are you going to tell her?"

"Huh?" He was now glaring at the back of Robb's stupid auburn head, wondering if he could cut off those fucking curls while he was sleeping and blame their fourth roommate Theon. "Tell her what?"

"That you're in love with her, you dipshit."

Thank the gods he wasn't holding the beer bottle because he'd have definitely dropped it. He also was glad he didn't have any beer in his mouth, because that would have been sputtered everywhere as he gaped at Satin, who was now studying his fingernails nonchalantly. "Wha...what...I'm not....she's a friend! She wasn't just a friend, she was...Dany.

Dany, whose first words to him were: "I'm sorry do I know you?"

Dany, who always tied her long silver braids up on her head in a knot using pencils. Who hummed random song llyrics and chords and scribbled them on ltitle pieces of paper. Who had a voice that sounded like fucking angels from teh rafters. Who snorted and cackled when she laughed. Who called him "Wolf Man" instead of "Ice Man" because he had a wolf back home and one tattooed on his arm.

Dany....Dany who always smelled like lemons and lavender and who...

He blinked. It was like seeing everything under a different filter. Brighter. Across the bar, he watched Dany laugh at something Robb said, but it didn’t meet her eyes. She was playing with the silver guitar pick she used, something he had learned was a nervous habit. Her eyes— vibrant, happy lavender— did not fully meet his, but he knew she had glanced his way.

Gods. Was he in love with her? Was that what this feeling was? He couldn’t love her. He had to focus on hockey and studying and…it was just easier to keep that other side of him out there. If Jon Snow actually found a girl…a music major who didn’t know a deke from a slapshot and thought there were quarters not periods…he’d never hear the end of it.

He didn’t care. He didn’t want her with Robb. “And why is that?” Satin asked.

Fuck he said that out loud? “Because she’s mine,” he snapped. He paused. “No she is her own person of course I don’t own her obviously but…” He drained the beer bottle. This was one thing Robb was not going to steal from him. He stomped over to their table and didn’t even wait for his cousin to say anything before he glanced at Dany. “Get your coat, we still have to finish that Agatha show.”

She cocked her head up, confused. “Jon what…”

“Come on.”

“Jon,” Robb began, but he didn’t even have time to finish. Jon grabbed Dany’s hand, tugging her away and towards the back corridor. “What the seven hells Jon!”

If she wanted to fight him, she could. He’d let her anyway. Dany did not pull very hard and protested over Robb’s loud complaining. “Jon seriously what the fuck are you doing?!” She pushed at his chest when he tugged them into the stairwell that led up to the bar manager office, the dim lighting throwing her face in relief. She was fuming. She was a dragon, he expected it. “What was that!?”

“I want to see something.” He didn’t wait for a response. He had to do this. So he crashed his mouth down over hers.

The shock had her gasping, lips parting under his. Soft, plump, perfect lips, and he pressed gently, his hands dropping to her small waist to hold her upright against the wall. She had her hand on his shoulder and for a second he didn’t think she was going to kiss back and made to pull away, apology at the ready, knowing he had fucked this up completely.

Until her hands dove into his hair and she opened her mouth wider, moaning and pulling him to her. He groaned, desperate now, a man who had his first taste of water after wandering a desert, and cupped her jaw, angling her head so he could rise over her, sliding his tongue along hers. Gods. She tasted like strawberries. How!? One of life’s mysteries, he supposed.

The need for air separated them, their breathing ragged and foreheads touching, noses brushing. Her gaze lifted, meeting his. “I take it you don’t think I should see Robb?��

He shook his head, whispering, “Come home with me. I’ll make you a deal.”

“And what’s that?”

He kissed her again, nipping her bottom lip. Her breasts were pressed to his chest and his knee had wedged itself between hers. They were about ten seconds away from a public indecency charge. His voice dropped, gravelly. “You come home with me and I’ll make you come within ten minutes. Five, even.”

Her cheeks flushed pink. “And what do you get out of this deal?” she asked.

He pretended to think, before flashing a grin. “The knowledge I made you come. Oh and, our next movie night you don’t wear underwear.”

She smirked now. “I am not one of your puck bunnies.”

“And you know I don’t do puck bunnies.”

After a second, she barely nodded. “Alright. Let’s see what you’ve got Wolf Man.”

“So it’s a deal then Targy?” She hated that nickname. The glare she shot him had him grinning.

She pulled at his hand, towards the back exit. “It’s a deal.”

[ed-recoverry]

List of free audiobooks on YouTube for anyone interested

The Hunger Games by Suzanne Collins

Pride & Prejudice by Jane Austen

The Great Gatsby by F. Scott Fitzgerald

Diary of a Wimpy Kid by Jeff Kinney

The Adventures of Tom Sawyer by Mark Twain

Alice in Wonderland

Animal Farm by George Orwell

The Shadow Over Innsmouth by H P Lovecraft

Frankenstein by Mary Shelley

Crime and Punishment by Fyodor Dostoyevsky

Hatchet by Gary Paulsen

Twelve Years a Slave by Solomon Northup

Of Mice and Men by John Steinbeck

The Village by Caroline Mitchell

The Wonderful Wizard of Oz

Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone (fuck JKR)

