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novaursa · 1 month ago

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Web of Gold (royal wedding)

- Summary: Alicent could only watch as you handle her son like a lioness who plays with her food.

- Paring: lannister!reader/Aegon II Targaryen (+Aemond Targaryen?)

- Rating: Mature 16+

- Previous part: aegon is jealous

- Next part: honeymoon

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @alyssa-dayne @oxymakestheworldgoround @purple-1995 @thisbiann @whiteoakoak

- A/N: The last part was skipping from present to past. I forgot to mention that. It has been fixed now.

The grand hall of the Red Keep has never looked so splendid. Golden tapestries hang from the walls, catching the light from the myriad of candles that bathe the room in a warm, shimmering glow. The floors are strewn with rich red and gold carpets, their colors a perfect match for the union taking place today—a union that has the blood of the dragon and the wealth of the lion entwined.

Your wedding to King Aegon II is nothing short of a spectacle. All of the nobility of Westeros is in attendance, their finery dazzling, but none more so than the families of the bride and groom. The Hightowers and the Lannisters are well represented, their seats in the front rows filled with dignified faces that watch every movement with keen interest.

At the head of it all stands Aegon, his usually unruly silver hair smoothed back for the occasion, though he still carries that familiar smirk as if he's already thinking about the revelry that will follow. He’s dressed in a regal black and red ensemble that reflects his Targaryen heritage, but with touches of gold embroidery—no doubt a nod to your Lannister lineage. As you approach down the aisle, his eyes are fixed solely on you, and his smirk softens into something more genuine, more admiring.

You, in turn, glide down the aisle with all the grace expected of a Lannister bride. Your gown is a masterpiece, shimmering gold and crimson silk, with intricate embroidery that mimics the flames of dragons and the roaring lions of your house. The entire court seems to hold its breath as you make your way toward Aegon, your steps light and confident, a smile playing at your lips.

Behind you, your uncles, the infamous Lannister twins, Tyland and Jason, follow with their usual contrasting expressions. Tyland, ever the composed and political one, watches the proceedings with an air of satisfaction, knowing how well this match bodes for the Lannister name. Jason, on the other hand, appears more relaxed, casting admiring glances around the hall and clearly enjoying the pomp and grandeur of it all. He leans over to Tyland at one point, whispering something, likely a comment on the opulence of the Red Keep, which Tyland responds to with a curt nod, his face impassive.

At the altar, Dowager Queen Alicent stands beside Otto Hightower, her father, both of them watching the ceremony with varying degrees of restraint. Alicent’s expression is one of controlled politeness, though there’s a tightness around her eyes that betrays her discomfort. She still hasn’t entirely warmed to the idea of her beloved son marrying someone who so effortlessly draws his attention away from her. Otto, however, seems entirely pleased, his hands folded neatly in front of him, his sharp eyes scanning the room as if mentally counting the alliances being forged today.

Aemond stands beside his brother, his face a mask of impassivity, though you know him well enough by now to catch the faint flicker of amusement in his eye. No doubt he finds the spectacle of Aegon getting married as something of an ironic twist, considering how hard Aegon fought to maintain his so-called "freedom." Aemond’s hand rests lightly on the hilt of his sword, as always, a silent reminder of his ever-watchful nature.

Helaena is there too, her dreamy expression focused on something far beyond the festivities, though she smiles softly when you pass her by. She’s dressed in a lovely gown of pale blue, her hair adorned with delicate silver ornaments shaped like butterflies. She murmurs something to herself, perhaps a quiet blessing for your future, though it’s impossible to tell for sure.

As you finally reach Aegon’s side, the High Septon Eustace begins the ceremonial words, his voice echoing through the hall. You can feel the eyes of the court on you, but your focus remains on Aegon, who is staring at you with a look that’s equal parts admiration and barely restrained mischief. His hand, warm and steady, slips into yours as you both face the High Septon, the weight of the crown on your head a constant reminder of the power this union represents.

“Do you, Aegon Targaryen, take Y/N of House Lannister to be your lawful wife, to honor and protect, in sickness and in health, until death do you part?” the High Septon intones.

Aegon’s grin spreads wide across his face, a flash of amusement dancing in his eyes. “I do,” he says, his voice rich with confidence, though there’s a playful edge to it that makes it clear he’s already thinking of what comes after the ceremony.

“And do you, Y/N of House Lannister, take Aegon Targaryen to be your lawful husband, to honor and stand beside, in sickness and in health, until death do you part?”

You meet Aegon’s gaze, the room around you momentarily fading as you reply, “I do.”

The High Septon raises his hands in blessing, proclaiming you husband and wife, and the hall erupts in applause. Aegon, ever the dramatic, doesn’t wait for the formal conclusion before leaning in to kiss you, his hands cupping your face as if you’re the only person in the room. The kiss is bold, full of the reckless passion Aegon is known for, and the court watches with varying degrees of approval and amusement.

Tyland and Jason exchange glances, Jason stifling a chuckle while Tyland remains impassive, though his eyes gleam with pride. They know the political weight of this match—House Lannister is now further entwined with the crown, and their power has only grown.

Alicent, however, watches the display with barely concealed annoyance, her lips pressed into a tight smile. She claps politely, though there’s a stiffness to her movements, a reminder that, in her mind, no one could ever truly be good enough for her precious son. Otto, on the other hand, seems entirely pleased, his eyes flicking toward Alicent as if to gauge her reaction, though he remains composed.

Aemond watches the kiss with a raised brow, a flicker of bemusement crossing his features. He shifts slightly, as though resisting the urge to roll his eye, though a small smirk tugs at the corner of his lips.

The rest of the court stands, applauding as you and Aegon turn to face them, now husband and wife. You can feel the weight of expectation on your shoulders, but you stand tall, regal, with Aegon by your side. The cheers of the courtiers fill the hall, a cacophony of voices celebrating your union, and for a moment, it feels as though you and Aegon have already won over the entire kingdom.

As the feast begins, Jason Lannister raises his goblet in a loud toast. “To King Aegon and his golden bride! May their union bring strength to the realm!” His voice booms across the hall, earning cheers and nods of approval from the Lannisters in attendance.

Aegon, never one to miss an opportunity to revel in attention, raises his own goblet and smirks at you. “And may she forever spoil me with her affection, wine, and… other delights.”

The court erupts in laughter, and you can’t help but laugh too, casting a glance at Aemond, whose eye twitches in amusement, though he’s quick to hide it behind another sip of wine.

The night is long, filled with feasting, laughter, and the clinking of goblets as alliances are silently solidified with every toast. And as the evening draws on, you and Aegon bask in the glow of your new roles—King and Queen, dragon and lion, forever entwined in the history of Westeros.

The grand feast is in full swing. Laughter echoes off the vaulted ceilings of the Red Keep’s great hall, the clink of goblets and the shuffle of servants bringing more trays of roasted meats, fruits, and breads filling the space. At the high table, you sit next to Aegon, who is already well on his way to being pleasantly drunk. His cheeks are flushed, his laughter a little too loud, and every so often, he leans in to whisper something entirely inappropriate in your ear—something about what he intends to do later, no doubt—but you smile and nod, indulging him.

Across the table, Helaena sits quietly, her dreamy eyes fixed on the flickering candlelight as if it holds secrets only she can see. She picks absentmindedly at her plate, her fingers twirling a piece of bread like it's a delicate piece of embroidery. You catch her eye and smile warmly.

"Helaena," you say softly, leaning toward her, "are you enjoying the feast?"

She blinks, her gaze shifting to you as if coming back to the present from some distant dream. Her lips curve into a small, sweet smile. "It’s beautiful," she murmurs, her voice barely above a whisper. "But the butterflies… they’re dancing too close to the fire."

You pause, tilting your head, unsure whether she’s speaking in metaphors or if this is just one of Helaena’s usual cryptic musings. Either way, you smile back. “I’ll be sure to keep an eye on the butterflies, then.”

She giggles softly, her fingers finally releasing the bread as she takes a sip from her goblet. There’s something endearing about Helaena, her quiet innocence standing in contrast to the rowdy festivities around her. You find her company refreshing—though you’re well aware that others find her eccentric nature unsettling.

As you pour another cup of wine for Aegon, who is now thoroughly engaged in a one-sided conversation with Ser Criston about something involving dragons (though Criston’s blank stare suggests he’s only pretending to listen), you feel a sharp gaze on you. Without even looking, you know it’s Alicent.

You glance up to find her watching you with that familiar tight-lipped expression of disapproval. Her hands are clasped so tightly in her lap that her knuckles have gone white. It’s clear she doesn’t appreciate the way you cater to Aegon’s whims, particularly when it involves filling his goblet over and over. But tonight, she says nothing, her lips pressed into a thin, sour line as she watches you with silent judgment.

You flash her a smile, sweet as honey, and deliberately pour Aegon’s cup a little fuller than necessary, making sure the wine sloshes right to the rim. He grins up at you with a sloppy, grateful smile, lifting his goblet with an exaggerated flourish.

“Ah, my perfect queen!” Aegon slurs, raising the cup in a toast that sends a bit of wine splashing over the side. “Always knows exactly what I need.”

You pat his hand and nod, biting back a laugh. “Yes, my love. Always.”

Alicent’s expression tightens even further, but she still says nothing, clearly choosing to hold her tongue rather than cause a scene at such a grand occasion. Her frustration, however, is palpable.

With Aegon now thoroughly distracted by his wine and the increasingly nonsensical conversation with Ser Criston, you take the opportunity to slip away for a moment. The noise of the feast dulls slightly as you move toward the quieter end of the hall, where Aemond stands, ever the watchful observer, his gaze scanning the room like a hawk searching for prey. He doesn’t sit—Aemond never seems to relax the way Aegon does. Instead, he stands with a goblet of wine in hand, his tall frame as rigid and poised as ever.

As you approach, he glances at you, his single eye cool but alert, that faint smirk already playing on his lips as if he knows exactly why you’ve come.

“Your husband looks quite… spirited this evening,” Aemond says, his voice low and smooth. His gaze flickers to where Aegon is now halfway through another story, clearly embellishing the details for the benefit of anyone still bothering to listen.

You chuckle, standing beside him, your fingers brushing the stem of your own goblet. “Yes, well, that’s to be expected, isn’t it? A wedding and an endless supply of wine—it’s a dangerous combination for Aegon.”

Aemond’s lips twitch with amusement. “Dangerous for him, perhaps. More tiresome for the rest of us.”

You raise your goblet slightly, giving him a sidelong glance. “I suppose you’re used to enduring such… tiresome things, aren’t you, Aemond?”

His eye narrows slightly, a knowing glint in it. “I endure what I must. Though some things…” He pauses, his gaze lingering on you for a fraction longer than necessary, “are more tolerable than others.”

You hum in response, your lips curving into a small, playful smile. “How kind of you to say. And here I thought you preferred your solitude over any company.”

Aemond sips his wine, his eye never leaving yours. “Solitude has its merits. But there are certain… exceptions.”

The weight of his words hangs in the air between you, subtle but unmistakable. You glance back toward Aegon, who is now attempting to stand, swaying slightly as he raises his goblet in yet another toast, clearly drunk beyond reason. The sight is both amusing and pitiful, and you can’t help but feel a pang of sympathy for your new husband. But at the same time, the pull of Aemond’s presence is undeniable, the tension between you two thickening with every passing second.

“And would I be one of those exceptions?” you ask softly, turning your attention back to Aemond. Your tone is light, teasing, but there’s a sharper edge beneath it.

Aemond’s smirk deepens, his gaze darkening as he lowers his goblet. He steps closer, his voice dropping to a near whisper. “You already know the answer to that.”

Your heart quickens, but you keep your expression neutral, unwilling to give too much away. This dance between you and Aemond has been ongoing for some time—never spoken of directly, never acted upon, but always there, clawing just beneath the surface. And tonight, with Aegon too drunk to notice, the tension feels sharper than ever.

Before you can respond, Aegon’s voice cuts through the room, loud and slurred. “Y/N! Where are you, my queen? Come! We must… celebrate!”

You bite back a laugh, casting Aemond a glance that’s equal parts amused and exasperated. “Duty calls,” you say, stepping away with a sigh.

Aemond’s eye follows you as you move back toward Aegon, the weight of his gaze lingering on you like a silent promise.

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clockwayswrites · 1 year ago

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Both Ways at Once Part 1

wc 868, Masterpost

“You’ve read the dossier?”

The clipped words were in time with their quick steps down the pristine white hall.

“Yes.”

“All of it?”

Danny resisted the urge to roll his eyes. “Unlike you, Hellblazer, I read my contracts before I sign them.”

“You wound me, Pomp,” John said, twirling an unlit cigarette between his fingers. “I’m just trying to protect you from the Big Bad Bat. He’s had a bit of a mare over this case. Hell, as a consultant, you shouldn’t even be seeing this with the access level things are at, but…”

“But you’re stuck and need my pretty baby blues on things to help you out,” Danny said, batting his lashes obnoxiously at John.

“Fuck off,” John said without any heat and shoved Danny away. “But the Bat is anxious about it. All the Bats are. If you can help us solve it sooner, then the better, because when the Bats are on edge, everyone is on edge. And it’s a fucking nightmare around here already with all the bloody do-gooders let alone when they’re all worked up about something…”

“Everyone’s on edge, got it.”

“Nightingale,” John said, voice unusually serious— serious enough to make Danny stop even without the hand on his arm. “I’m not saying this lightly. I like you, like you well enough for a psychopomp and whatever the fuck else you are at least. Tread lightly.”

“Got it, Constantine. I’ll work extra hard not to piss anyone off,” Danny said, patting John’s hand with his own tattooed one. Danny picked back up his same quick pace, but his mind now spun trying to figure out what exactly he was walking into. The dossier hadn’t gone into details, just conditions. Supposedly the risk— some side effect created by a villainous magical spell gone wrong— was presently and thoroughly contained. Danny would be able to observe the risk, the individual originally affected, and the items present at the time. He was not to interact directly with the risk, answer it’s questions, or under any circumstance touch it.

It read as a pretty standard contract magical unknown.

John wouldn’t be this concerned by a standard magical unknown. So what was he about to walk into? It seemed like he might actually want to listen to John this time, even if that was always a fifty-fifty chance of being an absurdly stupid idea.

