#Swords noblewoman

[aiza-luna]

Serena Hélène Josefina Cotoner-Artois Aesthetic

"Her hair was black as the darkness, her eyes blue as the sea... Her skin white and fair as the foam of the waves, glowing under the moonlight. A noble lady, sharp as the blade she weild. A surface of quietude that hid the currents within..."

"La letalidad de un arma depende de quien la utiliza, de sus técnicas y de sus conocimientos... ¿Nos tachan de inferiores? Porque es de esta falta de confianza de donde proviene nuestra mayor ventaja. Solange, mi hermana... Estaré a tu lado ayudándote en esta lucha. ¡Por nuestro pueblo y por el Credo!

A NEW AESTHETIC FOR ANOTHER CHARACTER OF MY SYNDICATE AU!!! 🥹🫶🏽🩵

Introducing Solange's younger sister and the other heir to the Cotoner-Artois household, Serena! Free-Spirited, Open-Minded and Opinative Ally of the Spanish Brotherhood of Assassins, like all of those who came before her! 🤲🏽

[dragongirlbunny]

i'm trying to flirt with this noblewoman but she keeps asking me to demonstrate my flawless sword technique and i don't think she realizes how much effort i'm putting in to make my tits bounce while doing so

[vividblaze]

Quick scribbles of my touken joshi. She may have rbf but she's a good girl, I swearsies. (-ω-、)

[the-dendrophile-bookdragon]

Perfect Size

Pairing: Daemon Targaryen x fem!reader

Warnings: reader is described as short, name-calling, swearing, Daemon being a horny menace, soft!dom! Daemon, talk of impregnation, talk of pregnancy, pregnancy, smut

Summary: It was Daemon’s life mission to remind you of your size difference, in every aspect of your shared lives.

A/N: This is part of the wonderful @targaryen-dynasty 3K celebration, congrats by the way!!!! I had so much fun with this prompt. Enjoy everyone and enjoy the other wonderful and talented writers' fics. 3K Celebration Masterlist

My masterlist

The gods make humans in their image. They make them grow until they see them as perfect. Or so your Septa used to say whenever you were frustrated about your small stature. And it was no help that the greatest rake of the realm, Lord Flea Bottom, the Rouge Prince himself, made it his life’s mission to remind you of how small you were.

As children, you had been a bit taller than him. He had a problem with it. The need to be bigger than a stupid girl was great. His growth spurt came and he nearly towered over you, looking down at you with a smirk on his lips. “How is the weather down there?” He would often tease. “Just fine.” You would retort back. “I hope your small brain will get enough air up there. A shame if you lost more of it.” Was your sarcastic comeback.

The older the two of you got, the taller he would get and you would only grow a few inches if you even grew at all. First, he was slightly lanky. His muscles had yet to grow. He would remind you of a newborn horse whenever he would stumble over his two long feet as he trained with his sword. Often giggling to his dismay.

“I will cut your head off, and then you will be smaller!” He would shout in anger when he saw you snickering. Daemon’s temper seemed to grow with every inch he gained. You enjoyed it immensely when it would rise because of you.

As young adults, it was fairly certain that you would grow no more. If you stood behind one of the large dinner chairs you could easily hide behind them. Everything seemed to dwarf you.

Daemon prided himself in the knowledge that he was taller than you. Towering over you like the Hightower in Oldtown. And he never passed down the opportunity to remind you. “Shouldn’t you be with your nurse, little one? I think you got the wrong room. The nursery is that way.” Or other things.

You would glare at him. Often kicked his shin when no one was watching. He would yowl in pain. Jump around and hold his leg. “You little pest.” “Maybe you should get your head out of the clouds.” You teased back.

But there were the times he would call you more affectionate words associated with your small stature.

“Why the sour face, my little love?” He mumbled into your ear as he stepped out of the shadows. He had been hiding from his grandmother and her attempts to put boring and plain noblewoman under his nose.

A huff of annoyance escaped your throat. “Mother forced me to wear this ridiculous gown.” You seethed. Your teeth bared like a wolf snarling.

Daemon found your discomfort rather amusing. You looked like a pretty doll all dressed up. Your hair braided into the style of the land you came from. The gown so unmistakably the colours of your house, shining in the light of the candles.

"Oh, no - you're a lady and you have to wear pretty dresses and jewels and oh no, how horrible!" He teased you lightly. He leaned his head on top of yours. A habit he adopted quite recently. Loving the way you fit under him.

You snorted, very un-ladylike. But he was used to your characteristics. You were not one of those up-tied, boring wenches who tried to turn his head. He would rather gauge his eyes out before he gave them a second of his attention.

His attention was only worthy of one woman. And she was right literally under his nose.

He leaned down, just next to your ear. His hot breath fanned over the sensitive shell. “Do you think it would fit?” You could feel the smirk in his voice. You turned to him with a confused look on your pretty face.  It stayed that way until you felt something. You felt it, him. Hard as a rock, pocking you through the fabric of your wedding gown.

Your face grew hotter than the flames of Caraxes. Your body stiffened as you felt him softly rub against your buttocks. He only laughed lowly. His chest vibrates, sending chills up and down your spine. “You scoundrel!” You lowly scoffed. Your heart beating faster.

Not from his antics. Oh no, you were used to them by now. About the whole banquet finding out about Daemon’s little innuendo. “Oh, little love. I am your scoundrel now. It was ordered by the Queen herself.” He chuckled darkly.

She hit his shoulder lightly. “Stop it!” You tried to reprimand him. But your words fell on deaf ears. “Oh, my little love. How funny you will look with my seed growing inside you.” He began to whisper his lewd words. “You probably won’t be able to walk, so large your belly will grow.”

Your body grew hotter and hotter. It didn’t help that he had you pressed to his chest. His erection pressed against the cheeks of your perfect ass. His hands wander lazily over the front of your dress. Stopping over your belly before wandering further down.

“Oh my little love, will it even fit in your little tight hole? Or will I have to mould your little cunny so only my cock can fit inside?” Your breathing hitched at his dark, lustful words. Daemon’s predatory smile grew at your body's reaction to his scandalous words whispered so softly into your ear.

He often wondered if he was unfair to his wife. She was small, her body had nearly strained from the weight of the beautiful two children she had already given him.

He was right at their wedding feast. Her swollen stomach looked too large for her body. It hadn’t been long before the first signs of pregnancy made themselves known.

From the small bump only three moons after they conceived. He still can remember how his hands could cover it until she was seven moons pregnant. She had been ordered to rest. To not exhaust herself too much.

Daemon, looking at the image of her laying in their bed, their little one nestled in her belly. The sight did things to him. Things where his darkest desires seemed light in comparison. Oh, how he had spent his days behind her, driving himself into her tight cunt instead of sitting in a boring small council meeting. His wife and unborn child needed him, and he needed them.

“Another one?” You looked at him from where you stood. Children’s toys in your arms as you helped your daughters clean the room for the day.

Daemon just shrugged. “Why not? Add another one to our hoard. What about you girls? Do you want another sibling?” He crouched down so he was level with Alyssa and Visenya. Both girls looked away from their task to clean up the solar, screeching with joy as their father spoke to them.

“They are tots, Daemon.” You protested. Picking up more of the girls’ toys. “They will agree to anything if you say it with enough enthusiasm.” Daemon chuckled. “Oh, I think they know what I am saying, elillus (honey).” He smirks softly. His eyes roamed her body without shame.

“It has been so long.” “It has only been a few hours. You had me in the morrow.” You snapped back. Cleaning your daughters’ toys from the floor. Putting it into the chest designated for their toys. “I did not mean our coupling, prūmȳs ñuhus (my heart). I meant another child. The girls are six and four.” He mumbled gently.

She looked up at him sitting in the armchair at the edge of the carpet where the girls were playing moments ago. His violet eyes were dark as he watched her like the hunter his prey. “I don’t know, valzȳrys (husband). You heard the maester's words after Visenya’s birth.”

Daemon saw the change in demeanour. He nearly had you, only a small push. “It is your choice, ābrāzȳrys (wife). I do not want to force you.” He stood up, kissing your forehead before helping you with cleaning the toys up.

You were tossing and turning in bed. Nothing seemed right. Thoughts swirled through your head. So many voices at once.

You wanted to scream. But you would only wake up your family.

“Tell me what is keeping you from sleep, ābrāzȳrys (wife)” Daemon's gravel voice rang through the room. He sounded tired. His back turned to you.

“It’s nothing.” You whispered. “Bullshit!” Daemon groaned. Turning to face you. “It feels like I am sleeping next to a bloody sack of kittens. What is it.” He tiredly glared at her. Knowing full well what was going on.

“You’ve gotten into my head, you menace!” You growled out. Pouting at him. His usual smirk grew on his lips, a soft chuckle escaping. “Apologies for that, ābrāzȳrys (wife).“ „You are not sorry, Daemon.” His grin widened more. “You know me so well.”

A huff escaped your lips. “Why must you torment me so?” Daemon sat up on his forearm, looking down at you. Your hair was splayed out in a messy halo. A bright smile adorned his face as he saw the light, tired glare and the pout on your lips.

“Oh, little love, I vowed to be the bane of your existence since we played with the small dragon figurines our daughters’ play with now. And ever since it was announced you would be my dear lady wife I swore to torture you even more.” He softly nipped at your collarbone, his large hands coming to rest on your rips, just under your breasts.

“Let me help you with your decision-making. Let me enter your little cunny and stay there when I cum. Let my seed fill your womb once more.” His imposing frame loomed over you. Covering you like a blanket.

“What if the maester is right?” “The maesters are cunts who want to see me unhappy and you in doubt. They told you after Alyssa you could not carry another child. Two years later they said the same after Visenya.” He kissed your shoulder gently before his expressive violet eyes stared at you. “What is your body telling you?”

You bit your lip gently, A small rumble going through Daemon’s chest at your gesture. But he restrained himself. “I want another one.” You whispered gently.

A smile broke greater than before out on his lips, his dimples showing. “I will not let anything happen to you. The moment your body is resisting, I will get you moon tea or whatever is necessary.” You nodded gently.

His eyes darkened with lust. “Now before we can even discuss the pregnancy, we must make it happen.”

He lifted himself so his arms were on either side of your head. “Oh my sweet, I longed to fill up your little cunny. Seeing it overflow with my seed. Stuffing it back in.” He laughed gently as you shuddered.

With haste born of his pent-up desire, he ripped all of your clothes off your and his body. You gasped softly, scolding him for literally ripping your nightgown. “I never liked it anyway.” He mumbled against the skin between your breasts. Slowly moving down to your stomach.

He worshipped your body, caressing your thighs and hips. Squeezing the flesh around them, even gently nibbling on it.

He kissed each and every lightning-bold-like scar. Mumbling with every kiss a small thanks. These were the marks of his children. Evidence of your brave sacrifice.

He went further down. His lips ghosted over the soft locks, his eyes watching you heave out breaths of anticipation.

A loud scream ripped from your throat when you felt his tongue plunge deeply into your wet core. The eagerness of his lapping overwhelmed your senses. His nose ever so lightly brushed against your pearl. Teasing it to shoot lightning throughout your body.

You came undone. His tongue, nose and two of his digits working in tandem to torture you. And it worked. Your back arched off the bed. Loud cries of his name and pleas for him to stop accompanied your downward spiral into the abyss of your pleasure.

He stared down at you hungrily. His vibrant eyes were dark with lust. He looked every bit the dragon he ought to be. “Little rabbit.” He growled out. “Sweet, little rabbit. Trapped beneath the large dragon.”

He leaned down again. Like Caraxes would decent upon his pray, Daemon came down upon you. Devouring you once more.

He held your thighs wide open as he ploughed into you. The wet sound of skin slapping against skin rang through the room. His large hand wrapped around your delicate neck, softly pressing against it. Your breathing coming out in small pants.

“You should see yourself, little darling. My large hand is like a necklace on your throat. I can nearly wrap it around.” He chuckled darkly.

His words elicited shivers to run up and down your spine. This action causes your body to tense slightly. Daemon roared as he felt you squeeze his cock. “Seven fucking hells, woman! Do you want to kill me?!” He panted out. Driving his cock deeper inside you. The stretch is a familiar pain. But not too unpleasant. He had prepared you for him. And he would hate for you not to enjoy your coupling.

He leaned down, capturing your lips in a soft, sensual kiss. It was so different from the way his hips moved. So slow and loving. “I am not hurting you, am I, my little darling?” He whispered. You shook your head. “Nothing I am not used to from you.” He grinned, nipping at your lower lip, “That’s my good girl.” He whispered.

He picked up his pace. His hands on your thighs clawing into your skin. His knuckles are white. He groaned and grunted, looking down at you with an intense stare. Your own moans and cries mingle with his. Creating a symphony of pleasure.

He came with a roar of your name, his face buried into your neck. Panting heavily next to your ear. Your own climax is triggered by the feeling of being filled with his potent seed. Both your eyes closed in bliss.

He stayed inside you even as his member softened inside you. The grip on your thigh remains tight. Like he needed to be grounded by you.

Your arms wrapped tighter around his neck, softly caressing his head. He hummed gently, letting you know he loved what you were doing. “Do not dare to stop.” He mumbled gently into your neck. You continued with your caress. Softly petting him like he was a dog.

He fell asleep like this. His spent cock inside you, keeping his precious seed inside you. His body acted like a blanket. Your hand in his hair.

