#Ruby Splendor

[prettyvintagehouse]

Only two left in store, https://www.etsy.com/uk/shop/Prettyvintagehouse?search_query=lena+liu

[haveamagicalday]

Battle of the Barbies! Round 2: Fashion

This is round 2 of the bracket. All other polls in can be found here.

[novaursa]

Chasing the Inferno

- Summary:  It was during Rhaenyra’s and Laenor’s wedding feast, that the king noticed something he was blind to for far too long.

- Paring: targ!reader/Harwin Strong

This whole work is inspired by this brilliant anonymous ask:

- Note: reader is referred to as Y/N, has striking resemblance to her late grandmother Alyssa and is younger sister of Rhaenyra. These events happen after The Flames We Hide. To read all the chapters in chronological order, visit my blog. The list is pinned to the top.

- Rating: Explicit 18+

- Word count: 3 532

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff

The evening air carries the scents of roasted meats, spiced wine, and fresh flowers into the grand hall, mingling with the vibrant sounds of revelry. The hall is a living tapestry of silks, banners, and candlelight, casting everything in hues of crimson and gold. A sea of finely dressed lords and ladies flows beneath the arched ceiling, the thrumming heart of the grand wedding feast of Rhaenyra Targaryen and Laenor Velaryon.

You arrive with the grace and splendor expected of a Targaryen princess, a vision that commands the attention of every eye that lands on you. The dress you wear is a rich deep plum, the color of ripened plums at dusk, lined with golden thread that shimmers in the light. The sleeves are long and bell-shaped, flowing with each movement, while the bodice is tightly laced with intricate embroidery of dragons in flight. Around your neck, a delicate chain bears a pendant of a dragon curled around a glittering ruby—a gift from your father. Your silver hair is braided in intricate patterns, falling down your back with hints of shimmering ribbons intertwined through each strand. 

You sit beside Rhaenyra at the high table, your twin sister glowing with happiness under her finely woven veil. She leans toward you with a playful smirk. “I see you’ve decided to steal the attention for yourself tonight, Y/N. Not even the newlywed princess is safe from your charms.”

You laugh softly, returning her smirk. “It’s not stealing, dearest sister, merely borrowing for the evening.” Your eyes flick toward the bustling crowd, scanning the faces, seeking a particular one even as you engage in idle conversation.

You find him across the hall—Ser Harwin Strong, the Breakbones, the man who has captured your heart in ways you would never openly admit. His broad shoulders and easy smile cut a striking figure amidst the revelers. He leans against a pillar, eyes fixed on you with a heat that makes your pulse quicken. Even from here, you can feel the intensity of his gaze, the unspoken challenge in those dark eyes. A smirk pulls at your lips. Tonight is not just about celebrating your sister’s marriage—it is a dance, a game of fire and shadow that you and Harwin have played many times before.

As the feast progresses, the lords and ladies rise from their seats, drawn to the center of the hall where the dancing begins. You stand, gracefully gliding down the steps, the train of your gown trailing like liquid night behind you. Many lords vie for your attention, each more eager than the last to have the honor of a dance with the daughter of the King.

You indulge them—one by one, offering your hand with a practiced smile that promises nothing but amusement. Lord Beesbury twirls you first, his steps light but unremarkable. Lord Tyrell is next, his flattery sweet yet forgettable. Each time the music swells, you shift, gliding seamlessly into the arms of another suitor, all while casting sly glances over your shoulder to see if Harwin is watching.

And he is. His eyes never leave you, following every step, every spin, the set of his jaw tightening each time you turn away just as he moves closer. You can feel his impatience building like a storm, the tension of the game heightening with every dance.

Finally, after what feels like endless teasing, you find yourself caught in a whirl of movement, spinning until you are only steps away from him. Harwin’s expression is a mix of hunger and frustration as he makes his move to claim you at last.

But just as his hand reaches for yours, you slip away, turning instead into the arms of a young knight from the Westerlands, offering him a dazzling smile that is only for show. “My, Ser Harwin, are you growing weary of this dance already?” you tease, your voice lilting as you catch his gaze. You can see the fire in his eyes, a silent vow that he will not let you slip away so easily next time.

When the dance ends, the Westerlander knight bows low, eyes filled with admiration as he releases you. And as you turn, Harwin is there—closer than before, a step ahead of any other. This time, you do not pull away when his hand grasps yours, his grip firm and warm, sending a shiver down your spine. His voice is low, rough with suppressed desire, as he murmurs into your ear. “Do you truly believe you can keep running from me, Y/N?”

You tilt your head, lips curving into a smirk as you meet his gaze fully, violet and brown heat clashing. “Run, Ser Harwin? I am only leading the chase.”

Without giving him the satisfaction of a response, you spin away from him, the hem of your dress sweeping across the floor as you are swallowed back into the crowd. You glance back over your shoulder just long enough to catch the frustration in his expression before disappearing into the throng of lords and ladies once more. Harwin will catch you like he always does—of that you have no doubt. The thrill is in making him work for it.

But for now, the game continues, and you savor every moment of it.

The night is young, and so are you—dragon-blooded and bold, playing with fire and reveling in the heat that comes with it.

The music swells, a lively tune that fills the hall with mirth and energy, but it does little to settle the unease that creeps into King Viserys’ chest. Seated at the high table, he holds a goblet of wine, though he has barely touched it. His gaze drifts from one side of the room to the other, watching the mingling guests, the lords and ladies spinning in intricate dances. Yet his eyes keep returning to the center of the hall, where Rhaenyra and Daemon move together with a fluid grace that borders on impropriety.

His brow furrows as he watches them—his daughter and his brother. The distance between them is too narrow, the smiles exchanged too familiar. Even now, after all these years, Viserys cannot fully discern what lies behind those shared glances. His hand tightens on the armrest of his seat, his knuckles whitening with the effort to maintain composure. The court is watching; he cannot afford to let his concerns show. Not here. Not tonight.

But then, from the corner of his eye, something else catches his attention—a flash of deep plum silk, a braid of silver hair glinting in the candlelight. His eyes shift, narrowing as he tracks the movement, and there you are, his younger daughter, Y/N, weaving through the crowd with that same effortless grace, the very image of your late mother Alyssa in her youth.

Viserys watches as you glide from one partner to the next, a playful smile ever present on your lips. Each lord who steps forward is charmed, entranced even, but there is one figure whose presence never strays far from your orbit—Ser Harwin Strong. The son of his current Hand, a man known for his strength and loyalty, but also for the intensity of his gaze, a gaze that now rests solely on you. 

Viserys leans forward slightly, frowning as he observes the exchange unfolding before him. Harwin moves closer, clearly intent on catching you, and you—ever the playful one—tease him with fleeting glances, spinning just out of his reach each time he draws near. The way your eyes gleam with mischief, the way you turn your back only to glance over your shoulder at him, invites more than just a dance. It’s a game, and one that is all too familiar to Viserys, who remembers his own youth, and the thrill of such pursuits.

But then Harwin catches you. His large hand wraps around your waist, pulling you closer, closer than what is proper for a dance in front of the entire court. Your laughter rings out like silver bells, light and teasing as you push back against him, yet the way Harwin’s hand lingers—fingers splayed possessively against the silk of your gown—does not escape your father’s notice. The look on Harwin’s face is far too unguarded, a mixture of admiration and longing that sends a jolt of concern racing through Viserys.

Viserys’ chest tightens as he watches you lean in, saying something that makes Harwin’s smile sharpen, though the words are lost to the music and laughter that fills the hall. Then, just as quickly as he caught you, you slip away again, your skirts swirling as you twirl out of his grasp, leaving Harwin standing in the middle of the floor with a look of mingled frustration and desire. The scene plays out before Viserys like a vivid memory, like something he should have noticed sooner, something he should have acted upon long before tonight.

His eyes narrow as he follows the thread of events with growing unease. You laugh and dance your way out of the hall, light-footed and swift, and though Harwin remains behind for a few moments, his gaze tracks you with the keen eye of a falcon. Then, as discreetly as he can manage, Harwin moves toward the exit, following you.

Viserys’ grip on his goblet tightens until he fears it might shatter in his hand. He remains rooted to his seat, unwilling to cause a scene, yet the implications churn in his mind like a dark tide. The daughter who bears his blood, a Targaryen of pure lineage, slipping away with the son of his Hand? It is unthinkable—and yet, Viserys cannot ignore the undeniable connection between the two of you. The way you moved in tandem, how easily you played off one another as if you were two parts of a whole. It stirs something in Viserys, a deep-seated dread that this could lead to something more—something he has not prepared for.

His gaze shifts, and he meets the eyes of Lord Lyonel Strong. The Hand is seated farther down the table, looking distinctly uncomfortable, as though he too is aware of the precarious position his son is placing him in. When their eyes lock, Viserys does not miss the brief flash of unease in Lyonel’s expression, followed quickly by a nod of acknowledgment, as if to say he understands what Viserys is thinking. And, undoubtedly, he does.

The memory rushes back, clear as day—months ago, when Lyonel Strong came to him with a proposition a second time. “Your Grace,” Lyonel had said, his voice steady and filled with the gravity of a man who understood the weight of his words, “there are many fine matches to be made for your daughter, Y/N, from prominent houses across the realm. But I would humbly suggest that what my son Harwin offers may be worth more than mere lineage. His devotion to the princess is unwavering, and his love is without question. He would be a husband who honors her above all else, a union built on something deeper than mere alliances.”

At the time, Viserys had dismissed the notion—politely, but firmly. His daughter was a Targaryen, and surely she deserved a match that would strengthen their house politically, not merely satisfy matters of the heart. Yet now, watching the scene unfold before him, Viserys finds himself second-guessing his decision. Could there be merit in such a match after all? Could Lyonel’s words hold more truth than Viserys had been willing to see? But then again, to allow such a thing would be to acknowledge a love affair that has clearly grown far beyond simple courtly affection.

Viserys’ thoughts whirl, torn between the duty of a king and the love of a father. He knows that if he raises the matter now, it could cast a shadow over the entire evening, drawing unwelcome attention to something that should remain hidden, if only for the sake of peace. And yet, can he afford to remain silent, knowing the path that such unchecked desire could lead his daughter down? His gaze flicks back to the entrance where you vanished, and a part of him itches to rise from his seat, to go after you and demand answers.

But he stays rooted in place, forced into inaction by the eyes of the court and the weight of his crown. Instead, his gaze returns to Lyonel, and he sees the older man swallow nervously before looking away, clearly wishing to be anywhere else. The tension between them is palpable, unspoken yet undeniable.

Viserys takes a deep breath, forcing himself to remain calm. The decision he makes next could have lasting consequences, for both you and the realm. As the music swells and the laughter of the court continues around him, the king’s mind churns, trapped in a web of duty, love, and fear.

For now, he decides to wait—he will watch, and if Harwin oversteps again, then the matter will be brought to light. But the seed of doubt has already taken root in Viserys’ heart, and it will not be easily dismissed.

The night is long, but Viserys’ thoughts are longer still.

You slip through the winding corridors of the Red Keep, your heart thrumming in your chest as you make your way deeper into its shadowed recesses. The sound of music and laughter fades behind you as you reach a secluded passage, hidden away from the eyes of the court. This path is familiar, a secret shared only between the two of you. You’ve met here before, during stolen moments when the weight of duty and the eyes of others became too much to bear. The flickering torchlight casts long shadows along the stone walls, giving the space an almost dreamlike quality. Yet there is nothing dreamlike about the tension that crackles in the air as you wait, anticipation coiling like a serpent beneath your skin.

Footsteps echo faintly down the passage, the heavy tread unmistakable. A smirk tugs at your lips as you press your back against the cool stone, the thrill of the chase still buzzing in your veins. He always catches you in the end; it’s a part of the game, a part of the dance you both know so well. You hear him approach, his steps purposeful, a hunter closing in on his prey. You hold your breath, relishing the thrill of being caught, knowing what comes next.

And then he’s there—Ser Harwin Strong, towering and fierce, the firelight casting sharp angles across his rugged features. He looks at you with that smoldering gaze, dark and intense, his chest heaving as he closes the distance between you. “You run from me as if you ever wanted to get away,” he says, his voice a low rumble that sends shivers down your spine.

You don’t reply with words, only a wicked smile that dares him to come closer. And he does, with a predatory grace, until his body is pressed against yours, trapping you between the stone wall and his broad chest. “Caught you,” he murmurs, his breath hot against your ear, one hand sliding up to cradle your jaw while the other grips your waist possessively.

Before you can retort, his lips crash against yours in a kiss that’s anything but gentle. It’s all fire and hunger, the pent-up tension of the night spilling over as he devours you with a need that’s impossible to hide. You kiss him back with equal fervor, fingers tangling in his dark curls as you pull him closer, desperate to close the distance that’s been kept between you all night. Every touch, every bite and nip, is laced with the emotions you can’t express openly—a love too dangerous to voice in the light of day, but undeniable in moments like this.

Harwin’s hands roam over your body with a familiarity that sends heat pooling in your core. He tugs at the laces of your gown, his fingers rough but practiced, until the fabric loosens and falls away, exposing the soft skin of your neck and shoulders. You gasp against his lips as he nips at your throat, the scrape of his teeth drawing a moan from your lips. His own garments follow suit—his tunic and belt discarded hastily, the sound of cloth hitting stone echoing faintly in the small space.

The air between you crackles with a desperate need, the kind that’s built up over countless stolen moments, secret touches, and longing glances. There’s no pretense here, no titles or duties—only the raw, unfiltered connection between you. Harwin’s hands slide down your waist, gripping your hips firmly as he lifts you, pressing you harder against the wall. You wrap your legs around him instinctively, gasping as you feel him against you, hard and ready. The anticipation coils tightly in your belly, every nerve alive with want.

His eyes meet yours for a fleeting moment, and in them, you see everything he can’t say aloud—devotion, desire, and the promise that he would burn the world for you if you asked. But words are unnecessary now. You reach down, guiding him until he’s pressed right where you need him most. There’s a brief, charged pause—a moment where everything hangs on the edge—and then he pushes into you in one smooth, powerful motion.

The world tilts, pleasure and need blurring everything else as he sets a rhythm, hard and fast, the way he knows you both like it. It’s familiar and yet never loses its edge—each thrust, each gasp, sending sparks of electricity through you. You bury your face in the crook of his neck, biting down on the rough skin to muffle your cries, while his own growls of pleasure vibrate against your ear. His hands grip you tightly, fingers digging into your flesh as he moves, driving into you with a force that leaves you breathless.

But it’s not just the physical pleasure that binds you in this moment. It’s the intimacy, the shared understanding that this is where you both belong—together, hidden away from the prying eyes of the world. Here, you are not a princess, and he is not merely the son of the Hand. Here, you are simply two people who have found something rare and precious, something that defies the rules of the world you live in.

He kisses you again, slower this time, a searing heat beneath the tenderness as he deepens the connection between you. Your bodies move in sync, finding that perfect rhythm that drives you both higher, closer to the edge. You can feel it building, a tightening coil of pleasure that threatens to snap at any moment. His name falls from your lips like a prayer, a desperate plea, and he responds with your name in kind, low and reverent.

The world narrows to just the two of you—the heat of his body, the rough press of stone at your back, the intoxicating scent of sweat and desire. And then, with one final thrust, the tension breaks, pleasure crashing over you like a wave, drowning you in bliss. Harwin follows a heartbeat later, a guttural groan tearing from his throat as he buries himself deep, his body trembling with the force of his release.

For a long moment, neither of you move, the air thick with the aftermath of your passion. You stay entwined, foreheads pressed together as you catch your breath, your heartbeats slowing in tandem. His hands are still on you, holding you as if he’s afraid you might slip away even now. And for a moment, the world is quiet, all worries and responsibilities forgotten in the haze of sated desire.

But reality is never far away. Slowly, you both come back to yourselves, and he reluctantly pulls back, letting you slide down until your feet touch the ground once more. There’s a flicker of regret in his eyes, a wish that this moment could last longer, but he says nothing as he helps you adjust your gown, his touch gentle now.