Sense & Sensibility by Jane Austen

The Handmaid’s Tale by Margaret Atwood

Twilight by Stephanie Meyer

Upside Down by Danielle Steel

The Fiancée by Kate White

The Silence of the Lambs by Thomas Harris

Percy Jackson & the Olympians: The Lightning Theif

Accidentally Married by Victoria E. Lieske

I’m Glad My Mom Died by Jennette McCurdy

The Collector (book one) by Nora Roberts

The Lies I Told by Mary Burton

Dead Man’s Mirror by Agatha Christie

The Hobbit

The Taken Ones by Jess Lourey

The Good Neighbour by R J Parker

The Island House by Elana Johnson

Desperation by Stephan King

The Healing Summer by Heather B. Moore

The Last Affair by Margot Hunt

To Be Claimed by Willow Winter

Romeo and Juliet by Shakespeare

The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy

The Inn by James Patterson

Wonder by R J Palacio

Faking It With The Billionaire by Willow Fox

The Lost Years by Mary Higgins Clark

Forrest Gump by Winston Groom

The Janson Directive by Robert Ludlum

The Catcher in the Rye

The Lottery Winner by Mary Higgins Clark

Where Eagles Dare by Alistair MacLean

Death of a Nurse by M C Beaton

Yours Truly by Abby Jimenez

Treasure Island by Robert Louis Stevenson

The Sonnets by William Shakespeare

Frozen Betrayal by Clive Cussler

The Picture of Dorian Gray by Oscar Wilde

Line of Fire by R J Patterson

Don’t Believe Everything You Think by Joseph Nguyen

The Remnant by Tim LaHaye

The Magic of Reality by Richard Dawkins

The Secret of Chimneys by Agatha Christie

Payment in Kind by J A Jance

The Idiot by Fyodor Dostoyevsky

The Way of the Superior Man by David Deida

The Game of Life and How to Play It by Florence Scovel Shinn

The Richest Man in Babylon by George S. Clason

To Kill a Mockingbird by Harper Lee

A Marriage of Anything but Convenience by Victorine E. Lieske

The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn by Mark Twain

A Christmas Carol by Charles Dickens

The Inheritance Game by Jennifer Lynn Barnes

Ikigai: The Japanese Secret to a Long and Happy Life

Thinking Fast and Slow by Daniel Kahneman

How to Win Friends and Influence People by Dale Carnegie

The Kama Sutra by Mallanaga Vatsyayana

The Wisdom of Father Brown by G K Chesterton

Robinson Crusoe by Daniel Defoe

Robin Hood by J Walker McSpadden

The Poor Traveller by Charles Dickens

Days on the Road: Crossing the Plains in 1865 by Sarah Raymond Herndon

Oliver Twist by Charles Dickens

Atomic Habits by James Clear

I Have No Mouth, and I Must Scream

Trading in the Zone by Mark Douglas

The Art of War by Sun Tzu

The Secret Garden by Frances Hodgson Burnett

A Short History of Nearly Everything by Bill Bryson

The Return of Sherlock Holmes by Arthur Conan Doyle

The Epic of Gilgamesh

Lord of the Flies by William Golding

A Tale of Two Cities by Charles Dickens

Man After Man

Five on a Treasure Island by Enid Blyton

The Red Badge of Courage by Stephen Crane

Charlotte’s Web

Midsummer Mysteries by Agatha Christie

Out of Silent Planet by C S Lewis

The Valley of Fear by Arthur Conan Doyle

Eaters of the Dead by Michael Crichton

The Murder on the Orient Express by Agatha Christie

The Castle of Otranto by Horace Walpole

21 Lessons for the 21st Century by Yuval Noah Harai

Hamlet by Shakespeare

[flowerandblood]

The Impossible Choice (28)

[ Aemond • Targaryen x Baratheon! • female ]

[ warnings: violence, wounds descriptions, war victims ]

[description: Aemond comes to Storm’s End to choose his future consort. However, Lord Borros Baratheon presents him with only four of his five daughters. Being attached to his youngest child, he does not want to marry her. The prince, however, thwarts his and her plans with his decision. This is slow burn, with a lot of dark angst and sexual tension. (Anon Request)]

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

Previous and next chapters: Masterlist

______

He felt that if he did not pour his rage onto parchment, he would simply fly to King's Landing and burn Aegon along with the entire Red Keep. He sat at a table filled with maps and plans, a quill in his hand that his wife had prepared for him.

He stared blankly at the piece of paper in front of him and wondered what to write, how to put it into words, lest he be beheaded as soon as he returned to King's Landing. He dipped his quill in ink and began to write.

Brother, my wife, in accordance with my request, joined me in Harrenhal. She has told me of the affection you appear to have for her. I look forward to your explanation upon my return. Send no one for her. Her place is with me. Aemond -

He rolled the letter and called out to the servant who stepped into his chamber a moment later. He handed him the tied message and told him that it was to be given to the King himself.

The boy bowed to him and left quickly. They were left alone again.

He glanced at his wife − he saw that she was looking at him, but as soon as she met his gaze she turned her eyes away.

He knew that his brother's words had made her feel insecure.

That she had said that she wanted to join Alys in treating the wounded because she didn't believe him.

He felt a squeeze at the thought that she didn't trust him, but on the other hand if he had been in her place, various thoughts would have come to him as well − only now, having her by his side, having finally experienced fulfilment with her, he felt at peace.

He sighed quietly as he stood up and walked towards her with a slow, unhurried step, the wooden floor creaking under his feet. He took her soft, plump cheeks in his hands, her face expressing surprise and gentleness, her gaze warm, her lips slightly parted. He ran his thumb over her skin and saw her close her eyelids. He pressed his lips together, looking down at her.

"I have not betrayed you." He said quietly, as if he were telling her some important secret or mystery.

He wanted her to hear it from him.

He was faithful to her.

He was faithful to her, because he wanted to be.

No one forced him.

He could have been a cruel killer and a ruthless prince, but he was a faithful, devoted husband, giving affection to his faithful, devoted wife, and he found some kind of comfort in that thought.

In the thought that they cared about this marriage.

Their relationship was not only political.

He stroked her cheek thoughtfully, consumed by the affection he felt towards her and the delightful knowledge that no one would take her away from him.

"− my sweet wife −" He whispered and she sighed softly, cuddling her face into his hand, making the warmth spread through his body.

He froze when he heard her next words.

"− my beloved husband −"

He felt his heart begin to pound fast, his lips parted in shock − he couldn't believe it, it seemed impossible to him that she had said this.

He swallowed silently as he looked at her − he could see that she herself was surprised by her own words and lowered her gaze, ashamed. He ran his thumb over her soft skin that he had been caressing all night, and felt arousal again.

