#THEY WILL CHANGE THE TRAJECTORY OF MY LIFE

[inthedayswhenlandswerefew]

Cannibals [Chapter 1: Bruises and Bloodlines]

Series summary: You are his sister, his lover, his betrothed despite everyone else's protests; you have always belonged to Aemond and believe you always will. But on the night he returns from Storm's End with horrifying news, the trajectories of your lives are irrevocably changed. Will the war of succession make your bond permanent, or destroy the twisted and fanatical love you share?

Chapter warnings: Language, sexual content (18+ readers only), Aemond stressing everybody out, Aegon hating his life even more than usual, RIP lil Luke Strong, don't touch bats in real life or you will get rabies.

Word count: 6.3k

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Tagging: @themoonofthesun @chattylurker @mrs-starkgaryen @moonfllowerr @ecstaticactus

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Cannibal, a noun: one that devours its own.

~~~~~~~~~~

He’s back, you can feel it: a sensation like falling, the impact of Vhagar’s claws against the earth. You get glimpses like this, unpredictable flashes of intuition, a window into the contents of his mind or the scenery he is draped in like how branches hang from a willow tree. You set Blueberry down on the windowsill, where he skitters to the edge and swoops out into the night, chasing white specks of moths and lacewings. Then you leave your bedchamber to meet Aemond in the hallway.

One of the maids is there, trying to be patient as she paces with Maelor in her arms. He’s just like you were at that age: a demon who never sleeps. His white-blonde hair is disheveled, his eyes rheumy and pink from crying in protest. But then they brighten.

“Red Red!” Maelor swipes at you with tiny, grasping hands.

“What are you doing awake?” you coo at him, beaming. “It’s nighttime. You aren’t a bat. Are you a bat, huh? Are you hiding a pair of wings somewhere?”

He giggles as you pretend to inspect him. The maid smiles.

“If you don’t have any wings, I’m afraid you’ll have to go right to sleep. That’s the rule for humans.”

Maelor trills in his toddler lisp: “Then I want to be a bat.”

“Okay! I’ll find some bugs for you to eat.”

“No!” he squeals, dismayed. “No bugs!”

“In that case, I guess you’re a human after all. If you go to bed now, you can help me collect seashells tomorrow.”

“Fine,” Maelor agrees grudgingly, and the maid ferries him away. From the Godswood, great horned owls hoot. One of the knights of Aegon’s Kingsguard, Sir Willis Fell from the Stormlands, passes by on his patrol and gives you a quick nod, polite but a bit avoidant, awkward truths he pretends he can ignore. He doesn’t ask if you need assistance or why you’re awake at this hour. He already knows. He vanishes again, his white cloak swishing behind him like the tail of a wolf or a jackal.

You lurk at the top of the Grand Staircase shrouded in shadows and shifting firelight, feeling night wind skate over your cheek like children playing on a frozen lake, and that breeze is not here but outside where Aemond must be trudging across the courtyard towards the royal apartments in Maegor’s Holdfast. You drum your fingertips impatiently on the stone banister. When at last he appears—first only a silhouette in the darkness, then rippling into color under the torches, black leather and silver hair—Aemond is drenched with rain and ascending swiftly, two stairs at a time.

You grin as you take a step down to him, slinking, conspiratorial. He told you all his plans before he left; he tells you everything. “How was Storm’s End?”

But Aemond doesn’t answer. He blows past you and stalks towards Criston’s chambers, rainwater dripping from his hair and littering the floor with tiny, transluscent pools.

You turn to watch him leave, mystified. “Aemond?”

He says without stopping: “Go wake Aegon and Mother. Tell them to meet me in the small council chamber. I’ll get Criston and Grandsire.”

“Why?” Again, Aemond ignores you. This is unusual. You bolt after him, closing the space between you until your fingers catch his wrist. “Aemond, what—?”

He grabs you and pins you to the wall, the stones cold against your belly through the crimson velvet of your robe, Aemond’s hips braced against yours, domineering, demanding, promising what he will do for you after. You close your eyes and sigh shakily—a savoring, a surrender—and then he is tender, turning your face so he can kiss the apple of your cheek. He murmurs, warm and low: “Do as I ask.”

You nod. “Okay,” you agree in a whisper. Aemond releases you and vanishes to rouse Criston. You break for Aegon’s chambers.