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[realmsofdreams]

hearth

pairing: cregan stark x fem!reader

summary: as the second wife of lord cregan stark, you’ve poured your heart into raising his son rickon as your own, finding purpose in a north that views you as an outsider from a minor house. but at rickon’s third nameday feast, northern lords, obsessed with the stark legacy, dismiss your role and pressure cregan to wed a “proven” noblewoman to secure heirs, ignoring your unfruitful womb. when lady cerys, cregan’s former love, is proposed as his new bride, her venomous revelations and cregan’s wavering loyalty shatter your trust.

warnings: intense angst, emotional betrayal, public humiliation, themes of infertility pressure, verbal cruelty, pregnancy-related tension, mild language, heated arguments, emotional manipulation, themes of isolation and rejection. suitable for mature readers due to heavy emotional content.

rickon’s third nameday feast, a rare burst of joy in the north’s eternal frost. you sit at the high table, your spine straight, your smile practiced, as you watch rickon, your heart’s son, toddle through the crowd, chasing a hound pup with a giggle that melts the hardest of northern hearts. he’s yours, not by blood but by every stitch you’ve sewn into his cloaks, every lullaby sung in the dark, every scraped knee kissed. you’ve loved him since the day you wed cregan stark, mere moons after arra norrey’s death, vowing to be his mother in all but name. rickon calls you “mama,” and that word is your anchor, your shield against the north’s cold judgment.

but tonight, something darker than winter’s chill. the northern lords, their faces weathered by war and duty, drink deeply and cast sharp glances your way. you hear their whispers, carried like blades on the wind, stark line, no heirs, barren wife. your fingers clench the arm of your chair, the wood biting into your palm. you’re no stranger to their doubts, but on this night, with rickon’s laughter and your role as his mother so vivid, their words carve deeper, slicing at the fragile pride you’ve built as lady stark.

cregan sits beside you, his presence a mountain of strength, his eyes warm when they meet yours. his hand, calloused from sword and plow, rests briefly on your knee beneath the table, a gesture that once steadied you. but as the feast wears on, you notice his jaw tighten, his gaze flicker to lord umber, who approaches with a grim purpose. their voices are low, but you catch fragments, duty, legacy, a stronger match. cregan’s responses are curt, his eyes darting to you once, then away. your chest tightens. you know what they speak of: your womb, empty after two years of marriage, and the stark line’s precarious future.

you don’t crumble. you’ve never crumbled, not when you left your minor house to wed a stark, not when the north’s lords sneered at your lack of noble blood, not when the maesters whispered of your ‘unproven’ body. you are steel, forged in the fire of their scorn, and you will not break now. instead, you lift your goblet, your smile a mask, and toast rickon’s health, your voice clear and unwavering. the hall echoes your call, but the lords’ eyes linger, judging, dismissing.

the feast ends late, and you carry rickon to his chambers, his small body heavy with sleep. cregan follows, silent, his boots heavy on the stone. you tuck rickon into his furs, brushing a kiss to his brow, and when you turn, cregan’s watching, his face shadowed.

“what did umber want?” you ask, your tone even, though your pulse races.

he hesitates, scrubbing a hand through his dark hair.

“the same as always. talk of the stark line, the future.”

“and me,” you say, stepping closer, your eyes locked on his.

“they spoke of me, cregan. of my failure to give you heirs.”

his sigh is a gust of winter wind.

“they’re worried, that’s all. they’re old men, set in their ways. they see rickon and want more.”

“more than i’ve given,” you say, your voice low but sharp.

“they don’t see me as rickon’s mother. they see me as a barren outsider, don’t they?”

“you’re his mother,” he says, voice firm.

“i’ve never doubted that.”

“but you let them doubt me,” you counter, your words precise, cutting.

“you let them question my place, my worth. what did you say to umber? did you defend me, or did you listen?”

his silence is a wound. he steps toward you, but you hold up a hand, stopping him.

“if you can’t answer, don’t touch me.” you say, your voice cold.

“i’m not considering their nonsense,” he says, frustration creeping into his tone.

“but i can’t just dismiss them. they’re my bannermen, my father’s men. they’ve fought for this house.”

“and i haven’t?” you snap, your control fraying.

“i’ve fought everyday to be rickon’s mother, to be your wife, to prove myself to a north that doesn’t want me. but you’re leaving the door open, cregan. you’re letting them think another wife, a ‘proven’ wife might be better.”

“i’m not,”

he insists, but there’s a crack in his voice, a hesitation that betrays him. you step back, your heart a storm of hurt and fury.

“i won’t be your placeholder,”

you say, your voice steady despite the ache.

“i deserve better than your half-answers.”

you turn, leaving him in rickon’s chamber, your head high, your tears held back. you are steel, and steel does not bend.

you rise early the next morning, your body heavy with a secret you’ve carried for days. the maester confirmed you’re with child, a fragile hope you’ve guarded fiercely. you meant to tell cregan, to share the joy and bind your fractured trust, but his silence last night changed everything. now, the secret feels like a weapon, one you’re not ready to wield.

you avoid the great hall, breaking your fast with rickon in his nursery. he babbles about his nameday gifts, a wooden wolf cregan carved himself, and you smile, your love for him a light in the dark. but your thoughts churn. the lords’ whispers, cregan’s wavering, the weight of a north that sees you as less, these are battles you’ve fought alone, and you’re tired, so tired, but you will not break.

sara, cregan’s half-sister, finds you at midday, her face etched with worry.

“there’s a council meeting,” she says, her voice low.

“the norreys are here, and they’re pushing hard. you need to know.”

your blood chills. the norreys, arra’s kin, are a proud, unyielding clan, and their loyalty to her memory is a blade they’ve never sheathed. you nod, entrusting rickon to his nursemaid, and follow sara to the council chamber. you don’t enter, ladies don’t, not uninvited but you linger outside, the cracked door revealing a storm of voices.

lord norrey’s is loudest, his words a hammer.

“lady cerys is proven, my lord. she’d honor arra’s legacy and give you heirs. your current lady, forgive me, hasn’t, and the stark line cannot falter.”

cerys. the name is a dagger, twisting old wounds. you’ve heard of her. cregan’s courtship after arra’s death, a fleeting flame before he chose you. you thought it buried, but the norreys’ proposal unearths it, raw and bleeding. cregan’s voice is measured, deflecting without refusing, and that ambiguity is a betrayal in itself.

“i’ve made my vows,”

he says, but it’s weak, a shield with cracks. the lords press harder, and he doesn’t silence them.

you step away, your breath shallow, your resolve hardening. you will not weep, not here, not where they can smell weakness. you return to rickon, your hands steady as you braid his hair, your voice calm as you sing him a northern ballad. but inside, you’re a furnace of rage and hurt, forging your pain into armor.

that afternoon, in the godswood’s crimson hush, lady cerys finds you. she’s a vision of northern beauty, a tall, with piercing blue eyes and hair like spun gold, her presence a calculated strike. you’re kneeling by the heart tree, praying for strength, when her shadow falls over you.

“so you’re the one he chose,”

she says, her voice a blade wrapped in silk.

“i expected more, not a mouse from a house no one remembers.”

you rise, your chin high, your eyes unflinching.

“i’m lady stark,” you say, your tone ice. “and you’re trespassing on my peace.”

she laughs, sharp and cruel.

“your peace? you’re a shadow in a seat that should’ve been mine. cregan loved me, you know. after arra died, he came to me, swore he’d make me his lady. we shared nights, promises things you’ll never understand. but his council wanted someone safe, someone who wouldn’t stir the north. so he settled for you.”

her words are venom, each one a precise cut. you feel them, deep and raw, but you don’t flinch.

“if he loved you, why am i his wife?” you ask, your voice steady, though your heart screams.

“duty,” she spits, stepping closer.

“he’s a stark, chained to honor. but he’ll always want me. you’re a duty, a compromise. and now the north sees you for what you are, a barren, weak, unworthy. i’m leaving winterfell, but i wanted you to know the truth that he’ll never love you like he loved me.”

you hold her gaze, your face a mask of stone.

“leave, then,” you say, your voice low, lethal.

“but don’t mistake my silence for weakness. i’m cregan’s wife, the mother of his son, and i’ll outlast you.”

she smirks, but there’s a flicker of frustration in her eyes. she turns, her cloak sweeping the snow, and you’re left alone, the weirwood’s red eyes watching. her words burn, searing doubts you’ve buried cregan’s choice, his heart, your place. you’re carrying his child, but cerys’s venom and cregan’s silence make it feel like ash. you press a hand to your stomach, your resolve steeling. you will not break, not for her, not for him, not for anyone.

you withdraw. it’s a calculated retreat, not a surrender. you stop dining in the great hall, taking meals with rickon or alone in your chambers. you avoid cregan, your paths crossing only when duty demands, rickon’s lessons, winterfell’s upkeep. when he speaks, you’re polite, distant, your words clipped, your eyes averted. you tend to winterfell’s needs with ruthless efficiency, settling disputes, overseeing stores, earning the smallfolk’s respect. but with cregan, you’re a ghost, present but untouchable.

he notices, of course. you see it in his furrowed brow, the way his hand hovers when you pass, the tightening of his mouth when you excuse yourself early. but you don’t yield. let him feel the weight of his silence, the cost of his hesitation. you’ve given him your heart, your body, your life now he must earn them back.

the northern lords their whispers louder, and cerys remains, her departure delayed by some pretext. her presence is a constant barb, her smiles at cregan in the hall a public wound. the norreys push their case, and cregan’s deflections grow weaker, his patience fraying. you hear from sara that he’s clashing with the lords, but he hasn’t banished cerys or silenced the talk. each day, your hurt festers, your trust erodes, but you channel it into strength, into rickon, into the child growing inside you.

one evening, in the library, you’re reviewing grain ledgers when cerys’s voice cuts through the quiet. she’s with a norrey cousin, unaware of your presence behind the shelves.

“he’s faltering,” she says, her tone smug.

“he’ll bend soon. the north needs a true stark wife, not that barren girl. i’ll have him yet, and she’ll be nothing.”

you step forward, your voice like a whip.

“say it to my face, cerys.”

she startles, then smirks, her cousin shifting uncomfortably.

“you’re bold for a woman with nothing to show for it,” she says. “no heirs, no lineage, no hold on cregan’s heart. enjoy your title while it lasts. lady stark.”

you advance, your eyes blazing, and she falters.

“i’ve raised rickon, held winterfell, and earned the love of its people,” you say, your voice low, lethal.

“what have you done, cerys, besides cling to a past that doesn’t want you? leave, or i’ll make you.”

her cousin tugs her away, and you’re left trembling, not with fear but with fury. you return to the ledgers, your hands steady, but the encounter hardens your resolve. you won’t let cerys or the lords define you. but cregan’s silence, his failure to end this, is a wound you can’t ignore.

weeks pass, and cregan’s patience snaps. you’re in the courtyard, overseeing a shipment of furs, when he strides toward you, his face a storm.

“enough,” he says, his voice rough, drawing eyes.

“you’ve shut me out for weeks. i can’t bear it anymore.”

you straighten, your face impassive, though your heart races.

“i’m busy, my lord,” you say, turning to the furs.

“winter’s coming. there’s work to be done.”

“damn the work,”

he snaps, grabbing your arm, his grip firm but not cruel.

“talk to me. you’re my wife, not a stranger.”

you pull free, your eyes flashing. “am i your wife? because the north seems to think otherwise. your lords, cerys they’ve made that clear, and you’ve done nothing to stop them.”

his jaw clenches, guilt flickering in his eyes. “i’ve tried—”

“tried?” you cut in, your voice rising, heedless of the onlookers.

“you’ve let them humiliate me, cregan! you’ve let cerys spit venom, let your bannermen call me barren, let them propose her as your new bride while i stand here, carrying your child!”

the courtyard stills, the words hanging like a thunderclap. cregan’s eyes widen, shock and hope warring in his face.

“you’re with child?”

you curse your slip, your throat tightening.

“yes,” you say, voice low, trembling.

“and i’ve carried it alone, wondering if you’d cast me aside for cerys, for a ‘proven’ wife. you loved her, cregan. she told me… nights, promises, a future. was i just duty? a safe choice?”

he steps closer, his voice raw.

“cerys was a mistake, a comfort when i was broken after arra. i cared for her, aye, but it was fleeting. i chose you because you were light, because you loved rickon, because you made winterfell home. i’ve never regretted it.”

“then why didn’t you fight for me?”

you demand, tears threatening but held back.

“why let them tear me apart? i’ve given you everything, my heart, my life, my body and you’ve left me to face this alone.”

“i was a fool,” he says, his voice breaking.

“i thought i could balance duty and love, keep the lords in line without bloodshed. but i failed you. i see it now, and it’s killing me.”

you shake your head, stepping back.

“words aren’t enough, cregan. i’m tired of fighting for a place you won’t defend. i’m rickon’s mother, i’m your wife, and i’m done begging for you to see it.”

you turn, walking away, your head high, the courtyard watching. he calls your name, but you don’t stop. you’re steel, and steel doesn’t bend.

that night, he acts. you’re in your chambers, braiding rickon’s hair, when sara bursts in, breathless.

“he’s done it,” she says.

“he banished cerys and her kin. told the norreys if they speak of another wife again, they’ll answer to his sword. he’s in the great hall now, facing the lords.”

you pause, your heart lurching. you hand rickon to his nursemaid and follow sara, your steps quick but steady. in the great hall, cregan stands before the lords, his voice like iron.

“lady stark is my wife,” he says, his tone unyielding.

“she’s rickon’s mother, the heart of winterfell, and she carries my child. anyone who questions her place insults me, insults house stark. speak of another wife again, and you’ll find no mercy here.”

lord umber shifts, but cregan’s glare silences him.

“the stark line is secure,” he continues. “and my loyalty is to my family, my wife, my son, my unborn child. if you can’t honor that, leave this hall and don’t return.”

the lords murmur, some chastened, others defiant, but none dare challenge him. you watch from the shadows, your heart a tangle of hurt and hope. he’s fighting for you, finally, but the wounds are deep, the trust fractured.

later, he finds you in the godswood, the snow falling soft around the heart tree. you’re bundled in furs, your face pale but resolute. he kneels before you, a rare vulnerability in his eyes.

“i’ve been a coward,” he says, his voice rough.

“i let duty blind me, let the lords and cerys wound you. i thought i could protect you by staying silent, but i only hurt you more. i don’t deserve your forgiveness, but i’m begging for it.”

you study him, the man you love, the man who’s broken you.

“you should’ve fought for me from the start,” you say, your voice steady, though it trembles inside.

“i’ve stood alone, cregan, while you wavered. i’m strong, but i shouldn’t have to be steel for both of us.”

“i know,” he says, his hands reaching for yours, hesitant.

“i see you, your strength, your love, your fire. you’re more stark than any of them, and i’ll spend my life proving it. no more silence, no more hesitation. you’re my wife, my love, my home.”

you let him take your hands, his warmth seeping through the cold.

“i’m tired,”

you admit, your voice softer now, the weight of weeks spilling out.

“i’m tired of fighting, of doubting. i want us, rickon, this child, you. but i need to trust you.”

“you will,” he vows, his eyes fierce.

“i’ll guard your heart as fiercely as i guard winterfell. no one will hurt you again not cerys, not the lords, not me.”

you nod, tears finally falling, but they’re cleansing, a release. he pulls you into his arms, and you let him, your strength meeting his, your hurt finding solace in his promise. the snow falls, the weirwood watches, and you begin to mend.

moons later, you birth a son, torrhen, with cregan’s stormy eyes and your fierce spirit. rickon dotes on him, calling him ‘torry.’ and winterfell’s halls echo with their laughter. the northern lords, humbled by cregan’s wrath, toast your son’s health, their doubts buried. cerys is a fading memory, her name unspoken.

one night, as you lie with cregan, torrhen asleep between you, he kisses your brow.

“i’ll never fail you again,” he murmurs.

you smile, your hand on his heart.

“you’re learning,” you tease, but your eyes are warm. “we’re enough, cregan. we always were.”