My beloved.

If he could, if he had more time, he would have pulled her breeches off her and fuck her again, drawing those wonderful words out of her again and again, thrusting deep between her thighs, but he was already late, and he was furious that he had to leave, just now when she said it.

"− say it again −" He whispered, and she looked up at him, startled, her cheeks flushed, a heat in her eyes − he barely stopped himself from throwing himself at her.

"− I would never betray my beloved husband −" She said in a quiet, soft, trembling voice, and he let out a quiet breath, feeling everything inside him clench.

May the gods curse his brother and his war because of which he could not now take his own wife.

He bent over her and greedily pressed his lips against hers, relishing the warmth and moisture of her skin. He sighed heavily, kissed her forehead and moved away from her with the rest of his willpower, heading for the door.

As he walked down the corridor he felt frustrated and thirsty − he stepped into the council room where everyone was already waiting for him. As the commanders and Ser Criston bowed to him, he saw that something had happened.

"Our guards noticed an army coming at us from the South. Colrys Velaryon's ships have flipped some of Prince Daemon's warriors to the coast. They are going to support the rebels." He said, putting some new figures on the map. Aemond looked at it, pressing his lips together.

They were outnumbered, and even if he asked his brother for support, he still would be surrounded.

"Send a message to my brother. We must hold Harrenhal if he does not want to lose this war." He said, leaning over the table, feeling his heart pounding hard. "When will they arrive here?"

"In the evening, Your Grace." Said one of the commanders. He walked over to the map and pointed a finger at one of the spots. "We can't let them merge. It would be best, Your Grace, if you flew on your dragon to the coast and burned them with fire when our army attacks the rebels in the forest again. They do not know that Prince Daemon is coming, we cannot give them hope."

"Your wife has come to Harrenhal, has she not, Your Grace?" Asked another man, one of Strong's vassals who had allied himself with them. Aemond was not fond of him for he was spiteful and arrogant, but he could not help it. "So let Borros Baratheon protect his daughter and son-in-law. Send a message to Storm's End."

Aemond turned his head away at his words − he did not want Lord Baratheon to think that he had summoned his wife to Harrnehal only to put her in danger and call on him. He thought, however, that they had no choice.

With his army they could win.

He nodded at last.

"So be it. Send messengers and prepare for battle."

He spent long hours with his commanders over the map, planning carefully the defences, their strengths and weaknesses. He decided that he would fly on Vhagar to look around, to see the approaching army from above, to discern the situation − he ordered his armour to be brought.

The young boys helped him put on his chainmail − over it was put a several-piece armour that looked like dragon scales, with his family emblem beautifully carved in the steel on the front, a green cloak on his back, hanging on his shoulder.

His armour was as heavy as his heart, filled with the thought that the battle that lay ahead could be one of his toughest to date.

He walked outside the fortress with Ser Criston, speaking loudly about their arrangements, absorbed in his own thoughts when he saw his wife sitting with Alys Rivers from afar − the woman was touching her cheek, stroking it with her fingers as if she were her companion.

He felt a wave of rage at this sight and called out to his wife as if he were a father who just wanted to reprimand his child.

She and Alys Rivers looked at him, surprised; Alys stood up and bowed, and his wife ran to him, frightened.

He saw up close that she was filthy from dried blood, her cheeks and forehead dirty from earth and ash.

Despite his anger, something captivated him about the sight.

"What is the meaning of this? Shall I order her hand cut off for this boldness and lock you in my chamber?" He asked coldly. She only pressed her lips together, ashamed, looking at him pleadingly.

"− no, my husband −" She mumbled meekly. He felt his heart squeeze.

He wondered if this was the last time he would see her.

Her warm eyes and soft face, the face of his wife, who gave him affection so deep and pure that he felt only desire.

My beloved.

He grabbed her by the nape of her neck, pulling her close, not caring that his soliders and commanders saw him.

Nothing mattered but her bright, worried gaze, her warm breath on his face.

He pressed his nose to her cheek and she put her hands on his cold armour, closing her eyes, both of them breathing unevenly. He shuddered when he felt her fingers run over his face.

"Did something happen? When are you coming back?" She asked, her voice trembling; she knew perfectly well that something was wrong.

He swallowed loudly at her question, sinking his face into her soft, warm cheek, wanting to disappear at least for a moment, taking comfort from her closeness and her scent.

"There is an army coming towards us from the South, moved by the ships of Colrys Velaryon. We must face it. I have sent messengers to my brother and your father. Until then, I will protect us from the sky." He whispered and felt her tremble all over, her hand tightening on his wrist which held her in a firm grip.

She looked at him with tears in her eyes − he knew that she wanted to tell him not to go, just as she probably wanted to many times in the case of her father and brother, but she said nothing.

She just stroked his cheek as if she wanted to reassure him, to comfort him.

"− take me with you −" She whispered in a trembling voice, and he squeezed his eye shut, feeling a tightness in his throat. He pressed his lips to her cheek, thought he wanted to bite into her, to devour her, to have her with him.

"I can't." He said, pulling away from her, moving further towards Vhagar, no longer looking at her.

Vhagar raised her large head towards him, concerned − he knew that the dragoness could feel his emotions, his anxiety and fear. He climbed up the ropes onto her back − in full armour it was even more difficult − and panted loudly as he finally sat down in the great saddle.

"Soves, Vhagar!" He shouted low.

He felt the ground tremble beneath him, the dragoness struggling to rise under the weight of her body, her paws one by one moving ahead, crushing the trees along the way as if they were toothpicks.

She spread her great wings, catching the wind, and with powerful, violent flaps that created a gale all around, she took to the skies.

He directed her over the bay and began to circle − he pressed his lips together seeing clearly from above that his guards were not wrong. Immediately he saw a multitude of ships, however, he looked around the sky fearing something else − dragons.

Would they risk losing any of them in a confrontation with Vhagar?