There is a woman in his bed, snoring softly and with long auburn hair spilling over her bare shoulders. He has endeavored to spend less time drinking and philandering since becoming king, and yet…it is so rare for a creature to change its spots or stripes or scales. Aegon has always been this way. Without his vices, you would not recognize him.

You kneel beside the bed and rest a palm lightly on Aegon’s damp forehead. You have to be careful when you wake him; he flinches, he startles, he has too many memories of being ripped from sleep by bruises and crescent-moon indentations of fingernails. “Aegon? I’m really sorry, I know it’s late.”

He doesn’t have to open his eyes to know it’s you. “Fuck off,” he groans into his pillow.

“Aemond’s back from Storm’s End, but something’s wrong. He wants you to meet him in the council chamber.”

Aegon looks up and blinks drowsily. Moonlight spills into the room through gaps in the curtains. He smells strange, like lavender; that must be from his companion. “What happened?”

“I don’t know.”

“He didn’t tell you?”

You shake your head.

Now Aegon is alarmed. The dark, cloudy blue of his irises is rapidly clearing. “Alright. Give me five minutes.”

“Wash the girl’s perfume off you so Mother isn’t quite so disappointed.”

Aegon chuckles, rubbing his eyes; something about the way he does this reminds you of Maelor. They are both just boys; they are both so incendiary and yet so vulnerable. “Get out, whore.”

You tousle his hair roughly, smack a kiss onto his sweat-salted temple as he tries to shove you away, snicker as he hurls pillows at you. You are slipping through the doorway when you hear the woman in bed mumble: “Huh? What’s going on?”

“Nothing,” Aegon says. “Thank you very much for your company, your skills were more than adequate, now kindly find your way home…”

You hurry down the hall to Mother’s chambers. There are seven-pointed stars on the walls and the furniture, green tapestries everywhere. She will always be a Hightower, averse to Valyrian oddities and suspicious of that sinister, ancient magic. She does not understand it; she tries to overlook it in her children. It’s the only way she knows how to love them. You sit beside the indistinct shape beneath the blankets, sinking into the goose feather mattress, and nudge what you guess is her shoulder. “Mother?”

She stirs, and then her face fills with concern when she sees you in the dim light from her candles. “What’s happened, darling? Are you ill?” You are prone to headaches and chills and nausea, you always have been, maladies of the flesh that are either a blood inheritance or a curse from bad stars. Once when you were very young, Aemond pushed you into a cold stream during a royal progress to the Vale, and you had been laughing when Criston leapt in and dragged you from the water; but two days later, you began burning up with a fever so hot they thought you might die. Aemond had slept on the floor beside your bed, and when you shivered so violently your bones ached he climbed in beside you and held you until you could sleep again; and later when his eye was cut out on Driftmark and he was half-mad with pain, you did the same for him.

“No, Mother, I’m fine. It’s Aemond.”

She sits up and studies you. “Aemond?”

“He’s back from Storm’s End, and he wants to talk to you.”

“To me?”

“And Criston and Aegon, and Grandsire too.”

She doesn’t understand. “Now? Why? What’s wrong?”

“I have no idea.”

“What did he say?”

Everyone expects you to already know, but you don’t. “I think he wants to tell all of us at the same time. In the small council chamber.”

“Now?” she says again, puzzled, still half-asleep. “What is so important that it can’t wait until morning?”

“Mother, there are only so many ways for me to express that I don’t know. If I had any indications at all, I’d share them.”

“Alright.” She’s smiling; you have amused her. She throws off the covers and touches her bare feet to the floor. “Pass me my robe. It’s on that chair over there.” And of course, the swath of velvet you hand her to wear over her nightgown is a deep emerald green: the color of fertile fields, not blood or beasts.

By the time you and Mother arrive together, everyone else is already taking their places in the council chamber. Aegon is at the head of the table, spinning his stone—a black sphere of volcanic glass—and peering around boredly. Grandsire and Criston are greeting Mother and yawning into the backs of their hands. No one has woken Helaena, and yet she is here, settling nimbly into the chair beside Aegon. He gives her a brief, fond glance, noting that she is fidgeting with a small oak dragonfly he once made for her. Aegon carves wood, Helaena embroiders, you shatter seashells with tiny hammers and use the shards to make mosaics, miniscule yet unladylike violence. Aemond has books and swords in place of crafts. And Daeron…you assume he must have cultivated some artistic talents while away in Oldtown—he was always so imaginative as a boy—but you would not know them. You see him so rarely now. You sit across the table from Aemond. He is the only attendee not dressed in nightclothes. His black leather tunic is still layered with a sheen of rain.