[thekinslayed]

Play Your Hand

summary | When Aemond the Kinslayer descends upon Harrenhal, a dazzling prize awaited him— the widow of Harwin Strong.

pairing | aemond targaryen x noblewoman!reader

tags | 18+, MINORS DNI! unprotected sex, riiide cowgirl, slight age gap (reader is in her early 30s, aemond is 20), titty sucking, praise kink, mommy kink, manipulation, reader plays the game, girls looking out for girls <3

wordcount | 5.8k

note | the top voted (by 0.6% lol) from the little poll yesterday :) still not feeling super satisfied w my writing rn, but hopefully this will get the brain juices flowing again!

likes, comments, reblogs are much appreciated!

(divider graphic is from this website)

“You must go! Into the forests, he will not find you there. Run and never look back!”

Aemond was dreaming, or at least it felt like he was. He knew not when he had found sleep, but it had taken many minutes of twisting and turning before his mind descended into slumber. 

He was still in Harrenhal, he could still hear the rain. No, he was in the king’s chambers now. It was hazy, specks of dust flying about. Behind the carved wood that separated the bedchamber, he could hear Aegon’s laughter echoing through the apartments. It was mocking him, pinching at some unknown part of Aemond that filled him with rage.

“Did you fuck her like a hound?” he heard the elder say. Gritting his teeth, Aemond unsheathed his sword, bursting through the door. What greeted him, however, was not Aegon, but what remained of him. Lying on the vast feather mattress was a blackened corpse, burnt almost to the point of crumbling into ashes.

Aemond faltered, stumbling back in shock. A cold shiver licked down his spine, making him shiver. It was then he heard a whisper. “This was of your doing.” Helaena. His head whipped around in search of his sister, but she was nowhere to be found. He searched frantically around the chambers, calling out her name. “We are all dead because of you,” she whispered again. Aemond returned to the bedchamber, where he now found Jaehaerys. He looked so peaceful, cheeks plump with the innocence of youth, save for the black thread that kept his severed head to his body. 

No… not him.

His breath was starting to come out short, chest heaving. It was then he found her, standing on the windowsill. A black veil covered her pale face, one for mourning. Aemond held out a hand to reach for her, to feel her warmth in his cold palm. “Hel…” he had whispered, but it was too late. She had fallen backward, to her death, to the unknown. 

Aemond was in a forest now. Standing barefoot, clad in the nightwear he had thrown on. There seemed to be no soul except for him, and the owl that stared at him from a tree. In a blink, a flurry of two shadows passed him. A woman and a child were running away. From what? He did not know. The prince started to follow them, breaking out into a sprint. The soil was soft underneath his feet, and the leaves were damp from the rain.

“Mama!” he heard the child scream. A boy. He looked to be no older than ten years of age, his height similar to his when he had claimed Vhagar.

“Come, my sweet boy,” the woman said, her voice floating to Aemond’s ears like a sweet melody. It was cut by the loud shriek that pierced through the air, unmistakenly that of a dragon. The prince paused in his steps, letting the figures disappear into the woods. A great shadow enveloped him, and he looked up to the sky to see a massive green creature pass. Vhagar. He watched as she rained fire onto Harrenhal, his senses slowly being filled with smoke.

With a gasp, Aemond jumped into consciousness.

It was still dark, it seemed, and he was not in his nightwear at all. In fact, he was still in his riding leathers. Opposite him, Cole looked at him in confusion.

“Is everything alright, my prince?” he asked. 

“We have not killed all of the Strongs,” Aemond replied. The Hand looked at him like he had grown back his second eye, confused by such sudden information. “A woman and her child remain hidden in the woods. I want them brought to me, alive.”

You had been running for hours. Dawn was only starting to break through the horizons, the sun making itself known with streaks of orange painting the sky. You had nothing to keep you alive, save for the clothes on your back and the dagger Alys had slipped into your hand before pushing you out. You did not know where these forests lead to, or if you were getting anywhere at all. All you knew was staying in that cursed castle would have put you and your son to the sword.

“Mama,” he mumbled, snuggling in closer to your warmth. You had sought a temporary refuge in a small rock structure that could almost resemble a cave. Your sweet boy had been frightened, had kept his hand tight in your grip as you took him farther and farther.

“We must make haste, my darling,” you urged him. Both of you were weary, unfit to fight off what evil lurked in the woods. There was a good distance between you and Harrenhal now, filling you with hope that you were almost in the clear. 

It was quiet at this hour, save for the early squawks of crows above you. The ominous darkness of the castle was only beginning to fade, making room for light and warmth. With a kiss on your boy’s cheek, you took his hand and walked out into the sun. The sun’s kiss would have comforted you, if it weren’t for the cold, sharp blade on your neck that greeted you upon your exit.

What happened next was nothing but a panicked blur. You heard your son yell for you, you remembered fighting against hard armor before a sting bloomed on the side of your head. It rendered you incapable of brandishing the dagger in your pockets. 

Fear and dread grew in your chest as the ominous sight of Harrenhal greeted you once more. You prayed to the gods, or whoever it was in the skies that gave you such fate, to grant you a death that would hopefully be kind. You prayed that your boy would not hurt for too long, that he shall not suffer in their hands. A hopeless effort, it would seem.

Once you had passed through the gates, things moved swiftly. Your arms remained tied behind your back, and the men had pushed you briskly through the dilapidated halls. “The prince regent awaits, lady,” they had grumbled, before snickering. You squeezed your eyes shut, tuning out their lewd, salacious remarks on what to do with you once the dragon prince learned that he would have no use for you. The weight of the dagger in your pocket was the only thing that grounded you, had reminded you of what can still be done.

The castle’s interior was damp, and it was hot in certain corners while cold in the shadows. Rain dripped through the cracked ceilings, the icy cold droplets a sharp shock to your senses. It reminded you of where you were, of where you were led to. 

In the great hall, two figures awaited you. One was clad in shiny armor, olive-skinned, and shorn dark locks. Criston Cole.

You remembered him from your time in court. His handsome, Dornish features made quite an impression on your fellow noble ladies then. He looked much older now, with twinkling specks of gray littered in his beard. Beside him, a silver-haired Targaryen stood tall, menacing. With his back turned, he reminded you of a younger Daemon, though even the rogue prince did not emanate such darkness, one that greatly suited the shadows of this castle. 

He looked at you down the tip of his nose when you were pushed to your knees, like shit underneath his boots. “You are no Strong,” he said, before turning to your boy. His smaller frame trembled beside you, and you wished to be broken free of this rope so you may hold him instead. Prince Aemond’s sword was unsheathed with swiftness, raised high above his head. Your eyes widened, your body thrashing against the guard’s grip.

“No, no! I beg of you, my prince!” you wailed. “Spare my son, I beg. He is only a boy! Take me instead, please!”

Hearing your plea, the prince paused. He lowered his sword, moving to stand in front of you once more. Frantic eyes looked at him, then at the Hand.

A glimmer of hope sparked in your chest as his brown orbs flickered with recognition. The prince may not recognize you, but Cole did. His gloved hand held onto Aemond’s bicep, leaning to speak into his ear.

“My prince,” he whispered. “That is Harwin Strong’s ladywife.”

Aemond allowed himself to get a good look at you. He remembered you now, though very vaguely. You were a lady of a smaller house in the Riverlands, ordered to wed Breakbones some time after Lucerys was born. Your marriage was a sham, it was evident from the start. He was there for your wedding in the Sept, stood beside his mother as you took your vows before the Seven. You were a girl of six and ten then, barely a woman, tear-brimmed eyes wide like a doe. When Ser Harwin died in the fire, it was said you had perished along with him. Some told you had set the fire yourself, as a means of revenge after your husband’s affair tainted your good name. 

“Your husband has caused us many problems. I would even dare say he’s played a hand in this war, even from beyond the grave,” he said bitterly, watching as your lips quivered into a frown. “Tell me, why should I spare you?”

“We are naught but prisoners of this castle. My son has been robbed of his inheritance, his life constantly threatened by his own kin. We hold no loyalty to house Strong, especially not to Larys the Clubfoot.” At your words, a dark chuckle had rumbled from the prince regent’s chest. Fuck. Perhaps you shouldn’t have been so bold. You’ve forgotten that Larys sat on the king’s council, a steadfast ally of the crown. You desperately tried to gauge his reaction, his thoughts, but the prince was a hardened wall. “Spare our lives, my prince, and we will be indebted to you. We will serve you most humbly, and we will do anything you ask for.”

An interesting prospect.

Your son looked too much like his nephews, like Harwin. He would have sent his head rolling to the floor with his sword, but you had begged so sweetly for him on your knees. Aemond saw the change in your eyes, from a quivering fear to something ignited by fire. It intrigued him. It was no question that you were quite easy to the eye, with your womanly form and pleasing face. Aemond would find some good use of you. Perhaps it was high time for him to claim his spoils of war.

Alys was laden with worry. She thought the younger Targaryen would be easier to handle than his rogue uncle, but she was mistaken. From the moment he descended on his war dragon, the Rivers woman knew this man would not be so kind. She had sent you fleeing in haste before you and your boy were put to the sword. Alys had the means to handle him, no man had ever been strong enough to fight against her visions. However, her fears for your wellbeing had bled through what should have been a dream to make the young Targaryen quiver in his sheets. This was her fault. He was not meant to see you in the forests. The moment she had heard you were spared, she rushed to see you, checking for any wounds. She saw none. 

In the days that followed, the prince regent had requested you to attend to him personally. There was a lack of servants in Harrenhal now, all fallen to Aemond’s sword upon his arrival. Alys remained the healer, formulating poultices and medications for the injured bannerman in the encampment outside the gates, while your son was made the regent’s squire, tasked with reading letters sent by raven and pouring his wine. 

When the night grew dark, you were called to the prince’s chambers. You warmed his bed, let him manhandle you into any position he wanted. The prince was young, with loins filled with fire that could not be quenched by his fist alone. You worked hard to please him, using more than just your cunny to drive him to his release. You did a whore’s work. 

It was a heavy insult to your noble standing, but you had no other choice. You had weighed your options as you kneeled before him, had chosen your poison. To have your life spared would not mean you will be free, but only given away to be played in another man’s hands. Death was starting to sound better, a blissful end to years of struggle. You almost reached for it, selfishly so.

Oh, but your boy.  He had his whole life ahead of him, a life you dared not rob for the sake of your own. 

The first night had you leaving his chambers feeling the filthiest you had ever been, cursing yourself for sullying your own body. The second night was better, and then in the days that followed, it was routine to find yourself heading up the steps that lead to the prince’s chambers. Alys always had moon tea ready for you, along with minty, soothing balms to soothe the aches in your muscles. 

Tonight was no different. The sun had set barely an hour ago, and you were relieved from your duties while the prince supped with the Hand. You were watching Alys make her brew after having come from the prince’s chambers, massaging the sore spot in your thighs. The prince’s blood was running rather hot as of late, taking you as early as mid-afternoon at times and then again later at night.

“You know I could slip something in his wine to knock him out, right?” Alys mentioned, busied with grinding mint leaves in her mortar. 

“That would only anger him come morning, I fear,” you replied, chewing on the apple she had plucked for you. Your friend scoffed, shaking her head at you.

“Oh, he is but a boy. These Targaryens think themselves high and mighty with their dragons, but within these walls, they quiver and wet their pants in fear. You’ve seen how Daemon acted while he was here,” she said, smirking in amusement. You giggled at her words, slapping a hand over your mouth at the memory. The witchy woman had her fun with the rogue prince, sending him jarring visions of his niece-wife to spook him. It was rather laughable watching the high and mighty prince of Flea Bottom walk around these halls, swinging his sword at shadows in paranoia. 

You had advised Alys not to do the same with Aemond, however. The younger prince was more brash and quicker to anger. To have his sense of control over his consciousness played about would only have you suffering under his wrath.

“He is quite different from Daemon,” you said, sighing. Alys dribbled some honey into your moon tea, before stirring the small cauldron. It didn’t take long before the steaming cup was placed before you, its pearly white liquid almost glimmering from the fires lit about. “It isn’t so bad, you know.”

The Rivers woman’s brows raised at your words, looking at you with a warning look. “Don’t tell me you’ve become besotted with him now.”

“Gods, no! I am just saying it could be worse. He is still rather pliable,” you made known, sharing a look of understanding with your fellow woman. If there was one thing you both understood, it was that men greatly relished in the thought of being superior. Obedience from a woman made them feel more important, more powerful… needed. You made a great effort to make Aemond feel wanted and appreciated— smiling at him coquettishly as you brushed his hair, flattered him with flowery words that made his chest swell with an egotistic pride, and moaning ever so sweetly for him as he pounded into your cunt. It was evident that he relished in all of them, like a lovesick boy who yearned for every ounce of attention. At first, the whole ordeal felt entirely transactional, filled with mindless humping just for the sake of his pleasure. In time, he had shown his interest beyond something physical, seeking more than just the warmth of your embrace.

“Tell me about your marriage,” Aemond had asked you one night, curled into your bosom. The question took you by surprise, as did his sudden interest in your past. You pondered on what to say, hand mindlessly rubbing his muscled bicep.

“Quite brief, as you may know, and all too confusing. I was placed in the middle of chaos, thrown into the deep end without any help to navigate it,” you admitted. He hummed, though said naught else, patiently waiting for you to continue. “Harwin was never harsh, or cruel, he was simply… there. He was nice when he was around, courteous, A man of good breeding.”

A scoff from the dragonrider on your chest made you chuckle, urging you to nuzzle your nose into his hair. “A man of good breeding does not forge an affair with married women, birthing obvious bastards, nor does he throw away his beautiful wife to continue said affair.” The starlit strands wisped as you huffed a low laugh. Aemond had rolled to his back, pulling you to lay on his chest. The pale flesh was warm under your cheek, blood still running hot from the aftermath of your tryst. 

“It took me some time, but I knew I would never win his affections. I have your sister to thank for that,” you admitted, a hint of bitterness coloring your tone. You played with the ends of his soft strands, mindlessly rubbing between your fingers. “He’s been dead longer than he was my husband, but I’ve found it does not bother me much. He scarcely felt mine.”

“You will never be treated that way again,” he vowed, sealing his promise with a kiss on your wrist. His good eye held nothing but honesty, one that had almost struck your chest with guilt. He would have to forgive you for exploiting what was left of the softness in his barely beating heart.

This vulnerability showed its face to you at times. Some nights, he would do naught but lay in your lap, spilling fragments of the years spent being an outcast in his own family. Undeniably, it would tug at your heartstrings. You would take him into your arms, let him suckle on your teats, as though he were a teething babe, while his hips rutted against your thigh. It should appall you, but you knew this could work to your advantage.

Alys’s lips mirrored your smirk, nodding at your unspoken plan. “You’ve always been a smart one,” she grinned. 