At the sight of him, the great army began to flee into the forest. He decided that he could not wait for them to disperse, that he must attack at once, burn them as many as possible, until they came close to Harrenhal itself.

"Dracarys, Vhagar!" He shouted with a pounding heart, saw the dragoness spread her maw, and a mighty wave of fire poured from her throat. He could hear the loud screams of panic and people burning alive from such a height.

He was burning their supplies, their ships, their horses.

He was burning everything he saw in his path.

He was a great, destructive force, hell on earth, a punishment from the gods themselves.

He felt at once all-powerful and crushed by this feeling.

He felt a squeeze in his throat and looked to the side, shocked to hear a loud roar. He saw her from a distance − she could not be mistaken for any other dragon.

Caraxes.

Daemon.

Of them all, he was the one.

The greatest of the dragon riders.

He thought he would push against him and Vhagar, force them to focus on him, beginning the battle of dragons in the skies. He did something else, however − he felt his heart freeze in his chest when he saw which way his dragon was flying.

Harrenhal.

He headed straight for the fortress.

He turned Vhagar back with his command, shouting helplessly, trying to rush her, but she was too big and too slow, her big body could not withstand such a strain − Caraxes, light and slim, was impossible for her to catch up with. He felt his heart pounding hard, tears in his eye at the realisation of what he wanted to do.

This was a trap.

They were fooled like little children.

Daemon wanted to take him out of the stronghold.

He had planned it.

He wanted to burn Harrenhal.

He didn't know that his wife was there.

Because of him.

Because of his family.

Because of their greed.

His wife would die in the fire.

And then he saw it − fire bursting from Caraxes' throat again and again illuminating the night sky, the fortress in the flames, the screams and cries of his people.

Once he reached his uncle, he ordered with rage and frenzy to gush Vhagar fire in his direction, but his uncle's dragoness was too agile, folding and spreading out as she wished.

His uncle mocked him.

He laughed madly, loudly, sweat and tears running down his cheeks.

His wife was dead.

Her wonderful, soft body was now on fire.

If Lord Baratheon came, he would kill him.

Good.

He wanted to die.

He began to pray to gods old and new, gods of his ancestors, gods of the sea, gods of the mountains and forests.

He prayed that if his wife survived.

That he would give up his greed, his dreams of a throne and a crown, his insatiable hunger for power.

He would change, be a better brother, a better son.

A better husband.

He burned everything in his path.

He burned his uncle's army, he burned the forests and settlements around him, paying no attention to the fact that innocent people lived there too.

In his mind, he burned his brother and the Red Keep, he burned the throne and the crown.

He burned everything, burning himself at the same time, until there was nothing left.

His uncle knew that if Caraxes got within range of Vhagar's maw it would be the end − when his dragoness grew tired, he turned back, ordering the retreat of the troops.

He did what he wanted and what he had planned.

Nothing was left of their army and the stronghold.

He landed on Vhagar near the burning Harrenhal, looking like a great torch against the sky; walking towards it, all he could hear was screaming and crying − he had the impression that someone was tearing his head to pieces. He was all sticky from sweat, smoke and ash, walking ahead as if in a trance.

Was she inside or outside?

Was she in a lot of pain?

Was it a quick death or was she still writhing long afterwards, feeling her body burn?

He sobbed at this thought like a little boy, walking forward, feeling like he was about to fall over.

Fire and Blood.

How could he be such a fool.

Criston ran towards him, shouting something in his direction, but he felt that he was deaf − he only looked at him when he heard her name.

"− your wife, my Prince − she is in a bad condition − Alys Rivers has helped her her, but she has serious injuries −" He said, panting heavily, himself burned in several places. "Prince Daemon has made fools of us. He will wait out our conflagration in the Eyrie and return again when he gains the strength to finish us off."

He thought nothing of it, however, and grabbed Cole's arm as if he were mad, his eye wide open.

"Where is she?"

Criston took him to a place far away from the fortress, where the wounded who had managed to survive lay − most of them had such extensive burns that their muscles were falling off their bones. He could smell the sickening odour of burnt human flesh and looked around, searching for her − Criston pointed his finger at a girl lying nearby and then he recognised her.

Her gentle, sweet face looked as if she was simply sleeping, her entire left arm, a chunk of her chest, abdomen and leg were wrapped in bandages − Alys Rivers was applying some sort of ointment to a small burn that was also on her other arm.

"− is she alive? −" He exhaled, falling to his knees beside his wife's body, only now feeling how tired he was, how terrified he was, his whole body trembling.

He couldn't get anything else out of himself.

She was breathing.

The gods had heard his prayers.

She had survived.

"− yes −" She said calmly and took her wrist in her hand, wanting to check her pulse. He pushed her away so that she fell onto the grass.

"− don't fucking touch her −" He hissed, leaning over his wife's face, taking her cheeks in his hands. "− why is she asleep? −"

"− her attire melted to her skin − I had to clean the tissue, so I gave her poppy milk −" Alys said, lifting herself slowly back into a sitting position, massaging her shoulder. "− I applied the ointment, but she'll still have extensive scars − the gods are watching over her − the flame flashed across the ground right next to her −"

He pressed his face against his wife's neck, taking in her scent, panting heavily, sobbing with despair and joy at the same time.

For the first time in his life, the gods had heard his prayers.

She had survived.

_____

I leave you with my illustration and hope that you don't kill me - next chapter will be updated 10 August because of my absence and it will be Aegon POV! In meanwhile I will add Harrenhal Moodboard with next Lady Baratheon POV preview.