You smooth down your skirts, fixing your hair with a practiced ease, though the flush of your skin and the brightness in your eyes would give you away to anyone who looked closely enough. Harwin lingers, his fingers brushing against your cheek in a soft, almost reverent caress. “You always make me chase you,” he murmurs, his voice laced with fondness.“

And you always catch me,” you reply, the smile on your lips tinged with affection. “Perhaps I simply enjoy the chase.”

He chuckles, but there’s a seriousness in his gaze as he cups your face in his hands, holding you still for a moment longer. “One day, I won’t let you run again,” he says quietly, the promise heavy in the air.

You don’t answer, not with words. Instead, you lean up to kiss him one last time, slow and lingering, tasting the bittersweet mix of what you have and what you cannot yet fully claim. When you pull away, you give him a final smile before slipping out of the shadows and back into the world where duty and decorum await.

Harwin remains behind, watching you go with a look that holds both longing and resolve. He knows this is far from over.

[maidflowery]

POV: Hot Vampire Wanna Strike a Deal with You

Aventurine X Reader

amorous✞cross -3-

“You can have it all.”

𝔓𝔯𝔢𝔳𝔦𝔬𝔲𝔰 ℭ𝔥𝔞𝔭𝔱𝔢𝔯

𝔗𝔞𝔟𝔩𝔢 𝔬𝔣 ℭ𝔬𝔫𝔱𝔢𝔫𝔱

The Deal with the Devil

“Huh...?”

The next time you woke up, you found yourself resting against an ornate red velvet chair.

“Oh, look, someone is finally awake.”

A honeyed, masculine voice prompted you to lift your face.

In front of you, all the way across the long banquet table lined with candelabras, sat a handsome, blond man donning a black coat and white shirt.

Immediately, your gaze was drawn to his gleaming, purple-cyan eyes. Despite the tallow candles' reflection, his cold, emotionless eyes remained untouched by their flame, still unfeeling.

“Well, take your time. My apologies, but the place is a bit messy right now. I don’t have time to clean up.”

His words went round and round in your head.

Messy...? This place...?

You took a look at your surroundings.

Majestic stone walls towered all around you. Rich, red curtains hung from the high windows, their velvet folds reflecting the dancing flames of the tallow candles. Old paintings lined the walls, their golden frames gilded with time.

You found yourself gasping at the splendor, overwhelmed by a beauty you were witnessing for the first time in your life.

...But then, upon closer inspection, you noticed something was amiss. Some of the curtains were torn, a few paintings misaligned, and slashes and cracks marred the walls. Beyond the echo of the past, this place bore the marks of battle.

Then, you saw an iron hoop-like thing, spiky like a tree branch, rolling on the floor. White candles scattered around it, drenched in crimson liquid.

Seeing the redness, a flood of memories rushed to your mind.

The full moon illuminating the starry skies.

A desecrated land, where not even a single blade of grass remained.

A man lying face down in the puddle of his own blood, gripping a silver crossbow.

A forlorn man exuding killing intent, with blood spilling from his hand.

The same man whose presence you now found yourself in, after trying to harm his familiar.

“Always remember this: humans are selfish and greedy creatures. They also despise those who’re different from them. Nothing good will ever come from approaching them. I won’t let any harm befall you. Of course, I’ll also punish anyone who dares lay a hand on you.”

The affectionately-spoken words that spelled your doom echoed in your head.

...!!

You shuddered, dropping your gaze to your lap—or at least, tried. You couldn’t look away from his multicolored eyes no matter what.

Then, you saw his lips curve into a smile, revealing a pair of sharp, ivory fangs.

“I take it you're fully awake now? In that case, let's skip the introduction and get straight to the case.”

What did he mean by that? Gruesome images raced through your mind. You could picture nothing but horrors.

Would the creature before you drain every single drop of your blood? Would cruel torture await you at his dungeon? At this point, you'd be fortunate to be granted a painless, quick death.

“Don’t be so scared.”

In the next second, a husky voice broke your reverie, its gentleness lulling you into a false sense of security.

“It’s going to be a bit long, so here.”

Flick!

You heard him click his fingers, and in the next moment, a lavish spread appeared before you, its rich aroma filling the air.

A perfectly seared, juicy steak. Beside it, clusters of deep purple grapes sat in abundance, sparkling like jewels. Crystal wine glasses stood tall, filled with ruby-red wine that shimmered in the light, the rich fragrance of aged oak and berries rising from the glass. Wheels of fragrance cheeses, mixed with crushed herbs.

You could tell every bite was going to be delicious just by looking at it.

If not for the almost maddening pang of hunger in your stomach, you’d have believed you had died and were now in Goddess Katica’s embrace. The only reason you didn’t succumb to your base instincts was because you were in the presence of an aristocrat.

From the moment you saw his dashing appearance, elegant mannerism, and eloquent words, you already knew that he was a noble.

Then, you spotted the silverware next to you. Unlike the wooden ones you’d usually use, their polished surface reflected you like a mirror. But above all, there were about... twelve of them, each with a different shape. You recognized the spoon and the fork, but you had no idea about the rest.

Once again, you were reminded of the disparity in status between you and the master of the house.

Wouldn’t he be offended if you ate in a messy way?

Then, while you were pondering which utensil to use...

“Why don’t we make a deal?”

You lifted your gaze, meeting the eyes that seemed to capture your soul.

“...A-a deal?”

“You won’t have to starve again.”

As he spoke, his tone was both entrancing and reassuring.

Immediately, the memories of the days when you had to fight tooth and nail to stave off your hunger revived in your mind.

Those days when you had to work yourself to the bone just for scraps. Those nights when you couldn’t sleep after going without food.

Is he saying... that I don’t have to go through that anymore?

Perhaps sensing something from your expression, he continued.

“—In exchange,” he slid something toward you. “I'll be expecting some compensation."

A dagger and a small, transparent vial—half the size of your little finger.

“These are...?”

You stared at them, feeling at a loss.

Thus, the vampire kindly explained to you. “Every day, you’ll fill that vial with your blood.”

When it finally dawned on you, you couldn’t tear your eyes away from the cold gleam of the dagger before you.

“T-then, I’m supposed to... With this dagger...?”

“Yes, that’s right. No way, do you expect me to suck your blood directly?”

Even though he spoke in a cheerful, joking tone, you didn’t fail to notice the glint in his eyes—the same glint the villagers would direct your way: repulsion.

Then, he went on explaining.

“There’s been a bit of a drought lately. I can't possibly put the forest animals at risk. So, it’s fortunate that you're here.”

“...”

You went quiet after you heard that.

“What’s the matter? Dissatisfied with something?”

He asked you, narrowing his eyes.

“...No.”

As you spoke, you pictured the cute squirrels that you’d sometimes encounter in the forest entrance. You didn’t want any harm to befall them, either.

“I just thought that you’re unexpectedly kind.” You stared at him and smiled.

“...”

This time, it was his turn to go quiet.

Then, after a brief silence...

“—Anyway, here’s the contract. I’ll renew it as our negotiations proceed.”

A few sheets of paper and a quill floated in front of you, steadily writing as he spoke.

This time, you were truly flustered.

“Uhm...”

“What’s wrong.”

“...I can’t read.” You shamefully admitted.

Will he get mad?

Your palms started to get sweaty.

“We can always revisit.”

However, instead of scolding you, he simply let it go.

The papers and quill quietly fell in front of you, returning to their inanimate state.

“Moving on, food and shelter are the basics I can provide. You can always ask for more.”

A life free of hunger was all you had ever hoped for. And now he was saying he could offer you more? You were astonished, so much so that you parroted him.

“...More?”

“For example, infinite wealth that would last until the end of your life and beyond. No longer would you need to struggle so hard. You’d dine on the finest meals, wear the most splendid dresses, and adorn yourself with the daintiest jewels.”

You tried to imagine it—a luxurious life beyond your wildest dreams.

“But... there’s a price to pay, right?”

From an early age, you knew that everything came with a price.

“Naturally! You’re quick on the uptake. I like people like that. Alright, for the price, let’s see...”

The dashing, blond man raised one finger.

“One sacrifice.”

Your blood ran cold.

“One sacrifice every month, and it must be from the people of your village.”

With a smile, the beguiling creature of the night suggested that you turned against your own kin for wealth.

“Why? They aren’t exactly kind to you, either. No, if anything, they seem eager to get rid of you.”

He had truly seen everything.

The other presence you sensed while dreaming wasn’t merely an illusion.

“...But...” You muttered.

“In fact, here’s something else I can offer you: power. You’ll be able to get your revenge on them and eliminate anyone who stands in your way from now on. You can carve your own path and rise to the top, free of obstacles.”

“...”

You couldn’t even begin to imagine how much that would cost. Would you even want to know?

There was no way he couldn’t see the obvious nervousness on your face.

“You can have it all.”

“Huh?”

Baffled, you instinctively looked up, but he was gone.

“Kill me, and you won’t have to pay the price.”

In the next moment, you heard his voice right behind you.

When you turned around, all that awaited you was a purple-blue lunacy.

The tall vampire leaned over to you, smiling as he matched your eye level.

Madness was all that you saw.

“W-what do you mean...?”

“It’s been so long since I had any visitor, and today, I’m lucky enough to have two. As an act of courtesy, I always invite them to a game.”

The you reflected within the purple-blue abyss shrank.

“A-a game...?”

Then, metallic coldness greeted your palm, prompting you to look around.

Since when...?!

Within your grasp was one of the pristine silverwares, its curved, sharp tip gleaming eerily.

Before you could set it down, a gloved hand covered yours, forcing you to grip it and pull it toward his chest.

“!!”

Despite the icy coldness of the forest, the blond vampire wore a thin shirt that revealed his bare chest. His smooth, bare skin exuded a faint glow, reminiscent of moonlight.

Seeing the knife's tip pointed directly at his chest, you tried to pull your hand away, but he used his other hand to hold it in place.

You could vaguely feel the tip pressing against his skin, nearly sinking in.

“Yes, a game. In fact, I did just that with the previous guest. Of course, I’ll make it so that it’s fair to you too."

The blond vampire showed you a replica of a kind, courteous smile.

“Let’s see, for someone of your stature...” His gaze swept over your arm, covered in old scars and fresh cuts. “Well, it doesn’t seem like you’ll be able to put up much of a fight.” He remarked nonchalantly.

Then, a bright idea seemed to have occurred to him.

“Alright, how about this? I’ll give you one chance. Drive it in as deep and forcefully as you can—stab me straight in the heart. Then, you can have it all.”

A hint of rutilant glow, unmistakably madness, glimmered deep within his purple-blue eyes.

At the end, he added.

“The choice is yours.”

To be a vampire's livestock.

Infinite wealth at the cost of one of your kin every month.

Unlimited power, but at an insurmountable price.

Facing this, you...

𝔑𝔢𝔵𝔱 ℭ𝔥𝔞𝔭𝔱𝔢𝔯

[talonabraxas]

“You have no need to go anywhere - journey within yourself. Enter a mine of rubies, and bath in the splendor of your own light.” ― Rumi

DMT Ritual Dance Salvia Droid

[empiredesimparte]

Live broadcast of ‘Le Sacre de Napoléon V’ on the national channel Francesim 2, hosted by Stéphane Bernard

(Another journalist) We see the imperial couple's carriage leaving the Palais des Tuileries, the ceremony is starting! (Stéphane Bernard) Yes, my dear, here we are. This is a historic day for all of Francesim!

(Stéphane Bernard) Look at these images of the majestic Notre-Dame Cathedral, where the heads of state are taking their places. They are the first to enter, as per His Imperial Majesty's wish. Of course, this is excluding the journalists and cameras. We live in the era of communication. (Another journalist) It's also the first time under the French Empire that the coronation is taking place in the presence of foreign leaders. (Stéphane Bernard) Yes, if you like, it's a completely different atmosphere compared to the coronation of Napoleon IV in 2001, or year 209.

(Stéphane Bernard) His approach was more traditional. It was necessary to win back the French people. Thus, all the guests – around ten thousand – were French. It was also necessary to "introduce" oneself, which is why the emperor focused all the images on his person, the new aristocracy, and the imperial splendor.

(Stéphane Bernard) Today, in 2022, 21 years later, Emperor Napoleon V enjoys a popularity that nearly reaches 80%! You understand, the issues are completely different now. Napoleon V's coronation is a soft power operation. It's subtler than with Napoleon IV: by using symbols of the monarchy like the orb representing universalism, the splendor, and traditions, he strengthens the image and cultural influence of Francesim worldwide. This grand event showcases the stability and grandeur of the nation while cultivating a sense of national pride.

(Another journalist) Is it also a way for a young emperor like Napoleon V to assert his legitimacy in front of other crowned heads? (Stéphane Bernard) No, I don't think so. Allow me to say that this would be a very mistaken interpretation of the ceremony. The Emperor of the French derives his legitimacy solely from the French people. The other heads of state, or God, have absolutely no role to play in this process. It is a solemn moment where the sacred bond between the sovereign and his people is celebrated and renewed, without external interference. That is why the heads of state and ambassadors are not filmed during or after the ceremony.

(Other journalist) Wait, Stéphane, let me stop you right there. Le sacre is a religious ceremony. What do you mean? (Stéphane Bernard) I will delve into this more during the ceremony, but it is crucial to distinguish the different moments of the coronation. Religion, while important, constitutes only a part of it: the anointing. Note that there are few sacral monarchies in Europesim today. The Empire of Pierreland is one of the rare countries that have preserved this grand religious tradition. In Francesim, Emperor Napoleon IV chose to reinstate the coronation for reasons other than legitimacy. Emperor Napoleon III, for example, was never crowned! (Another journalist) The imperial procession is now on the Champs-Elysées. Oh, look, Stéphane, the first images of Their Majesties!

(Stéphane Bernard) Admire Their Majesties in their Petit Habit de Sacre, an outfit elegantly inspired by the coronation of Napoleon I. This traditional French attire, reserved for the most solemn occasions, is today enhanced by a touch of originality unique to Napoleon V: he proudly wears the famous bicorne of his illustrious ancestor, Napoleon I. (Another journalist) I must say, it's quite something to see a Simparte wearing that famous hat! (Stéphane Bernard) For the most fervent Simpartists, it is truly a relic.

(Stéphane Bernard) Empress Charlotte, on the other hand, is adorned with the prestigious ruby set of Marie-Louise of Austria, created by the renowned court jeweler, François Regnault Nitot. She is also wearing the famous diamond necklace of Queen Marie-Antoinette. A curious choice, considering the tumultuous history associated with this piece, but it remains spectacular nonetheless. If my memory serves me right, this necklace is composed of 650 diamonds. (Another journalist) Yes, about 2800 carats in total. Their Majesties appear to be in exceptional form. Our colleagues at the Palais des Tuileries this morning reported that the emperor was particularly cheerful.

(Stéphane Bernard) Yes, a lot of emotions will affect him today. Right now, before our eyes, he is still a secular figure like all of us. But when he takes his oath to the French People shortly, he will no longer be the same man. Numerous rites will transform this private individual into a mystical figure: the Emperor. This is what we will witness today, the transformation of our dear sovereign.

(Stéphane Bernard) The imperial procession is now in front of the Arc de Triomphe de l'Étoile, this emblematic monument of Napoleonic heritage. Built under the orders of Napoleon I, magnified by Napoleon III and Baron Haussmann, this grand edifice embodies the glory and victories of the Empire. Let us not forget the famous promise of the Emperor to his soldiers: "You will only return to your homes under triumphal arches". (Other journalist) Indeed, this is a very symbolic step in the procession.

(Stéphane Bernard) Absolutely. The imperial procession recently passed the Palais Royal, which was once the seat of the Tribunat during the Empire. Today, this iconic place houses the Ministry of Culture as well as the Constitutional Council. Now, the procession is about to cross the Pont-Neuf to reach the cathedral through the grand west entrance. On this sacred day, the imperial couple is the only one granted the honor of entering through this majestic gate. The guests, on the other hand, enter the cathedral through the north facade.