“Well, you’ve taught me much.” It was the truth. When you first came to Harrenhal, you were a quivering little lamb, half round with child. Harwin didn’t seem to care much for you, letting you wander on your own. You had blindly made your way into Alys’ kitchen, where she had offered you tea. It was then she had taken you under her wing, had escaped with you before Larys’ men even lit the torch that would kill your husband. You owed her much, you owed her yours and your son’s lives. 

Light conversation and laughter flowed between the two of you, but it was interrupted by a rushing knight, who barged into the kitchens. “The prince summons you, my lady,” he had said, with frantic eyes that displayed the need for urgency. You left Alys in haste, forgetting the now cold moon tea that sat untouched.

You rushed through the halls, and up the stairs to find your son, trembling, standing beside Cole outside Aemond’s chambers. Worry began to fill you as you approached him, turning his head to look for any signs of harm. “Are you hurt, my boy?” you asked, concerned. He shook his head, though his wide eyes displayed the fear that was shaking his poor heart. You turned to Criston, who had cleared his throat to call your attention.

“The prince regent has received a letter delivering displeasing news. He is not in good spirits this evening, my lady. I trust upon you to calm his nerves so we may proceed with him… level-headed,” the Hand said, leaning to whisper into your ear without your son hearing. You nodded in understanding, before turning to your son once more. You cupped his face to plant a kiss on his cheek, caressing the plump flesh affectionately. 

“Stay with Alys, alright? Do not wander anywhere else,” you ordered, leaving him a stern, motherly look. 

As you slipped past the door to the regent’s chambers, you made sure to shrug your collar a little lower, straightening your posture to push your breasts forward. You were still a little sore between the thighs, but you would have to manage. It was damp with his spend from earlier in the day as well. He would enjoy that.  

Your captor was hunched over the desk when you entered, back turned to you. A piece of parchment was crumpled in his fist, no doubt bringing the news that brought on his ire.

“My prince,” you said quietly, letting your presence be known. “What has happened?” His shoulder sagged ever so slightly, before lifting the hand that held the letter in its grasp. He motioned for you to take it.

You obeyed, brushing your soft fingers over his. What you read made your stomach drop. It was a letter from his mother written in haste, evident from the sprawling handwriting that you assumed was unlikely for the Dowager Queen to have.

The Blacks have taken King’s Landing. Rhaenyra and Daemon have Alicent and Helaena in chains. 

A sudden cold licked at your spine, sending down a shiver. It was undoubtedly worse than you thought. You moved to squeeze his visibly tense shoulder, but you hesitated. The rage emanating from his body was enough to burn you, and had you keeping a careful distance between the two of you.

“I have been a fool,” Aemond spoke up, turning to face you. His jaw was clenched tight, any more tighter and his teeth would definitely crack. He let out a deep breath, tugging off his eyepatch harshly. The leather strip soon followed, and the prince ran a hand through his strands of starlight. “I have wasted too much of my time here. Harrenhal may have been a valuable prize but it has cost me too much.” 

“You will take it back,” you reassured him, tone stern and sure. “And when you do, the sight of you and Vhagar will be the last thing they see before they meet their demise.” You had taken a bold step closer, cupping his chin in your hand to make him look at you. “I am sure of it.”

A mistake that had been, for Aemond’s scowl only deepened. He pulled himself from your grip, moving away to stare out the window. The shadows accentuated the sharp angles of his face, and under the moonlight, he looked like a god. “I have been distracted, and you have played your part in it,” he pointed out, turning to throw you a cold, menacing look. It made your knees tremble where you stood, fear blooming in your chest. “Tell me, my lady, what schemes did my uncle divulge during his time here?”

Your brows furrowed in confusion, then of contempt. “I hold no loyalty to Rhaenyra nor Daemon if that is what you are insinuating, my prince. Not after she has tainted my good name,” you defended. Aemond raised his brow at your words, lips slowly raising into a one-sided smirk.

“You do not recognize her as queen, then?” he asked. This was a test, you realized.

“Does my opinion really matter?”

“It does, especially when yours and your son’s lives dangle on the edge of my sword.” His words made you sigh, exasperated. Playing the long game was tiresome. You were weary of having your life held in some man’s grip to do it with it as he pleased. Tired of having your freedom dangled in front of you like food to a dog.

You poured yourself a cup of wine, taking a big swig to fill you with courage. “You will find, my prince, that up until war had broken out many of us cared little for your family’s infighting. We had our own lives to deal with, mouths to feed, while you played your little game of succession,” you pointed out. He had turned to you at your words, almost impressed by your boldness to utter such words. “I am a woman of no great House, whose son’s life is constantly threatened by the utter brutality of his own uncle. Forgive me, if I haven’t given such matters much thought.” 

The prince had made your way to where you stood now, taking the half-filled cup of wine from your grasp before taking a seat on the chaise. He pondered on your words, taking a small sip of your wine. “Your son is to inherit Harrenhal, yet Larys holds it in his power now,” he pointed out, to which you nodded.

“He does. Until my son comes of age,” you confirmed. Aemond hummed, the corners of his lips quirking upwards before returning to neutrality. 

“And you think he will relinquish his power when the time comes?” he asked, earning a scoff from you. With a shake of your head, you plopped down beside him, letting out a heavy sigh.

“No.” You took the cup of wine when he offered it, chugging down the rest of its contents. With your last gulp, a droplet had found its escape through the corner of your lips, but your prince was quick to wipe it away with his thumb. “But there is no telling of what Larys would do once we start to force back.”

“And that is why you have stayed,” he concluded. You nodded once more, letting out another heavy, sad sigh. Perhaps you were overdoing it with the acting, but it seemed to be working since he was looking at you contemplatively. “Keeping your son here may not raise questions on Larys’ role as the current lord of the castle, but what is your plan afterward? When the boy comes of age, and your people call for him to become their lord?”

You shrugged. “I haven’t planned that far yet, we’ve been quite preoccupied with just getting through this war.”

It was an honest answer. In truth, you were unsure whether you and your son would even be alive at this moment if things had gone differently. You had to play your cards right, and you needed to act at the right time. You shifted your body to face his, your hand cupping his jaw to make Aemond look at you. He watched as you studied his features, let you rub your thumb on the edge of his scar. “It’s been rather tough on you as well, has it?” you whispered. 

It was then his shoulders visibly relaxed, and you knew you had him right in your grasp. You leaned forward to nudge your nose against his.

Aemond’s thin lips had chased yours, but you moved to kiss where your thumb had been. You kissed his scar, then another one placed lower. Pecks of your love were peppered around his face, making him sigh in delight. The prince pulled you into his lap, where your lips descended downwards to his neck. His throat bobbed, and you had placed another kiss there. “Will you let me take care of you tonight?” you asked, ghosting your lips over his. He had chased you again, but you moved away with a tut. Your eyes portrayed a stern look, silently ordering him to use his words. 

“Yes… please,” he whispered, to which you responded with a smile of satisfaction. Nimble fingertips made quick work to untie his breeches, pulling out his slowly hardening cock. You spat into your palm, before stroking his length with the slick. 

His larger hands slithered to your waist, before finding your hem to bunch your skirts to your hips. The night air was cool on your moist cunny, almost making you shiver. Two fingers spread your glistening folds, showing him the seed that remained in your cunt. “I didn’t clean myself, as you asked, felt utterly filthy walking about with your seed dripping from me,” you said seductively, relishing in the way his good eye visibly darkened. You pressed his length to your folds, rubbing him with the mixture of your slick and his dragonseed. Expert hips gyrated against his, teasing his cockhead with every snag at your entrance. 

Aemond watched the sight of his cock sliding against your cunt like a man bewitched. He could drool at the delectable sight of your center, flushed pink like a brushing rose hidden in the curls of your mound. His hips subtly canted to meet yours, while your hand kept his cockhead flush against your pearl. The friction made you both gasp, sending a twin spark to bloom in your chests. The silver-haired prince then took hold of his base, aligning it with your slit. 

You speared yourself on his cock with a pleasured sigh, throwing your head back for extra measure. With a firm grip on your waist, Aemond made you set a quick pace. You obeyed, using the backrest of the chaise to steady yourself while you bounced on his cock. It reached deep within your walls, poking at a spot that made you genuinely moan out in delight. “Feels wonderful, my dragon… so big,” you breathed, making him groan against your neck. A harsh tug on your collar made your breasts spill out, baring the delectable mounds of flesh for him to devour.

Aemond wasted no time to take one of your teats into his mouth, rolling your nipple around with his tongue while his hand massaged the other. His silver hair was soft underneath your touch as you cradled his head, keeping him close to your bosom. “Good boy,” you praised, earning something akin to a whine from the kinslayer.

Gods, this felt all too good. The last man you had fucked was Harwin, and it was rather forced than pleasurable as it was with Aemond. It had been far too long since you have sought your pleasure. With a cock, that is.

It would be a lie to say you didn’t find your enjoyment in all of this, because despite the volume of the sighs and moans that you may fake at times, Aemond had made you see stars upon your release every single time, without fail.

“Do I make you feel good?” he asked, mumbling into your chest. You nodded frantically in earnest, cupping his jaw to catch his lips in a deep kiss.

“S-so good, Aemond. Only you have ever made me feel this way.”

He had preened at your words, his chest swelling with pride. Aemond planted his feet firmly into the ground, lifting his hips to meet your thrusts.

He liked it when you finished first, particularly enjoying watching you fall apart on his cock. With a fingertip moistened with spit, you rubbed your pearl to spur you further to your release. Your moans turned into high-pitched whines the closer you were to your precipice, tethering dangerously close to the edge. Aemond’s thumb soon replaced yours, rubbing faster, tighter circles that had you spilling on his cock in barely any time. You came with a moan of his name, the sweet song of your release echoing into the night. 

Your walls massaged his length still enveloped deep into your walls, and you had let him grip your waist tight to bounce you up and down as though you were nothing but a rag doll. You pressed your lips to his ear, grazing your teeth against your earlobe. “Would you like a son, my dragon? I could give you one,” you whispered, spurning him further. It seemed to work, as he started to pant while barreling towards his end. You wrapped your arm around his shoulder to embrace him, pressing your breasts flush into the soft cotton of his tunic. Your perked buds poked into the hard planes of his chest, rubbing with every movement. “I could give you as many babes as you like,” you pressed.

His cock jumped at the thought of it, babes of your own. Aegon was soon to die of his wounds, and there was no question that Aemond would be sitting on the Iron Throne by the end of this war. You would give him heirs, and he shall make you queen. You teased him with whispers of what you would look like round with child, breasts leaking with milk for him to suckle on. With a loud groan, Aemond spilled hot seed into your walls, filling you to the brim. 

You stayed connected for a moment, both equally breathless from your coupling. Aemond had shifted you both to lie horizontally on the settee, with you draped over him like a blanket. You pressed a kiss to his collarbone, to which he reciprocated with one on your hair. “Feeling better?” you spoke, drawing circles on his chest with your fingertip. It vibrated when he hummed, buzzing into your ear.

“Quite, though there is still much to be done for me before King’s Landing is taken back,” he responded, hand mindlessly caressing your back. “And when I do, I want you there with me.”

You lifted yourself to look at him, shock evident in your features. “W-what about my son?” you asked, hope blooming in your chest. His lips widened into a smirk, calloused fingertips brushing a loose strand of hair behind your ear. 

“Fret not, there is enough room on Vhagar for the three of us,” he reassured, chuckling as you scoffed in disbelief. Never in your wildest dreams did you ever imagine yourself on the back of a dragon, let alone the largest one in the known world. 

“But Larys—”

“Fuck Larys. I will deal with that rat.” The sparkle in your eyes and the hammering in your chest made known what you have prayed for in all of your years, and with his good eye, you found the promise for the morrow. “Come with me, and you will have a place in court. As my wife.”

Perhaps your prayers were indeed beginning to be heard. With a passionate kiss on his lips, you voiced your decision, had sealed your fate. It stirred his softened cock that remained in your walls, but you cared little. You would give yourself over and over to him if it meant you would no longer be shackled in this cursed place. Your chest felt lighter than it had been for a whole decade, filled with a renewed purpose. Your labors have bore fruit, and it will be undeniably sweet. Indeed, it was better to befriend the enemy than face him, for the reward would be much more gracious than it would be painful. 

“Sleep beside me tonight, and no more fucking moon tea.”

[nataliaphantomhivesblog]

people are entitled to their own opinion, but genuienly thinking Elizabeth is a selfish character missed the whole point of her character and it actually drives me lowk insane.

I know that the introduction of her character can be harsh to digest because of how overbearing she can be and because she broke Ciel's ring that holds deep importance but:

She wasn't aware about the importance of the ring, and when Sebastian pointed out, she immediatelytook accountability and started to apologize.

She cried profusely, realizing how much history and emotional importance the ring held, her pain was as sharp, literally suffering in o!Ciel's place.

Even when o!Ciel tells her that it's okay, she cuts him off with a "but" again, fully willing to admit her mistake.

Elizabeth always goes an extra mile to make our earl smile, and she admits to Sebastian that sometimes she can be overbearing, but thats such a human mistake and her heart and intentions are always in the right place.

She is constantly attentive of o!ciel and worried about his wellbeing, she is able to tell when something is off with him.

She also struggles with crippling insecurities.

As a young lady of the Victorian era, Elizabeth finds herself torn between society's expectations and her family's ideals.

Desperate to appear beautiful and graceful for o!Ciel’s sake, she deliberately wore low-heeled shoes (a choice deemed childish for a girl her age, looked down upon by other girls) knowing full well that he wished to be seen as mature.

In quiet devotion, she diminished her own stature beside him, all to lift his pride.

But her lineage demanded strength. Forced to train with a sword, she carried the weight of duty, yet secretly loathed her own power, fearing it made her less of the delicate noblewoman she longed to be.

Her insecurities are so complex because while they root from how she feels her fiance needs to percieve her, they also stem from the expectations and oppresive ideals of society of how a woman should be.

Her sword training, a secret defiance of gendered expectations, should have been a source of confidence. Instead, it became yet another fracture in her self-worth.

Every swing of her blade felt like a betrayal of the "perfect lady" she was supposed to be, even as her lineage demanded she master it.

She hated her own skill, not because she lacked it, but because possessing it meant she could never fully be the dainty, unburdened girl she thought Ciel needed.

But when our earl is in danger, she doesn't hesitate, pushes away her deepest insecurties, all for o!Ciel.

She shows him her "uncute" apperance, she unravels infront of him completely.

A girl laid bare, willing to be seen as uncute, as flawed, if it means protecting him.

And when o!Ciel sees her strenght, obviously, he reacts positively to it. He doesn't see her as less, he doesn't hate her for it, he quickly accepts this part of her.

Literally zero disgust in his bones as he does so. (he's so gentle with her augh i love them)

And since o!Ciel accepted her, she started to unravel her strenght and didn't hide it as much.