Aemond Taglist:

(bold means I couldn't tag you)

@its-actually-minicika @notnormalthings-blog @nikstrange @zenka69 @bellaisasleep @k-y-r-a-1 @g-cf2020 @melsunshine @opheliaas-stuff @chainsawsangel @iiamthehybrid @tinykryptonitewerewolf @namoreno @malfoytargaryen @qyburnsghost @aemondsdelight @persephonerinyes @fan-goddess @sweethoneyblossom1 @watercolorskyy @astral-blossoms @randomdragonfires @amirawritespoorly @apollonshootafar @padfooteyes @darylandbethfanforever9 @fudge13 @snh96 @diosademuerte @rwdkarla @echos-muses @ipostwhtifeel @letmeloveyouuuu @yentroucnagol @valeskafics @tempt-ress @blairfox4 @crazymusicgirl104 @ahristata @menaosama @ladywin17

[tototalks]

Two thirds into Prince’s Gambit and it is NON- STOP 🤩

I am having an excellent time and brain is firing on all cylinders!! 🚀

- “No one expects me not to be a snake, so in a dramatic turn of events, I’m not gonna be a snake.” Gotta respect Laurent’s self-awareness and reputation lol.

- ORLANT??!! Damn bitch, you didn’t last five minutes. No way he’s the real snitch surely?!

- “Bro, you may be a slave but you saved the wine. YOU’RE ONE OF US.” - Honestly, I remember a similar conversation happening back in uni with bottles of vodka lol.

- Laurant first initiating contact with Damen and ordering him to sleep 🥺

- Ooooh you know that blue dress is coming out on EVERY anniversary at some point in the far future. What a gift. Respect sex workers folks.🩵

- If Jord is the traitor I’m gonna actually cry and y’all will NEVER hear the end of it.

- I keep hearing about Nikandros!! VERY intrigued about Nikandros!! Already sensing I will be a big fan of Nikandros from the way Damen speaks about him. Plz tell me we meet him!??

- Damen somehow manages to always end up in Jord and Aimeric’s business. They could literally decide to screw on the moon and Damen would be there accidentally poking his head around the corner.

- I’d work for Halvik. She’d give me health insurance. What a girlboss. - I appreciate that she looked at Damen, then looked at Laurent and went “oh yeah, he needs to fuck” - later solves their heir problem I suppose! 😂

- My only gripe is that you’d think she’d provide a bath after, because sex without washing is NASTY. Damen is gonna regret it when that UTI hits.

- I also like how even though Damen just had sex with however many women, it still manages to be a bonding moment for him and Laurent afterwards. In many ways, I think the coupling fire was a way for Laurent to ‘test the waters’ and learn about Damen in a way he’s comfortable and safe.

- Guion, Ambassador to Akielos, turning up and going “ew what’s an Akielon doing here?” ✨Diplomacy✨ no wonder there’s a fuckin war.

- Aimeric sees ONE SUGGESTIVE THING and is immediately like Dearest ✍️ Gentle ✍️ Readers ✍️ and the whole camp is up in their business. Payback I guess 😂

- Damn. That dying Akielon managed to rip the heart out of Damen’s chest before accidentally putting it back in calling him the true heir. And he was so right. My king 👑

- AYO DAMEN WITH THE SWORD THROW!!!🗡️ But wait! There’s more! The symbolism of him taking a Veretian sword against his own countrymen for Laurent! HAHAHAHAHAHAHA I’M CRYING NOW THANKS C.S. PACAT!

- And okay we’re getting kidnapped now??!! What an evening.

[senka-mesecine]

What if one of the cherries are convinced that you and Barnes are married? "Ain't that some patriotic devotion they have as a family!" 🫡🫡🫡

The Staff Sergeant's Wife?

Robert Barnes x Reader.

---

wonderful gif by @woman-with-no-name

---

What strikes Taylor as the oddest, most peculiar thing of all is watching you sit on a stool opposite of Barnes, his foot on your knee as you clipped his toe nails with a tiny scissor, your fingers occasionally brushing his ankle; the scarred man's unlaced boot neatly placed on the ground, previously freshly polished and cleaned by your hand no less and yes, he watched that whole process unfold too, from maybe fifty feet away, from what could be called a safe distance.

The day before, same time and same place, you were seated behind the man.

Fingers diligently in his hair, checking for lice.

The day before that?

You were taking a straight razor to his face, shaving his exposed neck dabbed in white creme, a metal pitcher of coffee smoking on a cut log that doubled as an end table on the entrance to the barracks, crack of dawn. You went as far as pouring the man's coffee for him too, joining him as he took tentative sips, in no particular rush right in that very moment, like he intended to prolong the process in the most matrimonially domestic sense. Like he wanted that extra minute with you intact.

And the day before the day?

There was always something the day before.

What was next? You were going to start peeling off the Staff Sergeant's itching, sunburnt skin for him and pop zits and pimples brought on by excessive heat too because why the fuck not?

-"Never seen anything like this."- 

He remarks at one point, unable to contain himself any longer, second week and knee-deep in the indulgence of people watching, King, Crawford and Big Harold giving him speculative looks, as he stood there, arms on his hips. -"I mean —?"- Chris trails off, uncertain how to formulate the sentence he was about to utter, scratching his own chin. Reminded him of his college days. Learning about the Napoleonic wars and the notion that spouses tended to follow war encampments to be with their significant others during their mandatory seven year service. Some shit straight out of the 1700’s. He knew people down South were flag-waving and country-loving, but man --- -"Husbands and wives deployed at the same time?"- He shrugs, shaking his head, needing to do something with the excess amazement in his body. He had parents too. They were married for some odd twenty five years and yet they weren’t this close, so the conclusion was clear as can be. The Sarge and you were downright grooming each other on the daily. Had to be overly patriotic, to get flown out to the country together, was the only way he could explain this. Couldn’t imagine what his own mother and father would be like they were flown out together; had to laugh merely trying to visualize it. As if on cue, King snorts heartily, flicking through his can of beans with a spoon. -"Taylor, what you on and where can I get me some?"- He cocks his head, golden tooth flashing as the centerfold of his smile. -"You think Barnes and her are married? Shit."- The man’s shoulder lurches forward, almost like his whole body suddenly contorted with amusement. Taylor couldn’t understand what was so entertaining. -"They’re not!?"- He immediately interjects, somewhat astonished, admittedly, his mouth moving to speak far quicker than his brain could register that the answer to his query was negative and that his conclusions were all wrong. -"No!"- King slaps his knee, only to proceed pointing his index finger at him, almost in warning. -"Hell, no!"- He adds with special emphasis, energized in the task of shooting him down. -"They’re not even a thing."- California boy Crawford joins in, gentler in his disposition, crossing his arms over his chest, half seated on an ammo crate. -"Now, how would you know that, white boy?"- Almost like a line had to be drawn in the sand of speculation where private relations were concerned, King turns around to face the surfer dude, reprimanding him, not unkindly, but simply like they couldn't confirm for sure what was happening there and like it was better not to touch the unexplored.