Danny shifted his grip anxiously on the handle of his kit: an old traveling salesman’s briefcase fitted out with a careful collection of haphazard items. Most of the other occult practitioners mocked Danny’s tendency for used items. Half burned candles, old books wiped and rewritten, estate sale candy dishes— odd choices for most people, but for Danny they sang. They spilled the secrets of the world known and unknown to him. He had to trust that between his tools and his skills (let them believe he was a mere psychopomp), he would come out of this at least safe, if not with answers.

Didn’t mean that a few of his tattoos didn’t crawl in warning.

(Who knew what spot of skin that damn ink moth would wander to now.)

“Justice Leaguers,” Danny greeted with a nod as they finally finished winding through repetitive hallways and stopped outside a room.

“Nightingale, thank you for being able to attend to this so promptly,” Wonder Woman greeted him. Of the Justice League members (outside of the Darks) that Danny had interacted with on other consulting gigs she might be Danny’s favorite, so he offered her a smile.

“Of course, it sounded like things were possibly on a time table from the contract, so I’m glad I was between pressing matters,” Danny said. Right then his most pressing matter was a need to find a laundry mat, but the Justice League certainly didn’t need to know that.

“Right, well,” John jumped in when no one else said anything, not that Danny had expected much from Batman with how he was lurking like a shadow. “Er, this way.”

Danny glanced at the room label of ‘containment cells’ as the door unlocked with a clank and hissed open. After John’s warning, he wasn’t surprised that they were taking whatever this was seriously.

There was more white and gleaming metal behind the door. A neat row of spartan cells were set behind thick acrylic glass and metal. Danny’s eyes locked on the figure in the third cell. He stumbled.

He might be sick.

“What the fuck are you all doing?!” The words ripped from Danny in a snarl.

That was a protector spirit.

He brushed past Wonder Woman and through John’s reaching arm.

They had a protector spirit in a cell.

Intangibility washed over Danny, cold as always, as he stepped through the glass wall of the cell.

The spirit stopped in their pacing, the opaque red helmet tilting.

John screamed something at him.

The flashing red of alarms glinted off gleaming surfaces.

Danny reached out and rested his hand over the spirit’s sternum, and they practically crumpled around the touch. Gloved hands clung desperately to Danny’s arm.

A low growl rumbled in Danny’s chest. “They’re hurting you.”

They had a protector spirit in a cell.

How dare they.

----

AN: So, um, yeah. Still sick. Not a cold or allergies at all and not easy to clear up and prob a new life long thing. Which is great. Super cool. I needed more ways to be sick.

But have the start of this thing that I used to take my mind off things! My, what could be going on?? (Also why do I apparently have a tattooed Danny agenda?)

Stay delightful (and well), darlings!

I no longer tag people for various reasons. You can instead be notified by subscribing to the masterpost!

#dp x dc #dead on main #both ways at once

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bits-and-babs · 2 years ago

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✰ 𝐏𝐎𝐌𝐏 — 𝐒𝐈𝐌𝐎𝐍 ‘𝐆𝐇𝐎𝐒𝐓’ 𝐑𝐈𝐋𝐄𝐘

↳ summary: prompt: “If we weren’t in public right now, I’d have my head between your legs.” - Simon gets bored during a very special medal ceremony. Chest Candy isn't exactly what he's after when there's something much sweeter between your legs.

↳ pairing: Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley x f!Reader (Delta)

↳ [1k] content: 18+ MDNI. This is so self indulgent it’s ridiculous. Anti-Monarchy (sue me), cheeky Simon (my favourite kind), vague dirty talk, oral (f receiving) you see PART OF Simon’s face, vague allusion to p in v sex and cream pie. Inspired by this article I found.

ghost masterlist I| main masterlist |I join taglist

The Crimson red carpet stretches down the aisle to the medal platform, an uncomfortable reminder of the colour of the blood you had to spill to get here. A sea of uniformed SAS colleagues stands before you, making The King look distant from where he handed a medal to those worthy of the chest candy. The golden lighting is giving you a headache, and this ceremony feels as though it's taking forever. He's just a man-

"If we weren't in public right now, I'd have my head between your legs."

Simon's gruff voice so close to your ear has you jumping out of your skin, wide eyes gazing up at him through your lashes as you try to steady yourself from the shock. Was... Was he dirty talking you in the middle of the ceremonial halls of Buckingham Palace?

"Simon-"

"Never been one for pomp an' pageantry," he speaks over you, keeping his voice low as to avoid a very pointed look from Captain Price. Despite leaning down ever so slightly for his whispers to be heard, his eyes stare straight ahead, moving lips concealed by the worn fabric of his ski mask.

"This isn't pomp, Simon. It's Buckingham Palace," you remind him pointedly, a little hiss of frustration bubbling in your throat. Ghost had the habit of choosing the worst times to pull this bullshit-

"Exactly my point, love."

Admittedly, when you saw The Times article a few months ago, you threw up in your mouth. 'SAS get medals in secret palace ceremony'. While each of you had taken a vow to protect (what was then) Queen and Country, years on the field had twisted the priorities of each of the members of Team 141. You could ask any of them why they serve, and it certainly wasn't for this family.

What you honestly hadn't expected, however, was the team's invitation. The invitation, written on a thick, grained card with an embossed royal seal, detailed the team's bravery in the Gulf of Mexico, redirecting the missile aimed towards inhabited land. Ghost had scoffed at the idea of going to Buckingham Palace, but Price had been adamant that all of 141 would be there.

"You know, he's not even served a day in his life," Simon subtly nods towards the medals resting at The King's breast,"' Least Harry saw action."

Keeping your eyes aimed towards the ceremonial stage, you swallow back a grimace at Simon's truthful observation. Sure, he wasn't wrong, but it took everything in you not to dare Ghost to say it to the monarch's face.

Because you're sure as shit that he would.

"Whatd'ya say?" Simon whispers, his voice dropping a tad lower and dripping with eroticism, "There's an open door at your six, Delta. Make it worth your while."

Before you even check over your shoulder to see if his observation is accurate, you're turning on your heel, whispering to the king's guard patrolling the open double doors that you need the toilet- that you are desperate.

One of those admissions is true.

✰

"What took you so lo-ng?!" You gasp out as Ghost's tongue curls around your sensitive clit.

"Recon, love," he muses, the rumble of his voice against your throbbing cunt making you throw your head back against the wall of the bathroom stall, "Couldn't just follow after you into the women's loos, could I?"

Squeezing your eyes shut, you whimper, pushing your fingers into Simon's buzzcut hair and shoving his face deeper into your cunt. His words had shot straight to your clit when he entered the bathroom, eyelids heavy and voice as rough as glass on gravel.

"Eyes shut, panties down."

When his bare lips and nose pressed to your wet pussy lips, you could have cum right there, threats of a fierce orgasm roughly pushing up against the base of your spine. You wrap your thighs around his head now, wailing out his name as your eyes roll back.

"Shhh," he mumbles against your soaked cunt, but it's so hard to take note of his warnings when they're drowned out by even louder sloppy, messy sucks of your sensitive flesh. He's swallowing your juices down, groans ricocheting off the bathroom walls.

"Fuck, Princess," he's never used that name for you, and you know it's only because of the frankly ridiculous circumstances, but your cunt clenches around his tongue when he shoves it inside of you anyway, "Mhmm, so fuhgin' wet."

He's slurring his words as he plunges his tongue deeper, but he won't shut up. A chorus of "good girl" s and "like that" s and "c'mon" s have you pushing your hips up into his face and grasping at the smooth walls of the bathroom stall.

"Oh my God, Simon!" You sob weakly, tears welling in your eyes as he sinks his fingers into your throbbing cunt. He finds your G-spot instantly, far too acquainted with each curve and crevice of your body—too many reccy missions with his hands down your pants.

"Hah," he pulls back, breathless pants rumbling in his chest. The sound makes your back arch, chasing his lips again with your pelvis, "Gonna swear allegiance to me?"

His corny joke is almost lost on you; eyes rolling back into your skull as you grip at his short hair between your curled fingers. "L-Last I checked, yo-you were on your knees for m-me!"

It doesn't matter that you squeak out the last word of your ballsy sentence; it lands exactly as you intended it to. Simon stalls for a moment.

You don't mean to. You don't! But your eyes snap open at the sudden stalling of the blissful sensation. Simon's amber eyes gaze up at you from his position between your thighs. They frame his face, covering his ears. Your pubic bone smothers his lower visage, covering the bridge of his nose to his chin.

Squeaking, you squeeze your eyes shut. Blonde. Simon's blonde, and a white scar runs down his left eyebrow and eyelid.

"Naughty," you hear him smirk at your startled reaction, a breathy, exhaled chuckle fanning across your wet pussy lips, "Guess I'll have to fuck you so hard that you forget what you just saw."

When you return to the ceremonial hall, the guards on the door keep their eyes uncomfortably fixed on the crimson carpet. You wish you could say that your shaking legs are from nerves when you step onto the ceremonial stage to receive your medal from The King.

The smug gaze of the skull face in the crowd is a reminder of otherwise, his cum leaking into the fabric of your uniform as you bow for the monarch.

Authors Note: Congrats on your coronation, "King" Charles... Would be a shame if Diana made it rain on your big day. ;)

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mmogurl · 2 months ago

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In The Shadow of Dragons Chapter 1: Requited Passions

18+ | 7.2k | Daemon Targaryen X Female OC | possessive, protective, objectifying, simping, raunchy Daemon | Uncle / niece incest, Smut, Dragons, Political Intrigue, Plotting, Murder, lots of old timey concepts that don't make a lot of sense today, but are still kind of hot/fun.

The second born daughter of King Viserys Targaryen, Ryna, is nine and ten years old and still unwed. Despite being surrounded by suitors, she has yet to find a man who captures her interest, and bristles at the pressure to select a husband. But a chance encounter with her enigmatic uncle, Daemon, promises to disrupt all her assumptions and to set her on a path she could never have anticipated. (Loosely set in episode 6, but Laena has already died a year prior)

CH 1 | CH 2 | CH 3 | CH 4 | CH 5 | CH 6 | CH 7 | CH 8 | CH 9 Also on AO3

The Great Hall was bristling with celebration held in honor of Viserys’ latest grandson, Joffrey Velaryon. The massive chamber was alight with dancing shadows, decorated grandiosely with Targaryen tapestries hung where all could witness to demonstrate wealth and power. Long tables filled with the most toothsome of fine delicacies lined both sides of the throne room. Perhaps Father was trying to distract the noble assembly with pomp, away from the very obvious fact that Rhaenyra’s children were all bastards.

Numerous guests filed in with their entourages in tow, announced by the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, Criston Cole. Ryna grimaced at who he declared next.

“House Lannister with their lord, Jason Lannister, Lord Paramount of the West, and Master of Casterly Rock,” Cole’s voice was stout enough, but had nowhere near the authority his predecessor, Lord Harrold Westerling had in his day.

The Lannister strode at the head of his retinue, like a preening peacock adorned in so much crimson and gold that one might think he were royalty and not the hosting family.

Ryna sat sandwiched between her good-brother Laenor Velaryon and Lyonel Strong, a position that made her feel most irritable as she was not even allowed the courtesy of being placed next to her own kin. The Hand was pleasant enough, albeit mostly a stranger, but she had never grown close to Laenor given how much time he spent preoccupied with affairs outside of his marriage.

As always her father, Viserys, sat proudly next to Rhaenyra, his named heir and, one might wonder at times, favored daughter, despite how much he protested to the contrary.

When the Lannister party drew close to the high table, Lord Jason bowed before them with a flourish and as his party withdrew, he climbed the steps and approached the King.

“Congratulations, Your Grace,” he fawned in the manner only a Lannister could muster, a tone both disrespectful and servile at the same time. “Healthy babes are a worthy cause for celebration. Where is the strapping lad? I had hoped to pay my respects.”

Rhaenyra piped up this time, looking exhausted and not fully recovered from child bearing even though it had been days since Joffrey’s birth. Ryna supposed the wee babe had been keeping her awake more often than not.

“Prince Joffrey is resting. He would not tolerate staying up any longer. You know how babes are, always sleeping,” she replied, playing into Jason’s feigned deference.

It was then that the Lannister shot a glance down the table at Ryna. She tried to smile just politely enough so as not to encourage more attentions from the man, but it was without success.

“Your Grace…” he started off in that same falsely sycophantic tenor. “Has the Princess given any more thought to the courtship I proposed?”

Father looked down the table at her, leaning forward slightly so that he might see the expression on her face. Ryna’s eyes were pleading ‘No�� while trying to remain civil in the lord’s presence. Viserys’ features hardened with annoyance and he rested back into his chair.

“The Princess should be happy to consider your attentions. After all she is but ten and nine summers and still not wed,” his voice was stony and strict, markedly cross with her for shirking her duties even longer than Rhaenyra had.

Jason Lannister ruffled his feathers as he voiced appreciation to her father and stepped down the length of the table until he came to stand before her. Ryna had to choke back a smirk when the thought occurred to her that the Lannister’s sigil should be a primping cock instead of a lion, for Jason had more in common with a fowl than the fearsome and proud predator.

“Princess, I trust you will save me a dance?” he squawked and it took all she had to keep from rolling her eyes.

“I shall try, Lord Jason,” she answered with a prim smile through grit teeth. “But, I have not been feeling well. It might be something I ate.”

Father shot her an irate look and Ryna had no doubt that if they had been seated next to each other, that she would have felt his palpable frustration.

“The Princess is in good health,” Viserys said, with a snide smile. “Expect her company once the revelry starts.”

With a pompous smirk, Jason Lannister excused himself and made his way down the steps and back to the banquet. Ryna heaved a sigh, finding it difficult to hide her true feelings on this subject, despite years of learning to comport herself in the presence of refined company.

Viserys was still glaring at her, and she reckoned he might be wrathful enough to cause a row amongst guests and their kin alike.

“Ryna, draw near,” he called out and she rose from her seat and came to where he sat.

“We are gathered here today to celebrate the birth of my grandchild, but unofficially, I had hoped you’d make use of the congregation of eligible lords and find a husband once and for all. Enough of this procrastination. Find a man worthy or I shall make the choice for you.” His voice was low so that the company in attendance of the great feast could not hear them.

“You would wed me to a Lannister?” she practically spat. “Just to fill the coffers with his dowry?!”

“Watch your tone with me, girl. You have heard me and I will not suffer your insolence any longer. Leave me so I might enjoy the festivities.” Viserys turned his head back to the next guests approaching the King’s table. He was done with her, his decision final.