Can we also talk about how Elizabeth was ready to resort to violence when she thought o!Ciel was cheating on her with Sieglinde? But when Sebastian steps in and explains the real reason behind their situation, not only does Elizabeth apologize, she immediately takes Sieglinde’s side

we love a girls girl !!!

She even goes a step further, offering her help and friendship.

Something worthy of mention is that she is never limiting herself to just her bond with Ciel, but always reaching out to form genuine connections with others.

And now everyone assumes she's selfish because of this....

And now they call her selfish? A traitor? As if she hadn’t spent her entire life bending over backwards just to make o!Ciel feel safe and happy.

Imagine dedicating three whole years to someone, selflessly, without expecting a single word of praise...only to discover it was all built on lies. How could anyone blame her for feeling betrayed?

On top of that, her entire life, since infancy, was shaped around the role of being a fiancée, just as r!Ciel was forced into becoming the Phantomhive heir. (the role o!Ciel took over instead).

Not only does she feel hurt by o!Ciel lying to her, she feels lost. Identity wise she is is crushed and feels she failed as a fiance for not telling the difference between the twins.

How is that fair? She spent years dedicating herself to his happiness, only for the foundation of her existence to be ripped away.

And even after "siding" with her fiancé, she is clearly unhappy. Not only because she knows r!Ciel and Undertaker are up to no good, but because she also understands why o!Ciel lied to her all those years.

She questions herself, she realizes the very reason why o!Ciel kept his identity a secret.

And when she realizes that if o!Ciel would've been honest about his identity back then, she would've expressed dissapointment, and that immediately makes her drown in that guilt.

And now, that truth consumes her: not only does she fail as a fiance, she feels she fails as a human too.

It is pretty clear to me that Elizabeth is torn and confused, heavily manipulated by r!Ciel and a lifetime of being groomed into the "perfect fiance"

Her entire sense of self was scripted for her, and now that the lie has collapsed, she’s left drowning in the wreckage.

I can’t claim to know Yana’s exact intentions, but this much is clear: Elizabeth is intelligent, fiercely compassionate, and, when the moment demands it: fully capable of making the right choice.

Will she forgive o!Ciel? Almost certainly. While the pain of his lies may never fully fade, the story makes one truth undeniable: Their bond, though built on deception, became real through those quiet moments of understanding and mutual acceptance.

Lets not forget that where r!Ciel weaponized Elizabeth’s deepest insecurities, o!Ciel was starting to dismantle them. 

one exploited her fears of inadequacy as the "perfect fiancée," while the other, despite his own deceptions, gave her the space to simply exist as herself.

And Elizabeth? That brilliantly perceptive girl currently drowning in betrayal? She will remember. She’ll piece together the truth, not just about them, but about herself. 

Anyways, I love Elizabeth and y'all should too!

[vigilskeep]

can you please elaborate on villain josie. i think i hauve the blight

so one of the most fascinating things canon says but perhaps didn’t intend to say about josie is that, for her to arrive when she does, she must have agreed to join the inquisition before any explosion, before corypheus was ever on the scene. josie came to be the ambassador for the inquisition’s original intent: if the divine’s peace talks failed, the mage and templar rebellions would be brought to an end by the sword. so in a version of events where the inquisition was called to do just that... why wouldn’t she still be on board? josie has no approval bar and will never leave or lessen her support no matter how you abuse your power. what does that look like when it’s not the player whose side she’s on?

villain josie should be exactly the josie you know & love: the brilliant and talented noblewoman adored by all, effortlessly kind and polite in all her interactions, who hates the sight of violence. convinced by her old friend leliana that this is an exciting, worthy cause and the quickest way to peace for thedas, determined to make her mark on history and reverse her family’s fortunes, ably dismissing all rumours about the inquisition’s atrocities and sure that they are just rumours. she’s no less dangerous or less to blame than any other enemy because she does her work at a desk with clean hands. her quest can go down a few different ways but to recruit her you must truly confront her with the reality of what she’s been helping the inquisition do

(obviously there’s still a romance option. how could there NOT be a romance option when you finally go head to head at the winter palace with the chess master who’s always been one step ahead of you, and she’s the most beautiful woman you’ve ever seen. and she’s a villain now so her outfit design is peak. and naturally you’re required to dance with tension crackling between you and afterwards when her perfectly professional letters arrive you’re sure they smell faintly of the perfume she wore that night. there’s still a duel somehow. these things are essential.)

[ozzgin]

Yandere!Yokai Harem Character Guide

Introducing some of the characters Reader will encounter throughout the story. Get to know your monsters in this handy reference booklet!

Fun fact: The names of the characters are quite literally chapters from ‘The Tale of Genji’, one of the earliest existing novels written in the Heian period by noblewoman Murasaki Shibiku. Kiritsubo and Murasaki are your closest companions and bear the names of the main female characters of the story. (They’re men. A little irony.)

The list will be updated as more characters are revealed:

Abe no Nakamaro 阿倍 仲麻呂

Descendant of famous onmyōji Abe no Seimei, Nakamaro rapidly built his own reputation using the powers of yokai he'd captured across the country. His binding powers have yet to be deciphered. It is believed only his own blood can break the contract forged with the legendary beasts.

Known for his ruthlessness, Nakamaro was feared by humans and demons alike. His commissioned portraits often depict him surrounded by dark clouds - a signature detail - emphasizing his evil nature.

As you progress through your journey, you will be plagued by many flashbacks of his cruel deeds. It's almost as if your own hands are tainted by the blood of the yokai standing before you. You vow to free the beasts and prove you are nothing like the vile creature dwelling within your soul.

Kiritsubo 桐壺

The first yokai you encounter. Despite his intimidating appearance, he is the kindest of the group. He is tall and very muscular, with short, straight horns, long silver hair and glowing amber eyes. When he smiles you can spot his sharp, prominent fangs. He has multiple scars on his back, reminiscent of old punishments.

He is a dragon spirit, although his true powers remain unknown. Nakamaro always kept him close and was particularly strict with him, hoping to unlock his dormant potential, to no avail. He begins to show improvement once he embarks on his journey with you. It seems that his desire to protect his new owner was the secret all along.

Kiritsubo is extremely clingy once he gets to know you better. You're kind and patient and nothing like the famous onmyōji before you. He almost can't believe you're part of his reincarnation. He will follow you around everywhere, like a loyal dog, and might be overly touchy sometimes. He can't help it.

Murasaki 紫

Murasaki is the second yokai you meet. He is tall and slender, with long black hair and imposing horns. His deep crimson eyes hold a lot of resentment towards you, or rather whoever lies within you. Despite this, he always holds a disciplined posture and acts very well-mannered.

He used to be Nakamaro's right hand. He is considered to be the most skilled among the legendary yokai. A master of the sword and possessing unmatched intelligence, he served both as an advisor and bodyguard. Always cold and calculated, he rarely shows any hint of emotion. He seems to be quite sarcastic and arrogant.

He doesn't interact much with you in the beginning. In fact, he's most annoyed by the idea of partnering up with a weak human like you. He offers to train you with the sword and teaches you spells and prayers. Despite his complaints, he always protects you from any danger. As you spend more time together, he slowly opens up and might even show signs of attachment.

Suma 須磨

Suma is the biggest of the legendary yokai, towering over everyone with his gargantuan frame. He has bright red hair and large bull horns, with robust features and fierce eyes. He has many tattoos covering his body, going all the way up to his chin.

Suma is a worshipped guardian of war. He lives for battle and is said to reward bravery and courage. Despite this, he has a very approachable personality. He is loud and easygoing, rarely showing signs of distress. He uses a spear when fighting, although he prefers his bare hands. Brute strength is his specialty.

He finds it hilarious that the feared Abe no Nakamaro has been reincarnated into a small girl. He will often joke around with you and challenge you to playfights. When borrowing his powers, you are able to display impressive feats of physical strength. He likes watching you fight and encourages you to train.

Yuugiri 夕霧

Yuugiri is a mysterious yokai. He is pale with rather feminine features, appearing androgynous. He is very elegant and well spoken, although both Kiritsubo and Murasaki have warned you to be wary of him.

He is a serpent spirit, sly and manipulative. He is known for tricking humans and devouring their souls, yet very few can tell his true nature. He is incredibly charismatic and many people fall in love with him, meeting their early demise.

You cannot read him and therefore keep your distance. His twisted smile never leaves his face. He is very interested in you and while his reasoning might be superficial in the beginning, he does become rather attached and tries to prove his honest feelings to you.

Warning: Spoilers ahead!

Sekiya 関屋

One of the yokai that has remained by Abe no Nakamaro's side, in his resting tomb. He is the one that kept his presence concealed, casting a barrier around the temple for the entirety of his master's slumber.

His main power is casting barriers. Sekiya is the one that guards the entrance and guides you towards the onmyōji for your battle. Once you defeat Nakamaro, he joins your group.

He is very reserved, shy and insecure. He cannot fight properly and often bemoans his lack of purpose. Like Kiritsubo, he falls in love with your kind nature and clings to you, hoping to be of use.

Sakaki 榊

The other yokai to guard Nakamaro's tomb, Sakaki has been tasked to keep his master alive.

He has the ability to heal and even revive under certain circumstances. After your fight against Abe no Nakamaro, he offers to heal your fatal wounds and joins your group.

Sakaki is rather gloomy and depressed by nature. He has an unhealthy obsession with death and often makes grim or unusual remarks. He considers you his muse and will sometimes write unsettling poetry dedicated to you.

[aiza-luna]

Assassin's Creed Syndicate - Sanctity: Lady Serena Hélène Josefina Cotoner-Artois

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Portrait of Serena Cotoner in 1867. Member of the Cotoner Family of Assassins, Signora di Monteforte Irpino and one of the most talented Swordwoman of her country, some dare say even from her time.

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Youngest daughter of Carlos Rafael Cotoner y Moncada, Conde de Tortosa and his wife, Aimée Isabelle Henriette Artois. She was the younger sister of the Master Assassin Solange Cotoner and descendent of the Legendary Spanish Mentor Renato Valentino Cotoner.

HELLO EVERYONE!! I'M BACK!!

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This time around, I came back to show you all a drawing of my OC: Serena! Solange's younger sister and a member of the Spanish Brotherhood of Assassins (although she is not an Assassin herself yet).

Fiancé to Leopoldo di Sanseverino, a descendent of Ezio Auditore da Firenze himself, Serena had Assassins blood on her veins for generations, much like her sister! An active ally to the Spanish Brotherhood, she is a woman of inteligence, charisma, charms and fun.

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A proper lady that hides a fierce spirit and a call of adventure, she is good-humoured, up-spirited and bright, bringing attention to where she goes, like a gracious swan floating in a lake.

Jacob delights with his sister-in-law, both being the younger sibilings and being prone to chaos lol

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Despite everything, Serena is a great ally and support, a caring woman that cherishes her Family dearly, adores her fiancé and is her sister's best friend, both supporting each other and each other's quirks despite social pressure. 🦢🩵

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This art was made for an Art Trade, the part of my friend @gabmik ! She drew Serena and I drew her OC, my part being posted on my Instagram. 🫶🏽

Thank you so, so much dear, for being the first one to bring Serena to life!! She looks more than perfect in your style!! 🥹🩵

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That's all for today! Hope you guys like it! See you soon 🧜🏽‍♀️🩵

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Lady Serena Hélène Josefina Cotoner-Artois by @aiza-luna

Drawing by @gabmik

Assassin's Creed Syndicate by @/Ubisoft.

[lanabuckybarnes]

| Lady Blue |

Falling in love with your best friend wasn't something you ever anticipated, you had a role to fulfil and your hand was sold. Yet your heart longed for him.

✧Pairing✧ Knight!Steve Rogers x Princess!Reader (Fem)

✧Warnings✧ Fluff, A Little Angst, Talks of Arranged marriage, John Walker (ew), Name Calling, like the teeniest bit of violence, Hurt, Brief mention of injury, Sweet ending

✧Word Count✧ 2.1k

✧Author Note ✧ I WROTE SOMETHING THAT ISNT SMUT!! — happy birthday Stevie Rogers 🥳

You don’t know when it happened, when that little crush became something more, when the hugs became intimate and the kisses were on the lips rather than on the cheeks.

Steve Rogers, your best friend. You’d been born beds apart, your mother a queen and her best friend a noblewoman. You weren’t sure if they planned it or it was fate but they both ended up with child and gave birth almost exactly on the same day.

Steve was headstrong, and a leader. He always made sure you were safe and protected, it was cute how doting he was because ‘he was older’. You were quick to comment how it was only by a few hours.

You were inseparable as kids, spending most of your time in the fields of blue flowers that decorated the walk to the large castle. It’s how you earned the name, Lady Blue - a flower crown of blue atop your head always.

Your infatuation grew for him as you aged into a teen, you weren’t around each other as much because of duties taking up most of your time but you remembered something about absence making the heart grow fonder and you could attest to that.

Steve was away most of the time on the other end of the city, training in the ring to become a knight, his dream. You were stuck in the palace, studying history and languages to be a great queen although you spent much of your time staring out of the window and imagining you and Steve doing the same things you did as kids. Living.

You lied.

You remember exactly when it happened.

Steve's graduation, he finally wore his purple cloak and had his royal etched sword around his hip. Drinks flowed left and right, the night filled with laughter and singing, all muffled behind the thick glass doors leading out to the courtyard where you and Steve sat watching the birds bathe in the fountain.

“How was it?” You asked, both hands soothing over his larger, calloused one, running over each scar and healing wound he donned.

He breathed out slowly, as though you were one of the small birds that he had to tiptoe around so he didn’t scare them off. He knew that you would never be scared of him but he couldn’t shake that feeling, you were so dainty beside him. To think that once upon a time you were a head taller than him.

“It was fine, made some friends” he nodded off to a pair of iron-clad men clinging to each other singing an old folk tune. “Sam and Bucky, they’re wild but they are good guys.”

The air around you thickened if it were possible, something going unsaid between you two, a rope pulled taut that threatened to snap. Steve’s eyes studied you, thoroughly enjoying the sight of you by his side. You looked beautiful, eyes twinkling in the moonlight as your eyes returned to the fountain, your hair shining. You had grown up and become such a beautiful soul that he knew you were.

“I missed you.”

“Hm?” You looked up at him, confusion and curiosity carved onto your features.

“I thought of you all the time being out there, when it got tough and I needed some of those princess bear hugs you gave me” You giggled at his words, bringing about his chuckle. Your knees knocked as you leaned closer, resting your head against his shoulder.

“I missed you too Stevie.”

“Princess” he murmured after a moment, taking a few deep breaths to quieten his pounding heart, although when he looked down at you it skipped beat after beat anyway.

“Ser Rogers” you teased with a cheeky smirk, the sparkle in your hues growing as you almost challenged him to speak. I dare you, your eyes cried out to him.

Steve was never one to back down from a dare.

His lips were on yours before you could even think, embracing yours in a way that left you dizzy before shocking you into action and kissing back with the same ferocity.