-"I know."- Is all Crawford says back with a simple, smiling mellow assurance.

So...you weren't married?

And you supposedly weren't fucking either?

What on earth were you doing then?

And most importantly, just what was he watching for weeks now?

-"Say, Chris —"- 

King stands up then, his can of beans discarded and forgotten.

The hand that held the spoon earlier now free to land on his shoulder.

-"You just keep lookin’ this way. Not that way."-

The man's finger points east, instead of west, towards the entrance of the barracks; the point was clear. He was being issued a friendly warning from someone who knew better, not that Chris understood why. -"He catches you starin’..."- King wags a finger in front of his nose, grinning, always grinning, like in spite of some ill-perceived danger, the man still found this weirdly funny. Chris has to ask. If he wanted to live a life where questions would never be asked and where he'd simply trudge along the beaten path, blind, deaf and mute to everything surrounding him, he would've stayed home. -"If they’re not married and they’re not together, why would looking be a problem?"- He inquires, in all honesty. He swears there had to be something there regardless. He wasn't crazy. He wasn't imagining shit. What kind of woman would be up at 0500, long before anyone else, stitching a man's sweatshirt while he sat merely looking at her if they weren't an item? -"Look, Chris, never mind that. What's it to you anyhow?"- King shakes him a little, some sense peeking in through the cracks, sobering him up. Yeah. Admittedly, why was he so invested into this in spite of himself? -"What Barnes does is Barnes’s business. Always been. Always will be. You new. If you weren't, you'd know by now."- King explains and Taylor feels himself stand there with his mouth half open. Were...these guys that afraid of the Sarge that...they weren't even going to question why anything that happened happened right in front of their faces? He's so perplexed by that idea that he downright doesn't notice when Rhah snuck into their posse, crouching beside the crate Crawford was seated on, licking a cigarette's wrapping paper gripping between two fingers. Rhah Vermucci shoots him a dark, foreboding stare. -"You see a shark swimming in a pond around its meal, you look the other way and count your lucky stars its after someone else's blood and not yours. You dig it!?"- Chris feels the hairs stand up around the back of his neck; an ingrained anxiety loosened up only the fact that King seemed to have enough clemency to alleviate the sudden stress by patting him on the back, practically hoisting his arm around his shoulders with what seemed like words of wisdom; something to take to heart and live by. -"Put your hands in your pockets. Start whistling. Pretending to be lookin' at them pretty clouds and shit."- King snorts, pointing up at the sky.

-"So long as Barnes ain' never looked back at you lookin' at him ---"-

Rhah speaks up, ever as cryptic, his blunt now fully rolled up.

Lit and dangling from his mouth.

-"You good."-

There it was; the quiet terror creeps back in.

Did he? Did Barnes notice Taylor's been watching and the woman?

---

What was mere curiosity before turns into morbid fascination.

Maybe more so once he inexplicably gets punished for no discernable reason at all, Sergeant O'Neill there to tell him he'll be on latrine cleaning duty again, this time all on his own and somehow, deep in his marrow, there was this dyed-in-the-bone certainty it was because he was watching what he shouldn't have been watching; an idea further strengthened once he lights up the feces filled metal barrels with kerosene, the shit bursting up in flames and black, putrid smoke cutting through the horizon early morning, pushing the sweat accumulated inside of him to come dripping out of his pores; Taylor's gaze inexplicably drawn back west, towards the barracks and the quietness on the horizon where the sky wasn't charred and mangled by the gusts of stench filled smoke, catching Sergeant Barnes's form exhaling deeply to the point his chest rose and fell with an odd contentment as he walked leisurely, in wide strides to the edge of your tent, raising the wing of its flap and bending down to scoot inside only, halting only to indulge himself in the task of fishing a cigarette out of the box in his pocket and push it into his mouth unlit, Barnes's chin moving, only ever so slightly, and then slightly more so, until his head was turned, across the full length of the base camp, staring directly at him, from almost a click away, making the air tense enough to cut with a knife. Taylor feels those cold eyes on himself as clearly as he would've if the man was standing right in front of him, a mere inch away.

It's only then that Taylor realizes he has been holding his breath all the while.

If he wasn't leaning on his shovel, he would've lost his balance, he thought.

Not married and not an item, huh?

The longer he was in Vietnam, the less he seemed to understand anything.

Barnes holds his gaze for a moment that seems like an eternity.

And then he enters the tent, lowering its wing behind him.

For seemed like a split second, Taylor could swear he saw the man's meaty, scarred mouth inch up like he was grinning.

[xenthosss]

There are TWO ways to play crusader Kings;

the Serious way and the Fuck around way (Emphasis on the fuck)

Now I'm pretty new so have only done one or two worlds and they were serious, so I decided to play the fuck around way

This is how it went

put it on super easy mode and JACK up my character with charisma, and make him French cause I heard you earned prestige from seduction when French

Realize that you use Intrigue to seduce, not Charisma

Also realize I don't know how to do the whole earning intrigue from seduction thing

Fuck

Well, Ok, this isn't serious, might as well start seducing anyway cause my intrigue is actually very high, even of it makes lifestyle learning a little trickier

Immediately start seducing everyone I can

I'm not great but I get like five or six girlfriends

Have high fertility so I expect a lot of bastards; but my first pregnant lover miscarried, my character is sad about it

Keep pinning woman to seduce; One I notice is in jail cause of a war, decide to come back to her later

Come back to her later; she has consumption and no land; also her husband died from consumption

She's on deaths doorstep

Figure I can marry her, have one heir and secure succession, and then she'll die before I have too many and the land needs to be split because I don't have primogenitor

She gets pregnant

Yay!