Grandsire lowers himself gingerly into his seat, grinding arthritic bones that pain him. The nights have grown chilly, even here in the south. Winter is coming, the maesters warn. His gaze passes over you and Helaena—the two of you aren’t really supposed to be here, but you’ll be permitted to stay if you cause no trouble—then he smirks humorlessly at Aemond. “So you failed.”

“No,” Aemond says, and you think as you look around the table: No Orwyle, no Lannister, no Wylde, not even Larys Strong. What does Aemond not want them to know? “Lord Baratheon has agreed to marry his youngest daughter to Daeron in one year’s time. He was very enthusiastic about the match.”

“Great!” Aegon declares. “Although, personally, I am of the inexpert opinion that this could have been discussed over bacon and honeycakes at breakfast…”

Grandsire snorts, derisive; he disapproves, though perhaps he is not surprised. He says to Aemond: “You were sent to negotiate your own marriage, not Daeron’s.”

Aemond shrugs, as if it happened by coincidence. “That was Borros Baratheon’s preference.”

“It was your preference, you mean.”

Aemond is careful not to reveal any emotion. “Daeron is young, but he already has a reputation. He is known to be handsome and chivalrous and…” A wave of the hand as he searches for the right word. “Unmutilated. It is not so difficult to imagine why a father would believe him to be a more worthy son-in-law.”

“It doesn’t matter to me, one Targaryen is as good as the next,” Aegon says, and of course nobody pays much attention.

“Perhaps Borros Baratheon’s judgment has been contaminated by certain disturbing and disgraceful rumors,” Grandsire counters and glares at you. You don’t reply; there’s nothing you can say that would help. Everyone knows, but it rarely spoken of aloud, as if it is a ghost nobody wants to inadvertently conjure. All your life there has been this perpetual rebalancing of scales: someone mentions a diplomatic match for you, you stall and Aemond makes excuses, Grandsire and Mother try to convince him, Aemond is immoveable and they aren’t willing to invoke his wrath. Vhagar is the subtext of every dispute. They need her, they are terrified of her.

Criston attempts to deescalate. “Aemond’s task was to ensure the Baratheons’ loyalty to the crown, and he has accomplished that. Perhaps it would be wise to move on.”

“Fine, what else?” Grandsire snaps. “You assembled us here for some reason, I presume. It must be urgent to merit a meeting now. It better be urgent, or I’ll be paying people to shake you awake during the hour of the wolf for the next month.”

“It is urgent,” Aemond says softly, then pauses, gazing down at the ball in front of him, white quartz dappled with blue. Everyone watches him. You share a glance with Aegon; he is curious, but you have nothing to offer him. You turn back to Aemond with bewilderment in your face, furrows in your brow.

“Aemond?” Mother prompts.

He looks at you, only for a second, but you’re thunderstruck by what you see in his remaining eye. You have never known Aemond to be afraid, but he is right now. What happened? you think, horror making the blood in your veins cold and slow and heavy. What did he do?

Aemond begins: “Luke Strong was at Storm’s End too.”

“What?” Grandsire says, more baffled than worried. “That runt? Why?”

“He’s a weasel,” Aegon mutters, spinning his ball again.

“Rhaenyra’s son?” Mother asks. “She sent him there all alone? How peculiar. The way she was always hovering over him while they were here, I’m amazed she let him out of her sight for that long. How old is he now? With that plain, ever-anxious, pug-nosed face, he looks like a little boy—”

Aemond says: “He was sent to remind Borros of his old pledge to uphold Rhaenyra’s claim. But Luke had no incentives to offer.”

“And so Lord Baratheon rejected him,” Grandsire surmises.

Aemond nods, though perhaps halfheartedly.

“Well, good,” Grandsire says, surveying the table for agreement. “That’s good, right? With every house that refuses to aid her, Rhaenyra will be more likely to accept our terms, and we can resolve this question of succession without any bloodshed.”

“Meleys and the Dragonpit,” Aegon reminds him.

“Without further bloodshed,” Grandsire amends.