Ryna could not help but to stomp swiftly away with a childish petulance that did not become a lady. Leaving her family behind, she slipped into the shadows of the great pillars that lined the throne room and made her way down a short corridor until she was outside in the crisp night air.

She let out a troubled sigh, wishing now that she had brought a goblet of wine with her. Ryna walked to the edge of the stone parapet and looked down at the splendor of King’s Landing in fall of the leaf. The color marking the trees was apparent even at nightfall and the sea was glittering in the moonlight just past the city’s edge. The sight made her feel both reverence and panic in equal measure, with a mounting desire to climb atop her dragon and take flight away.

Why should a princess of Valyrian blood be constrained to laws of man when she had the power to tame a dragon? She should be free to do as she longed to - to wed whom she desired, and not be forced to play along to such formal vulgarities, duty or not.

Ryna was so deep in thought that the nearby sound of a clearing throat startled her back to awareness. She turned sharply and could just barely make out the figure of a man leaning against the massive stone bricks of the castle wall behind her. Then her eyes caught the blinding billow of moonlit tresses and she knew it must be her uncle, Daemon, for no other Targaryen males yet had his height.

Daemon had returned from exile a year ago to attend to the funeral of his wife, Laena Velaryon, who had died in childbirth. Although to be more technically accurate, her dragon Vhagar had incinerated her once the baby would not come out. The end result was the same; Daemon widowed once again.

She had been closer with her uncle in the past, back before Rhaenyra’s wedding to Laenor, but her uncle had made himself scarce as of late. He spent much of his time away from King’s Landing, presumably finishing up his business in Pentos or simply behaving restlessly as Daemon was wont to do. Often she had observed his comings and goings from a distance by the sight and screech of Caraxes in the sky outside her window.

Daemon stepped forth from the shadows and approached her, yet halted at a pace’s length, his eyes roving up and down her form in keen appraisal.

He leaned in closely, his eyes of violet hooded as he whispered in a velvety, ardent tone, “My you’ve grown, niece.” His closeness and the heat of his gaze caused her cheeks to flush, and she could not help but feel a flutter in her chest.

For a moment, Ryna just stood there incredulously, unable to think of how to respond. He had never shown any interest in her before, no matter how much she had desired it. Daemon had only ever had eyes for Rhaenyra it seemed, and Ryna had always remained a child in his eyes. She had honestly forgotten those long lost unrequited desires until his simple greeting brought them all rushing back like a wave breaking hard as the tide comes in.

“Uncle,” she acknowledged him, yet scarce a word could she find in answer to his bold suggestion.

“Such beauty should never be sullied with a frown,” he continued, his demeanor charming without effort as he brushed a strand of blond hair behind her ear. “Tell Uncle what is troubling you.”

His inquiry proved to be somewhat of a balm to her tensions, providing a welcome transition into a topic she could put words to.

“Father has given me ultimatum to choose a husband lest he choose one for me,” she pouted, her lips pursing and her eyes sullen.

“Surely it cannot be so grim, sweetling,” he reassured her smoothly and she now saw he was holding a silver chalice adorned with the the three-headed dragon, likely filled with wine. “I imagine you’d have your pick of many fine and wealthy lords.”

“I’m afraid the selection is quite lacking,” Ryna scoffed gently, feeling a fondness stir as she recalled the old pet name he’d given her in many years past. It had been some time since she had heard him utter the word, but the fact that it sounded so well when spoken by him did not escape her notice.

Daemon quickly turned her around by the shoulder, then with a firm yet gentle hand placed against the small of her back, he led her towards the balustrade. His hand remained steadfast even as they halted, and Ryna shivered involuntarily at the feel of his fingers tracing the fabric of her gown with a tender and possessive touch.

“Let me guess,” he relished with sardonic glee. “Some old and fat oaf of a lord… No doubt a widower with a dozen children?”

“That and much worse,” she scowled thinking of all of the potential suitors that had approached her father for her hand. “A Lannister so full of himself that is makes my skin crawl to think of his paws upon me.”

An easy laugh escaped Daemon’s mouth and she thought with a wry smile that many must share her disgust for the lions.

“Ah, Lannisters. What a bunch of cunts,” he chuckled condescendingly, stealing a wanton glance down her bodice. “And the rest? Are there none suitable, niece?”

Ryna pondered the question, but could not think of a single man that had caught her attention. Except for Daemon of course, but that had never been a real option, especially after his transgressions with Rhaenyra some years back. Father had tried to keep it secret, but she’d crept into the throne room upon hearing his furious yelling and had heard the entire ordeal take place between the brothers.

Even still, she could not imagine marrying anyone of plain blood. In fact, it repulsed her to think that Father would ever marry a Hightower without an ounce of Valyrian heritage. And even though her brothers were technically half Targaryen, they were both young, and while Aemond seemed sweet, Aegon was a reprehensible human being.

The answer it seemed was simple after all. “No,” she replied curtly with a rueful sigh. “There are none who please me… But, I fear Father will not be thwarted this time. He will not permit me to celebrate my twentieth nameday without a husband.”

She glanced over at her uncle and took in the almost ethereal way his pale skin glowed in the moonlight. He hadn’t changed at all, like an ageless god from the legends she’d so loved as a girl. His hair swayed against his shoulder in the slight breeze as he took a sip from his cup.

“Ah yes, sweetling, It would seem your father has you in quite the bind,” he said matching her somber tone. “No doubt he believes that time is running short. That you must fulfill your duty to the family and start producing heirs before you get much older.”

“He has been patient with me. Rhaenyra shirked her duty at first, but still acquiesced to marry at seven and ten years, but I… Well, they will be calling me an old maid soon.” She hung her head down, feeling ashamed for the way she’d behaved towards her father. He had meant well for her after all, and Ryna had done nothing but rebuke him as reward for years of lax freedom.

Daemon removed his hand from her back, sliding it gently up her arm until it came to rest below her chin. He tipped her jaw up to meet his face and she was met with a kind smile.

“Do not ever lower your head, sweetling. You are a dragon,” he said warmly, letting go so that he could sit against the stone wall beneath the balustrade. “Now, perhaps we can solve this little problem.. What would make a suitor worthy of your hand in marriage?”

She felt a hot wave of embarrassment rise within her, for she knew well the answer that rested upon her tongue, yet dared not speak the words aloud. Surely, Father would never let her have him even if she begged on her knees. Even so, Ryna didn’t see the point in lying completely. She would be honest about the qualities she sought in a partner, even if not being direct about the person whom she had in mind.

“It is important to me that my offspring remain pure. I do not wish to mix with those who are laden to the ground. That doesn’t leave me with many options,” she spoke softly, her head tilting up towards her uncle as she finished.

There was an intrigued sparkle in Daemon’s eyes as he comprehended her words and a smile wove its way across his face. “A dragon’s clutch should remain undiluted and pure, I agree. The blood of Old Valyria is powerful and should be preserved.” He hummed in approval as he wrapped his free hand around her waist and pulled her a touch closer. She gasped softly, unaccustomed to being so close to him.

“Tell me, little dragon. Have you never considered your uncle as a match before?” Daemon’s words cut like his sword, Dark Sister, through the cool night air.

Ryna’s lips parted as if to speak, unsure of how to proceed. He had taken the bait she’d unintentionally laid out and given he suggested it himself, the prince must be partial to the idea. But, Daemon was an enigma and she found it difficult to gage his intentions at all times.

“I have,” she said concisely. “It is the only obvious choice when it comes to such aims, but… It is… complicated.”

She saw his eyes flare, brow rising in challenge as he gripped more tightly around her waist. He placed his chalice down on the stone and drew her even closer to him. His knee wedged between her skirts to rest between her legs and her breast was now pressing indecently against his chest. It was not a position she was familiar to enduring. Ryna knew she should pull away, but Daemon had lulled her into compliance like a Dragonkeeper.

“Oh? And why is it so complicated, sweetling?” he asked with a smug grin and mock concern as he looked down at her.

Her uncle’s words snapped her out of it. How could he feign ignorance to the current situation?

“After your,” she began but found her mouth grow exceptionally dry after only two words. She turned her head to the side and brought her hand to her lips, clearing her throat before she continued. “After your exploits with Rhaenyra, Uncle… I doubt Father would consider letting us wed.”

Daemon’s gaze darkened with the mention of Rhaenyra. “Ah yes, that little indiscretion.” He said with an air of indifference that turned into an irritated smirk. “What do you know of it?”

“I overheard the two of you in the Great Hall that day. Father’s booming voice drew me in and then I stayed once I saw you lying on the floor with guards on either side. I was worried for you, but then I heard Father’s words. That you had taken Rhaenyra’s purity in some brothel… And you did not deny it.” The memory was not a fond one for Ryna. She could remember the inebriated state he’d been in as he asked her father for Rhaenyra’s hand in marriage as a result of their transgression.

“No, I did not deny it. And I did not confirm it either,” his voice was harder than usual, sterner as though upset by her knowledge of what transpired that day. “In all truth, I didn’t do much. I merely took her to a decent establishment to show her the reality of life outside the castle.”

“If you did not sully her virture, then why would you not refute such slanderous claims made against you, Uncle? Why accept exile for it… Again?” she asked furrowing her eyebrows, her hands with a mind of their own coming to rest on his shoulders.

He chuffed like a dragon, the only aspect missing was perhaps smoke escaping from his nostrils. “Why would I deny it? What would be the point?” his words were gruff. “What could I have said to convince your father that Rhaenyra was still untouched? Was I supposed to prostrate myself before him as a loyal dog to prove it?”

“You were already at his feet. Why not tell him the truth? Unless you hoped only to make him believe you besmirched her honor, just so you might wed her and recover your claim to the throne,” there was a certain amount of hurt in her voice as well as misgiving.

Ryna had never spoken to her uncle in this manner, or anyone so far her elder for that matter. But, part of her felt scorned, wronged for how much stock he had placed in Rhaenyra instead of her. She had to know what his true motivations had been and what he was capable of carrying out in order to get what he desired.

“You are treading on thin ice, little girl,” he voiced dangerously as his grip on her hips tightened. “How dare you make me out to be some incorrigible fiend. If anyone has been wronged in this whole… ordeal it has been me.”

His knee shifted a bit higher between her legs as he pulled her hips forward onto his lap, his thigh pressed firmly against her center. She whined faintly with the force of it, even through the layers of her skirts it made her core throb with unknown want.

“Iksos bona skoros ao pendagon hen issa?” he resumed in a more measured tone, his voice lower now. Is that what you think of me?- “That I only wanted Rhaenyra for the throne?”

His hands slid up her back, pulling her flush against him. Ryna’s lips pressed against the leather of his collar as he whispered in her ear, “Or do I detect a hint of jealousy?”

Was she so transparent? The very thought of him reading her so accurately made her feel about as obvious as the sun is bright. Despite Daemon’s embarrassing insinuation, it was impossible to think whilst being held in such close proximity to him. She attempted to regain her composure, but his hot breath against her ear and the way he dug into her heat with his knee was driving her mad.

“And what if I was?” she finally blurted out. “You never once glanced my way, not like you did her. I do not wish to be second best even to my own husband.” Ryna tried to make distance, attempting to push away from his chest.

Daemon wouldn’t allow it. His grip was strong and possessive, making it clear that he was not willing to let her go just yet.

“Who said you would be second best?” his words spilled out gravely, sweet, yet viscous as they fell from his lips. “Have you so easily forgotten how I used to dote on you? How I called you my little sweetling? Do you not remember how I would let you ride with me on Caraxes before you claimed your own beast?”

Ryna was taken aback by his perception of the past, not realizing that her uncle had remembered her so fondly. Perhaps she had spent too much time dwelling on inconsequential matters. She peered up at Daemon as he held her forearms tightly in front of his chest. The matter of Rhaenyra was still of some concern, but clearly she was mistaken about a great deal.

“Yes, Uncle, I do recall. And that is what made my envy all the more dire when you attempted to pursue my sister, barely noticing me as I tried to bid you welcome home. I felt you had forsaken me in favor of her.” She didn’t feel obligated to mention how desperately lonely she had felt when he was sent away once again, nor the deep sense of heartache she had experienced upon hearing about his wedding to Laena.

Dameon’s grip on her lessened and the softness now present in his features made her feel a little more relaxed. His hands caressed up her back once more as he sat down on the stone parapet and brought her fully onto his lap. Ryna’s dress protested, the skirts fighting as he pulled her knees forward to straddle him. It was an obscene, intimate position for a young maiden, but she couldn’t help be reminded of better times when she found great comfort in that same lap.

“Your envy?” he mused almost sympathetically. “Have you been pining away for me all of this time, sweetling?”

“No,” she answered abruptly, feeling the hot sting of mortification as he continued to reveal the inner yearnings of her heart.

He let out a deep, hearty chuckle as he brought a hand to her face. Long fingers traced the outline of her cheek before wrapping around her chin. She had forgotten the contentment of his affections even though the way she recieved them had been altered now that she was grown.

“No?” he echoed with mock disbelief.” He gently gripped her chin between his fingers, forcing her to look at only him as he spoke harshly. “Do not attempt to deceive me, niece. You could never tell-tale when you were young, and you still lack the talent.”

Daemon’s hand released her chin, sliding it down to rest against the base of her throat. “You forget I can see right through you… I know what you’re really thinking.”

“What am I thinking then?” Her voice was not haughty, but tinged with awe as his rakish wiles seduced her into calm once more.

“You’re thinking…” he paused, bringing his hand to brush a strand of hair from her face before caressing her cheek. “You’re thinking that you would welcome my touch further. You’d welcome my affections. My attention.”

His hand slipped further down, sliding along the neckline of her bodice he drew a finger against the top of her breast. “You’d welcome more than that. You want so much more than that. No matter how you pretend otherwise.”

Ryna’s breath stuttered out disjointedly, her chest heaving not just from his capricious words, but the unfamiliar touch of his hand at the swell of her breast. It was not at all unpleasant, but it was unseemly. The sounds of the banquet carried on from inside, but nobody had disturbed their solitude yet. She would venture an allowance, just this once.

“And what do you want, Uncle?” Ryna gazed at him, entranced at being the object of his focus after having been starved of it for so long.