Snap, that rope between you broke.

After that night you’d both chosen to keep your love a secret, your father was strict and unforgiving, he would not stand for his daughter dating someone lower than a future heir despite it not being your choice. Even years later, both of you adults still sneaked around like you did when you were teens.

Your door shook with heavy knocks, Ser Barnes’ voice booming from the other end.

“My Princess, the King wishes to see you at once.”

You groaned and let your eyes fall shut again until soft kisses trailing up your shoulder and neck brought a smile upon your face.

“Come on Lady Blue, can’t disappoint Father now” he joked, deep voice raspy from sleep, vibrating against your ear.

Even after all these years each moment you spent with him felt like you were falling in love with him for the first time, diving straight off the deep end and into your sheets with him.

You stood, helping him into his gear so he could slink off and allow your handmaidens in to help you dress.

“I love you” he whispered into the top of your head, placing a chaste kiss there before tilting your chin up to slant his lips against your own. Despite the shortness of it, you were left breathless when he parted, turning on his heel professionally and making his exit.

A ball of dread settled in your stomach at the thought of today’s meeting with your father. For months now he’d been adamant that you were to be married by the end of the year and set about finding suitors, each time you rejected them he’d bring up another. But you loved Steve too much.

You knew it wouldn’t last forever, it couldn’t. You were noble, bound to marry a prince and join two kingdoms in matrimony. He was a knight, he swore an oath to protect you from harm, nothing more.

All of that knowledge didn’t help it hurt any less when you stepped into the throne room, your eyes landing on potentially the worst prince your father had brought to you yet.

The king from the neighbouring place and his son, John Walker. A self-proclaimed prophet that was bound to rule all over the land.

“You will marry Prince John Walker” your father announced, the smug sneer on the prince’s face had you wishing you’d had breakfast before coming here so you could have something in your stomach to throw up.

You were bound to marry a pompous, arrogant, narcissistic man and leave the man who’d loved you since day dot.

You wouldn’t stand for it.

“I will not marry John” You challenged, something you’d only done a handful of times in your life. Your father’s nostrils flared, his jaw clenching and eyes wild.

“Excuse me?”

“I will not marry him” You repeated.

“You don’t have a choice young lady” he rose from his throne, stomping down the steps until his face was in yours. Your legs wobbled as you tried to stand your ground against your father's presence.

“You will marry Prince Walker, you will join our kingdoms and you will bear his heirs, I am sick of you rejecting everyone I introduce you to so I made the decision myself.”

“I won’t” you yelled this time, hurt and angry bubbling into rage “because I love another.”

The words slipped out your mouth, your hand slapping around your face far too slow to catch them.

The room fell silent. Pin drop silent. Steve stood at the entrance of the hall, head hung low to hide the reddening of his face, his hands clamping into fists at his side.

“Who?” Your father’s hand clamped onto your chin, your jaw throbbing in pain at the hold.

“Ser Rogers” you hissed, falling into a pile of clothes and pain when your father’s hand let you go.

“You wench!” he spat in disgust.

You tried to argue, tried to plead with your father but he shrugged you off.

“Ser Barnes, take my daughter back to her room, I want some time with Ser Rogers. Alone.”

You didn’t struggle as Ser Barnes picked you up from the floor, hoisting you over his shoulder. You couldn’t even look at Steve when you walked by.

Ser Barnes set you down on your bed softly, patting the top of your head as you stared off into space, tears rolling down your cheeks. He left and came back with a small glass of water and a muffin which you refused to eat.

Once Bucky left you crawled up to the head of your bed, stuffing your face into your pillow and staining it with black from your mascara. Your door was on constant watch in case you got any big ideas. The Blue Daisy’s had bloomed but you couldn’t leave, you weren’t allowed to leave.

As day turned into night you shifted to look out at the setting sun. Your dinner lay untouched on your table, your focus set firmly on the world outside, families rushing to pack up their markets before the evening rain.

“Lady Blue” you recognised the voice.

“Bucky?”

“Can I come in?” He asked. You hummed your confirmation and the huge brunette slipped in.

“Steve—he’s being shipped off. Tonight.” He explained his stormy eyes on you, watching you process the information.

“So what? It’s not like I can stop it” You answered bitterly, a shell of the woman you usually were. There was no hint of cheer or teasing in your tone like there once was, it had all been left in that throne room.

You took note of his heavy sigh before he inched further into the room, Only then did you gaze up at him. In his hands was a set of clothes, the kind commoners wore along with a large black cloak and a purple velvet pouch.

“Do you love him?” He asked, eyes searching yours.

“More than anything” you replied without hesitation.

“Then we better move.”

“W-what do you mean?” You stood, head tilted and brows furrowed. You just barely caught the clothes that Bucky threw at you.

“His ship leaves in an hour, if you don’t hurry and get changed we’ll miss it”.

You could’ve kissed Bucky.

The shipyards reeked of fish and shit, but you couldn’t care about that. Not now. Hopping off of Bucky’s white steed you pat its neck before looking up at him.

“Thank you, Buck, I don’t know how I can repay you.”

He smiled, taking your hand in his and kissing your knuckles.

“You can get on that ship and live your life Lady Blue. I’ll see you soon” he flashed you one of his pearly white smiles and turned the horse, setting off the way he’d come.

You darted onto the ship, eyes scanning the faces of workers and guests until they fell on the man that you were doing all of this for. Any doubt that boiled in your stomach melted away leaving only one thing remaining, that deep love that Steve gave you. He didn’t turn until you were standing in front of him.

“Princess?” his shocked voice sounded as he looked up at you. He looked tired, his skin pale and a nasty bruise was forming over his cheekbone. No doubt thanks to your father.

“I’m here” you squeaked as he pulled you down into his arms, his warm body and vanilla scent putting you at ease instantly despite the incessant rocking of the ship.

“You're here” he replied, words vibrating against your hairline before he tilted your chin up and stole your lips in a kiss. Just like he had stolen your heart.

“So you do that…yep and then you twist the stalk around…that’s it!!” You cheered as your son finally wrapped the flower correctly, his big blue eyes almost disappearing behind his lids as he squealed in excitement.

“What’s all the yelling about huh?” Steve emerged, tanned skin glowing, covered in a layer of sweat and dirt, an axe resting over his shoulder.

“Daddy look” your son preened, raising the bundle of blue flowers high in the air so the blonde could see.

“Ahhh is Mama teaching you her old tricks huh?” He smiled, kneeling to place a soft kiss on his forehead before doing the same to you.

“Mhmm gotta make sure he can help me every year, isn’t that right baby?” You plopped your finished flower crown onto Steve’s head before ruffling your son's curly locks.

Despite the running, the fighting and the endless struggle to get to where you were now, you could say you’d do it all again to be sat between your handsome husband and his doppelgänger son—in a field of blue daisies. You would do it all again to be home.

I DO NOT give permission to have my work copied, translated or reposted. If you see my work anywhere else except on this page I have not given consent for it to be used.

Comments, Reblogs, Likes & Asks are always appreciated, although if you liked this fic please consider reblogging so it can reach a wider audience. They let me know that you are enjoying what you read and give me motivation to write more.

Thanks for reading~

[jollmaster]

Asileverse!AU: Carmilla Carmine, queen of swords ⚔️

Burgundian noblewoman from XVth ct., named after Our Lady of Carmel

as a young girl, she dreamed of swinging a sword and practiced secretly, but one day Carmilla unintentionally cut her face, after which father forbade daughter to use a sword and soon found her a wealthy husband; marriage wasn't made for love, but Carmilla had no aversion to this lad and they became good friends

servants respected this lady very much

Carmilla became pregnant several times, but the only child she gave birth to was Odette

after childbirth and illness Carmilla lost hair (this sometimes happened to noblewomen of the time), and then she always wore white hennin

Clara was husband's daughter by one Moorish woman, from affair (he wasn't going to recognize her, but Carmilla took girl to the castle, christened her and raised as her own baby)

died in the Burgundian Wars (1474-1477 A.D.)

husband was killed on the battlefield, Carmilla stayed in the castle with all men and women and even took command of the defenses, but unfortunately their castle has been overrun

when Carmilla realized they had lost the battle, she performed a mercy killing on daughters to keep them from being captured (Odette was sixteen and half, Clara was a year younger), and then killed herself

she became one of the MOST ruthless exorcists, and she was an exorcist during the several centuries

art special for @anonymous-455, I couldn't resist the suggestion to draw beautiful woman with naked breasts

[khattikeri]

one of my favorite things about mdzs is that for how heavily its plot involves politics of classism and misogyny... even the characters most directly impacted by it can't and don't free themselves from it. literally the closest exception is mianmian.

meng yao being the "son of a whore" wasn't some sort of commie awakening for him that led him to wanting everyone to be socially equal. he played the political game, climbed the ladders, sucked up to and backstabbed and murdered people, including other prostitutes who actually had nothing to do with how he and his mother were treated at the brothel he grew up in.

he put in so much extra excessive effort for even a fraction of the same respect that members of gentry cultivation clans got. and he did deserve to be treated more humanely! but he feeds into the exact same system that created him, leading to his own undoing.

his efforts were for a fragile upward mobility that was never going to hold up. he never surpassed his origins nor did he empower others in similar stations, because the society he lives in is not one that would accept that.

the second he got caught and all those crimes exposed, he was scapegoated to hell and back, replacing wei wuxian as society's terrible one-sidedly evil boogeyman overnight.

speaking of not-quite male gentry, i think it's interesting that wei wuxian explicitly doesn't try to climb the ladders in BOTH lives, knowing full well that anything he does will be punished just for the sheer fact that he is wei wuxian.

wei wuxian is scolded for giving intelligent and correct answers in school. lan wangji does the same and is praised.

wei wuxian occasionally lounges around with fellow disciples and is punished. jiang cheng does the same and mostly escapes.

wei wuxian refuses to carry his sword around in public (after losing his golden core, which nobody knows) and is scorned as an arrogant upstart. nie huaisang has been doing the EXACT SAME THING for YEARS and nobody bats an eye.

unlike jin guangyao, wei wuxian knew subconsciously from the start that his acceptance was superficial and that he could be cast out any time. when he was 10 and recently taken in by the jiangs, he canonically would not eat or use "too much" food and water because he thought they'd find him a nuisance for "wasting their things" and kick him back out.

now away from just the classism, yu ziyuan is a proud and strong noblewoman in a society that belittles and derides women for everything they do. her strong cultivation doesn't matter. she's victim to the vicious rumors of her husband loving another woman who is strong like her but apparently had a more likeable personality.

it doesn't matter even if jiang fengmian didn't cheat or that wei wuxian is wei changze's son with cangse sanren; yu ziyuan can't bear with the humiliation of herself (and by extension her children) not being "good enough". she's ridiculed for "failing" in that one duty as a wife, mother, and woman.

she lashes out and takes out that anger on everyone present for years, giving her children lasting trauma and also being a key element in how the jiang family and yunmeng jiang sect are effectively wiped out at the hands of the wen clan.

madam jin doesn't even have a name outside of the fact that she's married to jin guangshan. i don't even remember reading anything that indicates if she's a strong or weak cultivator, or what, which in itself proves that to most people, it doesn't matter. she's "just" a woman.

of course she's angry at her husband's affairs and all the bastard children they bring in. but she also can't do anything about them, so she lashes out at the few people she can: servants. non-cultivators, probably. those very same bastard children.

shoutout to meng yao getting shoved down a flight of stairs at age fourteen, because if madam jin tried that move against her husband instead, it would make her lose even more face, which as a noblewoman she'd never do.

and that's not getting into how jiang yanli is consistently sidelined for being physically weak.

that's not getting into how mianmian was actually a good cultivator, but was mocked by everyone around her for trying to stand up for wei wuxian when everyone was turning on him. how everyone scoffed at luo qingyang's words as "just some lovesick woman" who "obviously wants to marry or bed him since he saved her".

luo qingyang is the only one of these characters who HASN'T died. she didn't play society's games like jin guangyao. she didn't dig her heels in confidence of her own abilities like wei wuxian.

she didn't bitterly lash out like yu ziyuan and madam jin. she didn't gently accept it like jiang yanli.

she just LEFT.

she married an ordinary merchant and cultivates separately from mainstream cultivation society, and therein found her own peace and happiness.

mxtx doesn't bother with particularly class conscious or feminist vocabulary to hand-hold readers into understanding these disparities, but that choice highlights them & the deeply entrenched politics of their society even more. i really love it.

[suzannahnatters]

Many people have asked me why I say THE RINGS OF POWER is far more faithful to the spirit of Tolkien’s work than the Peter Jackson films. Let me explain. No, there is too much. Let me sum up.

(Warning: if you deeply love the Jackson movies, feel free not to read this. I’ve been meditating on this for 20+ years. You are not going to argue me out of any of it.)

FIRST – Jackson is, how shall we put it, not sufficiently familiar with Tolkien or his influences. He repeatedly and stubbornly made mistakes both large and small. Tolkien was a master of medieval military tactics. Jackson... is not. Every military decision taken by the characters in Jackson’s TWO TOWERS is pure stupidity. In Jackson’s RETURN OF THE KING, Aragorn casually beheads the Mouth of Sauron, which is a war crime, since the Mouth is Sauron’s ambassador. Jackson’s Eowyn tries to flirt with Aragorn by cooking him stew, even though she is a noblewoman from the warrior class who was raised to act as a civil and military leader in a medieval-coded society where cooking is not intrinsically linked to femininity. Jackson’s Theoden, grieving over the death of his son, utters the words “No parent should have to grieve the death of their child,” which is the kind of sentiment only imaginable in a society where infant mortality and death in battle is a good deal rarer than among the Anglo-Saxon Cossacks during the War of the Rings. Jackson’s Dwarf women are reduced to a punchline; Tolkien’s were miners, craftspeople and adventurers in their own right.

I won’t go on. BUT I COULD.

SECOND – One problem that by itself ought to have disqualified Jackson from adapting Tolkien, is that he is incapable of depicting or even understanding goodness the way Tolkien does. This deeply pervades all Jackson’s films. Jackson’s idea of goodness is ethereal, anaemic, and ineffective before gross and creepy evil. His Elves are not the vivid, passionate, hearty warriors Tolkien wrote: they pluck mistily at harps and feed on spinach. (TROP has Galadriel scaling frozen cliffs and Elrond splitting boulders. That’s FAR more like it).