Mother and Criston concur, but you’re watching Aemond. He hasn’t responded yet. Mother’s gaze flits between the two of you. She is somewhat sympathetic to the affinity you share, but she doesn’t understand it. More than anything, you get the sense she believes it is something you must be saved from. The Hightowers could stomach Aegon and Helaena’s match—Viserys was still healthy enough to insist upon it, and the couple so seemingly platonic it was easy to forget they were married at all—but they have no appetite for a desire that defies political expediency, that burns scorching and wild.

“Aemond, did you quarrel with Luke?” Mother says, her tone patient in an I-won’t-be-mad-if-you-just-tell-me-the-truth sort of way. “I know…your eye…” She touches her own face, wincing at the memory of how he suffered. “Did you seek restitution of some sort from him? Did you make accusations?”

“We…exchanged some words,” Aemond admits. “And then…when Luke left on Arrax…” There is a lull, and everyone stares at him. “Vhagar and I followed.”

“What?!” Grandsire exclaims. “You threatened Rhaenyra’s son?!”

“I…” Aemond closes his eye, then after a moment opens it again and continues. “It was my intention to frighten him, that was all.”

“Idiot,” Grandsire hisses. “You know better. You’re too well-educated to act like you don’t. Now, that one…” He jabs an accusatory finger at Aegon, who is caught off-guard, what the fuck do I have to do with this?

Criston says, more gently: “That was very dangerous, Aemond.” Mother covers her mouth with one hand and shakes her head. Her long coppery hair hangs in uncombed waves, still tangled from sleep.

“So what happened?” Aegon asks. “Where’d you chase him to? All the way back to Dragonstone? You must have scared him to death.”

Aemond chooses his words with great care and agonizing slowness. “Everything was under control. Then Arrax…he unleashed his flames on Vhagar, and she…she attacked.”

Everyone is silent. After a moment, Grandsire says: “What do you mean she attacked?”

“She…” Aemond gestures vaguely with open hands, hands that have held you, caged you, dragged you, pleased you until you were forged to him like a blade to a hilt. Again, he looks at you, and what is he asking for? Help, empathy, compassion, forgiveness? “She bit Arrax.”

“She wounded him?” Aegon says.

“She devoured him.”

Criston blinks. “So…Arrax is dead, and where is Luke now?”

Aemond laces his fingers together on the table like he’s praying. “He’s…he’s gone.”

“Gone?” Mother echoes.

“Did you look for him?” Grandsire demands. “I mean, did you even bother to search for Luke, or did you just leave him in the Stormlands somewhere? Did he fall into the sea, could he be wandering around in a forest? If Luke is injured, we should send out people to find him. We could hold him as a hostage.”

“No, you don’t understand.” Aemond’s voice is frayed. And now for the first time tonight, you finally know what he’s going to say. Your eyes snag on Aegon’s, and he reads the terror there, and then it hits him too. “There is nothing to search for.”

Mother is gaping at him, the unwanted knowledge seeping in like rain through earth. “Nothing?”

“There is no body. Pieces, perhaps.”

Unspeakable, suffocating dread fills the room, and then Grandsire leaps to his feet and slams his fists down on the table. “Useless!” he roars at Aemond. “Worse than useless, a saboteur, a curse, a plague, you have ruined everything your Mother and I worked for, Rhaenyra was considering our terms and now you’ve condemned us all!”

“You killed Lucerys Velaryon?” Mother says, stunned. Her large dark eyes glisten with unpardonable betrayal. She’ll never look at him the same way again. “You murdered Rhaenyra’s son? A prince, the heir to Driftmark?”

“It wasn’t murder,” Aemond pleads. “It was…it was combat, it was a battle—”

“A battle with that child?!” Grandsire thunders. Helaena begins to cry, and Aegon places a hand on her wrist as his wide eyes dart around the table. “Everyone’s seen him, it’s no secret, and not a single person in the realm would be delusional enough to believe a clash between Vhagar and Arrax was anything but a slaughter!”

“Aemond,” Criston says quietly, appalled, astonished.

Aemond can’t meet his eyes. He peers down at the table, and despite everything—what will happen to us, what will happen to me?—there is an ache in your chest like cracked ribs trying to heal, a profound lightless distress, a ricochet of the pain he’s feeling. “It wasn’t my intention to harm Luke.”

Grandsire shouts: “Did you give Vhagar the order or not?!”

It feels like a long time before Aemond answers. “No.”

“Oh gods,” Criston says as he sinks down in his chair, turning to Alicent. She has hidden her face with both hands and seems to be weeping.

“So you can’t control Vhagar,” Grandsire seethes. “You ride the largest and most dangerous dragon in the world and you can’t stop her from eating people.”