⚜ Le Sacre de Napoléon V | N°7 | Francesim, Paris, 28 Thermidor An 230

The imperial cortege made its way to Notre-Dame cathedral in Paris, while the coronation guests took their seats. It was broadcast live on television by Stéphane Bernard, the famous journalist for the crowned heads in Francesim.

Beginning ▬ Previous ▬ Next

⚜ Guests at the coronation

TIM, Emperor David I and Empress Katalina of Pierreland (@officalroyalsofpierreland)

HRH, Prince Oliver, Duke of Rothsey (@officalroyalsofpierreland)

HIM, Queen Viviana II of the Ionian Union (@funkyllama)

TM, King Arnaut and Queen Lorraine of Uspana (@nexility-sims)

HM, Queen Anastasia of Carrington and HRH, Prince Hisirdoux, the Duke of Clois (@royalhouseofcarrington)

TRH, Crown Prince George, Duke of Everton and Crown Princess Anne, Duchess of Everton (@crownsofesha)

HRH, Margaret, the Princess Royal of Corrilea (@theroyalsofcorrilea)

HM, Queen Diana and HRH, Prince Gerhard of SimDonia (@bridgeportbritt)

HRH, Madame Royale Eleanor de Thornolie (@theroyalthornoliachronicles)

TM, King Giovanni and Queen Consort Cassandre (@royalhouseofcardsleyts4)

TIM, The High King and High Queen of the Presean Empire (@stthomaspalace)

TM, King George I and Queen Elizabeth of Illyria (@the-lancasters)

TRH, the Duke and Duchess of Marseille and Saint-Lyon (@sosa-royals)

HM, Rosalind II, Queen of the Armoricans (@armoricaroyalty)

HM, King Arthur of the United Kingdom of Prydain and Voltadelmar (@prydainroyals)

TRH, The Prince and Princess of Belen (@housekonig)

HIH,  The Princess Imperial Eliana of Alexandria (@thealexandrianroyals)

TM, Queen Najwa and King Abeni of Oasis Springs (@hrh-the-royals)

TRH, Crown Princess Emeline and Crown Prince Cedric of Whitmore (@whitmoreroyals)

TM, King Oliver and Queen Charlotte of Cedoria and the Isle (@thebaillieroyals)

TM, King James II and Queen Alibhe of United Kingdoms of Great Briton and Ériu (@trhor)

Her Majesty Queen Irene and HRH Prince James (@albanyroyals)

⚜ Traduction française

(Autre journaliste) On voit le carrosse du couple impérial quitter le palais des Tuileries, la cérémonie commence ! (Stéphane Bernard) Oui mon cher, ça y est nous y sommes. C'est une journée historique pour la Francesim toute entière !

(Stéphane Bernard) Regardez ces images de la majestueuse cathédrale Notre-Dame, où les chefs d'État prennent place. Ce sont eux, les premiers à entrer, selon le souhait de Sa Majesté Impériale. Bien entendu, si l'on met de côté les journalistes et les caméras. Nous vivons à l'ère de la communication.

(Autre journaliste) C'est la première fois d'ailleurs sous l'empire français que le sacre s'effectue en présence de dirigeants étrangers. (Stéphane Bernard) Oui, si vous voulez, c'est une tout autre ambiance que le sacre de Napoléon IV en 2001, ou l'an 209.

(Stéphane Bernard) Son approche était plus traditionnelle et orientée vers un nationalisme assumé. Il fallait reconquérir les Français. Ainsi, tous les invités – environ dix mille – étaient français. Il était également nécessaire de 'se présenter', c'est pourquoi l'empereur a focalisé toutes les images sur sa personne, la nouvelle aristocratie et le faste impérial.

(Stéphane Bernard) Aujourd'hui, en 2022 soit 21 ans plus tard, l'empereur Napoléon V bénéficie d'une popularité qui frôle les 80% ! Vous le comprenez bien, les problématiques ont radicalement changé. Le couronnement de Napoléon V est une opération de soft power. C'est plus subtil qu'avec Napoléon IV : en utilisant les symboles de la monarchie comme le globe qui représente l'universalisme, le faste et les traditions, il renforce l'image et l'influence culturelle de la Francesim à travers le monde. Cet événement grandiose permet de montrer la stabilité et la grandeur de la nation, tout en cultivant un sentiment de fierté nationale.

(Autre journaliste) Est-ce un moyen aussi pour un jeune empereur comme Napoléon V d'asseoir sa légitimité devant d'autres têtes couronnées ? (Stéphane Bernard) Non, je ne crois pas. Permettez-moi de vous dire que ce serait une interprétation très erronée de la cérémonie. L'empereur des Français tire sa légitimité uniquement du Peuple français. Les autres chefs d'État, comme Dieu, n'ont absolument aucun rôle à jouer dans ce processus. Il s'agit d'un moment solennel où le lien sacré entre le souverain et son peuple est célébré et renouvelé, sans ingérence extérieure. C'est pourquoi les chefs d'états et les ambassadeurs ne sont pas filmés durant ou après la cérémonie.

(Autre journaliste) Attendez, Stéphane, je vous arrête tout de suite. Le Sacre est une cérémonie religieuse. Qu'est-ce que vous voulez dire ? (Stéphane Bernard) Je reviendrai sur ce point plus en détail pendant la cérémonie, mais il est crucial de distinguer les différents moments du sacre. La religion, bien qu'importante, n'en constitue qu'une partie : celle de l'onction. Notez qu'il y a peu de monarchies sacrales en Europesim de nos jours. L'empire de Pierreland est l'un des rares pays à avoir conservé cette grande tradition religieuse. En Francesim, l'empereur Napoléon IV a choisi de rétablir le sacre pour d'autres raisons que la légitimité. Napoléon III, lui, n'a jamais été sacré par exemple ! (Autre journaliste) Le cortège impérial est maintenant sur les Champs-Elysées. Oh, regardez Stéphane, les premières images de Leurs Majestés !

(Stéphane Bernard) C'est un moment marquant de cette journée historique ! Admirez Leurs Majestés dans leur Petit Habit de Sacre, une tenue élégamment inspirée du couronnement de Napoléon Ier. Cette tenue traditionnelle française, réservée aux occasions les plus solennelles, est aujourd'hui sublimée par une touche d'originalité propre à Napoléon V : il arbore fièrement le célèbre bicorne de son illustre ancêtre, Napoléon Ier. (Autre journaliste) Je dois dire que ça fait quelque chose de voir un Simparte porter ce célèbre chapeau ! (Stéphane Bernard) Pour les Simpartistes les plus fervents, il s'agit d'une véritable relique.

(Stéphane Bernard) L'impératrice Charlotte, quant à elle, porte la prestigieuse parure de rubis de Marie-Louise d'Autriche, créé par le célèbre joaillier de la cour impériale, François Regnault Nitot. Elle porte aussi le fameux collier de diamants de la reine Marie-Antoinette. Un choix certes curieux, compte tenu de l'histoire tumultueuse associée à ce bijou, mais il n'en reste pas moins spectaculaire. Si ma mémoire ne me fait pas défaut, ce collier est composé de 650 diamants. (Autre journaliste) Oui, environ, pour 2800 carats. Leurs Majestés semblent dans une forme exceptionnelle. Nos collègues qui se trouvaient au palais des Tuileries ce matin racontent que l'empereur était particulièrement enjoué.

(Stéphane Bernard) Beaucoup d'émotions, oui, vont l'affecter aujourd'hui. Là sous nos yeux, il est encore un personnage profane comme nous tous. Mais lorsqu'il prononcera son serment au Peuple français tout à l'heure, il ne sera déjà plus le même homme. Si vous voulez, de nombreux rites vont transformer cette personne privée en figure mystique : l'empereur. C'est cela qu'on va vivre aujourd'hui, la transformation de notre cher souverain.

(Stéphane Bernard) Le cortège impérial se trouve maintenant devant l'Arc de Triomphe de l'Étoile, ce monument emblématique du patrimoine napoléonien. Construit sous les ordres de Napoléon Ier, magnifié par Napoléon III et le baron Haussmann, cet édifice grandiose incarne la gloire et les victoires de l'Empire. N'oublions pas la promesse célèbre de l'Empereur à ses soldats : « Vous ne rentrerez dans vos foyers que sous des arcs de triomphe ». (Autre journaliste) C'est en effet une étape très symbolique du cortège.

(Stéphane Bernard) Absolument. Le cortège impérial est passé il y a peu devant le Palais Royal, autrefois le siège du Tribunat sous l'Empire. Aujourd'hui, ce lieu emblématique abrite le ministère de la Culture ainsi que le Conseil constitutionnel. À présent, le cortège s'apprête à traverser le Pont-Neuf pour rejoindre la cathédrale par la grande porte ouest. En ce jour sacré, le couple impérial est le seul à avoir l'honneur d'entrer par cette majestueuse entrée. Les invités, quant à eux, accèdent à la cathédrale par la façade nord.

[aspoonofsugar]

Ruby and the Splendor Solis

Here comes a quick alchemy meta! Alchemy is an ancient practice, whose goal is to create the philosopher stone. This stone gives immortality, transmutes lead into gold and creates new life (homunculus). From a philosophical point of view, alchemy's aim is to nurture the spirit and to make it perfect.

As @hamliet has explained in several metas, RWBY is an alchemical story, which metaphorically illustrates the procedure to create the stone (RWBY/Ruby).

Today's post will explore Ruby and Maria's interaction in volume 6 episode 8 (Dead End):

As a matter of fact the scene references the 6th plate of the Splendor Solis.

WHAT IS THE SPLENDOR SOLIS?

The Splendor Solis is an alchemical text, which describes how to make the philosophical stone through 22 illustrated plates:

4 introductory plates present the protagonists of the alchemical journey

7 parables illustrate the alchemical death and rebirth

7 flask plates explore the alchemical process from a practical point of view

4 final plates describe the alchemical process from a spiritual point of view

How does Ruby and Maria's scene reference plate 6?

PLATE 6 AND VOLUME 6

Let's begin with describing what plate 6 is like:

This plate has three philosophers under a tree with golden fruits. The tree is a metaphor for the alchemical process as whole. It is the philosophical tree and if you climb it you reach the golden fruit (perfection/the philosopher stone).

The three people embody the phases of alchemy:

The young man climbing the ladder is nigredo (black)

The man who wears white outside and red inside is albedo (white)

The man who wears red outside and white inside is rubedo (red)

Citrinitas (the yellow stage) is instead symbolized by the yellow flowers and by the golden bough the men are pursuing. The scene as a whole represents a transformation, which is why the birds that fly in the sky have some green shades. Green is, thus, the color of transformation.

How does all of this rely to Ruby and Maria?

First of all, the two silver eyed warriors speak under a tree:

With golden fruits:

Secondly, this scene frames Maria as the teacher and Ruby as the student. Maria is initiating Ruby to very important knowledge, so that our young alchemist can continue her journey.

Ruby: I don't know… I don't know anything… What do I tell Jaune and his team when we don't even have a plan? Qrow's out drinking, Ozpin hasn't come back and even if he did, I don't know if I could trust him. And there's always Jinn, but… we only have one more question we can ask her. I feel like I'm letting everyone down… Maria: If you're tired of not knowing anything, how about we discuss those eyes of yours?

MARIA, THE TEACHER

Maria embodies the archetype of the old wise woman. She is a mature version of Ruby (an older silver-eyed warrior), who comes in our protagonist's life to offer guidance. She is the more expert alchemist:

Maria grabs the golden fruit. Symbolically, this shows that she is far ahead of Ruby in the alchemical quest.

This is made clear by her:

semblance

weapon

Preflexes lets Maria sense everything better than others. Metaphorically, it means she has a better understanding of reality than others. This ties with her having wisdom.

Life and Death is made by two kamas that can be combined in a staff:

They can be separated (solvet) and united (coagula). Solvet and coagula is the mantra of alchemy, as this process aims to create the philosophical stone by separating and uniting the elements. Over and over. Until perfection is obtained. Metaphorically, it means a soul is refined through creation and destruction. Life and Death.

RUBY, THE STUDENT

Ruby is young and ignorant. She doesn't know what to do and she doesn't know about her eyes. She is the alchemist apprentice, who is going through a transformation:

Differently from the Splendor Solis plate, there are no birds in the scene. However, the scenery is full of butterflies, which are another symbol of change. Of death and rebirth:

As far as the nature of Ruby's transformation is concerned, the setting gives us some hints, as Maria and Ruby are speaking in a garden full of white snow. That is because RWBY is approaching albedo (the white phase). In particular, volume 6 climax marks Ruby's passage from nigredo to albedo. This process if metaphorically foreshadowed in Ruby and Maria's conversation thanks to a specific visual cue:

Let's look at Maria's plate:

The grapes are purple/black = nigredo, the black phase

The plate is white = albedo, the white phase

The lemons/oranges are yellow = citrinitas, the yellow phase

The strawberries are red = rubedo, the red phase

The kiwis are green = transformation (plus prima materia, aka the beginning)

In short, the plate and fruits are a metaphor for the alchemical process as a whole. What's interesting is that a little butterfly flies on them:

It pauses for a little while on top of the grapes (nigredo) until Maria gently takes it and has it fly forward (towards albedo). The meaning is clear. Maria acts a mentor, who helps Ruby leave the black phase and enter the white one. She gives Ruby the knowledge she needs to face her "trial of fire":

Maria: The light will only work in the presence of Grimm. Meaning the only practice you'll get will be a trial by fire.

TRIALS BY FIRE

Ruby faces her trial by fire in the climax of volume 6, as she fights the Leviathan:

There she uses Maria's teaching and the relic of Knowledge to defeat her foe through her internal light. This moment is when Ruby and the group leave Mistral and the Black Phase once and for all. They are ready to face Atlas and the White Phase.

Still, this isn't the only trial by fire our Little Red Riding Hood has to go through. She struggles through a second one in volume 9, as she and the group leave the White Stage (Atlas) through the Yellow Stage (the Ever After), so that they can enter the Red Phase (Vacuo). Once again this passage is shown through the Splendor Solis.

There is a giant tree:

A wise woman:

Butterflies:

Once again, Ruby is given guided by an older and wiser woman under a tree. This time she has to make a choice to go through a transformation. A process of death and rebirth:

In volume 6 Ruby learns about her internal light, whereas in volume 9 she discovers her inner shadows. In volume 6 she is given knowledge, while in volume 9 she is offered a choice. At the same time, in volume 6 the Splendor Solis reference is focused on a single meaningful scene, while in volume 9 it is more pervasive and present throughout the entirety of the season. In volume 6 the Splendor Solis comments Ruby's journey (the microchosm). In volume 9 this alchemical texts conveys RWBY's adventure (the macrochosm).

However, this isn't the only difference between the two transformative trials.

IDEAL AND REAL

Volume 6 has Ruby become an ideal:

Volume 9 has Ruby grow into herself:

Similarly, in volume 6 she latches on an idealistic idea of Summer (the Huntress), whereas in volume 9 she accepts Summer as a person (the Mother):

This passage from ideal to real isn't something unique to our heroine's arc, but it ties to everyone's story. Here come two examples.

Jaune's arc

In volume 6 Jaune is inspired by Pyrhha to push forward no matter what:

He wants to become more like Pyrrha, his ideal self.

In volume 9 Jaune is taught by Weiss to stop and accept a loss:

He realizes he is good as he is, despite his flaws.

Chemical weddings

In volume 6, Bumbleby goes through their second chemical wedding, where they kill Adam. The focus of Yang and Blake's relationship is that both girls have to become "worthy" of the other:

And now I know I'm worthy of you (Oh can't you see, you could be with me) With every smile you told me, "I love you" (I am your dream, I love you)

They push each other to grow and to become their ideal selves. Yang has to overcome her anger and abandonement issues to stay with Blake. Blake has to stop running away to be by Yang's side. Their fight with Adam tests their progress on their respective flaws.