Tolkien insisted on the concept of Faerie as being foundational to his work. This is a difficult concept to explain. It meant the beauty and glory of Valinor, yes. But it also meant an element of otherworldly, yet immanent, beauty and glory in Middle Earth itself. This is a good summary:

“Faerie may be roughly translated as Magic, but not the vulgar magic of the magician; it is rather magic "of a particular mood and power," and it does not have its end in itself but in its operations. Among these operations are "the satisfaction of certain primordial human desires" such as the desire "to survey the depths of space and time" and the desire "to hold communion with other living things."” (Source: https://www.ewtn.com/.../tolkien-and-the-fairy-story-4094)

When Lewis said of THE LORD OF THE RINGS, “here are beauties that pierce like swords”, that’s that he meant. Peter Jackson had no sense of Faerie. When, at the end of his trilogy, he has his characters get on a ship to go to the Undying Lands, he makes it a metaphor for death. Death! Tollkien’s Valinor isn’t the afterlife; it’s the earthly paradise of his world. Jackson cannot imagine an earthly or material locus of goodness.

This affects many of his narrative decisions. In the book Faramir resists the temptation of the Ring handily. Jackson’s Faramir succumbs to the power of the Ring and has to be scared straight. Jackson justified this by saying that Faramir needed to fall to the Ring’s temptation so that it remained an effective narrative threat. Basically, having failed to grasp the importance of Tolkien’s vision of powerful and present goodness and beauty in the first place, Jackson believed he needed to further degrade it for the sake of the story.

Obviously, THE RINGS OF POWER isn’t perfect, and still has plenty of time to betray its early promise. However, so far its showrunners appear to have a far better grasp of Faerie, beauty, and goodness than Jackson ever did. Its vision of Valinor is ineffably beautiful while still home to flawed living people. Its Elves are noble, ceremonious, dignified, warm, and grave. It is also actively pursuing Tolkien’s original themes. Elanor has a discussion of Providence that contains intentional echoes of “The Shadow of the Past” in LOTR, but there are also meditations on art and mortality that show an attempt to engage with themes Tolkien himself said were foundational to his entire work (Letter #131). These themes may yet be mishandled: but THE RINGS OF POWER has clearly at least READ the assignment. (Jackson’s films, by comparison, did dumb stuff like having Theoden, who in the books is simply dealing with depression, be literally possessed by Saruman and in need of exorcism “because exorcism is a Catholic thing and Tolkien was a Catholic, lol!”)

Jackson didn’t completely obscure the beauty and goodness of Tolkien, and I’m aware that THE RINGS OF POWER could not have happened without his pioneering and often sacrificial work in adapting the story to screen. I don’t want to discount the things that are good about his intentions, his work, and his love for the source material. But watching THE RINGS OF POWER was the moment when 20 years of frustration boiled over as I realised that, contrary to what I’d always told myself, it WAS possible to do Tolkien more justice than this. So far, I’m very pleased, and I’ll be waiting for future seasons with bated breath.

[tethys-the-aquatic-sea-godness]

Sarevok's image in Baldur's Gate and how he uses it

Among the numerous misrepresentations of Sarevok's character in BG3, is how he came into power. Of course, properly showing that would also show that the new villain's great master plan is just a rip-off of his, but let's ignore that. Obviously, Sarevok's stunt in Baldur's Gate becomes infamous, and he, rightfully, doesn't have a good rep in the city. That being said, it wasn't always the case, yet all you'll see in BG 3 is a brutish villain that only knows violence and 'mURdEr'. Yes, spelled like that, yes.

More rambling under the cut.

The thing was that, prior to Charname exposing his plan, Sarevok had become truly popular in Baldur's Gate. Let's remember the set-up back then. The Iron Throne is a shady mercantile organisation from Sembia. A new western division is trying to take root in the Sword Coast, led by Rieltar Anchev.

Their plan goes as follow: they aim to create a misinformation campaign to blame the Zhentarim for all the troubles in the region. They worsen tensions between the governments of Baldur's Gate and Amn. With iron being the most important resource in a war, the Baldurian government has to go to them in order to get any. The Iron Throne has disrupted all the iron trade through the region using the Blacktalon mercenaries and the Chill. The only known iron mine in the region is at Nashkel, and the Iron Throne has effectively crippled it. They have their own mine operating in Cloakwood. When the Baldurian government comes to them for iron, they will be able to make exorbitant trading demands, and thus become the preeminent trading power in this region.

(Yes, this is copy-pasted from the dialogue you can get from the charmed Iron Throne leaders, what can I say, it's a good recap)

So, that's Rieltar's plan to settle the Iron Throne in the region, a plan Sarevok will hijack in several ways. He intends to kill Rieltar and the other two leaders, and while the Iron Throne didn't intend to actually start a war, only increase tensions, Sarevok thinks that a massacre on a godlike scale can ascend him to godhood. That plan of Sarevok also requires him being named Grand Duke, and thus becoming sole leader of Baldur's Gate once he's eliminated the others (yes, the more you know, the more it sounds like someone in BG3's act 3 copy-pasted this plan for his own takeover, hush). This part of his plan required Sarevok to build a positive public image in Baldur's Gate, so the nobles would want him to be grand duke (despite being a newcomer from a Sembian trade group). That wasn't an easy task. The Iron Throne has a bad reputation even before Rieltar's iron plot. It's a known fact they're more a criminal organization than a trading organisation, so people are less likely to deal with them, unless, as Rieltar's planned, they don't have a choice anymore. However, Sarevok doesn't wait for his father's plan to be completed before he starts building relations with the ruling class of the city.

When you first get to Baldur's Gate, various npc inform you of the, mostly, positive image Sarevok has built for himself. That's something even Gorion's ward points out in their own journal entries.

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1: "Nobleman: Those Iron Throne fellows are quite the secretive bunch. Sarevok, the foster son of their leader, is quite the charmer, though."

2: "Journal entry by Charname: Sarevok, son of one of the Iron Throne's leaders, has become increasingly popular in Baldur's Gate."

3: "Noblewoman: From what I've heard, the new man with the Iron Throne, Sarevok, is an unmarried man. I plan to change that."

Love the last one.

So, Sarevok is very popular in the city, even though there are some who disagree, they're not the majority. Most people who aren't as fond of Sarevok are among the commoners, and I would argue that's because they weren't the target audience of his PR campaign. Sarevok needs the nobles' vote to be Grand Duke, so they are the ones he wants on his side. The popular vote is only a bonus.

It's also important to notice he's improving his popularity, not the popularity of the Iron Throne.

He still has popularity among the lower class, and that only increases when you near the game's end.

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4: "Commoner: I think it's about time we took the fight to them [Amn], and Sarevok is the man to lead us."

5: "Commoner: I don't know what them nobles see in that Sarevok fella, but he's something darker, that's for certain."

6: "Commoner: That Sarevok is going to make everything all right again."

7: "Nobleman: An election of sorts has been called because we cannot be without a full governement in these dangerous times. I hear Sarevok is a frontrunner in this matter."

8: "Noblewoman: Entar Silvershield's death was a tragic blow, but with Sarevok stepping in I feel a true sense of hope."

9: "Journal entry by Charname: With the murder of Grand Duke Entar Silvershield, Sarevok is poised to gain control. The people love him."

10: "Noblewoman: Such people would not dare to show their faces in Baldur's Gate, not now that Sarevok and Angelo Dosan control the Flaming Fist. Order will be enforced, more so once Sarevok is appointed as a Grand Duke. I shall have little to fear of the streets once that comes to pass."

11: "Journal entry by Charname: The nobility is especially approving of Sarevok and Angelo Dosan being in control of the Flaming Fist."

12: "Nobleman: He's [Sarevok] making a lot of friends, and I bet he will be nominated to replace poor entar as Grand Duke."

13: "Noblewomen: It is a good time to be of the nobility. Sarevok has ensured us all that order will be restored in this region, whatever the cost."

14: "Journal entry by Charname: The nobility are especially welcoming of Sarevok and his hard stance against Amn."

15: "Nobleman: Sarevok seems like a man who gets things done."

16: "Sir Lothtyran: Personally, I think he'll [Sarevok] do wonderfully."

17: "Brennan Risling: That's why we need Sarevok as Grand Duke, for he'd take the resources from the Iron Throne and' assist us."

18: "Journal entry by Charname: It is good to know that not everyone in this city has fallen in love with the hardliner Sarevok."

Sarevok doesn't have everyone's approval, but he has more than enough to take over the city. Obviously, the mood changes once his plot to drag both governments into war is revealed.

But you know what? Even then, he still has some popularity.

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19: "Commoner: He was such a handsome one, such a shame he had ta go and do that."

random commoner woman: if evil, why hot?

In conclusion: Sarevok almost took over Baldur's Gate and the whole Sword Coast with covert force and was almost lawfully elected Grand Duke of Baldur's Gate thanks to the popularity he cultivated within the city. That was possible thanks to two things. One, it's safe to say that Sarevok can be charismatic and charming when he wishes to be, even though, according to Diarmid, another one of the mercenaries working for him, "[...] subtlety is something that doesn't quite comes naturally to him. He doesn't have the patience for it, though his mind is amazingly tactical".

In his BG2 banter, you also learn he's not overly fond of being around people. That means this entire schmooze fest he did to boost his popularity took serious effort on his part, and it paid off. It was a trial of patience for a man who isn't known to be patient, or at least, not patient for niceties. He can prove very patient for the sake of a plan. We're talking about a character who has had to wait years before he got the opportunity to take revenge on his father for his mother's murder, and a way to get away with it. Sarevok may not enjoy being patient, but is definitely familiar with the practice.

The second reason is that, well, he's hot. I'm not the one saying it, the women (and men, you know there had to be men too) thirsting over him are saying it. They're bound to be disappointed, because while he's not married, he's definitely not single. Anyway, being hot, not something to underestimate. He gets pretty privilege.

To be a bit more serious, while impatient, Sarevok is described as having an "amazingly tactical" mind. This is something you clearly see in his takeover of Rieltar's plan, and manipulation of public opinion. Yes, Sarevok's plan involves various murders, but it's a tool, not an end in itself. He's even careful to have specific murders look like 'robbery gone wrong' or 'mysterious disease strikes'. He has assassins do the killing for him so he can't be directly linked to it. Sarevok is a strategist, whose plans involve a lot more than just 'killing'.

It is a part of his characterization BG 3 abysmally fails to show.

[thekinslayed]

Humble Servant

summary | Working under the service of king Aemond Targaryen, you were eager to attend to his every need.

pairing | king!aemond targaryen x servant!reader

tags | 18+, MINORS DNI! oral (m), heavy voyeurism, unprotected sex, aemond is in his medieval fuckboy era, squirting, book!aemond-leaning, oral (f), KING AEMOND 😮‍💨

wordcount | 4.2k

note | trying to fight thru the writer's block but this writer's block got hands 😵‍💫 but it won't stope me from being at the forefront of the Aemond's Got Bitches agenda!!

likes, comments, reblogs are much appreciated! (divider graphic is from this website)

As the smoke cleared at the end of the dragons’ dance, Aemond the Kinslayer emerged as the sole victor of the tumultuous war. A brother scarred and poisoned, a half-sister eaten alive, a mother driven to madness. It was clear that the Iron Throne was his to claim. None else was suited for it more than he. His prowess was proven, his wit unmatched, and his dragon indestructible. The one-eyed Targaryen managed to subdue the ravenous Wolf, had the Sea Snake sue for peace before driving his sword through his heart, and sent the pretender’s younglings to forge their chains at the Citadel. With no other forces questioning his claim, Aemond One-Eye made himself King. 

No other Targaryen had come into this much power since Maegor the Cruel, though history would find it befitting for such a cycle to propagate with him.

You were there for it all. From the taking of little Jaehaerys’ head, the return of a burnt king, to the fall of King’s Landing, you were there. The history books would not write your name down in its pages, no, you held no part in it. You were merely a shadow, a humble servant whose head hung low in the presence of nobility. It had always been this way, and it always will be. 

It was a curious thing, wasn’t it? The better part of your lowly life had been spent in the Keep’s walls, just like any other royal, yet you were as significant as a fly on the wall of their lavish tapestries. Where they feasted on the finest game and freshest berries, you ate what was left on their plates, bones and all. Though despite it all, you dared not question your station. 

Any semblance of importance to your name came when you had been tasked with attending to the king’s chambers. The first steps you had taken towards the royal apartments made your tummy feel fluttery, nerves jittery with a rambling agitation.

Despite his status and authority, there was little fuss under the new king’s service. He was clean, tidy, a man of good manners. Aemond let his servants do his work when needed, spending most of his time out of his chambers anyway. And on the off-chance you managed to be in the same vicinity, he would only spare you as little as a blink, or a low grumble of instruction. You were invisible, while he was the center around which your day revolved. Such was the order of things.

It had become customary to keep your head low and your hands busy despite the king’s presence. Be it while he supped, read, or entertained his lady guests. 

The one-eyed king, once a prince, used to be such a stickler for propriety. While Aegon II was known for his ways of women and wine, Aemond was of honor and pride. Such things were beneath him. Until he became king.

With the heavy steel crown seated upon his brow, he’d let himself indulge. Many a woman was invited to warm his bed, be it a servant, a noblewoman… or a bastard witch, according to some. With his power came his freedom from inhibition and the caging rigidity of his self-control. With his glory, Aemond Targaryen had become gluttonous for the ways of the flesh.

“Keep movin’, lass,” Magda grumbled, balancing a hot bucket of water on her hip. This was the last trip of waddling up the stairs to Maegor’s Holdfast for the night, heaving pails for the king’s bath. He liked them particularly hot, fresh off the boil with steam billowing off the copper tub. You, Magda, and two other girls made haste to finish your work, equally eager to be done for the day and to escape the loud thumping coming from the king’s private bedchamber.

“This one’s a loud one, ain’t she?” brown-eyed Ilya snickered, busy with pouring Dornish herbal scented oils into the steaming bath. High-pitched oh, oh, oh!’s sang in rhythm with the bedframe’s pounding, echoed by an occasional deep groan that penetrated through the wooden doors separating the solar and the bedchamber. The lady’s voice only grew higher in pitch, like a wolf howling into the night. This must be the red-haired Tully you passed in the halls, or the Lannister from the feast, you weren’t sure.  

“Must be getting fuckin’ ripped in half,” said a grumpy Magda, clutching her back as she bent to pick up her pail. Her words pulled a giggle from the girls, who continued their work as usual.  You weren’t particularly unbothered like the rest of them, with the hairs on your neck raised from such a scandalous predicament. You strained your ear to hear more of the deeper, manlier grunts mixed into the elevated moans, cheeks steadily warming when you did. It made your gut feel swarmed by something inexplicable, your fingers tingly. You wondered what could it be that made the lady scream so loud in the king’s bed. Jon the stable boy certainly hadn’t made you howl as such on that one regretful night, with both of you dazed from many cups of mead. It was no passionate affair, rather, a blind stumbling in the darkness that ended with both of you rolling in the hay. Sure, it was alright, but it didn’t make you cry out like a banshee. It made you curious. 

With the last pail of water tipped into the tub, you followed the other servants out of the king’s solar. As the door behind you closed, you heard another one open, and it had taken all of your might to keep your head from turning to catch a peek at the silver-haired man.