“I never would have purposefully—”

“But you created the situation! You pursued Luke, you tormented him, and surely somewhere in your sick brain you considered that you were endangering his life! And now… now…now Rhaenyra will be merciless, she will never submit, she will endeavor to destroy us all!”

“It will bring more allies to her side,” Criston says. “They will believe she was wronged, and she will wield that weapon to great advantage. She is cunning.”

“What about your family, Aemond?!” Mother sobs, her face a hectic, bloody pink. “You and your brothers will have to go to war, you might be maimed or butchered, and your sisters and I…we could be taken as prisoners, we could be executed for treason!”

“That will never happen,” he swears; but his pale blue eye is misty, and he bites his lips together so they won’t tremble.

Mother is desperate, tears streaming down her cheeks “What can we do, Father? How can we salvage this?”

Grandsire points to you. “She must be wed immediately. We’ve already waited too long.”

“Wait, wait, wait,” Aegon says, but no one is listening.

“Mother,” you beg. “Please don’t let them—”

“She will be married to whoever can help us in this,” Grandsire says. “The Lannisters or the Redwynes or the Swanns, perhaps the Butterwells or the Mootons if that will coax them to our side—”

“Then the realm will burn,” Aemond replies darkly, leaning over the table. “But I’ll come knocking on your door first, Grandsire.”

Grandsire looks at him, startled. “You wouldn’t dare.”

“Shall we find out?”

“Otto, please,” Criston says, holding up a palm. Then he considers how to dissuade him. “All things considered—the military strength that Aemond has brought to our side, the devotion that he has shown this family, present circumstances notwithstanding—he has never asked for much.”

“He asks for the one thing we cannot give him,” Grandsire replies, then turns to you. “What do you think about what Aemond has done? This recklessness, this monstrous error?”

He rarely asks for your opinion about anything. This is not a question but a summons: you are supposed to disavow Aemond. You are the one who can hurt him best. Instead you say, though it’s not what you truly feel: “Luke was an enemy. He perished in combat.”

Grandsire, Mother, and Criston all begin yelling at once. Helaena shrinks into herself, her dragonfly made of oak wood clutched to her chest. Aegon whispers something to her—you can leave, you believe he says—but she shakes her head no. You are stoic as the adults berate and implore you, and perhaps it’s strange that you still think of them that way since you’re an adult now too, and yet…their gravity seems so much heavier than yours, their tethers to the earth overgrown with weeds and moss.

“I’ll gut you myself!” Grandsire screams at Aemond, empty threats woven from helpless terror. “I’ll lock you in the Black Cells, I’ll have you banished to Dorne—!”

“I’ll throw a feast!” Aegon says suddenly, and the others go quiet.

“You’ll what?” Grandsire snarls.

“Little Luke Strong is dead and that’s a victory for our side. There’s no other way to look at it.”

“You intend to celebrate this calamity?”

“What else should we do?” Aegon asks. “Apologize? Go crawling on our bellies to Rhaenyra for forgiveness? No, she’d burn us alive. If it’s done, we must embrace it and use it to bolster our cause as much as possible. It was a battle and a victory. Aemond is a war hero. Onto the next objective.”

“What a disaster,” Criston mutters, rubbing his forehead. “Yes, that might be the only option we have.”

Mother clasps the small seven-pointed star that hangs from the gold chain at her throat. “I must go to the sept. I must pray for our survival.”

Grandsire glowers at Aegon. “You are a humiliation.”

“I am the king. I want a feast.”

Grandsire sighs deeply, pushing his chair away from the table. “I suppose I have letters to write.” And then, to Aemond: “When your sisters are captured and enslaved and married off to whichever Black loyalists will pay Rhaenyra and Daemon the most for them, I trust you’ll remember who’s responsible.”

Aemond gets up and storms out of the small council chamber. Mother mops the tears off her face with the sleeves of her green robe. Criston takes one of her hands and is murmuring promises, assurances, perhaps lies. You, Aegon, and Helaena say nothing. None of you can defend what Aemond has done, but you won’t denounce him either.

Then Grandsire grins at you, a cruel bestial flash of his teeth, an old grizzled animal tough from too many winters, icy wind shrieking through the chambers of its heart. “Oh, are you pretending that you’re not about to run after him?”

You don’t reply. But you rise from the table and flee as Mother watches you, her vast eyes swimming with misery.