In volume 9, White Knight has their second chemical wedding, where Jaune dies and is reborn thanks to Weiss. Their bond is about letting go of childish fantasies (the charming prince and the beautiful princess) and to accept the other for who they are:

Weiss: I think you’re asking too much of yourself. We’ve been telling ourselves that failing means we’re no good. But I can guarantee even the best Huntsmen in history… they’ve all lost. But they were still incredibly brave… and good.

They let go of paragons and come to love their real selves with both strengths and flaws. Their conversation in front of the Genial Gems conveys exactly this.

Interestingly, Bumbleby and White Knight foil each other in another way, when it comes to alchemical symbolism.

Bumbleby focuses on death and separation. They represent the "solvet" part of the process.

White Knight is linked to rebirth and union. They explore the "coagula" part of the process.

To be clear, the solvet and coagula parts are present in both relationships. Yang and Blake go through destruction to come back stronger and more beautiful than ever. Similarly, Weiss and Jaune have to face death, so they can be reborn.

Still, the focus of BB's weddings is on death/destruction:

Adam cuts Yang's arm and impales Blake

Adam dies

Whereas WK's weddings climax in resurrection/creation:

Weiss is reborn

Jaune and Ruby are reborn

This is because the two relationships are complementary and illustrate different sides of the alchemical process. However, there is a third ship meant to embody both parts.

RUBY AND OSCAR = SOLVET AND COAGULA

Ruby and Oscar's wedding is kicked off by their first meeting, when Qrow (a bird) brings Oscar to Ruby and unites the Solar King and the Lunar Queen:

Ruby and Oscar's wedding references the imagery above.

It is a union of opposites. The scenery of their first scene together has Ruby marked as fire and air, whereas Oscar is associated with earth and water. Moreover, both the moon and sun are present.

In general, Ruby is moon, silver, red and air, while Oscar is sun, gold, green and earth. They complement each other and are perfectly balanced. So, they don't need a specific focus on neither death nor rebirth because theis arcs are gonna explore both the solvet and the coagula. They are the whole.

This complementarity shows also in Oscar paralleling Ruby during the trials of fire.

While Ruby is talking with Maria and going through an internal transformation, Oscar goes through an external transformation (he changes clothes). Ruby connects with Summer (coagula), while Oscar is free from Ozpin (solvet). Both their transformations are tested in volume 6 climax, where Ruby grows into a leader (macrochosm), whereas Oscar grows into himself (microchosm).

While Ruby struggles with herself in the Ever After, Oscar struggles with Ozpin in Vacuo. Ruby separates her perception of the self from Summer (solvet), whereas Oscar is merging with Ozpin (coagula). Ruby is in a fantastical world symbolic of the inside (microchosm). Oscar is in the real world, which is going through big changes (macrochosm).

Right now, Ruby and Oscar are bound to meet again through Raven (another bird), which might kick off their second alchemical wedding. Not only that, but Raven herself might play the part of the Nevermore, as she wears a Nevermore mask and her name alludes to The Raven, Poe's famous poem and the inspiration for the Nevermore Grimm. If so, this meeting might be Rosegarden nevermore wedding, which for RWBY ships is about overcoming grief and death through love. Another declination of solvet and coagula.

[perlen-gold]

Of Fairest Flame

Yeah, I'm TOTALLY on time for this (wait, it's already November you say?!) but this is something I've been working on for @ainurweek for Day 9: Melkor I Mairon

(I have something for Day 1 - 8 too... just not yet finished... it's a good thing I'm never late.)

Read on on AO3 or under the cut as it's so long 😆 (and also totally unrevised ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ ).

Reblogs and comments are very much appreciated ❤️ though I can understand if you're too bored to read!

Also, I'd like to thank the people here on tumblr who encouraged me and assured me this was a nice fandom. Having been a wholly silent part of this fandom for years and years this is the first thing I have picked up the courage to share and I want to tell you, guys, THANK YOU! ❤️❤️❤️

At Mairon’s feet the whole world was made of gold.

When he passed, even the black-oblivion, obsidian-sleek walls of Utumno lit brazen-bright. Pits of bonfires woke beneath the iced rocks, and gilded flame-tips licked at his limbs from the sheer walls of Angband, polished to hot embers and glowing coals in his presence.

Wherever he trod was the flame of his hair. However dark the night, its lustrous strands wove glowing rubies into the roaming night. Whatever darkness he summoned around him was pierced by the golden gaze of his eyes.

His shadow dissolved into a golden crown when his fairness shone forth as he willed it to as leaping water over steep stones and cleaving rocks.

And I saw him take it, this heated glow of his as he had taken the rising crown from my hands. Oh, I had stared at him, harder and deeper than any mountain flesh or gaping chasm. I could have struck him down, torn him asunder as easily as I called spitting heights and depths to my biding. And yet his flame never even flickered in my direction. Not even when scornfully he took the gleaming jewels, heady with his disdain, from me. For my little flame did not shape mountains and chasms.

Gilded iron was his alloy and will his anvil.

It was beauty alone that Mairon shaped.

Patient, or as patient as I would, I watched him call forth in the forge the spearing splendor of my crown and the hideous shape of Orcs under the skies just as meticulously.

There is a fearsomeness in unpleasing appearance and Mairon knew it well. The dread Orcs inspire in the common man was of his design also, naturally.

So was the stronghold of Angband. A rock-hewn fortress of efficiency, warfare and secrecy, I never tired to wander its complexity, wondering and, with all my heart, occasionally longing to fell it just to see how Mairon would rebuild and recreate its terrible beauty all over again, though I never told him so. He knew anway, of course, and kept his keen golden eye on me like a wolf guarding its prey.

Yes, ghastly they were, the creatures Mairon unleashed upon his foes, the heinous Orcs and gruesome goblins, mountain-trolls and blood-teethed wolves, swathed in the blinding darkness of my Balrogs and fire-drinking dragons.

Mairon, however, ceased to be fair in battle.

Oh, he could have seduced most of his adversaries, forced onto week knees with his sorcery many more and all the rest. But a cobra will not feed upon limp flesh, the cheetah must race, the falcon swoop to pierce the songbird onto its claw.

And so, with his flickering flame-smile, Sauron, as they called him, set a different trap entirely to spring.

The light upon his face was an uncanny ally of his.

Illuminating the finest of his bones to marble-cutting flawlessness.

Chiseled heights, darkness and light were there ought to be neither, glowing shades and whisper-gleaming rays of sunlight beneath a blackened sky.

His voice rang the air like silvered iron, mellifluous and haunting at once, as commanding as a furnace and as tender as a caressing hand, his laugh bright sunlit pearls and cruelly suffocating ashes.

At the dawn, on the shore of battle, the highest elven kings, fiercest queens and most spirited warriors rode for him without hesitation. Sauron, the cruel, they murmured stern-faced among them, and he was indeed wickeder than any Orc or Balrog of mine.

They set out and rode and stroke to earn their place facing him, swords held aloft, their steadfast resolve soaring to shield their people and beloved ones and let detested Morgoth’s lieutenant perish at last.

What they met utterly unnerved, unrooted, unhinged them.

Comeliness.

Handsomeness.

Fairness.

Pulchritude.

Beauty.

Those are mere words. Spoken tumbling winter-leaves struggling to paint a hail storm.

He was all and naught.

And more.

And more.

And more of it.

Both women and men trembled in mesmerized dread and eerie, bloodcurdling want, gaping upon him. Intoxicating pleasure rose in them when they first caught his eye. It was like pain to them.

 By then Marion’s battle-born strides would have become languid-long strolls. The few who still had any morsels of wit left about them tried to break away their eyes from the light-infused apparition frantically, searching for the malice of his mace, gripping their swords with their sweat-slippery fingers.

It always charmed him into the smallest, most dazzlingly curving smile. They almost never realized that to Mairon the sword tip’s deadly dance was just another art, another craft to design and shape.

The most valiant were always wild on their obedient horses to shoot like arrows at him.

Towards the end, they all fell, crawled, cursed, glowered, quivered under the tip of his iron-clad foot. I have always thought him nearly never more beautiful than when he coaxes his cruelty like a lover’s kiss before the bite.

Around them their friend’s torn faces and daughters’ and sons’ smeared lips, honeyed with crimson blossoms and singing gold flowers. The unnatural light painted the blood-gasping ground and changed their fallen comrade-in-arms’ gruesome wounds to crimson-cold brocade.

Mairon had them between his teeth till they died of bliss and horror alike.

Until they sighed and shrieked and moaned and wept.

 “You are Sauron,” they would utter, staring, accusing, spitting at him.

Oh, yes, Mairon said. Smiled. Oh, yes, yes.

Sometimes the very young ones, well-trained boys and girls, would beg him then. Then, Mairon’s rose-soft, velvet-curling lips smiled even more beautiful.

Around him the thrusting, piercing, blood-lilting, iron-soaked air was limned with gold. In this pause, this endless biding of time against the grey-spraying portrait of misting blood and blooming battle he liked to pull off his helmet at last. Slow and delicately this one, rapidly in a great sweeping arch the other time.

It is the last thing they always see.

The reaching length of his hair curling into sunlit waves of gleaming water ripples, his sun-shaming light pouring as endless waterfalls.

The pinkish tip of his tongue a glimpse between his curving gold-dusted lips in the moment of his kill.

In the blink of a startled eye, Mairon’s beauty rippled into a haunting, living, wraith-like phantom.

The high-browed elven lord’s eyes always widened and their lips spit on the ground before his last smile.

Before he opened them as ripe figs bursting on touch.

When I came forth from my fortress, the ground shook with satisfying anticipation and a rumble swept through our armies, his and mine, mine and theirs. As I stepped forward without forewarning, the roiling battle was surging under Mairon’s sway as usual.

A draught of wind … I could listen to the softness of Mairon’s petal-perfect skin in it. I could savor the unnatural shadows illuminating his brow and cheekbones in the exact, precisely perfect way whispering across his features and taste the whipping of his hair in my mouth, scarlet-sizzling as coals. On his flaming head his crown – for it was more iron crown than helmet – was a smooth black somehow enlightening the flawlessness of his features even more. His iron-slinking armor, sharp as curving wolf teeth, clung to the virtue of his shape. His fiery hair, tamed in the forge only, was afly like shimmering birds. I saw it whip through the air as Mairon turned abruptly around even before the roaring Orcs next to me blinked at my sudden presence.

At once, I saw the flare in him bright as sunlit gemstones as I set foot on the battle field, his intricate thoughts shooting like spider’s webs into a myriad of calculations at once.

The mind of any other Valar and their servants are like lily-bedded ponds. Deep their water runs but slow, and the pebble thrown barely bounces across the surface. The ripples are soon gone.

Mairon’s mind, however, darted like fire prancing, dazzling to watch its hundred and thousand swift flickers.

I seldom partook in battle and, oh, hard it was becoming already to stifle my laughter.

Promptly, I could see his clever embers stirred in their battle-focused ash-bed, swiftly and instantaneously.

Ah, how often had I thwarted his meticulous plans in the past before for no obvious reason – not obvious to him, that is – at all?

Sometimes I had leapt into action when he would have stalled my impatient hand, sought to preserve what I annihilated and at other times I had cherished what Mairon had deemed worthless.

So wary was his gaze as it first flew into my direction like a sleeping volcano’s first spark that I could sense a thousand thoughts ignite into a hundred interweaving sparks at once. He knew I was seldom to do what he bid me to and never to follow a plan to its end.

Oh, but he was a quick-bright little flame, and whatever havoc I wrought upon his elaborate schemes he would never be surprised nor deceived twice and what could scratch upon the perfection of his composure once never did even reflect on the polished marble sheen of his features ever again.

Oh, but he knew me so well indeed as the fire knows the logs it steadily consumes. It had become increasingly hard to catch him unawares, to make mark any impression upon his clever, ever-calm countenance.

A thousand wiles I had played upon him through the ages already and a thousand predictions and presumptions were lapping at his iron-clad feet now.

As soon as I set foot on the ground it trembled and Mairon’s gold flame hair was afly.

Instantaneously, his face turned in the direction of my arrival and, though he was far away on a lone hill, in the midst of battle, a commander of forces who would be commanded by none other, I could see his shimmering beauty whip around.

Belike, I would seek his advice or perhaps I would undo all his careful webs and sunder all his admirable designs upon a mere whim of mine –  he was fascinated and loath to watch me do it.

So, as the ground rumbled beneath my iron-clad footfalls and even the darkest creatures of my armies shrank away in fright, I could see him not step back like them but instead devise and foretell a thousand things to be prepared for me, to predict my wisdom – of which he doomed little upon me – and envision the chaos I could wreck.

Bright could I see the light of his mind as he drew it, keen as the nimble blade he was wilding.

A lesser being he was, yes, so much more fragile and less mighty than I. But none of the other Valar, let alone their servants, possessed his mind’s spark-gleaming quickness, second only – or so I hoped to believe – to my own infinite-stretching mind.

Golden thoughts sparked within it, darting as light, trying to decipher the cause and – more important in Mairon’s glittering mind – the ends of my wild stepping into battle.

Again, I almost burst out laughing.

My hammer, however, dragged a gaping gorge behind me. I did not lift it nor unleash its deadly power and that, I think, a brimming in my chest, is what drew Mairon’s suspsicion most.  

From my path, my army swayed, Orcs and darker creatures shrinking back.

But I am a god and it took me scarcely more than a few strides before I reached him.

Mairon’s face was like marble showing neither dent nor impression whatsoever. If I had knelt at his feet his splendid expression would have shattered – but in my mind the idea I carried within me was of another kind and I brimmed with the anticipation of it.

Ah, how unearthly, uncannily, unrelentingly beautiful he was!

Mairon, His sword reluctantly held, raised his gold-infused gaze at me.

Inside the dazzling gold there were cold calculation and smug disdain aglitter.

Ah.

That potent mixture of mocking smugness and complacent taunt.

I have never told him that, though lesser in being, immortality and power, Mairon’s visage bore one fruit none other in Eä could offer.

In all other beings I had seen and sniffed it, beasts and birds, elves and orcs, wild things and god-like creatures alike. The other Valar, too, I had seen the sheen of it upon them – why, even Manwë – and it had filled me with glee unimaginable.

Not him, though.

Never him.

Forest of giles, oceans quick as arrows and mountains sharp as knives, I could see a whole world blazing in his aureate eyes.

Even smug disdain, if he had the nerve for it – and Mairon almost always did. Even, in those rarest moments when he was most unguarded, trust.

Amidst the tides of our forces I stood still in front of him. On Mairon’s flaming hair his crown – for it was more iron crown than helmet – was a smoke grey, somehow illuming the brilliant symmetry of his features even more, his iron-slinking armor sharp as wolf teeth clinging to the sculptured fairness of his shape.

That fierce serpent beauty flashed. Yes, my lord? What is it that drives you forward to my meek reign?

The scarlet flame of his hair tangling around him in a windless breeze, a luscious bow, mockingly coy, of curving lips and white teeth. I could hear his voice tingle in my head.

Having left your hideout, is there something you ask of me?

Ah.

Insolence and impudence. Arrogance. Amusement.

A whole world but never fear.

I could have wrapped my hands around his slender neck and squeezed without even a gleam of scare in him. I could have lifted my hammer, torn the earth beneath his feet, dictated the skies to strike him with thunder and lightning.

Ages and aeons ago, in the sweltering gleam of Aulë’s forge, he had spotted me among the darkness long before I revealed myself. His eyes shone in the dark brighter than any cat’s. Instead of raising his voice, crying wolf and havoc for help, he watched me and I could feel his gold-gaze lingering.

I went back to my underground halls that day, pondering that brazen insolence just to return the next night trying to break his unwavering gaze.

“How do you know I will not smite you where you stand?” I asked him upon the next day in the deserted forge when I let go of the shadows at last to bend over him.

He cocked his head like a bird and returned, smug as a raven:

“How will you know I will not betray you where you sit?”

The cheek! I was a poisonous viper and he was another and, oh, how fiercely I wanted him to be mine, mine, mine then and mine alone!