You really thought yourself better, immune to it all, but you just couldn’t help yourself. Being at an arm’s width of the king’s proclivities had started to bother you, made your blood run hot the moment you stepped foot into his door. It had you seeing him in a different light. His scar and threatening aura may have once frightened you, but it allured you now. With his silky, waist-length hair and that trim waist, he was beautiful in ways that made you question whether he was a real being, or rather one of the Valyrian gods come down on to soil. His prolific skill with a sword was now written into song, but his strength in other endeavors was starting to make itself known. He must be one hell of a man to have all these women singing their songs of pleasure every night in his bed, and your curiosity had grown into a towering beast impossible to endure.

Maegor’s tunnels were less of a secret than the Targaryens ought it to be. The silver-haired royals weren’t the only ones wary of the passage, some servants and staff alike were privy to the winding paths that led to the ins and outs of the Keep. Years of work had granted you such knowledge, and on one restless night, you found yourself taking the sharp corners that led to the royal chambers. You had been dismissed for the day only an hour past, but an itch in your heel had you turning around and slipping into the dark passageways before anyone could see. 

It seemed you were not the first to find yourself in such a place, evident by the holes poked into the thin plaster of the king’s bedroom walls, somewhere in between the ornate carvings of his bedframe’s headboard. Some other invisible soul had stood where you did now, curious for a single peek. 

These might have been from Aegon II’s time, or Jaehaerys’. Certainly not Viserys I’s.

You couldn’t tell if it was the red-haired Tully girl or the golden Lannister. Your position granted you only a view of her lower half, and in between her thighs, was a head of silver hair. The girl was squirming like a worm on his bed, legs messing the linens you had smoothed out just this morn while a hand gripped his silver tresses. 

“What did I say?” you heard the king speak. Just barely, with his face still buried in her cunt. The grip on his hair was released, dainty hand disappeared into the periphery to presumably grab onto the sheets instead.

He didn’t like his hair touched. What a shame. 

The sight was utterly debauched. Silver tresses swayed as he nodded his head to run his tongue down her slit, which pleased the woman, evident from the mewl that echoed through the night air. Her sounds could equal that of a mistress in the Streets of Silk, and you wondered how a proper lady could know how to moan like that. 

You could see his cheeks hollow and relax rhythmically as he sucked, and sucked. Something in your belly flipped in a fluster, and your core started to tingle, as though you could feel the phantom licks of the hot, wet muscle prodding into your center. Despite better judgment, you stayed stuck on your feet, thighs starting to rub together the longer you watched. 

Supple thighs turned dimpled in his large palms. For a second, you could almost feel its warmth, trailing from the back of your thighs to wrapping around the span of your neck. The ache in your cunt was slowly becoming too much to bear, tears of slick leaving your skin damp with need. You clenched your skirts in your fists, fighting back the urge to lead them to your heat. 

The lady was humping the king’s face now, and my, what a sight it was. His aquiline nose would surely make for a good seat to slide your nubbin on back and forth. Gods, what a lucky woman. You haven’t even caught a glimpse of his handsome face once, still ardent in his efforts to devour her whole. 

You caught the way his fingers replaced where his tongue had been, his focus shifting onto her pearl. This drove the lady to near madness, her voice rising just as the other one did. With his hand steadily scissoring in and out of her, thumb drawing circles on her pearl, the one-eyed king straightened to his full height. It was then a gasp that escaped your lips before you could stop it, but remained unheard against other sounds of the night. 

His cock stood erect in attention, flushed red in the amber glow of the candlelit room. It slapped against his taut, sculpted abdomen. He was chiseled in places you hadn’t seen any other man could be. Striated, sinewy muscles that flexed with every movement. 

By the Seven, this man was a god.

Your knees nearly buckled the moment he grabbed hold of his cock. His stroking was soft compared to the erratic thrusting of his other hand into the woman’s cunt. Her hips lifted off the mattress and her back arched like a cat. Mewls were turning into sobs as she teetered on something tremendous. Your palms were sweaty, as was the back of your neck, and your chest started to heave beside your comprehension. What was he doing to her? She sounded like a woman possessed. It was clear he had an intent for his sheer intensity. 

The answer came in a shower of clear liquid coming from her core, splattering on his muscled abdomen. The king looked as triumphant as he did in battle, an egotistic smirk dimpling his elegant face. Your eyes widened in shock. Never have you experienced something like that, or have even heard of it. This man might be an actual sorcerer… or a god. 

“That’s a good girl,” he praised her. His low drawl buzzed straight into your gut, and the unanswered tingle in your own cunny had become impossible to ignore. With the image of what you had just witnessed fresh in your memory, you scurried down the steps back to the servant’s quarters.

The ache in your arm come the morrow would hinder your scrubbing of stone tile, but your desire would be temporarily satiated… multiple times.

Huffing, you dusted the last of the king’s books on his shelves. You moved to wipe down the various items around the chambers— dragon figures, the brass Seven-Pointed Star by the windowsill, keepsakes that held slivers of who he was.  You made quick work of starting the fire next, he would want the hearth going by the time he supped. As you kneeled before the fireplace, throwing in the fresh-cut wood the woodsman had brought in, the door to the royal solar slammed open.

An angry king storming into the room had you by surprise, jolting straight to your feet to give an ungraceful curtsy. Your heart hammered thunderously at such a sudden startlement, though it failed to cease at the realization of being held alone with the one-eyed king. He eyed your trembling form, a lone gaze so sharp that it rendered you unable to hold your chin up.

“Y-your grace,” you stuttered, tongue slippery with nerves. “I-I am starting on the fire, my king. It would only be just a moment.”

With a mere grunt and a wave of his hand, king Aemond left you to do your work. He was grumbling under his breath, small fragments like ‘lot of fools’ and ‘insipid questioning’ barely audible to your ear. You suspected the discussion with the Small Council hadn’t gone well. It only took little to subject the king to anger, this you learned in your time under his service. What may ticked him off could have been something of such little consequence, though, with His Grace, it never was. 

With a fire successfully ignited, a pleasant warmth began to spread into the space. Satisfied, you lifted yourself off your knees, brushing the flecks of ash from your skirts. You would have to clean that come morn.

Having completed all the work needed before supper, you quickly gathered your basket of items, willing yourself to ignore the man sat with his legs splayed open as he pored over the newest parchments. After heaving the bin onto your hip, you turned to leave with another respectful bow.

“Wait,” he suddenly spoke, stopping you in your tracks.

Wide-eyed, you swiftly turned to look at the silver-haired Targaryen, whose good eye was now lifted from the letter and, oddly enough, directed onto you. 

“My king?” you asked. “Was there anything else I may do for you?”

He was silent for a moment, calculating gaze merely stared back at you. The tips of your ears warmed in an instant under the foreign light of his attention. You swore you saw the corner of his lips lifting, but it returned to his feline pout in a blink.

“You forgot something.”

His words caught you in a stupor. You looked at him in confusion, unsure of what he meant. It didn’t help that he looked utterly ravishing with the embroidered leather doublet he wore. He looked the best in black.

His good eye glanced to the floor at the dirtied rag left at the foot of the table, the realization hitting you embarrassingly late. “Oh! Forgive me,” you expressed, quickly placing your basket back onto the floor to grab the forgotten cloth. Your skin prickled when his eye followed your every step, staring as you bent over to retrieve the rag. 

“How long have you been a servant of mine, girl?” he asked, taking you again by surprise. 

“Since the coronation, your grace,” you answered, gripping the fabric tight as you forced yourself to keep your composure in your king’s presence. Aemond merely hummed in response.

“You must know all of what I need then? What pleases me and what does not? It is the least I expect for someone serving me for this long,” he questioned, tilting his head with a raised brow. You nodded your head meekly, the entirety of your face warming, though clearly not caused by the fire.

“Magda has taught us well, your grace. Whatever else you require of me I shall be happy to fulfill,” you informed him, an eager glint in your eye that earned you another hum from your king.

“Good,” he said. “On your knees then.”

Your mouth gaped like a fish, caught in shock at the sudden command. Incoherent stammers were your only response, baffled mind unable to make sense of such progression. “Your grace? I—“

“You asked me what I require of you. Would you deny your king of his needs? I do not like repeating myself, girl.”

Dropping the cloth back to the floor, you made your way in between his thighs, descending onto your knees. You stared, wide-eyed like a doe, as he studied you under the tip of his nose. Long, wispy lashes moved with his every blink and it was then you realized the gods may have some pity on you after all. The cheap linen of your skirts was crumpled into your sweaty fists, breath shuddering when he started to pull on the laces of his breeches. Time moved all too slowly. The thumping in your chest started back up while you waited in anticipation. 

The breath hitched in your throat couldn’t be helped when his large, calloused hand pulled out his cock. It was pretty, even more appealing up close despite still being half-mast. With a hold on his base, Aemond nodded his head at you in urging. 

Gulping down your nerves, you took his slowly hardening tip into your mouth. He had a certain taste about him, a slight saltiness, perhaps bitterness, but hardly unpleasant. Slow, steady bobs of your head stiffened his length into full arousal. From his pubic bone, Aemond’s hand traveled to the coif on the top of your head, pulling the linen away. Freed locks cascaded over your back, a warmth settling on your occiput as your king gently guided you up and down his shaft. You hollowed your cheeks when you took all of him in, earning a good grunt from your king.

“Must not be the first cock you sucked, then?” he mentioned, smooth voice taking on a rasp. With your mouth full, you could only look at him under your lashes. Surely, the king had no intent to hear about young Henry and the afternoons you spent messing about in his father’s shed back home. You may be out of practice, but you were eager to please.

The reason for his sudden interest baffled you. Had you known, you would have taken the time to make yourself presentable. You were coated with a sheen of sweat after having worked all day, your clothes were a mess, and Hells, you hadn’t so much washed the parts that needed to be washed!

Your bobbing soon took up a faster pace. You kept your hands still glued to yourself despite wanting to grasp at his muscular thighs, barely remembering his preference from the other night past. He seemed to be pleased, much to your delight, with his head thrown back over the edge of his seat and his good eye closed shut. Filled with renewed courage, you directed your tongue back to his tip, while your hand stroked the rest of his shaft. The sounds you have yearned to hear soon floated into your ear, soft grunts leaving his grace’s lips. A particularly ardent lick over his cockhead had his length twitching in your hold. It filled you with pride, as well as a budding desire bubbling in your tummy. There was no doubt your cunny would be wet with slick if one took a peek. It had started shedding its tears of arousal the moment your knees hit the floor. 

All too sudden, the one-eyed king pulled you off his cock, ordering you to lose your smallclothes. You had done so in haste, nimble fingers tugging on the ribbons before he hoisted you onto his lap. From then on, you were at his mercy. He speared you onto his cock with no hesitation, bouncing you up and down swiftly. There was no moment spared for you to relish in the sensation of your king breaching your walls, though you found you had little complaints. 

You were starting to understand how he had all those women crying out for him in his bed. He was all-consuming, ravishing every bit of you until you were reduced to nothing but putty. He rendered you witless, out of body. You moved by his accord, rode him the way he liked. Before you knew it, lewd sounds soon began to spill from your lips, sounds you had never heard yourself let out.

“M-my king…” you mewled.

“Wet like the fucking whore you are,” Aemond groaned, delivering a smack to your rear that made you squeal. 

With his face closer to you than it ever will be for the rest of your life, the urge for a kiss couldn’t be helped. You dipped your head to chase his lips, but he turned his head to the side with a grunt. Firm hands soon pulled you off his lap, turning you around. 

The new position had his cock reaching even deeper into your walls. You held onto the armrests of the seat for dear life, struggling to keep up with the brutal pace your king demanded. The plump flesh of your arse met his hips in a wet smack, the sound filling the vast, quiet room. Years of working on your feet blessed you with strong thighs that held you up with every bounce.

Never in your wildest wishes did the fruit of your labors include getting fucked by your king. Was this what your life has amounted to? Would this be the only moment where you were granted a sliver of value in your measly unimportance? Shame should be what you felt, but you hardly had room for it, not when your king’s cock felt too good.

It was evident he was nearing his end, and you were barreling straight towards yours. His grip shifted to take hold of the crooks of your elbows, using you for leverage to lift his hips to meet yours. How deeply you wished to catch a glimpse of his blissed-out face, but that would mean displeasing him. You couldn’t afford to do so, not when you were teetering on the edge of your pleasure. 

Your release sneaked upon you with no other forewarning. You came with a loud cry, spilling all over his length. If Aemond held any regard for your high, he made no show of it, continuing to drill into you to chase his. The tight spasming of your walls pulled harsher grunts from his lips, and harsher thrusts. Soon enough, he was pulling out of you, painting your lower back with his spend. Thick, pearly royal speed dripped down onto your rear, warm against your flesh. Without any other moment to waste, the king pulled you off his lap, dismissing you with a breathless huff.

“That will be all. You may take your leave.”

“Where the hell have you been? This food’s about to get damn cold and I don’t need the king throwin’ it back in my face because of you!” Magda berated, rightfully angered with your tardy arrival to the kitchen. You were out of breath from rushing out of the king’s chambers, cheeks still flushed like a ripe berry. 

“Sorry, Magda. His grace’s requests held me back,” you apologized with a sheepish smile. The secret to your special service to the king would have to remain a secret, a blissful encounter you were sure to look back on with satisfaction. 

The older maid regarded you with a displeased look, before pointing to the dishes needed to be brought up to his grace’s chambers. “Just as long we keep the pretty boy pleased, aye?” 

The heat in your chest returned at her words, settling into a tingle in your fingertips. You smiled at her, eyes glinting with an eagerness that almost made the head servant raise suspicion. There was no doubt what you would do to keep your king happy. With his satisfaction, came yours.

“Aye,” you responded, nodding in agreement.

In the days that followed, you worked with an enthusiasm akin to the spark you had when you first arrived at the Keep. You spent time ensuring every nook and cranny was spotless, the king’s boots properly polished, and his bath rightfully steaming the moment he requested it. 

It would soon prove to be a foolish endeavor, but you held out hope for him to call on you once more. Perhaps he would take you on his bed, just like he did with other women. Such hopes were crushed when your king barely spared you a glance, just like he always did. In your boldness, you had even tried to meet his eye on the off-chance he came into his chambers while you were there, which earned nothing but a sharp scolding from Magda. His last exchange hadn’t even been filled with any words, but merely in the form of a steaming cup of moon tea and a few silver dragons awaiting you in your quarters.

Soon, you were reduced into a shadow once more, a figure unseen in the king’s eye. Your excitement wearied down into a dismayed chagrin, yet still, your part never changed. It was all a cycle, you realized. And with the arrival of a comely Baratheon girl into court, you were back to ignoring the pounding in the king’s walls.