As Daemon looked into her eyes, his expression darkened with what appeared to be lust and longing. His palm lowered over the curve of her breast, cupping her soft mound gently as he leaned his forehead against hers. A low whimper struck against Ryna’s closed mouth as his fingers grazed lightly down her bust, traveling over her ribcage and then rounding to her hips.

“Nyke jaelagon ao, jorrāelagon mēre,” he purred deeply. I want you, dear one- His lips brushed against hers as though trying to lure them open. “I’ve always wanted you, but thought it too wicked, even for the likes of me, to tarnish you with my degeneracy.”

His hands slid around to the small of her back, pulling her closer with a satisfied grunt. “But, now that I know you’ve been hungering for me, sweetling, I’m beginning to think… that you’ve always been mine. That I’ve wasted so much time hiding from the truth.”

She could feel the heat of his breath upon her face, coaxing her so enticingly into his thrall. Her lips parted to release a quiet breath, but before the air had fully escaped her mouth, Daemon sealed them with a kiss. Even though she had never kissed a man, she was consumed by his fiery passion. She closed her eyes, her fingers wrapping around his back as she whispered hushed, sultry mewls against his lips.

His tongue swept her lower lip, teasing at her mouth until she yielded to him and allowed entrance. The kiss was urgent and demanding, filled with untold desire she’d only read about in old tales of Valyrian mythology. One of Daemon’s hands roamed to the exposed skin at her right knee, bunching the fabric up higher and groaning as his fingers felt the bare skin of her thighs. His lips tasted of Westerosi strongwine and spices, his tongue plundering her mouth as though it were an indulgent ambrosia all its own.

“I should stop before I go too far, sweetling,” he groaned, tearing his mouth away as he regarded her. “I don’t want to ruin you out here in the open… Or at least I do not wish to get caught doing so.” A wicked smirk tugged at the corners of his lips, but the yearning was still present in his eyes.

Ryna fussed at the loss of his sweet kiss, an aching throb now coursing throughout her entire core. Lost in the affections she’d always wanted, she could not possibly think to stop now.

“No, please,” she pleaded without meaning to. The words were barely a soft gasp against his neck as her lips found the pulse of his throat and pressed a gentle kiss to it.

Daemon chuckled at her protestations, leaning his forehead against hers again. It was a simple gesture he had always used in the past to ease her distress, although there was an entirely new meaning to it now, it still made her feel at peace in much the same way.

“What will people say if they see us?” he whispered with feigned anxiety, his hot breath skimming against her dampened lips. “A wicked prince spoiling a young innocent maiden with his turpitude. What sort of debauchery is this?”

Her uncle’s words were laced with a sense of mockery, but she knew he spoke true. She sighed and kissed him once more, making sure to keep it brief lest she become unable to refrain from continuing. Ryna slipped off his lap, feeling her senses slowly return to her. She glanced at the glowing light coming from the hall and exhaled with relief when there was nobody present to see their misconduct.

She smoothed her skirts so that they were not so unkempt and tucked away any loose strands of hair back against her scalp. Daemon took his time in rising from his seat on the parapet, adjusting the front of his trousers slightly as he did so.

“You should return to the party,” his voice was rough with lust and did not sound pleased by the prospect. “At least for now we should keep up appearances. For now…”

“And what of our earlier conversation?” she asked almost demurely, with a submissive tone she was not frequently used to employing. “What of Father’s ultimatum?”

Daemon took a few steps forward, crowding into her as he rested his hands firmly at her waist. “I won’t suffer any suitor but myself to claim you,” he hissed possessively. “Especially not some timid lordling whose ineptitude would bring your heart naught but bitterness, my sweetling.”

Ryna couldn’t help but smile with the ornery way he insisted no other man should wed her, but it would still be difficult to convince Father to allow it.

“How shall we persuade my father that you are worthy than, Uncle?” she peered up at him, her fingers gently clutching the sleeves of his doublet.

“Worthy,” Daemon said with a scoff. “I have the blood of Old Valyria. I am the Prince of the City. I am a dragon, little niece.” He let his hands slide around to her back, gripping her hips greedily. With a swift tug, he yanked her flush against his chest and whispered quietly in her ear. “Name another who is more worthy?”

Gods, he was too good at this. With barely his low trill in her ear, Ryna’s knees felt weak.

“I do not question your value, Daemon. There is no better match in my eyes,” she placed her small hands on his chest and pushed him back so she might look upon him face to face. “But I fear Father will think the worst of your intentions.”

He let out a gruff chuckle at that, a knowing smile spreading wickedly as he tilted his head. “Intentions?” he mused with thick sarcasm. “Yes, how horrible it would be to bed, wed, and impregnate his sweet innocent darling daughter. I’m sure the thought of the latter will be a dagger to his heart.”

“I am speaking in all earnestness, Uncle,” she ruffled, her lower lip pouting out at his jest. “He will think you wish to claim the throne by way of wedding me.”

Daemon chuffed, clearly amused by her petulant scolding. “So, my brother thinks me a scheming opportunist, does he?” With a shrug he dismissed the notion, yet added, “Well, he isn’t wrong.”

A wolfish smirk pulled at his lips as he leaned his head down to her ear once more. “Although, if the throne comes to me as a result of seeding your belly with my babe, my sweet niece, then I certainly won’t complain.”

“You are awful…” she scoffed with disbelief, making space between them again. “How can you not take this seriously? I don’t want you to be sent away again. You know you should renounce any claim to the throne.” Her pale lilac eyes grew wide, peering at him with thinly veiled worry and beginning to gleam as tears threatened to come.

He clenched his jaw at the mention of relinquishing the Iron Throne. “Daor. Nyke jāhor daor,” he growled. No. I will not.- “Do not ask me to lie down like a whipped dog. And do not bring tears to your eyes in an attempt to soften me.” Daemon’s eyes remained cold as they narrowed at her, the fondness all but gone from his voice as he continued.

“I have spent my entire life living to the expectations of others. I will follow the path I know I am destined for.” He gripped her chin roughly, forcing her to look up at him and meet his gaze. “I will claim what is mine by right, and you will be a part of it whether you wish it or not, little niece.”

Ryna attempted to speak, but he stopped her by placing a single finger over her lips.

“You have made it clear that you are mine. You will do as I say. You will wed me and stand at my side when I ascend to the throne. Those are the only outcomes I will accept,” he ordered sternly. “And to ensure it, I will have to use any means necessary. If that includes ruining your innocence to ensure you do not wed another… So be it.”

There was a palpable tension in the air between them. She wished to have the sweet man she had shared her first kiss with back and not the tyrant that stood before her. But, Ryna understood his ambitions, just as everyone in their family did. She knew she had touched upon a sensitive subject, perhaps too insistently, and now regretted digging into a wound that ran exceptionally deep.

Most distressing of all, was that she believed his purpose to be true, even though the thought of what lengths he might have to go to achieve it sometimes haunted her. Now, he might not even trust that she had any faith in him or his calling at all.

“I am grieved,” she replied with a quiet whisper. “I did not mean to say that you should not seek the throne, Uncle, but use it as pretense so that Father lets his guard down. He knows you want it and he does not wish you to have it.”

The truth of it was that between Rhaenyra’s bastards and the Hightower half-blood mongrels, the pairing she’d make together with Daemon would have the strongest claim to the throne. If something were to happen to Rhaenyra, the throne would pass to Ryna, but the realm was still not wont to have even a Targaryen Queen rule over it. If she wed Daemon though, then there would be no question of a higher authority. She had no desire to rule and would pass it to her uncle gladly.

His grip on her chin faltered, the anger leaving his voice and replaced by a tired sigh. “My sweetling, you know not how difficult it has been for me to restrain myself for all these years. You have grown more beautiful than I could have ever imagined.” He spoke low and deliberate as he gently brushed along the line of her jaw. “It was a challenge unto itself, not to ravish you the moment you became a woman, but I was certain your father would geld me for it.”

She could not help but laugh at his admission, although Father had certainly not opted to castrate her uncle for his supposed transgression with Rhaenyra.

“You laugh but only I know how it felt to resist you day after day, year after year,” he growled, voice husky with need. “I was tempted on so many occassions to claim you as my own, to steal you away to Dragonstone and keep you there.”

He leaned closer, burying his nose in her platinum tresses and inhaling deeply of her scent. “And now you’ve left yourself vulnerable, sweetling. Now that I know you want me as much as I desire you… There is nothing that can keep me away.”

“Not even the King,” he added with a huff, his lips moving to trail the smooth skin along her neckline.

She was not sure how to reply to such conviction, especially when it concerned her father. Ryna did not wish ill of him, but then she was sure Daemon would not hurt his own brother. Well, mostly certain at least.

Daemon must have sensed her hesitation, for he murmured softly against her temple. “Let me handle your father, my sweet little niece… Just focus on being my good girl, alright?” His grip was firm, but tender on her shoulders as he pushed himself away from her. “Now, you must head back, before anyone comes. I wouldn’t be surprised if Viserys hasn’t had the servants upturning the keep for you by now,” he chuckled wryly and pressed a kiss against her forehead before disengaging from her completely.

As he released her, Ryna suddenly felt an unbearable emptiness. His lips left her skin feeling warm and wanting more, but he was already taking steps away from her, retrieving his chalice from the surface of the parapet. The tone of his voice told her he would brook no disagreement in this and she knew it would be for the best that she return.

“Return to the celebration, sweetling,” he said with his back to her as he looked out over the city. “And do not worry your pretty little mind of all this. I will take care of your father. You have my word.”

Ryna had so wished to ask him if he would dance with her this evening, but soon realized something as she turned and headed back inside. That once they were wed there would be a week-long celebration and she would have as many chances to dance with her uncle as she liked.

She paused for a moment as she stood in the flickering shadows of the hallway that led back to the Great Hall. Ryna had seen it clear as day when she was only but ten and two years old. She did not understand what it meant, but had spent weeks combing the library for information trying to understand it with no answers to be found.

She’d had a strange daydream or perhaps a vision. In it, Ryna had seen a beautiful young woman with flowing silver-gold hair standing beside her uncle Daemon as he sat upon the Iron Throne.

It had befuddled her for years until finally she began to mature, her skinny, tomboyish body blossoming outwards like the petals of a flower. And, one day she looked in her hand mirror and realized that the woman she’d seen, was none other than herself.

It did naught but break her heart when she then found out that his affections, nay his ambitions, laid with Rhaenyra. And, she’d forced herself to tuck that long lost song of what might come to pass away, when she heard Laena gave birth to twins. Ryna locked it all tightly, somewhere she might never think of it again.

And yet now, it might all be coming to pass regardless. She didn’t know whether she should be excited or aghast at what might happen in the coming months.

She stepped into the Great Hall and was pleased to see that most every guest had imbibed much of her father’s generosity since her departure. Nobody seemed to take notice of her as she walked through the crowd aside from Ser Criston Cole who eyed her wearily. She cared little for the man, thinking him a miscreant since observing him beat a man to death at Rhaenyra’s wedding. Ryna wondered how it was he still held such an esteemed post regardless.

Heading right up to the King’s table, she was not surprised to see that most everyone had abandoned her father as they always tended to do once a banquet got underway. He sat alone in his chair without a soul to even pour his wine. Ryna lamented how lonely he appeared. The most powerful man in the Seven Kingdoms and here he sat deep in his drink and completely alone.

Father’s eyes brightened as he saw her, a slur in his voice, “Daughter! I was wondering where you ran off to. Come and pour your father another.”

“Do you think it wise, Father?” she asked with a playful tone, knowing he would not be denied despite her pestering.

“Your King demands it, girl,” he jested with a smile and she obediently filled his cup.

“I’m sorry, Father,” she apologized, her voice demure and meek in an attempt to show him the deference he deserved, not just as her King, but as her forebear.

He waved a hand, scoffing as though it mattered not. “I should bid you apology, my child. For suggesting you dance with that Lannister fellow. He is truly insufferable.” Father’s eyes grew wide with joy as he let out a boisterous laugh and she could not help but join in the royal ribbing of Jason Lannister.

“But you still must choose a husband, Ryna,” he said somberly, the mirth still poking at the edge of his words.

“I know,” she replied with a smile, trying to show her appreciation for the years of independence he’d allowed her. “I will perform my duty for you and the realm, Father.”

“That’s my good girl. Disobedience never suited you,” he took a long swig from his ornate chalice. “Besides, I have all that I can handle of that with Rhaenyra,” he quipped with a chuckle and quick raise of his brow. “Now leave me, child. I have wont to pass swiftly from drink to slumber tonight.”

“Good evening, Father,” she bowed her head to him slightly and turned to give him the space he desired.

She glanced around the hall looking for a certain blond uncle, but did not catch sight of him. Perhaps he was being cautious by not being seen together with her in front of the masses gathered for the celebration. It was an intelligent idea that she thought she would abide by as well for now. After all, she’d had enough excitement for one night.

Ryna nodded at several lords and ladies she know of, but barely knew as she retired from the banquet hall. The path to her chambers was quiet and uneventful and after minimal effort undressing, she soon found herself comfortably lying in her bed, ensconced in plush blankets.

Thoughts swirled of the moments she’d shared with Daemon on the balcony. Ryna could still taste him upon her lips and feel his hands upon her body. As though attempting to reprise the memory, she ran her fingers gently over her breast in much the same way he had. It was too much to bear. She clenched her thighs together and turned harshly on her side with a squeal of flustered arousal.

She tried to clear her mind of lustful thoughts and peered out the window at the high moon. Would Daemon be able to convince Father that he would be a worthy suitor? Truly there was no better man in terms of Valyrian descent, but her father had been so angry with her uncle, so many times over the years. She worried he might not be able to let it go.

Given all that had occurred and the pressing marital matters at hand, she’d thought it might be difficult to sleep, but surprisingly it found her quickly.

Notes: This was the longest chapter I have ever written! I could not stop - a woman possessed!

So, I know this is not entirely necessary, but I thought I would write up a little post-chapter introduction to explain some of the setting I’ve chosen for this story.. And why I decided to make these choices.

I wanted the OC to be young, but not too young as it wouldn’t make sense that she would remain unmarried if allowed to get too old. I also did not want such a huge gap of time to pass after Rhaenyra and Laenor’s wedding. Ten years is such a huge amount of time, and I wanted the OC to have been within a comparable age to Rhaenyra when she last sees Daemon.