His soft neck was between my hands before even he could elude me. Instantaneously, the gold in his eyes sparked with realization and horrified shock of what I was about to do in a split heartbeat ere I was upon him. His lustrous hair whipped like gold ribbons in a wind where there was none, his skin was iridescent in his otherworldly apparition-beauty.

His gilt-rimmed pupils dilated but it was already too late.

I pressed my mouth amidst the surging battle forces upon his pearly lips and kissed.

Flame-swift, Mairon’s rage was so instantaneous I had to swallow my cackling laughter just to prolong the touching of our lips a little longer before he could defy me.

A conflagration met my mouth and I, made of ice and fire, allowed him to singe me till I felt actual pain for I burnt and grinned now beholding the utter outrage in Mairon’s gold-limned eyes.

I could not fathom what incensed him more – the fact that I would do this outside the secrecy of his sweltering bed chambers or the incidental truth that I had accomplished to take him yet again by utter surprise.

Suddenly, the hot-white rage came, ever more terrifying and beautiful than a thunderstorm.

He looked like he might have struck me down then and there, me, in front of everyone.

Then Mairon turned – not because he could not but would not strike me – and away he  went like a conflagration to ravage the battlefield, descending upon our enemies as the sun, golden-bright and blind-burning, veiled in the light of stars and comets, and I watched him, his beautiful blaze transforming into a wraith-like furnace which he cast upon the enemy so that neither elven nor mortal survivor – if they survived – would be able to look  at a beautiful face, be it fair maiden or lovely lad or sweet rose, and bear it ever again.

As my thunder-laugh broke from my chest the ground around me shook and shuddered.

Pierced as though scorched, the swelling of my lower lip seared.

Oh, I was looking forward to golden vengeance he would spin to wreak upon me.

I laughed.

[fourteentrout]

"You Ain't Nothing But A—"

Eris Week Day 4: Hounds

Pairing: Azriel/Eris Vanserra

Rating: Mature

Length: 7,487 words

My longest contribution to @erisweekofficial, this is a 5 +1 fic about Eris (casually) treating Azriel like one of his smokehounds!

Read here on AO3

Very short preview below the cut! barrier design by @tsunami-of-tears

The breeze that wended its way through the Autumn woods tickled Azriel's hair and made the fiery half-dead leaves rustle pleasantly. They flicked and whirled, some tumbling to the ground in lazy little arcs and twists, glimmers of the finest ruby and auburn and gold. Azriel could almost fool himself into thinking that the forest didn't belong to some of the cruelest scum in all of Prythian. 

It was dusk, a good time of day for his shadows. The shade of the trees grew long and deep, so dark that it almost seemed like something one could trip and fall into. Fortunately for Azriel, he could. He moved through the forest fluidly from shadow to shadow, his tendrils of darkness reaching out to every corner of the forest, searching for the remaining Vanserra. Finding Ronin and Enoch and relieving them of their memories had been quick and uncomplicated work, but Azriel was no fool. Eris was the trickiest fox of their litter, and he was not going to make it easy for the spymaster. 

As much was proven when a blazing ring of fire shot up around Azriel right as he emerged from the shadow of a skinnier, less fortunate tree. He cursed as the heat pressed in on him, the flames licking well above his head. Not burning, one of his shadows sang frantically, taking cover underneath his wings. The assurance didn't matter. Azriel's panic had spiked, his heart rate along with it, and he couldn't see through the brightness, couldn't breathe through the smoke, couldn't even figure out what to do.

Not burning, the shadow insisted weakly. Just as Azriel's stomach turned in a fashion far too dramatic for his liking, a split appeared in the flames. The wall of fire parted like stage show curtains, and before Azriel appeared none other than Eris Vanserra, in all his infuriating splendor.

[a-world-of-whimsy-5]

Hi! Could I request Master/Slave & Dubious Consent for Prince Nuada?

Here you go anon!

“The price for another’s mistake”

Pairing: Prince Nuada/AFAB Reader

Rating: E

Themes: NSFT | Smut

Warnings: Master/Slave aspects | Imbalance of power | Dubious consent | Kissing | Oral sex

Wordcount: 2k words

Summary: After a mortal chieftain insults King Balor, his daughter is sent to Bethmoora to serve its Crown Prince as his slave.

Minors DNI | 18+

“Is this her?” Nuada asked, standing in the entryway to his chambers. “Is this the mortal father sent for my own particular use?”

The elven handmaidens all turned to face him. “She is indeed, my lord,” Nóinín, the chief handmaiden, said. “We have had her bathed and dressed, just as you commanded. She is now prepared for you.”

“Will she obey without question?” Nuada said, his curiosity piqued.

“Indeed, my prince,” the handmaiden said. “You will be well pleased with her, I think.”

“Good,” Nuada replied, stepping into the receiving hall. “You may all leave us now.”

Nóinín leaned in to whisper to you. “Do all that the prince says,” she urged, though not unkindly, “and prove yourself obedient, just like you were obedient with us. Life with him will go all the easier for you if you do.”

The advice was welcomed, and it would be well heeded. “Of course, my lady,” you told her. “I will do all that the prince asks of me.”

The chief handmaiden nodded in approval. She curtsied to the prince. Her ladies curtsied to him also. They rose in unison and departed the chamber in a rustling stream of silk and fur and glittering jewels. Nuada looked at you when the great oak doors leading into his rooms closed behind him, his golden-yellow eyes ablaze.

“I trust I do not need to tell you your position here?” He said, coming even closer.

“You do not, my prince,” you said, daring to lift your gaze for a moment. Nuada was garbed in black velvet robes bound by a heavy crimson velvet sash. A golden pin held it together. His onyx chestplate was adorned with golden inlay that took the shape of the Tree of Life, the sigil of King Balor, and all those he claimed as kin. And he was uncommonly fair to look upon, like one of the divine made flesh. “I have been sent to Bethmoora to serve your family until death or mercy free me.” The prince narrowed his eyes; it reminded you of your proper place and compelled you to lower yours once again. “It is part of my father’s punishment, for he dared to insult your father, the king.”

“Your father forgot himself when in the presence of his betters,” Nuada said, circling you like a wolf circling his prey. He approved of what he saw. Your hair had been bound into delicate plaits adorned with gold, and your robes were of the softest silk to be found. Nóinín and her attendants had done their work well. “And now it is you, his shining heir, who must pay the price for his mistake. Tell me, what is your name?”

“Y/n, my lord,” you said, trembling. The prince was right beside you; you could feel his breath fanning against your cheek, his fingers toying with your hair. The sweet smell of wild clary clung to his garments and armor like perfume. It made your head swim. “Pray what must I do now?”

Nuada regarded you silently before turning sharply on his heel. He strode toward his sleeping chamber, the steel of his boots clicking against the polished basalt floor. “Come with me,” he ordered at length. “It is time I put your willingness to serve to the test.”

You followed him down a wide passageway, silently taking in the splendor all around you. Gilded basalt columns hewn to mimic the twisting boughs of ancient trees rose toward a vaulted ceiling dotted with lamps glittering as brilliantly as the stars in the night sky. They were studded with rubies and emeralds and sapphires that burned like red and blue and green flames against the light. Tapestries depicting the history of the elves adorned the walls. Some held the images of great battles. Others were of peace and feasting, and friendships struck with the old gods. They were all very beautiful, and none of them were beheld by the eyes of a mortal until now. 

The prince’s sleeping chamber was at the far end of the passageway. He threw open the door and went in first. “There is white rose cordial in that pitcher over there,” he said, gesturing to an ornate chest in front of a large, canopied bed. A glass pitcher full of a milky-white liquid rested on top of it. Golden goblets and little bowls full of wild strawberries, elderberries, and blackcurrants sat all around it. “Pour some for me.”

“No wine, my prince?”

“Wine dulls the senses. I would much rather keep my wits about me this night.”

You swallowed, but did as you were bid. Nuada did not speak to you. He crossed over to his velvet-canopied bed and sat on the edge. Nevertheless, you perceived his eyes fixed on you intently, following your every move. Here was a warrior who saw much and missed very little, you told yourself.

“Your libation, my prince,” you said, going to Nuada’s side. He accepted the goblet you pressed into his hand. “What would you desire me to do now?”

“Put this away,” the prince said. He drained the goblet in three deep swallows and gave it to you to take. “And bolt that door. I will tell you what I desire from you after you return to me.”

Again, you did as you were told. When you returned to the prince, he held up his hand, a gesture for you to stand where you are. You halted before his outspread legs without hesitation, lowered your head, and clasped your hands before you.

“Nóinín was right,” Nuada murmured, pleased. “You are very obedient. Now y/n, prove yourself to be of further use. Unburden me of my boots and my armor.”

What he expected of you was becoming plainer by the moment. Still, you had little choice but to comply. To do anything else meant punishment befitting one who would dare to disobey an elf of Bethmoora. And Nuada could mete out any punishment he could think of. Thanks to your father and his insult against Balor’s person, the crown prince could treat you however he wished.

The first item to be removed was his chest plate. “Stay still, my prince,” you said softly, your hands shaking as if they were nothing but disjointed thumbs. They fumbled while dealing with satin and steel. Even so, you managed to loosen and undo them all, and the prince sighed in relief when you lifted it over his raised arms and set it down on the ground beside you with a soft thud. “May I remove your boots now?” you inquired, trying not to linger on the dull throb you felt in your wrists. The chest plate was heavy. You were beginning to understand why Nuada was grateful to be free of it.

“You may.”

You sank to your knees as gracefully as you could. Nuada leaned forward, his arms resting on his thighs. He watched you while you set yourself to the task of lifting his feet one by one and divesting them of the boots that shielded them from dirt and mud and worse. They slipped off his legs with ease. You regarded them discretely. The leather possessed a softness you had never felt before; it felt like butter against your palm. It was another aspect, simple as it was, that set elves apart from mortals. No mortal hand had the skill to produce such fineness in anything. 

“It is done, my prince,” you said, placing the boots beside the armor. You looked up at him, your tasks completed, your hands folded neatly on your lap, and you added, “What duty must I perform now?”

Nuada’s lips curled up at the corners. “Take off my sash,” he husked and sat up straight. His hands moved to the sides of his knees. They gripped at the edge of the featherbed, a visible sign of his anticipation over what was about to take place. “And come even closer. It is time we found another use for that pretty mouth of yours.”

A flash of heat crept up your throat. “Of course, my prince,” you said, reaching out to remove the golden pin resting against his sash. It was large and unwieldy, but you managed to unfasten it all the same, and the sash besides. They joined the pile of raiment beside you. Then you paused, hesitated. There would be no going back after this, no undoing of what took place between you and the prince. The notion frightened you and made you forget your vow to obey.

The prince, sensing your uncertainty, bent down and gripped your chin. “You think this is too much,” he began sweetly, brushing his thumb over your lips. It forced its way between them, making you gasp. The prince smiled. It was as if he enjoyed it. “Perhaps you hope to sway me into letting you be. That will never be, y/n. You are my slave now. You belong to me. I can take you right there on the floor, and there is nothing you can do to hinder me. Spare yourself this fate. Pleasure me as I ask and when I ask, and you will not be subjected to my wrath. Is that understood?”

He did not have to resort to further threats; what he said was more than enough already. “I will make myself more amenable to your pleasure,” you promised meekly. Anything was preferable to being taken wholly against your will. “And I will pleasure you just as you have asked me, my prince.”

Nuada, satisfied, signaled for you to continue. You drew back the folds of his robes, exposing well honed flesh marred by much violence, and undid the clasps going down his breeches. The prince muttered a soft curse when his erection was freed from the confines of his clothes. He looked at you almost in affection when you girded yourself and took his length to hand.

Knowledge of the act was not unknown to you. You had heard much and even seen more than you should, when a feast full of revelers deep in their cups went too far. And you put what you knew to good use, tightening and releasing, tightening and releasing. The prince moaned softly. He threw his head back, baring his throat. His hair fell down past his waist and onto the furs beneath him. It gleamed like a waterfall of molten silver against the light.

“You are familiar with the arts of love,” Nuada whispered, his voice already thick and coarse with need. “But your touch alone is not enough. Do more, y/n. Do what I asked you to do. Use your mouth, and your tongue. Go on.”

The sound of his pleasure spilled rich and golden into the air when you clutched onto what courage you had left and sank your mouth down his cock. And all that you felt took some getting used to: the heaviness pressing against your tongue, the little ridges that brushed against your lips, the hollowing of your cheeks, your hands moving in rhythm with your mouth. Milky white beads formed at his tip. They tasted bitter when you kissed them away.

“Does this please you, my prince?” You stopped long enough to speak. “Am I doing well?”

“Very well,” Nuada said. He said no more after that. Then again, no more words were needed. He brushed his hand over your hair, letting your braids slip around his fingers. Then he pushed your head back down, forcing you to swallow him to the hilt. A strangled sound rose at the back of your throat. It so unraveled the prince that he shuddered and climaxed without warning, and spurt after spurt of his seed filled your mouth.

“Swallow it all,” Nuada growled. He struggled to regain his bearings and open his eyes. “Swallow my seed. Then you may stand.”

It was an unpleasant thing, swallowing his spend. It was bitterer than what you tasted before, and it felt unpleasant as it flowed down your throat. Still, you did as he asked of you, and rose to your feet. “What would you have me do now, my prince?”

Nuada rose also. He gathered you into his arms and kissed you deeply. It was far from tender, more for his pleasure than yours, but the heat from his mouth and the sweetness clinging to his tongue left you more than a little breathless all the same.

“Undress me fully,” he said. “Then you will undress yourself and join me in bed. As my slave, you must be by my side at all times.”

[angel-with-paper-wings]

The Siren’s Song

A super quick one-shot I threw together after being inspired by this amazing art done by @nipuni

This takes place while Erik the siren/merman is in Persia and working for the Shah, and Nadir is charged with making sure he is cared for and ready to suit the Shah’s whims. I hope you all enjoy and thanks again to nipuni for the incredible art and idea!

Rating/Warnings: rated T, tiny amount of gore, references to murder

The sun dipped just below the west horizon, painting the Mazenderan sky a bright blood-red. From the window of the great Persian palace overlooking the Caspian Sea, the sunset’s glowing splendor made for a breathtaking view. A single figure stood at the window; Nadir watched the light disappear below the horizon with a heavy sigh. With the end of the day came one of Nadir’s most important duties, one that he either found mildly enjoyable or extremely unpleasant. The probability of either outcome was as unpredictable as the waves in the sea below him. 

Nadir tipped the last of his cup of tea into his mouth, letting the flavors cradle his tongue for a moment before turning away from the window. He then walked through the halls of the fine palace towards the kitchen. The Shah had spared no expense in the construction of the lavish building, which served as His Majesty’s personal home in the region of Mazenderan. Nadir Khan held authority of the property when the Shah was not present, and as such was in charge of the strange rituals that occurred within the building. Or, more accurately, below it.

In the kitchen, Nadir prepared two small baskets of sustenance, then took them and proceeded to the entrance to the palace’s cellars. Down the dark stone steps he treaded, so accustomed to the path by now that he could walk it without the aid of a lantern. He arrived outside a large wooden door with a ruby-encrusted doorknob. Willing his heart to stop beating so fast, he turned the doorknob and opened the door.

Inside was an enormous room, with dark stone walls lit intermittently with torches. The floor of the room was almost entirely missing, replaced instead with a great pool of black water. The surface of the liquid was eerily still and presented no indication of how deep it was. The stillness, coupled with the obtrusive feeling of unknown, gave any who entered it a chill along their spine.

Nadir felt the feeling wash over him again, but let it pass with a practiced air of calm. He stepped forward from the doorway onto the stone platform that formed the edge of the pool. The platform extended forward about three meters, before stopping at the water’s edge. However, a thin stone catwalk, wide enough for a single person to stand on at a time, extended out along the surface of the water, stopping in the center of the great pool. Simply standing on the platform near the door was terrifying enough, but many enemies of the Shah had found themselves being urged out onto the slippery catwalk to meet a ghastly fate. No one in their right mind would step foot on that catwalk, even if they were unaware of what lay beneath the water’s surface; even now, Nadir felt his primal defenses tensing and urging him not to step forward. But he had done this many times before.