Miscarries as well

wtf?

So now I'm wondering if there's some sort of stat I don't know about that controls miscarriage odds, cause I never had a character miscarry in my other games, or if I just got really unlucky

She does get over her consumption and is no longer dying; might be an issue later, but also, yay

Seduce another woman named Tota; I take note of her cause she's really pretty and has a pretty name

My wife falls pregnant again

She delivers a healthy son

Yay!

And then kills a guy

wtf???????

So I imprison her, which also keeps her from falling pregnant

Dies

I didn't even put her in the dungeon, what?

Ok but whatever

Tota falls pregnant

Yay!

Word of the affair gets out

Ok thats fine, not that big of a deal

Her husband arrests her

Still fine, I can just pay the ransom

Get distracted by pop ups because my character is in the middle of a hunting trip

The second I look away her husband has her executed; while she is pregnant with my child

Now I am pissed

My intrigue is high so I start a scheme to kill him for revenge

Look into his character and realize that he doesn't have a male heir and has two daughters instead, with his eldest being the heir; who is unmarried

Has an idea

Goes to arrange a marriage

The answer is no because he hates me for sleeping with and impregnating his wife

So I give him some gold

I have high charisma

He loves me now

Lets me marry his daughter

Then I kill him

His daughter gets pregnant

Has a girl

I name her Tota

[onion-souls]

So, sometimes I just have to look something up because a question bugs me. And today's question was: what keeps Luxembourg a Grand Duchy? Because you just kind of wonder if there's some obscure feudal bylaw that keeps him from being a king or a prince (like the similar Monoco) or something, since the Netherlands and Belgium both have kings. And these oddities crop up all the time; like, there is a really convoluted fuedal thing happening in Andorra's government between Spain and France, and the Channel Islands have some hangovers from Norman rule.

So apparently the title of Grand Duke of Luxembourg was first held by Willem I, King of the Netherlands. It was a county from 963-1337, and elevated to a duchy in 1354 by Wenceslaus of Bohemia. And then Duchess Elisabeth sold Luxembourg to Philip III, Duke of Burgundy in 1441. Philip captured the city in 1443, but couldn't hold the dukedom because of not assume the ducal title because of conflicting claims by Anne of Austria, Ladislaus the Posthumous, William the Brave, Elizabeth II, Cashimir Jagiellon, and George of Podebrady. There's a lot of crazy bullshit that happened for like three centuries, because despite the small size of the region, a duchal title is no joke. In 1482, it became a Habsburg possession, because that's what happens if you're not vigilant with your European feudal title. They just spontaneously generate in the floorboards of palaces. Then Phillip V of France held the title due to the chaos of the War of Spanish Succession, it was kicked around a bit, and then Luxembourg was occupied by France from 1794 to 1813.

It was the 1815 Final Act of the Congress of Vienna that made it a grand duchy in personal union with William I of the Netherlands, of the House of Orange-Nassau, a title confirmed by the 1867 Treaty of London. What's key here is that the title of Grand Duke of Luxembourg was fossilized in the Nassau Family Pact, which is exactly what it sounds like: the competing princes of the House lf Nssau drew up an inheritance and succession plan in 1783 with agreements with the German Confederation, and they've stuck by it ever since. I can't think of any fallout from breaking it at this point now that neither Germany or France are monarchies, but it's cool that it's standing.

But the exact wording of the pact lead to issues, as the union with the Netherlands dissolved because William III's only heir was Wilhelmina, who ruined everything by not having a penis. Big yikes. The crown of the Netherlands passed to her despite her disability, but Luxembourg's duchal crown went to Adolphe, a dispossed Duke of Nassau. He was previously dispossessed over some stupid bullshit, but he had experience in duking and having a penis. Unfortunately, the new House of Nassau-Weilburg was quickly troubled by a lack of heirs. Adolphe's half-brother died with only a single son, Georg Nikolaus, Count von Merenberg; however, he was the product of a morganatic marriage, which means God didn't love him under European royal convention. Adolphe's eventually had one son, William IV, who encouraged a law allowing women to count as people if every man related to her is dead, five years before he put the law into practice. Grand Duchess Marie-Adélaïde abdicated in favor of her sister Charlotte in 1919, because she was childless and being a European royal seemed kind of cringe at the time. Since then, every sitting Grand Duke of the House of Nassau has abdicated in favor of their heir.

Marie-Adélaïde, Grand Duchess 1912-1919: "That fucking sucked."

[bastardofharrenhal]

The funny thing about 'key five' peddlers is that they don't usually give a fuck about Tyrion (GRRM's self admited fave) or Bran. It's usually something used to dismiss Sansa's relevance in the plot by people still too immersed in 2019 'late seasons of GOT' Dany vs Sansa stan wars. (even though we don't yet have a clue as to how these characters will interact in the books)

Also Sansa vs. Arya of course, which is sooooo baffling to me:

"You may be as different as the sun and the moon, but the same blood flows through both your hearts. You need her, as she needs you"

" the lone wolf dies, but the pack survives"