Now, with that in mind, the timeline of the show is also very confusing when you compare it against the timelines on the wiki, which is based on lore. There is an understanding of an approximate amount of time that has gone by on the show, but even when using those estimations, the years don’t come close to the dates on the wiki. I know I shouldn’t focus on such trivial matters, but it did in fact bother me while planning my own outline. I decided that I would base it more loosely off the official lore dates of events and ages of characters, and not the show's. This is something you may or may not notice, but it is worth mentioning. Any changes made are not necessarily for lack of being informed about it, they are just conscious changes.

One glaring issue is the birth of Rhaenyra’s first three children.. All of which are born in pretty quick succession, 115 AC, 116, AC and then 117 AC. That means that technically, this fic should be starting in 117 AC.. Only 4 years after the events of Rhaenyra’s wedding to Laenor (114AC). And Baela and Rhaena were born in 116 AC, which certainly causes some difficulty in lining these dates up with the show. Laena dies in 120 AC and yet her children look much older than 4 and the same can be said for Rhaenyra’s as well.

So, I’ve decided after much deliberation, that Joffrey’s birth will take place in 119AC instead of 117AC, meaning that instead of 10 years, only about 5 years have passed since the wedding. And Laena’s death will be moved to 118AC, 2 years earlier than in the lore, and much earlier in the show. I think if you add the time skips together.. That the (10 years later) jump that occurs ends up being about 126AC which doesn’t make a whole lot of sense to me, except for the fact that they’re likely trying to line things up for the Dance of the Dragons, but the timing still feels off.

I also wanted to say that I had several starting points in mind for this story, but this was the one I just happened to like the most in terms of the timeline and how close it is to Viserys’ death and all the major events that take place afterwards! So please enjoy, and I do hope I can capture the tone and feel of the show and characters without stepping on my own feet too much. I have never attempted to write a story in this time period or style, so I guess we’ll see how it goes. Expect some growing pains until I’m more practiced and do not judge me too harshly.

Another thing worth mentioning is that I wrote the first chapter in a rather obsessive flurry that lasted most of one day and all of a night. Suffice it to say, it slipped my mind to add in the High Valyrian, given how much I had my hands full with grasping a more Shakespearean take on English. I will likely add placeholder Valyrian in, so that it does not hold me up too much as I write. When finished, I’ll take the time to research how to make it more accurate. So don’t worry too much if you do happen to know High Valyrian and find any glaring errors.

But! Please DO tell me what you thought! Also.. Yes, there will be a lot more. This is planned to be a rather big story... Read Chapter 2 here.

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targaryenrealnessdarling · 11 months ago

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Playing With Fire

24/12: A Fancy Party & Praising - modern!Aemond Targaryen Word Count: 2.1k~ | Warnings: raunchy texts, pussy slapping, public sex, p in v sex, praise, dirty talk A/N: missed these two??? It's our Perfect Score duo!

12 Days of Smuff Masterlist

She hates these events. Hates the pomp and ego. Her situation has changed but the figure skating business certainly hadn't.

Since returning to Singles, Rhaenys had encouraged her to get involved in it all again, as much as she knew she loathed it. Connections were everything after all. And she supposed it was an excuse to have a glass of bubbly.

Rhaenys was in her usual flawless getup. A floor length pale blue, with the corset littered with sparkles. Except this time, instead of dragging her around by her forearm, she'd bought her doting husband, Corlys, and was dragging him around instead.

She gravitated instantly to Baela and Rhaena, dressed in matching blues. Baela wore a skin tight dress without sleeves and it was such a dark blue that in some light, it could've been black. Whereas Rhaena matched her blue to Rhaenys, bar all the sparkle, since she insisted it was 'tacky'.

She'd rolled her eyes at that.

Some things never change.

"Hello, you", she turned to find a familiar face, voice and mop of curly brown hair.

"Jace!"

He gave her a tight-lipped smile and a friendly hug somehow without really touching her, "nice to see you out on the ice again."

"Oh, you know me, can't keep away", she smirked, throwing a lock of waved hair over her shoulder.

Yet another familiar face poked from the shadows, "miss me?"

Both Jace and her smiled brightly, "Cregan, nice to see you!"

"You too," he smiled, "fucking hate these things."

She gave a dry laugh, "yeah, me too. Just an excuse to have some fancy food really."

Cregan laughed, "at least you're honest."

As the glasses of bubbly began to work their magic, her head swirling pleasantly, she watched Jace and Cregan laugh with each other, and then Baela and Rhaena alike.

There was a full ache in her chest, tapping her fingernails against the glass flute, wishing that a certain person was also here to accompany her.

She had respected Aemond's decision to not attend events such as this.

He would support her at matches, cheering from the sidelines, even watching when she practised, sometimes joining her, but he couldn't for the life of him force himself to go to an event where he might catch a glimpse of Alys Rivers.

He'd get no judgement from her for that.

Besides, if Alys Rivers ever dared to show her face in the same building as her, she'd face her wrath.

She finds herself, absentmindedly sipping the tart prosecco, her third she notes, listening to Corlys Velaryon harp on about how amazing Rhaenys was in her day. How sensually she moved, how she used to wink at him from the sidelines and-

“Okayyy…I think I've heard just about enough.” She says awkwardly. Without that he might have gone on forever.

“Apologies. I can't say enough things to describe her.”

She nods, “I'm lucky to have her as a manager, certainly. Excuse me.”

She blinked a few times as she slid away, through the brilliantly dressed people, downing the rest of her bubbly as she pushed the glass doors towards the back of the hall to get some fresh air.

She fanned herself with her hand, feeling all hot from the humid air vaped off everyone’s bodies inside. Her phone illuminates her face as she pulls it from her clutch, a smile rising to her lips to find Aemond’s name as the most recent contact to have sent her a message.

She laughed quietly, her thumbs moving quickly to reply, heart all aflutter.

There’s a long quiet. Those three lines to say he’s replying come on, then off, then on again.

Um.

What.

Okay. What the fuck.

Her eyes were like saucers, the cold blue light bouncing off them as she stared at his response.

Gods, what the fuck was Aemond on??

She found herself looking around briefly.

Aemond hadn't known what she'd worn. How could he have?

She was stunned for a moment, her thumbs unmoving as her eyebrows furrowed at her screen in confusion.

It was a good job she was outside, the squeal she let out bounced off the walls when she felt two hands sliding around her waist.

If she were a different person, she'd have used her clutch as a weapon, it was certainly heavy enough.

But in the end she's glad she didn't as she whips around to be greeted with the familiar smirk, platinum tied-back hair and mismatched eyes of Aemond.

Her phone nearly falls from her hands in shock, "Aemond, what the fuck?!"

He chuckles breathily, "Nice to see you too, princess."

"What the hell are you doing here?" she asked, gaining her breath back slightly, her chest feeling hot but at the same time, a smile rising to her lips at his presence. Stupidly, seeing him is just what she needed.

"Thought I'd come and see my girl, only to find that yet again that cunt Northerner is trying to get into her pants."

She swallowed at the way he'd said it, all low and halfway between flirty and angry. And ashamed as she is to say it, a warmth drifts between her thighs, her insides clenching around nothing, remembering perhaps the borderline dirty words he'd typed over text.

"I was...just being nice-"

"Oh were you now?" he drones, leaning forward impossibly close, a platinum strand falling from behind his ear to frame his sharp features. His hand on the wall on one side of her head feels close, half caging her in and the anticipation of his proximity is suffocating.

His gaze drops to her outfit, akin to the one she wore when her and Aemond had to attend their first shmoozing event back when they worked in Pairs.

"You do look gorgeous," he starts, humming appreciatively, "I remember you wearing something like this back when we hated each other."

"We didn't hate each other." She rolls her eyes, not able to help the smile that quirks at her lips.

But Aemond cocks his head, narrowing his gaze, "Uh huh, sure. Well you hated me then," he grins, "in any case, princess, I'm not sure I can wait for us to ditch this place."

Her lips part, unsure what he means until he has her pressed to the wall, his tall, broad form easily framing her in to trap her, rather enjoying the lost, dumb look on her face as his fingers trickle down to the hem of her dress.

"Aemond!" She whisper shouts, looking around as her face burns at the thought of being so brazen out in public like this. If anyone came through those horrendous glass doors... the thought has her core throb with danger and her skin alight with nerves.

"What? I promised, didn't I?" He muses, his lips descending to place open-mouthed kisses on her neck, below her ear, "I said I'd fuck you stupid."

Yes, but I didn't think you meant here, is all she's able to think.

But her mouth fails to move as he rucks up her dress to her middle, surprised in himself to find there was nothing beneath.

"Trying to impress someone?"

"Can't wear underwear with this dre-ah!"

She has to cover her mouth when Aemond slaps her harshly right onto her hot core, throbbing with want for him by now she's sure. The action, so lewd and exciting, has her clenching around nothing.

"Yeah yeah, don't want your pathetic fucking excuses, princess," he utters darkly, his tongue running over the bit of skin he'd just bitten lightly, and she mewls, turning into a choked moan the second he eases two fingers into her.

She's not as wet as she would be with some preparation, but right now that's half the thrill. She's still excited enough from his words over text alone that there's no pain but only the stretch of his fingers as he crooks forwards, brushing that spot inside her that has her toes curling in her heels.

She grabs his wrist, "fuck-Aemond-"

"There it is. Such a dirty fucking girl for me, aren't you."

She nods feebly, not even really listening, too focussed on tightening her grip on him as he pistons two fingers into her, the tightness in her belly beginning to crest as Aemond brushes her sweet spot with every push inside.

"Fuck-I can feel you tightening around me you little slut."

He punctuates it with yet another wetter slap as he pulls his digits from her, making her let out a muffled squeal.

She barely has time to crack her eyes open before Aemond is pressed up against her, his hands grasping her thighs to pull her up the wall against him. He only really needs one hand to do it, his chest anchoring hers to him as his other fumbles with his belt.

"Tell you what, if you can be quiet for me, I'll let you cum." He breathes against her lips, his jaw all tense like this is all he's been able to think about since he saw her.

"Aemond, wai-"

He doesn't.

Both of them have to stifle a sort of relieved moan as he slides into her, the stretch of him never failing to steal the air from her lungs. Her arms tighten around his back, all ideas of being caught or the fact that there are several dozen people inside the building next to them right at this moment, is completely distant.

The first genuine thrust he gives makes her want to cry out, but she thinks better of it and presses her lips together, each movement of himself inside her making that task ten times harder. But the prospect of not being allowed fulfilment is the thing that keeps her from it.

"That's my girl - that's my good fucking girl - doing so well-"

She's ashamed to say how the praise shoots straight to her core, tightening around him so impossibly much that she swears Aemond fucking whines when he tries to push inside her again.

"Aw, did you like that, baby? - do you like being my good girl?"

She's not sure if she nods or if it's the force of Aemond's brutal thrusts that is making her head move, but he takes it as confirmation nonetheless.

"Fuck - I could stay buried in your pretty little pussy all fucking day -" he muses, his voice all strained the longer he continues his rapid pace, his skin that pokes out from beneath his shirt meets hers with a soft slap, her face heating up when she feels that her slick is beginning to come away on him each time.

And she knows she's done for as soon as his hand drifts down between her legs, his thumb playing with her pearl with the aid of her arousal.

And he expects me not to make a sound or cum? she thinks to herself.

She keeps herself together through sheer stubbornness if anything, the two overwhelming pleasures at once threatening to have her topple over the edge at any moment.

"My perfect girl - come on, I can't wait any longer, want you to fucking soak my cock, come on-"

He almost sounds impatient, and if the needy tone of his voice doesn't propel her into rapture, the way he presses his thumb against her clit certainly does. And she falls over the edge with a muffled whine into his neck, near sobbing with pleasure as Aemond doesn't let up, fucking into her with abandon to chase his own when he feels the way she clamps around his length.

She lets out another moan to chase the last as she feels Aemond's shuddered breath and the warmth fills her as he hits his own high. Staying like that for a brief, warm moment, before he sets her down on wobbly feet.

He grins at the exhausted look on her face as he pulls her dress down, not missing the way he's already started to leak out of her. But he can't talk, he's all flushed in the face as well, tugging his trousers back over his hips.

She adjusts her hair, all frizzy from the moisture in the cold winter air.

"Come on then." He grins wolfishly.

He walks the opposite direction she expects. And her brows furrow in confusion as Aemond heads to the glass doors, to go inside the venue.

"Where are you going?"

"Can't go without at least saying hello to everyone, now can I? Maybe I'll speak to Cregan Stark."

Her mouth hangs open in shock, "Aemond-"

Your cum is running down my thighs. She wants to say.

And he seems to understand, based on the way he smirks at the warmth that graces her cheeks in embarrassment, "Come on, princess, don't be rude now."

She bites her lip in annoyance, hooking her arm into his.

If she didn't love him, she'd kill him.

General Taglist: @aemondsfavouritebastard @bellstwd @blairfox04 @buckybarnesb-tch @castellomargot @hb8301 @jamespotterismydaddy @mochi-rose @natty2017 @nenelysian @randomdragonfires @risefallrise @thelittleswanao3 @theoneeyedprince @thetrueblackheart @tsujifreya @urmomsgirlfriend1 @valeskafics @virtualsweetsqueen @watercolorskyy @fan-goddess

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toms-cherry-trees · 2 years ago

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Thrilling Chase || Aemond Targaryen x Reader

Summary: All the girls want him. One does not. And he wants her

Word Count: 1551

Warnings: Not really. Aemond being a bit more of book Aemond than show Aemond and being overall annoyed with life

Author’s note: I dreamt this plot Sunday night and spend the entire day racking my brains to turn it into a fic. Please let me know about any errors, I am still polishing my English. Also this Aemond I am not sure I got the characterization right but I liked how it turned out. And remember I interact from @finite--incantatem

The ball is being hosted with the purpose of celebrating Aegon’s nameday. What better way to celebrate the anniversary of his birth than being surrounded by fine drinks and lovely ladies, a field full of flower buds for him to pick and spoil? Aemond can barely stand the frivolous pomp and pageantry, the ass kissing lords showering his brother and father in banal pleasantries and praises, as if any one of them paid any heed to such flummery; one too inebriated to care and the other unable to hear anything above his own wheezing.