He closed the wooden door and let the loud slam echo off of the stone walls. He then stepped forward across the platform with purposefully heavy footsteps: one, two, three, four, five. With a deep breath, Nadir then stepped forward onto the catwalk. He kept his movements slow and scanned the water carefully with his jade-green eyes.

Once he was almost at the edge of the walkway, he became aware of a strange sound surrounding him. It was so faint he did not notice it at first, but by each passing second it grew into a low droning note, half-breath and half-music. It seemed to rise from the water itself, the surface of which remained smooth and black as ink. The soft humming wove itself into Nadir’s mind, pulling him closer and closer, but he fought to keep his legs steady on the platform and his eyes fixed on the water. His voice called out into the chill air of the room, breaking through the humming with a single word.

“Erik?”

At once the humming stopped. Nadir looked around for any sign of movement below the murky water.

“You’re late,” a voice called from behind Nadir. The Persian man jumped and almost slipped on the stone catwalk, hissing out a curse. He turned around to see the figure of a man—well, a man’s head and torso—sitting atop the edge of the stone platform. Where his hips would have begun, the pale skin faded into black scales: the beginning of a long black tail that at the moment remained hidden beneath the surface of the dark water. The top half of the siren’s face was covered by a sculpted white mask, and the bottom half was curled up in an unsettling grin, his yellow eyes unblinkingly fixed on Nadir.

“I had to finish my tea,” Nadir muttered. “But I am not one to forget my duties.” He held up the pair of baskets in his hands.

The yellow eyes shifted to rest on the basket. Erik’s eerie grin widened, his thin lips pulling back to reveal two rows of razor-sharp fangs. Without warning the siren plunged himself into the water, barely leaving a ripple in his wake as he disappeared beneath the surface. The room became deathly quiet again, until Nadir saw a shimmering out of the corner of his eye. He turned to look down at the water next to him, and watched the spiny points of fins dragging along just under the surface. The whiplike tail then flipped out of the water, sprinkling Nadir with a spray of droplets. The man grumbled and wiped his face bitterly.

He whipped his head around to the other side and saw the siren’s head poking out of the water a few feet off of the catwalk, the sly grin frozen in place. Nadir knelt down on the stone walkway and said, “You make this quite difficult. Although I’m sure that is the intention.”

Erik scoffed. “You offend me, Daroga. It is always my intention to make guests feel comfortable when they visit my home.” He brought his bony elbows up to rest on the stone catwalk and craned his neck to see what Nadir was rummaging with in the basket. “What have you brought for me to break my fast with today, hmm?”

Nadir let out a huff as he extracted a large fish, freshly caught. He avoided meeting Erik’s eyes as the siren’s tongue poked out from between the thin lips, dragging across the dagger-like teeth. In the other basket, Nadir revealed his own meal: seasoned lamb kebab with rice and flatbread. At the sight of the “human” food, the siren turned up his nose. “You’ll spoil my appetite, Daroga,” he whined, inching himself further away.

Nadir gave Erik an amused glare while he sat and took a bite of the bread. The siren made a face of disgust before turning his attention to his own meal.

The strange pair began to eat together; at one point, Nadir looked up at the siren, but immediately wished he hadn’t. Erik’s mouth was rimmed with blood, and Nadir’s stomach turned as he watched the long tongue swipe hungrily over his fangs, wiping them clean of fish. “How is your new invention coming along?” Nadir asked, attempting to distract himself from the rather frightening image.

Erik’s yellow eyes sparked. “Perhaps you could tell me,” he said mischievously. At Nadir’s questioning look, he added, “I just tried it on you.”

Nadir frowned. “The humming?”

The siren nodded. Behind him, the fins of his long black tail splashed excitedly in the water. “I have found a frequency of sound that most humans find relaxing, even intoxicating. Amplifying this signal allows it to pass through water with relative ease, reaching their ears without them realizing the source…until it is too late.” The fang-filled grin flashed across his face again.

Nadir nodded in understanding. He wouldn’t lie, it made him a bit disappointed inside to know that Erik was capable of such ingenuity and artistry, only for it to be exploited in the name of causing torture and death. He sighed to himself.

“What about you, Daroga? How are things faring in the world above?” Erik asked as he set aside the bones of the fish and began picking at his fangs with one slender finger.

“Well, the Shah is having trouble finding a replacement vizier, one that he finds more trustworthy than the last.” Nadir couldn’t help his eyes from glancing over to where the scaly black tail shimmered and swished beneath the water. The last vizier, after his betrayal to the Shah was discovered, had found his death in this very room not a week prior, his neck snapped within the elastic force of that same strong tail. Nadir inhaled a deep breath to clear his thoughts. “As such, His Majesty has found himself under a lot of stress. He questions the loyalty of almost everyone around him. Because of this, I imagine you’ll be getting more…visitors soon.”

At Nadir’s last statement, Erik’s eyes darkened. “Visitors,” he spat the word with disdain. He pushed himself off of the stone catwalk and sunk lower into the water. He began to effortlessly swim in a circle before Nadir as he spoke impatiently. “There is no need for petty euphemisms, Daroga. I know what my role is to the Shah. I am his royal executioner; he sends me those he hates the most, the ones he wishes to see die the most agonizing deaths. And much like you, I am not one to forget the duties assigned to me.”

Nadir met the siren’s burning yellow gaze. “That is not the only role you fulfill, Erik,” he assured firmly. “You are an architect, the greatest Persia has ever seen. Your creations have brought wonder and beauty to many, not just terror and destruction. Trust me, you are valued much more than as a simple executioner.”

Erik’s tail lashed through the water, and he practically leapt forward until he was in front of Nadir. “Then why does the Shah keep me in a shallow tank and feed me like an exotic pet? Do not dare lie to me, Daroga, for I know my true worth in this country.” He slowly slid back into the water, turning his black-spined back to Nadir. His hand drifted up to touch the edge of the porcelain mask that hid half of his face. “I know my true worth…in this world.”

Nadir watched Erik with great pity within his noble and generous heart. After a quiet moment, he reached a hand into the inner pocket of his coat. “I believe you requested this a few days ago,” he said softly.

Erik turned his head around, and his eyes widened as he looked upon the object in Nadir’s hands. It was a large book, leather-bound with gold letters forming a title across the cover. He eagerly swam closer to find out what it said. “Italian Architecture of the 16th Century,” he read. His fingers reached up and snatched it from Nadir’s offering hands; he opened it up and began looking through it quickly, paying little attention to the small drops of water from his wet hands soaking through the pages. “Fascinating.”

Nadir smiled at his eagerness. “I suppose I’ll leave you to it, then. Enjoy your evening.” He have a small bow before standing and waking back along the catwalk to the stone platform.

Just as he reached for the door handle, he heard the voice behind him again say, “Daroga.” Nadir paused, before turning back around.

Erik slowly swam forward, cutting through the water like glass without leaving a single ripple. He reached the edge of the pool and pushed himself out with his wiry arms, resting the base of his tail on the stone platform. In the torchlight, Nadir could see the scars that slashed across his chest and shoulders, the way his ribs and joints protruded plainly from under his greyish pale skin. Despite the nocturnal darkness that rimmed his golden pupils, Erik’s eyes appeared soft as they focused on Nadir. “You have my thanks,” he whispered timidly.

A warmth erupted in Nadir’s chest as he took in Erik’s quiet words. With the corners of his lips turned up in a smile, Nadir gave Erik one final nod before opening the door and climbing back up to the world above.

[acotars]

books read in 2024

⋆ ⭒˚.⋆ january ⋆.˚⭒ ⋆

one dark window (the shepherd king #1) by rachel gillig

the murder on the links (hercule poirot #2) by agatha christie

pageboy by elliot page

house of sky and breath (crescent city #2) by sarah j. maas

rogue protocol (the murderbot diaries #3) by martha wells

cult classic by sloane crosley

malibu rising by taylor jenkins reid

the beauty of your face by sahar mustafah

exit strategy (the murderbot diaries #4) by martha wells

animal farm by george orwell

everyone in this room will someday be dead by emily austin

carrie soto is back by taylor jenkins reid

a court this cruel & lovely (kingdom of lies #1) by stacia stark

the rules do not apply by ariel levy

poirot investigates (hercule poirot #3) by agatha christie

yellowface by rebecca f kuang

every heart a doorway (wayward children #1) by seanan mcguire

house of flame and shadow (crescent city #3) by sarah j. maas

read: 18

* · ✦ · * february * · ✦ · *

beautyland by marie-helene bertino

bride by ali hazelwood

network effect (the murderbot diaries #5) by martha wells

fugitive telemetry (the murderbot diaries #6) by martha wells

faebound (faebound #1) by saara el-arifi

the raven boys (the raven cycle #1) by maggie stiefvater **

read: 6

.✦.· *. march .*· .✦.

interesting facts about space by emily austin

penance by eliza clark

the book that no one wanted to read by richard ayoade

pride and prejudice by jane austen

unlikeable female characters: the women pop culture wants you to hate by anna bogutskaya

the shame by makenna goodman

greta & valdin by rebecca k. reilly

read: 7

✷ · ✶ · ✧ april ✧ · ✶ · ✷

this spells love by kate robb

out on a limb by hannah bonam-young

gwen & art are not in love by lex croucher

a lady's guide to scandal by sophie irwin

the friendship study by ruby barrett

the boyfriend candidate by ashley winstead

the pumpkin spice cafe by laurie gilmore

business or pleasure by rachel lynn solomon

how to end a love story by yulin kuang

this could be us (skyland #2) by kennedy ryan

the honeymoon crashers (the unhoneymooners #1.5) by christina lauren

we could have been friends, my father and i by raja shehadeh

how to stop time by matt haig

how to fake it in hollywood by ava wilder

with love from cold world by alicia thompson

funny story by emily henry

love radio by ebony ladelle

old flames and new fortunes by sarah hogle

just for the summer by abby jimenez

don't want you like a best friend by emma r. alban

love interest by clare gilmore

the exception to the rule (the improbable meet-cute #1) by christina lauren

worst wingman ever (the improbable meet-cute #2) by abby jimenez

with any luck (the improbable meet-cute #5) by ashley poston

last call at the local by sara grunder ruiz

happily never after by lynn painter

the ex talk by rachel lynn solomon

i kissed shara wheeler by casey mcquiston

the love wager by lynn painter

morning glory milking farm by c.m. nacosta

will they or won't they by ava wilder

read: 31

.　° * ☆ may ☆ * °　.

when the sky fell on splendor by emily henry

on earth we're briefly gorgeous by ocean vuong

blizzard by marie vingtras

bright young women by jessica knoll

the age of magical overthinking: notes on modern irrationality by amanda montell

the flatshare by beth o'leary **

read: 6

⋆ ˚.⋆ june ⋆.˚ ⋆

not in love by ali hazelwood

the way of kings (the stormlight archive #1) by brandon sanderson

words of radiance (the stormlight archive #2) by brandon sanderson

read: 3

. · ☆ . july . ☆ · .

edgedancer (the stormlight archive #2.5) by brandon sanderson

blue iris: poems and essays by mary oliver

woman, eating by claire kohda

oathbringer (the stormlight archive #3) by brandon sanderson

a novel love story by ashley poston

chlorine by jade song

how to read now by elain castillo

please stop trying to leave me by alana saab

beautifully broken life by catherine cowles

the god of the woods by liz moore

edgedancer (the stormlight archive #3.5) by brandon sanderson

the dead and the dark by courtney gould

a most agreeable murder by julia seales

the murder of roger ackroyd (hercule poirot #4) by agatha christie

read: 14

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁august ݁. ⊹ ₊ ݁.

the bluest eye by toni morrison

more, please: on food, fat, bingeing, longing, and the lust for "enough" by emma specter

the ministry of time by kaliane bradley

system collapse (the murderbot diaries #7) by martha wells

emily wilde's encycolpedia of fairies (emily wilde #1) by heather fawcett

emily wilde's map of the other lands (emily wilde #2) by heather fawcett

catalina by karla cornejo villavicencio

roadside picnic by arkady strugatsky and boris strugatsky

read: 8

reading goal: 93/100

add me on goodreads !

[novaursa]

Where Dragons Dare (2/3)

- Summary: After your declaration to marry Alicent in the small council meeting, the day of the wedding finally comes. And so does your first wedding night.

- Paring: male!targ reader/Alicent Hightower

- Note: reader is referred to as Y/N, is twin brother of Rhaenyra and is bonded with a dragon. For more of my works visit my blog. The list is pinned to the top.

- Rating: Explicit 18+

- Word count: 5 000+

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @literaturedog

- A/N: This was requested by @witch-of-letters. Enjoy! ❤️ Battle of the Stepstones is add as a bonus, because I love writing dragon battles. The last part will be posted later tomorrow once it is done.

- Previous part: 1

- Next part: 3

The grand hall of the Red Keep is awash with the glow of thousands of candles. The flames dance across golden tapestries depicting the histories of Old Valyria, but today the storied past pales in comparison to the momentous occasion unfolding before all in attendance. The wedding is one spoken of in whispers and rumors, but now it blooms before the gathered lords and ladies with all the splendor and gravitas worthy of House Targaryen. 

You stand at the altar draped in black and red, the rich silk of your doublet catching the light in subtle ways. The fine Valyrian embroidery at the hems speaks of dragons in flight, each thread imbued with dark crimson that shimmers like fresh blood. A black cloak, edged in deep scarlet, flows from your shoulders, fastened at your throat with a clasp shaped like a coiled dragon. Your hair, the silvery-white of pure Valyrian descent, is tied back, letting your angular features and sharp violet eyes take in every gaze, every emotion displayed openly or hidden away. At your side hangs Blackfyre—your birthright as Prince of Dragonstone—its pommel set with a ruby that gleams like a beating heart.

Before you, Alicent Hightower stands radiant in a gown of deep emerald green. The dress, fitted perfectly to her frame, billows out in layers of silk and fine lace, each shimmering with golden accents as she moves. A delicate crown of silver leaves and pearls rests atop her auburn hair, carefully arranged in elegant curls. Her eyes, a brilliant shade of brown, reflect a mixture of pride, joy, and the quiet steel she’s honed under the pressures of courtly life. There is a softness in her gaze, however, reserved only for you as her eyes meet yours—a silent understanding, a shared relief, and a promise of what is to come.

The Septon's voice rings out, leading the words of the traditional vows. Beside you, Rhaenyra is practically glowing with excitement. Her smile is unrestrained, her eyes darting between you and Alicent with genuine happiness, a sister’s joy at seeing her twin brother embrace his own fate. She wears a gown of pale red, adorned with the colors of House Targaryen and a crown of silver atop her flowing locks, her presence radiating confidence as the heir’s sister and a firm ally to your cause. 

King Viserys is seated in a place of honor, his face full of warmth and pride. His smile is wide as he watches his only son wed the woman who has become a daughter to him over the years. He has the contented look of a father who finally sees his children happy, a rare expression in a court filled with ambition and schemes. He lifts his cup in a subtle toast to you and Alicent, his eyes misting over slightly with emotion.

Daemon Targaryen, your uncle, stands near the rear of the gathered nobles, his silver hair catching the light as he observes the ceremony. His expression is inscrutable, but those who know him well enough can see the slight curve at the edge of his lips, the way his gaze sharpens whenever it falls upon you. For all his unpredictability, there is a flicker of pride there—a satisfaction, perhaps, that you finally asserted yourself against the forces that sought to control you. Daemon has always favored those who carve their own path, and today you have done just that.

As the ceremony draws to a close, you step forward to place a cloak upon Alicent’s shoulders, the symbol of House Targaryen enveloping her as you claim her as your own. The green of House Hightower blends now with the red and black of the dragon, a union that cements alliances but more importantly binds two hearts that have long yearned for this day. When you lean in to kiss her, there is a softness, a tenderness in the way her lips meet yours, and the hall erupts in applause, though the world shrinks to just the two of you in that fleeting moment.