These people act as if the story isn't building up to Sansa and Arya meeting again, setting their differences aside and reconciling after going through tremendous loss and trauma... They seem to prefer an incredibly unsatisfying narrative outcome in which they'll permanently be rivals, one sister has to win and the other has to lose (and the loser of course will be Sansa because she isn't a 'beloved by Martin' key fiver) truly hilarious stuff

it always comes back down to which child bride that person wants to fuck lol. denying a character's relevance bc she reminds u of ur mean older sister is so childish that at some point u have to laugh. 'sansa isnt a main character' and its a character thats been a main pov in every book from agot onwards. its natural to have favorites but when it comes down to downplaying a character's arc, role and story bc she had the same conflicts with her sister that all sisters irl have faced it just becomes pathetic and a painful example of bias. this idea that george loves some of his characters more than the others is also silly; his fave is tyrion but that doesnt suddenly mean he doesnt care for cersei or jaime or catelyn or ned or jon snow or whoever. hes a writer and hes trying to write an interesting and intricate story where everyone has a role to play and boiling it down to 'erm actually the main characters are dany jon tyrion bran and arya🤓☝' is insulting. as though jaime or brienne or cersei or davos arent important. as though sansa hasnt been a main character from book 1 but ofc u wont get it if u only pick and choose which characters to pay attention to lol

also this idea that sansa hates arya or vice versa is inherently stupid bc its been disproven by the text itself. sansa is relieved when she hears that arya escaped and believes she's on her way to winterfell and safety. when arya wishes for king's landing to be swept away be a wave she thinks to herself that then sansa would be hurt and she doesnt want that. sansa imagines her possible daughter with willas like arya and arya wonders if sansa would like it if arya came to her and curtsied, thinking it'd please her sister. sansa offers arya to ride with her and queen cersei and princess myrcella and arya refuses. arya offers sansa to sew her a new dress after throwing an orange at sansa and ruining her previously gifted one and sansa refuses. theyre both just little girls and acting like one was a cruel vicious bully when it at Most was teasing that might've went too far (not to mention that they were repeatedly pitted against each other by the adults around them) is so so so silly

people read "the lone wolf dies but the pack survives" and somehow still come to the conclusion that yeaa the pack can live except this One Part of it

[numinous-scribe]

I’m seeing a lovely trend of recommending DPxDC fics going around so here I am throwing my hat into the ring lol

+++

Beauty lays behind the hills by Library_of_Chronos

Danny loses everything. He runs fast and he runs far, somehow ending up in a back alley known as Park Row, where a strange man with flowers in his hands changes his life.

While Danny does end up staying with Bruce and a much younger Dick, the story focuses more on giving Danny a good support system both within Wayne Manor and with the Justice League, as they all come together to help Danny fight against Vlad. Status: Incomplete

Law of Retribution by Michaelisunderatted

“The ghosts like you.”

Danny watched as Red Hood reeled. Now that he thought about it, that was probably a creepy thing to say. Danny hadn’t talked to living people in years though, so Jason really should cut him some slack. He was trying his best. It wasn’t his fault living people had such weird hang ups about things.

“Okay,” Jason said, taking a deep breath. “Okay kid, what the fuck.” ...

Jason starts seeing ghosts. Danny comes back to the Living Realm for the first time since the Incident.  He has a job offer for Red Hood

I have not caught up with this one myself, but so far I’m really enjoying the darker/more serious tone of the story. Jason sees ghosts, Danny fumbles the “how to human” ball, and Duke takes no shit. It’s great! Status: Incomplete

Sundials by AkelaNakamura

Damian Wayne is nearing sixteen and it's finally feeling like a future is something he might get to choose. He has a Soulmate, somewhere, who is no longer subject to Grandfather's judgement. He wonders though, how he's going to find him when he's unmarked. There's a thousand ways to find a Soulmate, he knows, but Damian has nothing physical to guide him.

Tucker Foley has always worried that Amity Park will be too much for his Soulmate, whoever they are. Soulmates are supposed to match each other, to walk with each other, but there's not many places that are as wild as Amity Park. The only mark he carries though, is the one that links him to Sam and Danny, so he's left to wonder how they might meet.

Damian turns sixteen and everything changes.

A really sweet Tucker/Damian soulmate au with wonderful lore and mechanics and just overall oozing with tender softness. 100% adore this one. Status: Complete

Bruised by DizzlyPuzzled

The Guys in White are preparing for war. The Justice League doesn't believe in Ghosts and wrote Amity Park off. And Danny just wants things to chill for a moment so he can enjoy his life. But now he is the only thing standing between complete reality collapse and peace.

Ghost King au + political drama + taking down the GIW and Vlad? Amazing, stunning, I’ve re-read this at least five times now. Status: Complete 

Ouroboros by Rhapsody_in_Pink

In the end, it was Jack and Maddie that caused Phantom. It was Phantom that caused the downfall of Jack and Maddie. It was Jack and Maddie that destroyed Danny Fenton. It was Danny Fenton who accepted Phantom. And so Ouroboros swallowed himself.

An alternate take on how Danny acquired his powers and interacts with the ghosts around him as well as well as dimensional travel. I genuinely don’t have the words to describe how much I love this one, it’s just so good! Status: Incomplete

Your City Loves You (And Your Home Was Always Here) by bongo_balderdash

After a meeting between the Reigning Monarch of the Infinite Realms and the Justice League, King Phantom asks Superman to stay behind for a moment. Superman is a little hesitant, but they’ve just agreed to a peace treaty between the lands of the living and the dead, and apparently someone on the king’s council has something they’ve been waiting to say.

Not just a message for Superman. A message for Clark Kent.

This one was so sweet and it made me cry. Status: Complete

A Vigilante A Day Keeps the Government Away by DeathlySilent13

Lucius Fox gets a phone call he'd never expected from a source even more unexpected. Now, he's got to figure out what to do with a betrayed child, a traumatized nephew, a protective son, and an adoption-prone Bat.

Very interesting choice in using Lucius as the main POV, and it provides a fresh look at the beginnings of coordinating a take down of the GIW. This is only the first part of the series, and while it is Complete, there is still more to come!

What’s a Spleen Between Friends? by Cielle_Noire

Tim gets Isekai'd a few times, which is really inconvenient. The guy (meta? ghost? half-ghost?) who keeps helping him is cute though, so it's okay. Well, it's not okay, but it could be worse. Probably.

OR

Five Times Tim Fell Through a Portal and One Time He Didn't

A very witty 5+1 Tim/Danny fic. Great lore, great plot, great jokes. 10/10. Status: Incomplete