Aemond has tried to excuse himself three times before the feast has even been served; as dutiful as he could be, even he has a limit, and his limit has been long surpassed by this insufferable event. But his weak spot has overcome his distaste, in the form of his gentle mother, who implores him to play the part for the evening. His sweet mother, who does everything in her power for the family to present a united front, all while sweeping the shambles behind the drapes. Only for her happiness is he willing to endure this foolery.

He hoped that chatting up some minor lordlings and not yawning before them would be enough to fulfil his obligations; but he has not accounted for the unwanted feminine attention. Aemond thought his physical imperfections and his downright hostile demeanour would be enough to ward off the ladies, but he could not deny the facts; as the eldest bachelor in the family, he remains a coveted prize to whom lords would offer their daughters in silver trays. He can vividly imagine them, ambitious men whispering in the ears of their girls and urging them to employ any means necessary to get in Aemond’s good graces. Only then could he explain the parade of fair maidens, all of them more adorned than carnival horses, showering him with their candid smiles and their coy giggles, batting their eyelashes and hinting most cunningly how much they would love to dance. They all seem to ask the same pre thought and bland questions; if one more lady asks to ever see Vhagar, Aemond would go and bring her down to the hall for them to see up close and personal.

Just when he hopes he has done enough to please his mother and the crowds, the first dances begin. One look from the Queen deters his efforts to flee the scene; without word, he has been reminded that his duty has yet to conclude. But Aemond would much rather eat Aegon’s toes than be found dancing with a lady. All his dexterity and gracefulness in the sparring yard do not translate to his waltzing skills; while he could be fast and silent and slippery in the face of the enemy, at the tune of the strings he possesses the elegance of a rotting tomato left in the sun.

The Prince knows the second he sets foot into the dance floor, he will be swarmed with adoring girls. But he cares not for them, since he has already set his eye on one. Just like the others she is burdened by golds and silks and stones, but unlike them, she carries her adornments with such grace and dignity that the opulence of her garments only brings forth her natural beauty.

There is something in her, something unidentifiable and unexplainable, that makes her so…so alluring. It may be the way her lips hold a perennially ineffable smile, so subtle one cannot truly tell it is there, but the mere possibility of its existence is enough to entice the mind.

It could also be her hands. Aemond cannot stop staring at them, from the way her fingers curl around the stem of the goblet, to the particular way they bend when she holds onto the pendant hanging from a fine gold chain around her neck, a subtle move that occurs whenever a young man engages her in conversation. Her left hand holds delicately onto a small fan, although its purpose seems to add to her aura of mysticism rather than keep her cool; her face disappears behind it whenever her smile becomes too wide, only her piercing eyes remaining visible, keeping her expressions unreadable, a most intriguing secret.

Only the greatest artists of the country, working for years on the best of marbles, could even dare to come close to resembling her splendour. The figure of the Maiden brought to life, and that would be a most dashing compliment - for the Goddess.

If he is to dance, he must dance with her.

He cuts through the crowd, moving past wide-eyed ladies and squeezing around dancing couples with one objective in mind. She is right there, standing near the pillar bearing the image of King Jaehaerys. She is alone, and she saw him coming. The proximity of the prey has Aemond on edge, muscles tense and ready to pounce. A man cuts his way, and he pushes him aside vigorously, but it is too late. Her figure has disappeared amongst the crowd like a vision.

Aemond spots her again a few minutes later, near the massive gates of the hall. Once more he approaches her, but he is distracted by his mother asking something, and once more loses his chance. The process repeats several times, with her always standing just at his fingertips but never close enough to grasp, her presence so real yet also so unsubstantial he begins to think he is trapped in a vivid dream.

The Prince is well damn tempted to just order everyone but her out of the chamber, but there is something in the chase, the subtle yet invigorating excitement of the pursuit, the way his pupil is blown wide and his jaw set in concentration. A sensation he has only ever experienced while wielding his sword in the training yards or soaring the skies with his dragon. An unexplainable elation, all due to this little dove who keeps flying away.

Aemond groans in frustration as she evades him once more. How can she be so fast and nimble while wearing a heavy gown? Are the Seven playing a wicked game on him, fate holding the prize above his head just out of reach? He does not care now for dancing nor pleasing his mother. This is a matter of pride; to go through all these obstacles to drop out mid-hunt would be shameful and disappointing.

She is now across the room, now more easily visible due to the dwindling crowds. She is looking straight at him, half her face obscured by her fan. But she pulls it down softly, painfully slow, and Aemond’s heart beats frantically in his chest, like he is witnessing the unveiling of the world’s greatest mystery. The fan rests lightly on her chin, and she rewards the prince with a cunning smirk.

She is doing it on purpose.

It all makes sense now. How could he be so stupid not to realise she has been playing the game alongside him? Evading him and taunting him, letting him think he had her and then slipping away like sand. This newfound knowledge spurs his desires. He needs to have her close, needs to know who she is and why is she doing this to him. His decorum and self-control slips away as a new feeling blooms within him. A warmth blooming in the depths of his body and spreading through his body. The more he cannot have her, the more he wants her. She may be akin to the image of the Maiden, but Aemond is sure the deity has never evoked the thoughts now crossing his mind, nor has any other woman ever before.

Determined to sate his curiosity, and perhaps some other lowly needs, he makes a straight line for her. She does not move nor backs out, and he can already feel the silk of her dress under his fingertips and the scent of her perfume in his nose. He doesn’t understand where the primal urge to crash his lips against hers stem from, but he is ready to give in to that urge as well.

His marching is cut abruptly by the colliding of his body against a long table. He had been so focused and lost, so unlike himself, that he paid no attention to anything or anyone around him, his vision like a tunnel focused upon her. The table is so long he would have to wander half the hall to circumvent it, and he still has enough hold of his wits to know it would be improper to vault over it or slide under the tablecloth. They are so close, yet the brief distance is unbreachable for the time being.

His eye meet hers, the mischief dancing in her pupils. The corners of those soft lips tug just a bit more, sly and bewitching. She backs away slowly, the fan coming up once more to shield her face. She turns around and disappears behind a column amidst the rustle of stiffened skirts and the tinkling of her bracelets

Defeat overcomes the Prince, but a smirk spreads across his own lips. He has not given up the chase; he is just giving the dove a head start before the hunt resumes.

#marsie writes #aemond targaryen #aemond targaryen x reader #aemond targaryen x you #aemond x reader #aemond x you #aemond one eye #aemond kinslayer #aemond targaryen imagine #aemond targaryen fanfic #aemond targaryen one shot #house of the dragon #hotd #aemond stannies

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prickly-paprikash · 8 months ago

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One of my favorite things about Denis Villeneuve's style is how utterly masterful he is at subtle storytelling. Using the visuals to tell a tale that, even when you don't figure it out explicitly, one feels it immediately.

In Dune Part 1, my favorite form of this is at the very beginning when the Herald of the Change arrives to formalize the transition of Arrakis' ownership from the Harkonnens to the Atreides. The procession is full of pomp and posturing, with the Herald speaking in this loud, bombastic voice just to announce what is already a given, and Leto responds with his own spectacle—the armies of Atreides, chanting as one. It's all a show, since at this point House Atreides has been commanded by the Emperor. The contract is a legal formality; the costly procession on Caladan was (un)necessary showmanship. In the books, showing off the illusion of power and authority is vital in maintaining this cruel, unyielding power system, and without bringing mention of it, the film shows this off too. Then, once the Duke has sealed the form with his signet ring, everything just... drops.

Leto looks at the Herald in the eye, and asks, "So, it's done?"

And just as Leto replied to the grandiose display of the Emperor, the Herald now replies with the levity the situation truly deserves.

"It's done."

Both the Herald and the Duke know what this truly is. It's not a reward. It's not a show of love. The Herald, at this moment, is looking at a dead man walking. Millions of their currency sunk into this process, barely five minutes in total, and all to simply declare it all "done."

You can even feel a sense of satisfaction from the Herald.

The Emperor, in his paranoia and envy, guided the hand of the Atreides into a trap. And the Atreides know it is their doom, but they have no choice. They are popular and loved by the Great Houses, but they are bound by honor. And bound by might.

And all of this, narrowed down into one brilliant scene.

Once again, this subtle, visual storytelling is in full display in Part 2, and my favorite by far happens on Giedi Prime.

The Bene Gesserit Sister, Lady Margot Fenring (who is also a Lady of her own House in the books), watches on as one of their prospects, Na-Baron Feyd-Rautha engages in ritual combat for his birthday. Afterwards, in a hallway lit by only the fireworks outside, she stalks the Harkonnen heir, and Feyd catches on immediately.

Here's the thing: barring other Sisters of the Bene Gesserit, Paul Atreides, and some very gifted Mentat Assassins—you will never know if a Sister of the Order is stalking you. From the beginning, she had wanted to be caught by him. A lure. A tantalizing bait, perfectly designed to entrap the feral Feyd.

And he sinks in immediately.

Here is where my favorite visual storytelling comes into play.

In the hallway, we begin with a fully covered Margot. She is veiled completely in shadow, with the oil fireworks illuminating only her visage.

Next, Feyd strikes and holds his blade to her neck, revealing her face. But only her face.

Slowly, the scene shows off little by little her skin. In the hall, I believe the most we see is her throat, and I could be mistaken. The light flashes erratically, and we see her the way Feyd must see her.

In the shadows, a threat. In the brief sparks of light, a curiosity.

And when Margot confuses him, leading him to the Guest Wing where she stays, the light fully shows her off. She's still in formal clothing, but now we see her dress. It reveals a plunging neckline that barely shows off the top of her chest. Her top is sleeveless, showing off her shoulders and the soft musculature of her arms. In the dark, we could clearly see her wearing a veil that covered her body.

And the light mimics her, stripping away and revealing something beautiful. Irresistible, especially to Feyd, who despite his high intelligence and skill, is just as brutal and animalistic as his uncle and brother. All three so easily give in to their vice, and Feyd is no different.

He is allured by her. He lusts after her.

And all this without a word hinting towards sex in their entire shared dialogue.

Just the use of light, shadow, and body to tell a story.

Afterwards, Margot speaks to the Reverend Mother and Princess Irulan, revealing that she has secured a child from Feyd in her womb, which again without saying anything specific immediately shows that the Sisters have such power over their own bodies that they can ensure fertilization and have complete knowledge over their pregnancy. They even control what sex the child will be, as alluded to in Dune Part 1 when Jessica, out of the love she had for Leto and his desire for a son, rebelled against the Bene Gesserit's orders and sired a male.

Again, without info-dumping, we immediately understand that this religious order engages in Eugenics, and uses sex, fanaticism, and more to control the Great Houses.

Please watch Dune. Please read Dune.

#dune part 2 #dune movie #dune #dune part two #dune part one #frank herbert #paprikash ramblings #paul atreides #paul muad'dib #paul muad'dib usul #paul muad'dib atreides #lisan al gaib #kwisatz haderach #feyd rautha #reverend mother mohiam #lady margot fenring #princess irulan #leto atreides

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thememestrider · 2 days ago

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Had an idea, thought it was cute, so I wrote something for it.

Introductions - Dante x F! Reader

Sypnosis: Needing to touch base with the various high lords and regents of his new Imperium, Robute Guilliman hosts an enormous social function at his palace on Ultramar. Naturally, Commander Dante is invited. And, naturally, he's taking his beloved as his plus one.

C/W: No warnings, possible lore inaccuracies/ooc (especially for Guilliman since idk anything about his lore lol), reader is described as female in this one, pre-established relationship, kinda fluffy with a smidge of angst, lil spicy insinuation at the end but nothing nsfw, unedited.

Back in the days before the Heresy, Guilliman had hated events like this.

The pomp, the lavishness, and the expenditure; all so his father could have the opportunity speak with the high lords and imperial regents face-to-face. It's so gawdy, so wasteful. And, frankly, it's so unbearably pretentious.

But, just like those early days, Guilliman understands the necessity. Without them, he'd never see any of the imperial upperclass. Half of them are too preoccupied to try and arrange private audiences with, while the other half will simply refuse. Events like this are a chance to bring all these people together in one place, allowing Guilliman to brief, reprimand and pass orders to everyone he must while keeping them from being distracted or finding some way to avoid him. These conversations are exhausting, though. And, more often than not, frustrating to all hell. Several times throughout the night, Guilliman has to disengage from mingling, to preserve his sanity as much as his strength.

Now is one such time.

Swirling a cup on wine in one hand, the Primarch surveys the floor of his place's vast dining hall, which for tonight has been converted into something akin to a ballroom. His serfs had done well in setting everything up; everything from the music to the drapes to the crystal chandeliers scream luxury from the tops of their lungs. Guilliman takes a swig from his wine. While the taste is pleasant, he find himself resenting the fact that he is immune to the effects of alcohol.

Everyone here, I despise, one way or another.

His gaze catches on the right side of the room. A flash of red; deep, rich and belonging to an ornate set of robes; draped over a man taller than anyone else in the room aside from the Primarch himself. Black hair streaked with silver cascades over his shoulders in loose waves. He's standing against a wall, hands clasped across his lap, sharp amber eyes following something amidst the crowd that Guilliman cannot pick out. The Primarch recognises the man immediately. As he does, a weight suddenly lifts from his chest.

Well, not everyone.

Guilliman starts towards the man in red. When he notices the Primarch approaching, the man's already rigid posture stiffens even more. Setting his fist across his heart, he begins to bow. But before he can complete the gesture, Guilliman intervenes. "How many times must I tell you, Dante? I'll not accept such signs of humility from a man such as you."

He speaks with a smile, but evidently, Dante's innate reverence of the Primarch will not allow him to partake in the jest.

"Forgive me, my lord," the Blood Angel says. "You surprised me, is all."

"There's nothing to forgive." Guilliman sets a hand on Dante's shoulder. "It's good to see you, nephew. I am glad you could attend."

"I..." Dante trails off, and Guilliman fears his attempt at personability have unsettled the space marine. But, eventually, Dante allows himself a brief half-smile. "Thank you, Guilliman. It is good to see you, too."

Releasing his shoulder, Guilliman pauses to look Dante up and down. In spite of his advanced age, Dante remains a spitting image of his gene-father, Sanguinius. Paired with his noble heart and soft-spoken demeanour, and the commander might as well be Guilliman's long-dead brother reborn. The thought tugs at the Primarch's heart. He covers it with a smile. "You look well. Very well. You have recovered from your wounds sustained on Baal, I hope?"

"Somewhat," Dante admits. "Though I cannot say the same for Baal itself."