As the applause dies down, Otto Hightower, the Hand of the King, watches with a carefully controlled expression. His eyes flicker between you and Alicent, a mixture of satisfaction and unease buried beneath his calm demeanor. Though this is a victory for him in securing his daughter’s position, there’s a tension in his jaw—he had hoped to control this outcome more closely, but you’ve slipped from his grasp, a dragon untamed. He studies you with the gaze of a man who sees both a rival and a dangerous ally.

At the feast, Rhaenyra approaches you first, practically throwing herself into your arms. "You did it, Y/N! I knew you would," she beams, her joy infectious. "Alicent looks so beautiful, and you—you were magnificent. I’ve never seen the council so speechless!" Her eyes sparkle with mischief. "And Uncle Daemon, I think he’s actually proud of you for once."

You chuckle, wrapping an arm around your sister. “He probably is. But I didn’t do this for him or the council. This was always for her.” Your gaze drifts back to Alicent, who’s engaged in conversation with a group of highborn ladies, her laughter soft and genuine.

Viserys claps a hand on your shoulder. "You’ve brought honor to our house, Y/N. I couldn’t be prouder of the man you’ve become. Your mother would be so proud, too." His voice carries a slight tremor as he mentions Queen Aemma, but it is quickly overshadowed by his joy.

You offer him a warm smile. "Thank you, father. I’ll do everything I can to ensure that this union strengthens our house."

Daemon is the next to approach, a goblet in hand and that familiar smirk playing on his lips. "I didn’t think you had it in you, nephew," he says, voice laced with amusement. "I was beginning to think you’d let others chart your course forever. But you’ve surprised us all, haven’t you?"

You meet his gaze squarely, your own smile more restrained but no less confident. "Some paths are worth fighting for, uncle. Even if they’re not what others expect."

Daemon raises his cup in a mock salute. “Spoken like a true Targaryen. Perhaps there’s more fire in you than I thought.”

The feast carries on with music, laughter, and the clinking of cups. You and Alicent share dances with the lords and ladies of the realm, but every now and then, your eyes find each other’s, and the world falls away again, leaving just the two of you in this sea of people.

When you finally manage to steal a private moment with her in a quiet corner of the hall, she takes your hand, squeezing it gently. “I was so afraid,” she admits in a hushed voice, her eyes reflecting the firelight. “Afraid that we’d never be able to reach this moment. But here we are.”

You brush a strand of hair from her face, letting your hand linger against her cheek. “You’re mine now, Alicent. I’ll fight for you, for us, against anyone who tries to tear us apart.”

A flicker of relief passes through her expression, followed by a warmth that softens her usually reserved emotions. “And I’ll stand by you, no matter the storm we face.”

The words hang between you like an unspoken vow—one more binding than anything recited before the Septon. 

The night deepens as the feast continues, a blur of music and the warm glow of candlelight reflecting off the ornate dishes piled with food. Laughter and the sound of clinking goblets fill the Great Hall. You and Alicent sit side by side at the high table, your hands occasionally brushing against each other beneath the table. The touch is small, but each time it happens, there’s a comforting warmth, a silent reassurance between the two of you. Alicent’s soft smile, reserved just for you, never quite fades from her lips.

As you’re enjoying a brief moment of quiet conversation, the sound of footsteps approaches. Gwayne Hightower, Alicent’s brother, strides up, his eyes bright with joy. "Sister! Y/N!" he greets, his voice tinged with the exuberance of youth. His resemblance to Alicent is striking, though his features are more angular, his posture that of a man eager to prove himself. "I couldn’t let the night end without offering my congratulations." He gives you a hearty clap on the shoulder, his grin broad. "It’s about time someone put a spark in this old court! You’ve done well, my friend. I’ve known you since we were boys, and I’ve always believed you’d find your way."

You return his grin, reaching out to clasp his forearm in the familiar gesture of comrades. "Gwayne, your support has never gone unnoticed. I’ve always valued your friendship, even when we got ourselves into trouble as children. But I think this time, we’ve both stepped into something greater than mischief.”

Gwayne chuckles. “You certainly have, Y/N. And Alicent—” He turns to his sister, his tone softening with genuine affection. “I’ve never seen you look happier. I’m glad you’ve found this happiness, even if I’ll be the one who has to keep a closer eye on courtly matters with you from now on.”

Alicent smiles warmly at her brother, her hand gently resting over yours atop the table. “Thank you, Gwayne. Your words mean more to me than you know. And don’t worry, we’ll both make sure to keep you busy in your duties, though perhaps with fewer pranks than when we were children.”

The three of you share a laugh, the ease of old friendships and sibling bonds lightening the mood.

Soon after, the familiar figures of Lord Corlys Velaryon and Princess Rhaenys approach. The Sea Snake is every bit the powerful figure one expects, his deep blue doublet adorned with intricate silver embroidery resembling the waves of the sea. Rhaenys is resplendent in crimson and gold, her presence commanding yet warm. There’s a certain wisdom in her gaze as she looks between you and Alicent, as if she sees beyond what most do.

“Prince Y/N, Lady Alicent,” Corlys begins, his voice deep and steady. “Congratulations are in order. The union of Targaryen and Hightower is a strategic move, and one I hope will bring stability to the realm. But more than that, it’s clear to see the bond you share.” His eyes linger on you, a hint of approval in his expression. “And perhaps this is the start of a new chapter where the young find their own path amidst the expectations of the old.”

Princess Rhaenys nods, her lips curling into a knowing smile. “It is good to see love and strength walk hand in hand. The history of our houses has often been marked by conflict, but this—” she gestures subtly between you and Alicent, “—this has the potential to change much. You both carry the future on your shoulders now.”

You bow your head slightly in respect. “Thank you, Lord Corlys, Princess Rhaenys. Your wisdom is always welcome. I hope to earn that respect in time and prove that this union is more than just a political move.”

Rhaenys’ eyes glint with something sharp and approving. “Oh, I believe you will, Y/N. The blood of Old Valyria runs deep, and you’ve shown you’re willing to chart your own course. I, for one, look forward to seeing what comes next.”

As they step away, Lord Tyland Lannister, clad in rich reds and golds, approaches next. His sharp features and keen eyes give away his nature as a man ever mindful of the shifting tides of power. “Prince Y/N, Lady Alicent, it is a joyous day indeed.” His voice is smooth, practiced, yet there’s an undercurrent of genuine intent behind his words. “House Lannister is ever eager to lend its support to the Targaryen line. May your union be fruitful and prosperous. It seems the dragons have found a way to blend strength with the grace of the Reach.”

You nod, ever cautious with Tyland’s honeyed words. “Thank you, Lord Tyland. Your support will be remembered, and I hope our alliance will benefit all corners of the realm.”

He offers a slight bow before moving off, ever mindful of where the winds blow.

The feast begins to wind down, and as tradition demands, there is the looming expectation of the bedding ceremony. The air in the hall thickens with the anticipation of it. Some lords and ladies begin to gather, murmuring and glancing toward you and Alicent with barely hidden excitement. The tension, the ribald jokes, the whispers—it all threatens to reduce the sanctity of this moment to a spectacle.

Before anyone can make a move to initiate it, you rise to your feet, the air of command in your posture silencing the crowd before the teasing can begin. “There will be no bedding ceremony tonight,” you declare, your voice clear and firm, leaving no room for argument. The hall quiets instantly, the murmur of protests caught in the throats of those who thought to see the night end in such a manner.

Daemon, standing with arms crossed at the edge of the hall, lets out a low chuckle, his approval evident in the sharp nod he gives you. “Let the young prince make his own choices,” he says, his voice carrying across the room. “There’s enough spectacle in these halls without turning the most sacred of nights into another charade.”

The crowd hesitates, unsure whether to push the matter. But when you meet your father’s gaze, Viserys nods slowly, an expression of both surprise and respect on his face. Otto Hightower, who had been watching with tension in his eyes, finally relaxes, a subtle sigh escaping him. His face settles into an expression that resembles something close to approval, a rare look from a man who values tradition and order above all.

Alicent looks at you with deep gratitude and admiration, her fingers squeezing yours as she stands. You turn to her, your expression softening as you offer her your arm. “Shall we retire, my lady?” you ask, your voice laced with tenderness.

She dips her head slightly, eyes shimmering with emotion. “Let’s,” she replies, her voice barely more than a whisper as she takes your arm.

Together, you walk down the long aisle toward the doors leading out of the Great Hall, every eye on you both as you leave. There is a certain weight lifted from your shoulders as the doors close behind you, the noise of the hall fading as you enter the quieter, more intimate corridors of the Keep.

As you walk side by side toward your chambers, the echoes of your footsteps and the distant flicker of torchlight create an almost dreamlike atmosphere. Neither of you speaks, the silence between you comfortable, filled with the knowledge that this is just the beginning. When you reach the doors to your shared chambers, you pause, turning to face her fully. You lift her hand to your lips and press a soft kiss to her knuckles, your eyes never leaving hers.

“No more performances,” you murmur. “This is just us now.”

Alicent’s eyes shine as she steps closer, her other hand rising to rest against your cheek. “I’ve never wanted anything more than to be with you, like this, away from prying eyes.”

With that, you open the door and guide her inside, the world outside forgotten as the heavy oak doors close behind you both, sealing away the courtly intrigue and the expectations of the realm. In this moment, it’s just you and her, bound together by choice, love, and a shared determination to forge your own destiny.

The chamber is bathed in the soft light of the fire, shadows flickering across the stone walls as the door closes behind you both. The silence stretches, not uncomfortable but full with the awareness of what comes next. For all the warmth you share, the affection that’s blossomed over years of quiet moments and unspoken glances, this is new for both of you. The air is tinged with the sweet fragrance of candles, the soft rustle of fabric as you both stand there, suddenly unsure how to proceed.

You turn to face her, meeting Alicent’s gaze. There’s a nervousness in her eyes, a slight quiver in her breath, but beneath it lies trust, and something more—desire, hesitant but real. You step closer, reaching out to take her hands in yours, your thumb brushing over her knuckles in a gentle, soothing motion. “Alicent,” you murmur, your voice softer than usual, tinged with both affection and concern. “Are you sure? If you’re not ready—”

“I am,” she interrupts softly, her voice a tender whisper in the quiet of the room. Her cheeks flush pink, but her eyes never leave yours. “I’ve never been more certain of anything.”

You nod, letting out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding. Slowly, you lean down, capturing her lips in a kiss, tender and delicate. Her lips are warm against yours, the kiss a gentle exploration rather than a fervent rush. You both linger in the simplicity of it, letting it ease the tension from your bodies. When you pull back, you see her chest rise and fall as she steadies her breath, her eyes searching yours for reassurance.

Your hand moves to the clasp of her dress, fingers hesitating for a moment before you look at her once more. “May I?” you ask softly.

She nods, her voice catching slightly. “Yes… I want you to.”

With careful fingers, you undo the clasp and let the fabric slip from her shoulders, revealing the pale skin beneath. The dress pools at her feet, and she stands before you in just her shift, delicate and vulnerable. Her eyes flicker down, shyly avoiding your gaze as you take her in. In turn, she reaches out, her hands trembling slightly as she begins to unlace your doublet. There’s an unspoken agreement between you—a mutual understanding that this moment is as much about trust as it is about desire. You help her with the laces, guiding her hands until your clothing is cast aside, leaving you both bare in the warm glow of the fire.

For a long moment, you simply stand there, your breaths mingling, your eyes tracing the curves and lines of each other’s bodies. There’s a sense of curiosity mixed with reverence, your gazes shyly meeting before drifting again, both of you learning and memorizing the sight of each other.

“Beautiful,” you whisper, your voice filled with sincerity. Alicent’s breath hitches at the word, her eyes shining as she looks up at you, her lips parting as if to say something, but words fail her. Instead, she just reaches out, fingers brushing over your chest, her touch sending a shiver through you.

You gently take her hand and guide her toward the bed, the furs soft beneath your feet as you lead her down onto the mattress. You lay her down with the utmost care, your eyes never leaving hers, searching for any sign of discomfort. Her lips part as she draws in a shaky breath, her chest rising and falling rapidly, but her gaze is steady, trusting.

You lower yourself beside her, your hand caressing her cheek as you lean in to kiss her again. This time, the kiss is deeper, a gradual melding of lips as you both begin to relax into each other. Your hand trails down, brushing against her collarbone, then lower, until it rests just above her breast. You pause, your eyes flicking to hers for permission, and when she nods slightly, you continue, cupping her breast gently, your thumb brushing over the soft skin. A soft gasp escapes her lips, her back arching slightly as you explore her.

“You’re so beautiful, Alicent,” you murmur against her lips, and she responds with a soft sigh, her hand sliding up your back, pulling you closer.

Your kisses begin to wander, trailing down her jawline, to the tender skin of her neck. You feel her pulse quicken under your lips, her breath growing more uneven as you move lower. When your mouth finds her breast, she gasps, her fingers threading through your hair. You take your time, savoring each reaction, each soft sound she makes as your lips and tongue explore her.

As you move lower, her breath catches, her fingers tightening in your hair when you kiss the curve of her hip. You glance up at her, seeing the mixture of nerves and anticipation in her eyes. She’s never experienced anything like this, and neither have you—not truly. But you remember the lessons Daemon half-teased, half-instructed you on during that one visit to the brothel, showing you the ways of pleasure in a more practical, if unconventional, manner. While you hadn’t partaken that night, you watched, curious, and the knowledge lingers now, guiding your movements.

You press a kiss to the inside of her thigh, and she lets out a soft whimper, her fingers clutching at the furs beneath her. You murmur a line from an old Valyrian poem, the words ancient and filled with meaning, letting the sounds roll off your tongue as your kisses grow more intimate. “Gevives isse tolvie jelevre—beauty in every breath,” you whisper, your breath warm against her skin.

When your mouth finally finds her core, she gasps, her body tensing for a moment before she melts into the sensation, her hips shifting instinctively toward you. Her breath comes in shallow bursts, her hand gripping your shoulder as you apply what you’ve learned, taking your time, listening to the way her body responds. When she lets out a soft moan, her voice trembling with pleasure, you smile against her, murmuring another line from the poem—words of love and devotion that have been passed down through generations.

Slowly, you trail your kisses back up her body, feeling her trembling beneath you. Her hands reach for you, pulling you close, and when your lips find hers again, the kiss is hungry, filled with the taste of her desire and the passion that’s been building between you both.

You position yourself above her, your eyes locked on hers as you ask one last time, “Are you sure, Alicent?”

Her response is a breathless nod, her hand cupping your cheek as she whispers, “I want this. I want you.”

You enter her gently, inch by inch, mindful of her innocence, watching her every expression for any sign of pain. She winces slightly at first, her brow furrowing, but her fingers dig into your back, holding you close as she adjusts. When she finally opens her eyes again, there’s no hesitation, only trust. “Move,” she breathes, her voice barely audible, but full of need.

You start slowly, each movement careful, deliberate, letting her body adjust, her warmth enveloping you. Her breaths come out in soft, quick bursts, her nails dragging lightly across your skin as she holds on to you. The tension in her body gradually gives way to something else, her hips meeting yours in a rhythm that’s both instinctive and hesitant.

As the moments pass, the awkwardness gives way to a deeper connection. The tenderness remains, but passion begins to take root. Alicent’s breath hitches when she wraps her legs around your waist, her hands pulling you closer. You respond to her need, moving with more urgency as she finds her own rhythm, her body moving against yours in a dance that’s both new and timeless.

When she pushes herself up, shifting into your lap, there’s a sudden surge of boldness in her gaze, something wild and free. You guide her movements, your hands steadying her as she takes control, her breathless gasps mingling with your own. The intimacy between you grows not just in the physical connection but in the way you respond to each other’s needs, desires, and unspoken fears. It’s a union forged in trust, love, and the desire to explore the depths of what you share.

Eventually, when the night reaches its quiet peak, you collapse together into the furs, breathless and spent, your limbs entangled as you hold her close. Here, in this moment, there’s only the warmth of her skin against yours, the sound of her steadying breaths, and the knowledge that this is only the beginning of your shared life together.

As sleep slowly claims you both, you press a final kiss to her forehead, murmuring words of love in Valyrian, promising her with every breath that this night is just the start of what you’ll build together.

The sky is a bruised shade of twilight, thick with smoke and ash. The stench of blood, sweat, and salt fills the air as the waves crash against the jagged rocks of the Stepstones. This place is a wasteland—a battlefield stained with the bodies of the dead and dying. For over two years, the Crabfeeder’s men have held these islands, turning them into a butcher’s yard. But today, you intend to end it. Today, the dragons return in fire and fury.

You sit atop Dallax, your black-scaled beast, perched on a ridge overlooking the main encampment of the Triarchy’s forces. His green eyes gleam in the dim light, and his body shifts restlessly beneath you, eager to unleash his wrath. His teeth, hidden within the dark flesh of his jaws, retract only when his rage is stoked—a menace lying in wait. You run a gloved hand along his neck, feeling the raw power coiled within him. “Soon,” you whisper, your voice firm yet laced with anticipation. “We will end this.”

Below, Daemon Targaryen plays his part to perfection. Clad in soot-streaked armor, a white banner clutched in one hand, he approaches the enemy lines. The Crabfeeder’s forces, a mix of hardened sellswords and conscripts, watch from behind their sharpened stakes and crude fortifications, unsure whether this is truly surrender or another of Daemon’s ruses. The Prince of the City moves with a calculated slowness, his steps deliberate, his head lowered just enough to give the impression of defeat. But you know him better. There’s a fire in his eyes—a fury barely contained behind that facade of submission. The plan hinges on this moment, on the Crabfeeder’s arrogance and greed.

From your vantage point, you spot Lord Corlys Velaryon’s forces hidden in the shallows, ready to pounce the moment the trap is sprung. The Sea Snake commands his men with a veteran’s precision, their silence a stark contrast to the braying jeers coming from the Crabfeeder’s ranks.

Daemon finally stops, mere feet from the Crabfeeder’s line, where a grotesque figure emerges from the shadows. Drahar, the Crabfeeder, is a ghastly sight, his face hidden behind a cracked and twisted mask, his skin mottled from disease. He raises a hand, halting the jeers, and for a moment, silence reigns.

Then, chaos erupts.

Daemon’s false surrender is cast aside as he draws Dark Sister in a blur of Valyrian steel, cutting through the nearest soldier in one swift, practiced motion. Blood sprays into the air, catching the dim light as the battlefield roars back to life. The Triarchy’s soldiers charge forward, desperate to claim the prize they believe within reach, but they are rushing headlong into a trap.

It’s your moment.

With a word in Valyrian, you urge Dallax into a dive. His wings unfurl, dark as midnight, blotting out the dying light. The air screams past you as you plummet toward the battlefield, the ground rushing up to meet you. “Dracarys!” you roar, the command slicing through the din of battle.

Dallax responds with a torrent of flame that incinerates everything in its path. The first line of the Crabfeeder’s men is engulfed in a roaring inferno, their screams swallowed by the relentless fire. Armor melts, flesh sizzles, and bone turns to ash in mere moments. You bank sharply, pulling Dallax into another dive, this time focusing on the siege engines positioned along the ridge. The ballistae, meant to keep the dragons at bay, are shattered under the crushing weight of dragonfire and claws. Timber explodes, splinters raining down on the screaming soldiers below as you rip through their defenses with ruthless efficiency.

You catch a glimpse of Daemon, now fully engaged in the melee, his sword a blur of lethal grace as he carves a bloody path through the Triarchy’s forces. He fights with a savage joy, laughing as he dodges and counters, the battlefield his stage. Corlys and his men surge from the shallows, catching the enemy in a brutal pincer. The once-confident soldiers of the Crabfeeder are thrown into disarray, their lines crumbling under the combined might of dragon and steel.

You circle back, eyes locked on Drahar, who attempts to retreat deeper into the labyrinth of stakes and pits his men have constructed. But there’s no escape. You guide Dallax lower, skimming the ground, his claws gouging the earth as you close in on your prey. The Crabfeeder looks up in desperation, his eyes wide behind his mask as he realizes his end is near.

“End him!” Daemon’s voice echoes in your mind like a phantom’s dare, though the words are drowned out by the roar of battle.

Dallax’s jaws snap open, his teeth glinting as they slide out from their hidden sheaths. With a snarl, he lunges, clamping down on Drahar with a sickening crunch. The Crabfeeder’s mask falls away, revealing a twisted visage frozen in terror before his body is torn apart in a spray of blood and gore. Dallax shakes his head, flinging what remains of Drahar’s corpse into the dirt before incinerating it with a final jet of flame.

Around you, the battlefield is a scene of utter carnage. The ground is slick with blood, littered with the hacked remains of soldiers. Men scream, their limbs severed, or burn as they try to flee, only to be cut down by Corlys’s disciplined troops. The cries of the dying are a symphony of suffering, underscored by the relentless roar of flames. Dallax moves among the survivors like a shadow, crushing and burning any who dare to resist.

As the last pockets of resistance are snuffed out, you land amidst the ruins, stepping down from Dallax’s back. You scan the battlefield, taking in the broken fortifications, the piles of charred corpses, and the men who now kneel in surrender. Victory is yours. The Stepstones are won.

Daemon approaches, blood splattered across his armor, a wild grin on his face. “Well done, nephew,” he says, his voice carrying a note of satisfaction. “I thought I might have all the fun, but you’ve stolen quite the show.” His eyes gleam with shared triumph, the bond between you strengthened through battle and bloodshed. “The Crabfeeder will feast no more.”

You smirk, wiping sweat and grime from your brow. “Someone had to keep you from getting killed. I couldn’t let you take all the glory.”

He laughs, the sound cutting through the dying echoes of the battle. “You’re learning. Perhaps there’s more of me in you than anyone cares to admit.”

As Daemon moves to rally the remaining men, your thoughts drift, carried away on the winds of victory. The image of Alicent appears in your mind—her gentle smile, the way her hand rests on the curve of her belly, swollen with the child she carries. You think of your son, Aegon, barely more than a year old, his bright eyes so full of curiosity. It is for them that you fight, for the future you intend to build, for the family you have claimed as your own.

The taste of blood and ash lingers on your tongue, but underneath it all is the yearning to return to them, to hold Alicent in your arms and feel the soft weight of your son as he rests against your chest. You think of how you will recount this victory to them—how Aegon will listen in awe, his little hands reaching out as if to grasp the tales of dragons and battles. You smile to yourself, imagining the way Alicent will scold you softly for the bloodshed, though you know she will be proud all the same.

“Soon,” you murmur to yourself, the words almost lost in the wind. “Soon I’ll be home.”

But for now, the battle is done, and the Stepstones are yours. The fires burn low as you gaze out over the broken landscape, your thoughts with your family, even as your dragon’s shadow stretches long over the conquered land, a reminder of the price of victory.

[blackmoonlightexpress]

TTEOTM Creative Team: What else did they work on?

For those who are a bit underwhelmed by the summer drama options or still dreaming about TTEOTM! 😎

Kuk Kok Leung (Lead Director)

Kuk Kok Leung is a veteran director who started his career in Hong Kong's TVB. He's been nominated for the prestigious Magnolia Award and is known for wuxia and serious, warm-blooded historical dramas (he's adapted 7 out of 8 Jinyong novels). His works include...

Legend of the Condor Heroes (1983) as Assistant Director, with Felix Wong and Barbara Yung

The Duke of Mount Deer (1984), with Tony Leung & Andy Lau

Return of the Condor Heros (1983) with Andy Lau & Idy Chan

Legend of the Condor Heroes (2002) with Li Yapeng & Zhou Xun

Demi-Gods and Semi-Devils (2003), with Hu Jun, Jimmy Lin, and Liu Yifei

Water Margin (2011), nominated for Magnolia Award

Cool Sword (2013), with Julian Cheung & Wallace Chung

The Patriot Fei Yue (2013), with Huang Xiaoming & Ruby Lin

The Stand-In (2014), with Wallace Chung

The General and I (2016), with Wallace Chung and Angelababy

He's also a frequent collaborator and producer on Johnny To films, including Election, Election 2, Mad Detective.

So you get the picture. He makes TV for men who are ready to bleed for their country. This all makes him a really interesting choice for TTEOTM (and tells you a bit about the ambition and creative vision of the producers), especially since all his more recent idol dramas were widely panned.

Wang Haiqi, Director & Action Director

We don't know too much about Wang Haiqi because TTEOTM is actually his directorial debut. He started his career in stunts and has worked as the action coordinator on Ashes of Love (2018) and Immortality (unreleased) alongside Luo Yunxi. He was also a stunts man/double in a bunch of Hollywood films, including Mulan (2020) and the Foreigner (2017) through the Jacky Chan stunts team.

He's responsible for most of the action/battle scenes in TTEOTM, and his experience working on films probably explains why the fight sequences are unusually cinematic for TV.

Luan Hexin, Art Director

Luan Hexin is a Magnolia Award nominated art director best known for Huanyu productions, including Story of Yanxi Palace, Winter Begonia, and Royal Feast. He's a serious art guy, as you can tell from this interview.

(Note: Huanyu is Bai Lu's management company. There is a rumor that Luan Hexin is part of Bai Lu's "dowry", but the parties have since clarified that Luan was brought in after she was cast.)

He's also an interesting choice, having never worked on costume fantasies before and better known for his authentic representation of the look and feel of bygone eras.

Huang Wei, Costume Designer

Huang Wei is one of the most sought-after costume designers working today, especially for xianxias. She started her career as a Vogue China editor and was in fact the person responsible for TTEOTM's Dunhuang-inspired aesthetics.

Her better known works include A Dream of Splendor (2022), One and Only (2020), Love O2O (2015), Back from the Brink (2023) as well as a bunch of highly anticipated dramas like Immortality and The Last Immortal. (The joke on Chinese internet is that there is an "expensive" vs. "cheap" version of Huang Wei costumes - her design can be much simpler on lower-budget productions.)

I'd like to think that after designing 40 mostly white costumes for Luo Yunxi in Immortality, she decided to go nuts on color with Tantai Jin.

Tsang Ming Fai, Makeup Designer

Tsang Ming Fai is a big name in the xianxia circuit. He and his team of “students" have worked on a large number of costume dramas, including Ashes of Love (2018), Love & Redemption (2020), Under the Power (2019), Noble Aspirations (2016), Sword of Legends (2014), as well as the... wait for it... unreleased Immortality and Luo Yunxi's currently filming drama Follow Your Heart.

He's sadly been receiving a lot of hate in fan circles over the heavy makeup in TTEOTM (which may or may not have been his call). What I do appreciate is his ability to help actors craft distinct characters with varied hair and makeup choices. For example you can distinguish between different Luo Yunxi characters and their personalities with Runyu's clean cut tie-back half ponytail (ethereal & straight laced), Tantai Jin's slightly brown hair, messy bangs and heavy eye shadow (dark & sickly), Chu Wanning's angular eyebrows and geometric hair puff (strict & proud).

He also excels at creating unusual, iconic looks even for side characters, e.g. Chen Yao's dark lipstick paired with gothic jewelry in Immortality and Chen Duling's retro updo in TTEOTM.

[yellowsocialbunny]

targaryen sims portraits pt. VI

King Viserys Targaryen was a peaceful man who hated conflict, and was plump and pleasant. He was described as amiable, open-handed, and eager to please. Though Viserys was never considered strong willed, he was not pliable or indecisive either; when he made a choice, he was unwavering, and firmly stood by his decision. King Viserys’s generosity was legendary, and the Red Keep became a place of song and splendor during his reign. Viserys was well loved by lords and smallfolk alike. Viserys sported a bushy, silver-gold mustache, and wore the crown of his grandfather, Jaehaerys I Targaryen.

Queen Alicent Hightower was described as precocious at fifteen and clever and lovely at the age of eighteen. After having given birth four times, Alicent remained as slender and graceful as before the first pregnancy. Originally, Queen Alicent had a good relationship with her step-daughter, Princess Rhaenyra Targaryen. But when Alicent gave birth to a son, Prince Aegon, a daughter, Princess Helaena, and another son, Prince Aemond, in rapid succession, and Rhaenyra remained Viserys's heir, those feelings started to change. Both women wanted to be the first lady of the realm, but there could only be one.

King Aegon 'The Elder' II Targaryen According to a semi-canon source, Aegon resembled his father, Viserys I Targaryen, in appearance. He was a handsome young man, though he had a sullen look to his eyes and a pouty mouth. Aegon had a wispy mustache instead of a beard. Overall, he did not look like a warrior. He wore the iron-and-ruby crown of Aegon I Targaryen and carried Blackfyre, his namesake's Valyrian steel sword. At Rook's Rest, Aegon broke his ribs and hip, and was burned on half his body, most severely on his left arm. His burns turned to scars, and his subsequent use of milk of the poppy gave him a puffy face.

Queen Helaena Targaryen at the age of thirteen, was plumper than most Targaryens, and less striking as well. Nonetheless, she was a pleasant and happy girl, and all agreed she would be an excellent mother. As queen, Helaena was loved by the smallfolk. Following the murder of her eldest son, however, Helaena became depressed and descended into madness.

Prince Aemond 'One-Eye' Targaryen at birth, was said to be half the size his older brother, Aegon, had been, though he was twice as fierce. At the age of ten, Aemond lost his right eye during a fight with his nephew Lucerys Velaryon. Subsequently Aemond took to putting a sapphire in place of the missing eye. Aemond was also known to wear an eye patch over his sapphire eye at times. As a child, Aemond was bold, wild, willful, hot-tempered and unforgiving, and grew to be a proficient and dangerous swordsman. As a young man, Aemond wore nightblack armor, chased with gold.

Prince Daeron 'The Daring' Targaryen had the coloring of the blood of the dragon. A handsome boy, Daeron was the most popular of the three sons of King Viserys I Targaryen and Queen Alicent Hightower. He was courteous and clever, and was described as "the gentlest" of his brothers. Daeron grew up in the shadow of his brothers, and therefore became more accustomed to following orders than giving them. Daeron had a splendid silken pavilion.

descriptions by A Wiki of Ice and Fire

[chaikachi]

RG is vital to the story and with the set up I can easily see Oscar and Ruby being sort of main focus for V10….what would you like to see from them in V10 and what volume are we getting the confession?

HHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH

i'm gonna try and not turn this into an entire essay, but this is all I think about, okay?

I think about The Gift of the Moon fairytale and how it mimics Ruby's story. A sun that fell and shattered, spilling out all her light, before becoming the dimmer moon. And in her absence, the people lifted up a new, artificial sun in the sky and how it shone brighter than she had ever managed to before, and I think about how that will influence the Vacuo arc.

It's either going to be Ruby thrown into it all again like she never left, the Beacon of Hope has a busy schedule and she best get to work. Since rather than dimming after her fall, she's shining brighter than ever before...

Or if Oscar, as the last defacto leader remaining in the wake of Ruby and Jaune's 'deaths', will have taken on that mantle to a more serious extent. If there's going to be some struggles of balancing who should do what before they finally settle on just sharing the burdens together (smth they've been pushing towards since v6). But the way Oscar and Ruby's arcs over v8 and v9 respectively have been such strong parallels to each other, there's no way Vacuo, the desert kingdom, after weeks or months or longer of separation, isn't going to be the arc where the Little Prince and the Rose reunite and work together.

"Our might in splendor, shining together."

What would I like to see? Well, not just v10 but the vacuo arc as a whole

HUG???? HUG. HUG HUG HUG HUG PLEASE I CAN'T TAKE MUCH MORE OF THIS.

Dojo Scene reprise

Literally any fumble/jinx between them again

Hug again. I'm being greedy. Gimme two of them.

Always dreaming of them getting to dance

Oscar's semblance unlocking, ideally as a reaction to almost losing Ruby again.

Ruby "Down Bad" Rose. Let her be the one who can't keep her eyes off of him for once 👀

Ruby fulfilling the Warrior in the Woods prophecy and saving his butt from a Grimm for the third time, this time using her silver eyes.