Guilliman nods sombrely. "The Tyranids are a merciless enemy. Even in defeat, they leave little upon which to rebuild." He offers the commander another smile. "You will rebuild, though. It will just take time."

Dante's expression is thoughtful. "Not too much, I hope; time is not something we have in abundance in the Imperium Secundus. "

Rueful silence follows the commander's words. Slowly, Guilliman can feel it turning melancholic. He moves to break it before that happens. "I see you lack a glass; can I get you a drink?"

Suddenly, Dante perks up. "Oh, no, my lord. You needn't worry. My-"

"My wife is already on it, he meant to say."

Guilliman turns around sharply. He sees you, wrapped in a slinky dress the same crimson shade as Dante's robes, smiling playfully up at the Primarch. You have a glass in each hand. Both filled with wine, though one is significantly larger than the other. This you hand off to Dante, before gliding to the space marine's side and slipping your now-free hand around his arm. For a moment, both men are at a loss for words: Dante, due to your unbelievably casual behaviour towards the Lord Primarch, and Guilliman due to your refering to yourself as...

"Wife?" Guilliman stares at Dante in surprise. "I didn't know you had a wife. "

Dante's expression suddenly hardens. "You don't disapprove, do you?"

"It'd be a bit late if he did," you add slyly.

Guilliman blinks. "I- No, no! Of course not. I'm just... I'm just surprised, is all."

You throw your husband a smirk. "Surprised?" you mutter. "That's a bit rude." Dante's only reply is an unamused glare.

Guilliman shakes his head. "That's not- I only meant that I didn't realise space marines... had partners. Let alone... got married."

"They don't, typically," you reply. "But Luis and I-" quickly rising to your toes, you plant a quick kiss on Dante's cheek. "We're a unique case, you could say. "

Guilliman hardly hears what you're saying; the mere sight of you has his thoughts paralysed. Your crown barely reaches the Blood Angel's shoulder, and yet hanging off his arm, you look completely at home.

Dante is the same, too. Guilliman sees the way his face lights up when you kiss him. Had seen the hostility in his eyes when the Primarch had questioned him, like a primal protectiveness. Even now, it's not yet faded. As much as Dante reveres Guilliman, the Primarch realises that if given the choice between him and you, Dante will choose you without hesitation. Guilliman feels... He isn't sure how this makes him feel. The logicitian in him cringes at the thought of his fellow Lord-regent- his second-in-command, effectively- having his loyalty split between the Imperium and something (or, in this case, someone) else. But another part of him, the human in him, sees the way you look at each. The way you stroke Dante's arm as you speak. The way Dante unconsciously leans into you, as if drawing comfort from your touch. Guilliman sees all of this, and everything that lays unspoken beneath, and he feels... He feels happy. Hopeful. And maybe, though he'd never admit it aloud, he even feels a little jealous.

Before he can ponder that point any further, you address the Primarch again. "Well, Lord Guilliman, it was an honour to finally meet you. But I'm afraid I must steal my husband back for a moment."

Blinking his reverie away, Guilliman nods. "Of course, my lady." He stifles a wince at how quiet his voice has become. "It was... It was a pleasure meeting you, as well."

You flash a brilliant smile. Dante simply nods. Rather than wait for you both walk away, however, Guilliman takes his leave first. Turning on his heel and retreating back to his earlier vantage point. For the rest of the night, however, his thoughts remain on the pair of you. Swirling amongst pleasure, melancholy and other things he does not yet know how to label.

********************************************

The moment that Guilliman is out of earshot, Dante sighs in relief. "By the Throne," he mutters. "That went better than expected."

You raise an eyebrow. "What went better than expected?"

Finishing his wine, Dante sets the empty glass down on a table as you walk past. Then, you feel him squeeze your hand; the one you have threaded through his arm.

"You and Lord Guilliman," he says softly.

You take a moment to study your husband's face. You find it wrought with undeclared anxiety. Slowing to a halt, you turn to face Dante, keeping a hold on his arm. "Why?" you ask gently. "Did you think he'd disapprove?"

His grip on your hand tightens. "I thought he would take you from me."

You find the suggestion humorous- as if you'd let anything get between the two of you- but upon seeing the stress still lingering on Dante's face, you do not say so. Instead, you ask, "Why would he do that?"

Dante looks at you ruefully. In spite of his feelings, it seems your naivety has amused him somewhat. "Space marines are weapons, sweetheart," he answers. "The only things our hearts are supposed to feel are duty and honour. Not..."

Gently, you finish his thought for him. "Not what we have."

Dante smiles sadly. "Exactly."

"Well... Guilliman said outright that he doesn't disapprove. So, that must bide well, right?"

"That could change," Dante argues.

"If it does, we will fight it."

"And if we cannot?"

Sighing, you set your glass aside. Then, you reach up to cradle his cheek. Immediately, he leans into your palm.

"Then nothing," you say softly. "It will change nothing. No matter what does or doesn't happen, Luis, I'm not going anywhere. Remember what I said? You'll never have to manage without me again."

Draping your arms around his neck, you pull him into a hug. You feel him grab you around the waist, forearms pressed against your lower back and pulling you flush against his front.

"I love you," he whispers into your ear.

You nuzzle into his hair, resting your head in the crook of his neck. He smells delicious; of musk and sweet spice.

"I love you, too, " you reply.

For several, tender moments, you remain locked in each other's arms. Many passers-by eye you curiously. Some even begin to gossip. But neither of you pay them any heed. In fact, neither of you even notice them. Eventually, you're the first to draw away, but it's only enough enough to meet Dante's eye. Your arms remain firmly wrapped around his neck. "I don't know about you, but I'm about ready to get out of here."

Absently, Dante begins stroking your back. "Is that why you pulled me away from Guilliman?"

You nod. "I've taken all the high lords and ecclesiarchy I can for one night." With a sigh, you rest your head on Dante's chest. "Between that and meeting a Primarch, I need some peace and quiet."

"I understand," Dante says. "And I agree. Although..."

"What?"

"Maybe you could hold off from the "peace and quiet" for little longer?"

You look up at him. "Why?"

Dante flashes a smirk. Through it, you make out the tips of his angel fangs. "My love," he says sweetly. "You've made me watch you glide around in that dress all evening..." He holds you tighter. Suddenly, you're accutely aware of how low down your back his hands rest.

You give him a sultry smile. "Well, in that case... I suppose I can." With that, you pull away, taking your husband by both hands and pulling him towards the ball room's exit.

Taglist: @solspina :)

#warhammer 40k #wh40k #blood angels #space marines #40k #primarchs #space marine x reader #robute guilliman #guilliman #sanguinius #luis dante #luis dante x reader #dante #dante x reader

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druidwolf21 · 1 month ago

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First impressions

So I had originally done something a bit longer and I was so happy with it but Tumblr is the worst and it deleted half my work

So this is the rewritten one

This is just the introduction of a little choose your own story where the events of the party play out differently depending on which Primark or other familiar face you choose.

No smut

Yet

It will be added

Let me know what ya think

@jaghatai-khock @moodymisty @beckyninja @lemon-russ

Part one with roboute guilliman is now here lol!

Part 2

Leman russ

Part 3

Sanguinius

https://www.tumblr.com/druidwolf21/766233367250370560/part-of-first-impressions?source=share

You sighed as you reached up and put the final pin in your hair, the golden aquilla sliding easily into your bun, completing the ensemble; A white Grecian dress, flowing and soft settled around your figure as you moved, one shoulder bared to the elements and golden chains caressing your waist. A nest of curled and braided hair sat on your head, gilded by the stretching wings of the eagle you had delicately nested in your locks and you curled two longer strands around your fingers to frame your face.

You checked your reflection in the small mirror perched over your dresser as you fiddled around checking the smaller details of your appearance. Lips painted a soft red and cheeks dusted with soft pink, basic but, then again, you didn't really want to make this much effort to begin with. Your discarded trousers and blazer heaped in a sad pile on the floor besides your bed. You give yourself a final once over before heading to the door.

So much time spent working your way up to a position of trust with generals and heads of households and now you are debased to this.

You hated it, but damn did you look good.

Entering the hall, your eyes widened in surprise as a serf whistled past you with a stack of plates, followed shortly by another, who's arms were piled with linens and tablecloths. The girl spun slightly, nervously spouting a rushed apology before hurrying after her friend. You peered after them before casting your eyes around the corridor.

Long walls and high ceilings stretched past you in both directions, at one end serfs and workers flittering about in the shadows, silently weaving in and out of low doors without a word, stark contrast to the other end where a large oaken door stood ajar, faint flicking light and muffled voices leaked from the crack.You grimaced and made your way towards the warm glow, muttering under your breath with every step

"stupid show and pomp"

""ridiculous dress code"

""make sure you were something nice" my arse"

You huffed and puffed, rolling your eyes with each curse you muttered.

Finally you reached the door. Pausing, you took a deep breath, plastered a wide smile on your face to mask the growing pit in your stomach and entered. The sudden rush of golden light and raucous chatter stunned you for a moment and you blinked dumbly as you adjusted to your surrounding.

The room was decadent to say the least, large sloping ceilings, framed by ivory walls and mahogany pillars. Epic tapestries of woven silk depicted battles of galactic proportions hung across the walls, showcasing the might of the imperium and the deaththroes of varying xenos, trampled under the boot of the emperors angels. Chandeliers hung from the ceiling, casting their flickering and delicate light across the faces of the people milling about beneath, scuffing the carmine rugs under their feet.

A great golden aquilla, stitched in gold and framed in scarlet took pride of place across the wall farthest from you, its dual heads staring down at the crowd below, watching events unfold. The floor was peppered with smaller seating options and linen covered counters to compliment the long refectory table taking pride of place in the center. Gold and crystal carafes were spread out amongst decedent plates piled high with meats and vegetables, weighing down the table until it groaned under the gluttonous load. Serfs in black robes slipped between ranking officers and ambassadors, eyes kept low as high flying members of the imperium picking at the trays of warm morsels and goblet of honeyed mead and wine they carried.

The scent made your mouth water, but that wasn't the main attraction of the room.

Large figures looked over the crowds, casting long shadows across the swathes of people as they moved. some armed to the teeth, other in the varying formal wear of their home worlds.

Primarks and Astartes dominated the room.

You swipe a glass of amber liquid from a passing tray, smiling and thanking the serf before taking a sip, hiding your distaste as you watch nobles and lordlings vie for the attention of the emperors chosen. You continue to scan the masses, noting the colours and sigils of various planets before you felt eyes boring into your back.

Turning you met the steely gaze of the lord govenor.

Or, more accurately, your brother.

"you will dress appropriately and act according" he had hissed as he straightened his waistcoat, eyes catching yours as he stared into the mirror "I want none of.... this." He had turned and waved his hand at your combat fatigues, pursing his lips as he did so. "You are not a ruffian despite how much time you spend with the low borns and the militarum. I will NOT have you embarrass me"

You had rolled your eyes and given him a sarcastic response, smiling slightly at how stressed he had been.

he had gripped your jaw in his hand, twisting you to meet his gaze.

"we are not playing games, sister. Not today. Not with the primarks in attendance"

He released his grip, seeming to realise what he had done and spun away from you.

"now go get dressed, with any luck we can find you a husband to take you off my hands" he smiled apologetically, but the ache in your jaw told you all you needed to know

You returned your brother's cold stare and twitched your chin up defiantly before necking the rest of your glass and making your way into the milling huddle of people. Pointedly ignoring the primarks and their infatuated entourage ,You flittered easily between the nested tables, smiling and offering you hand and gentle nods to the lords and ladies of the dinner, laughing at their jokes, faking a blush as poor attempts to woo you. But with each introduction, each fake laugh or unsolicited touch you felt your patience wearing thin. Finally after what felt like the millionth thinly veiled flirt by an old man, you'd had enough. Gathering your dress, you politely excused yourself, slipping out of yet another dull debate and stalked towards the door, eyes locked forward in an attempt to escape the tedium.

For all it's decadence and beauty, this place was just another play for power and impressions. Just as dull as the people cloistered away with it's walls.

And you were done with it.

The night wasn't done with you, however.

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keepersofnostalgia · 9 months ago

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View this post on Instagram

A post shared by AG Marie (@keepersofnostalgia)

instagram

The daughter of Oklahoma farmer, Pomp Hall, is pictured sewing. Pomp Hall was one of Creek County's most knowledgeable farmers, serving as a mentor for many. In this photo, his daughter is working on a project for 4-H Club. (February 1940)

📸 Lee Russell (1903-1986) 📷 Farm Security Administration - Office of War Information Photograph Collection (Library of Congress)

#1940s america #4h club #oklahoma history #creek county ok #creek county oklahoma #Pomp Hall #Black farmers #farmer history #Black history #Lee Russell #Library of Congress #Instagram

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just-a-carrot · 1 month ago

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i don't have words to describe what happened during my play session of dd2 last night. as i mentioned yesterday, i thought i would try to sneak genzou in to one of the masquerade balls so i could try to get some fun cute shots of them dancing. what i did not expect was a bunch of random things happening that never happened before in my 360 hours of playing, ending in utter chaos and extreme violence LOL i have tears in my eyes just going through the video 🤣

anyway since i recorded the whole thing given i was planning to make gifs i thought i would chronicle the insanity because it's very funny and ridiculous to me. like who knew just wanting genzy to go to a dance would result in all of this...

adding a little context as i assume most ppl won't know anything about any of this, but in the game, there's a masquerade party held in the ball room inside the castle grounds every other night. this is included as part of a storyline in the first half of the game, but after you do that, the parties keep happening and you can still go hang out

anyway, i dressed iggy and genzou up to get ready for the party. for iggy, i had to make him wear the standard courtly wear (and later on the masquerade mask) or else he'd get kicked out LOL but i put on a fancy shawl thing to give him more pomp. for genzou, i cobbled together something i felt looked very regal from some of the different outfit pieces i had

for additional context, part of the plot is that pawns are not allowed within the castle grounds, so whenever iggy has to go inside, genzou will sit outside and wait. well, that wouldn't do for this! so i had iggy carry genzou all the way in to the masquerade hall. unfortunately, this meant that whenever iggy put genzou down, genzou immediately ran away because he's not supposed to be there LOL so i had to do some tricky work with the mod helping me to pause genzou's movements, which also made it hard to position sometimes

and also created a few hilarious moments where i wouldn't catch him fast enough and iggy would have to go bolting after him like he's chasing a dog or something:

i went early to practice a bit since time in the masquerade itself would be limited

anyway... finally!! the hour of the masquerade arrived. so iggy carried genzou inside...

...only to suddenly get stopped by this random guy???

he gave iggy a "paragon staff" and said something about it being an "eve of gift-giving" and that it was a special gift. when this happened, i thought it was a bit odd, as i'd never had anything like this happen before, but mostly i was like "oh that's nice!" this is also doubly hilarious imagining this guy talking to iggy while literally carrying genzou in his arms please...

after he was done talking i took a look at the staff in my inventory, but again, didn't really think much of it besides "oh dang, i wonder if this item will do anything cool"

but none of that was important anyway! tonight was all about dancing! so i promptly went to the center of the dance floor so i could start getting some shots. the music started playing and the others started dancing, and it was all very fancy

everything was going great and i was getting filled up with feels and inspiration (especially since the ballroom was giving me beauty and the beast vibes LOL)...

...WHEN SUDDENLY I WAS INTERRUPTED??? a random soldier suddenly proclaimed that they'd gotten word of a thief in the ballroom hello what

i was really confused and also annoyed because the stupid soldier had interrupted my shot lol like do you not understand this is Very Important priorities clearly

after this, i noticed that the music stopped and the other people stopped dancing... which also annoyed me, but i was determined to continue

...until the soldier interrupted YET AGAIN

...this time saying that the item that was stolen was the paragon staff

...wait

PARAGON STAFF

UMMMMM

i start to get a little bit nervous

but not that nervous as to stop dancing. i had a mission here after all. so iggy and genzou continued to dance all by themselves in the middle of the completely quiet hall save their footsteps as everyone around just watched in tense silence. it was actually really surreal and hilarious

after a bit though i finally thought maybe it would be a good idea to get rid of that staff...

...which triggered a soldier to immediately order me to come to the main hall HELP

after this, i decided to stop dancing as i wasn't sure what was going to happen. but in order to do that, i'd need to grab genzou as soon as i canceled the dancing animation so he wouldn't run away. so i did my normal trick to freeze genzou and grab him the moment he was unfrozen...

...EXCEPT INSTEAD OF PICKING HIM UP IGGY TACKLED HIM TO THE GROUND??????

WHICH THE SOLDIER THEN TOOK AS IGGY ACCUSING GENZOU OF BEING THE THIEF??????? AND SAYING HE NEEDED TO NOW SEARCH BOTH OF THEIR BELONGINGS????????????

at this point i've got a constant mantra of "what in the world what in the world what in the world" going on as i attempt to make sense of what's happening

ofc the soldier found the staff and accused iggy of being the thief. and immediately things descended into chaos, with genzou bolting, iggy trying to catch him, quickly losing him as the crowd started going wild, the soldiers starting to attack iggy

they don't have any weapons equipped so iggy just goes in fists flying

genzou is literally flying through the air. iggy is punching wildly as blood goes splattering. he's getting bludgeoned repeatedly and can barely stay on his feet, no doubt concussed five times over

i somehow manage to get their weapons equipped amongst the fracas but by this point there's about a thousand soldiers and a few mage soldiers too who have started casting spells in the hall

it's a bloodbath

eventually i notice genzou's body collapsed against a far pillar dead. now iggy is on his own. the soldiers descend. nothing but blood and swords filling his vision as he's surrounded by the onslaught of bloodthirsty guards

it doesn't last long after that...

...iggy blacks out

...

....

...only to wake up in jail

i'd never been arrested in the game before so this was doubly hilarious for me that it would only happen because i was trying to film genzou and iggy at the masquerade...

iggy contemplating the chaotic series of events that led him here...

fortunately, i always keep a few makeshift gaol keys on hand so i was able to escape without much issue (and without having to bribe the guard with half my money)

iggy breathing in the fresh air of freedom...

ofc first up on the order of business was summoning genzou back from the rift...

...who was looking pretty morose if i have to say. didn't even say one of his usual lines after coming back from the rift. i think both of them were just a bit overwhelmed by everything that had happened lol

then it was straight home and to bed, where genzou took care of him after his very overwhelming night in jail

the end

...LOL

if you made it this far i hope you've enjoyed my retelling. it was truly one of the wackiest things that's happened to me in the game and i'm still laughing about the absurdity of it all. i swear just when i thought this game couldn't surprise me anymore...

i still want to go back and get some shots of them dancing more, hopefully WITHOUT ending up in jail 🤣 i think it would make a very fun gifset. i'll try again later!!!

#carrot plays dd2 #sit down and let me tell you a story...

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novaursa · 2 months ago

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Idk what yo could do with this but it's been floating around in my head for a while and I love your writing so when I saw requests open I thought I'd send it in.

Plwase could I get Aemond or/and Aegon x reader who is betrothed to one/both but is unable to have children of her own and she thinks that they won't want her because of it (cue bucket loads of angst) but he/they end up proving her wrong and that he/they actually care about or even love her and that they will work things out (cue bucket of fluffy smut)

Shattered, Yet Whole

- Summary: It was a secret you thought would drive him away, but he stayed. Because he loves you.

- Paring: arryn!reader/Aemond Targaryen

- Rating: Explicit 18+

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

The announcement of your betrothal to Aemond Targaryen was made with all the pomp and grandeur expected of royal families. The great hall echoed with the cheers and well-wishes of lords and ladies alike, and yet, even amid the joyful occasion, you felt a weight pressing on your chest.

You had known for years that this day would come. The union of House Arryn and House Targaryen was a match both noble and advantageous. But the ache of your secret, buried deep within your heart, made the joy of your betrothal bittersweet.

As the feast ended and the festivities began to dwindle, you found yourself alone in the gardens of the Red Keep, the cool evening breeze offering a fleeting sense of peace. The flowers swayed softly in the wind, but the weight of your thoughts was heavier than the sky above.

You didn't hear Aemond approach until he was standing beside you. His presence was strong, commanding even in the silence, his one violet eye sharp and focused on you.

"Y/N," he said softly, his voice as steady as ever, but with a gentleness you hadn’t expected. "Why have you sought solitude when our union has just been announced?"

You turned to face him, your heart racing, your throat dry as the words you had been dreading to speak threatened to surface. His tall figure loomed over you, but his expression was not one of coldness. His features, sharp and angular, were softened by the moonlight. The dragon prince, they called him. But to you, in that moment, he was something more than the man bound to you by duty.

"I needed a moment to myself," you murmured, your voice trembling despite your best efforts to keep it steady. You felt the familiar sting of tears begin to well in your eyes.

Aemond narrowed his eye slightly, studying you with that piercing gaze. "What is it?" he asked, his tone firmer now. "You seem... troubled."

Your resolve crumbled. You had spent years hiding your pain, your shame. But now, with the betrothal announced and the reality of what was expected of you as Aemond’s wife, the weight of your secret was too much to bear. You couldn’t deceive him any longer.

"Aemond," you began, your voice breaking as you spoke his name. "There is something I must tell you... something I should have told you before any of this was arranged."

His brow furrowed, concern flashing across his face. "What is it, Y/N? Speak plainly."

You swallowed hard, feeling the tears slip down your cheeks as you finally voiced the truth that had haunted you for so long. "When I was a child, I suffered an accident... a fall that left me... unable to bear children."

The silence between you was deafening. Your heart pounded in your chest, your breath coming in shallow gasps as you awaited his response. You had imagined this moment over and over in your mind — the shock, the disappointment, the inevitable breaking of your betrothal.

"I understand if you wish to break the betrothal," you whispered, the words heavy with sorrow. "You deserve an heir, Aemond. A wife who can give you children. I cannot... I cannot give you that."

You turned away from him, unable to bear the sight of his reaction. But instead of hearing the cold, dismissive words you had prepared yourself for, you felt Aemond’s hand reach out and gently take hold of yours. His touch was warm, steady.

"Y/N," he said softly, his voice no longer filled with the authority of a prince but with the tenderness of a man who cared deeply. "Look at me."

Reluctantly, you turned your tear-streaked face to him, and what you saw in his eye was not anger or disappointment — but something that made your heart ache even more. There was no judgment, no coldness. Only a warmth you hadn’t expected.

"I did not ask for your hand because I seek an heir," Aemond said, his voice firm but gentle. "I asked for your hand because I want you. You, Y/N. Not for what you can or cannot give me in terms of heirs. That is not what matters to me."

You blinked, your breath catching in your throat as you searched his face for any hint of doubt, any sign that he might be lying to spare your feelings. But Aemond Targaryen was not a man known for falsehoods. His sincerity was as sharp as the sword he carried.

"You are... more than enough for me," he continued, his thumb brushing over the back of your hand in a way that made your skin tingle. "I want you as my wife, my partner. The rest... it does not matter."

A sob broke from your throat as you collapsed into his arms, the weight of your guilt, your shame, finally releasing its grip on you. Aemond wrapped his arms around you, pulling you close to his chest. His touch was firm but comforting, his hands tracing soft circles on your back as you cried into his tunic.

"I feared... I feared you would hate me for this," you choked out between sobs.

"I could never hate you," Aemond whispered into your hair, his voice low and soothing. "Never."

You looked up at him through tear-filled eyes, his face so close to yours now, his silver hair falling over his shoulder as he gazed down at you with a tenderness that stole the breath from your lungs. You had never seen this side of him before — this quiet, unguarded affection.

Without thinking, you leaned up and pressed your lips to his, a desperate, fragile kiss filled with all the emotions you could not put into words. Aemond responded immediately, his lips moving against yours with a fierce, unspoken promise that he would never let you go.

The kiss deepened, your hands tangling in his hair as he pulled you closer, the heat between you growing with every passing second. His hands, once so careful, now moved with a burning need, pulling you closer, pressing your bodies together.

He broke the kiss only to whisper against your lips, his voice rough with desire. "I want you, Y/N. All of you."

Your heart raced as he lifted you into his arms, carrying you back into the shadows of the garden, where the world outside seemed to fade away, leaving only the two of you beneath the stars. His hands were everywhere — gentle yet insistent — as he laid you down on the soft grass, his body hovering over yours, his gaze locked onto your own.

"Are you sure?" he asked softly, his breath warm against your skin.

You nodded, your fingers brushing against his cheek. "Yes," you whispered. "I'm sure."

Aemond's touch was gentle, as if he feared breaking you, yet his hands moved with purpose, tracing the curve of your body beneath the layers of fabric. He kissed you softly, his lips exploring yours in a way that felt both tender and urgent, like he needed you as much as you needed him.

With each touch, each brush of his lips against your skin, the world around you dissolved, leaving only the warmth of his body pressed against yours. His fingers slid down to the laces of your gown, carefully loosening them as he pressed delicate kisses along your jawline, then down your neck, the feel of his breath against your skin sending shivers through you.

"You're beautiful," he whispered against your throat, his voice thick with emotion, the words barely louder than a breath.

You closed your eyes, letting the sensation of his lips and hands wash over you, and for the first time in so long, you felt no fear, no doubt. Only him—his warmth, his steady presence grounding you in this moment.

The soft rustle of fabric filled the air as your gown fell away, and Aemond’s hands roamed your exposed skin, slow and reverent. His gaze never left yours, his single violet eye filled with something that made your heart ache, a tenderness you hadn’t expected from him. He lowered himself beside you, his lean body warm and firm against yours, his hands tracing the lines of your body as though he were memorizing every part of you.

"Y/N," he whispered again, his lips brushing over your collarbone, "I want you to know this isn't a duty or an obligation." He paused, his hand cradling your face, thumb brushing away the tear that had slipped down your cheek. "This is because I love you."

Your breath caught in your throat at his words. Love. You hadn’t expected that—not now, not so soon. But you saw the truth in his eye, felt it in the way he touched you, as though you were something precious.

"I love you too," you whispered, your voice trembling with emotion.

He kissed you then, slow and deep, pouring everything he couldn’t put into words into that kiss. His hand slid down your waist, exploring your curves with a tenderness that made you ache for him even more. He was so gentle, so patient, as though he wanted this moment to last forever.

You reached for him, your hands slipping beneath the fabric of his tunic, feeling the hard planes of muscle beneath his skin. He groaned softly at your touch, the sound vibrating through you as he shrugged off his own clothing, letting it fall to the ground beside you. His body was warm and solid against yours as he settled between your thighs, his touch careful, reverent.

When he entered you, it was slow and gentle, his movements careful as though he wanted to be sure he didn’t hurt you. He paused, his forehead resting against yours, his breath coming in ragged gasps as he allowed you both to adjust to the sensation. The connection between you was overwhelming, the intimacy of it sending a rush of emotion through you that left you breathless.

"Are you alright?" he asked softly, his voice thick with concern.

"Yes," you whispered, your hands gripping his shoulders as you pulled him closer, wanting to feel every inch of him against you. "I’m alright."

He kissed you again, his movements slow and deliberate, each thrust filled with a tenderness that made your heart swell with emotion. His hand cradled the back of your head, fingers threading through your hair as his lips pressed against yours, soft and loving.

The rhythm between you was unhurried, each movement a gentle expression of the affection he felt for you. His body moved against yours in perfect harmony, his touch grounding you in the moment, making you feel cherished in a way you hadn’t thought possible. The intimacy of it, the gentleness of his touch, was overwhelming, filling the spaces of your heart you had long thought empty.

Aemond’s lips moved to your ear, whispering your name in a breathless sigh, his voice low and filled with emotion. His words were a balm to your soul, each one filled with love and care as he continued to move within you, never rushing, never demanding more than you could give.

And as the night deepened, you found solace in his arms, his body, his love. You held onto him, knowing that in this moment, you were more than the sum of your fears, more than the woman unable to give him heirs. You were his, and he was yours.

When the world around you faded, leaving only the sound of your shared breaths and the warmth of his body pressed against yours, you knew this was more than just a union of houses. This was a union of hearts, and no matter what came in the days ahead, you would face it together.

Aemond held you close long after the moment passed, his arms wrapped securely around you, his breath warm against your hair as he whispered softly into the night.

"You are all I’ve ever wanted," he murmured, his voice barely a breath. "And I’ll never let you forget that."

#house of the dragon #hotd x reader #hotd #hotd x y/n #hotd x you #prince aemond #aemond one eye #aemond targaryen #hotd aemond #aemond x reader #aemond x you #aemond x y/n

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