~~~~~~~~~~

It’s a game with five pieces: the green snake, the yellow butterfly, the blue wolf, the red bat, and the purple shadowcat. They chase each other around the board, and if one of the other pieces lands on the same spot as yours then you have to go all the way back to the start.

Daeron is the youngest, but he almost always seems to win; some people are like that, luck flows like a river in their veins. Helaena enjoys playing even if she finished last. Aegon feigns disinterest but never declines an invitation, sliding his snake across the spaces with his index finger between slurps of wine. And sometimes Aemond is ruthless, taking every single opportunity to land on your spot and send your bat hurtling back to the beginning, sawing your legs out from under you, shattering your hopes like glass again and again until you are so frustrated you can feel embers glowing dry and searing in your throat.

But other times, Aemond pretends to misread the dots on the dice so he lands either too close or too far away and you are spared, and if you win he lies and says you deserve it.

~~~~~~~~~~

He is waiting at your bedroom door; when you are close enough to breathe him in, you taste rain and soot. Perhaps—if it isn’t your imagination—you can even detect the coppery tinge of blood, splatters of little Luke Strong soaked into the black leather of his tunic or his coat. You remember that boy you barely knew, more a phantom than flesh, a wraith who stole Aemond’s eye and then was spirited away to Dragonstone to escape retribution, a tiny god who Viserys worshipped from afar the same way he never stopped loving Rhaenyra. All you knew of your father was absence, and this was a sadness but a relief as well, because you could not escape the sense that if he was there you would only disappoint him.

“What is wrong with you?!” you whisper savagely. Aemond smiles and reaches for your face, but you swat his hand away. “Don’t fucking touch me. You’re insane, you’re going to get us all killed—”

He drags you into your bedchamber, kicking the door shut behind him. He’s lean but wiry, all muscle, and when you fight him—although you both know you want him to win—it is in vain. He tugs your hair out of its braid and hauls you across the room, pushes you down on the bed, rips off his coat and tunic and then follows you onto the mattress. You clamber away until you hit the headboard, your spine flat against the wood. As he closes in on you, your palm cracks across the blind side of Aemond’s face, and he grins. You have often thought that it should have been reversed, you wed to Aegon and Aemond to Helaena. You would not be so scandalized by Aegon’s vices; Aemond would be chivalrous with a meek, compliant wife. But alas, Helaena was born first, and the arrangement was set in stone long before any of your natures became apparent.

Aemond unfastens your robe and reaches under your nightgown of white cotton. “Open your legs.”

“No.” It is always this way with him; it always has been. You fight and he vanquishes, and both of you enjoy it.

He forces your thighs apart and you moan, the resistance bleeding out of you, you muscles going soft and yielding, Aemond radiant with this clandestine conquest on a night when nothing else is under his control. He can only love you when you’re tamed and tractable. Sometimes you think he likes that you don’t have a dragon, that your egg never hatched, that all of the unclaimed beasts denied you. You will always be vulnerable, powerless, at his mercy.

You cling to Aemond, your arms around his neck. He knows exactly what you need because you’ve already done this, more times than either of you could count: everything besides what could get you pregnant, and not just because Aemond would rather slit his own throat than have bastards like Rhaenyra’s. It’s something you’re both saving until at last you are married, and no one except The Stranger can separate you.

You gasp and Aemond growls through your hair: “Shh. Hurry up.”

“I missed you.”

“I know.” He doesn’t have to say it back; if he hadn’t missed you, he wouldn’t be here right now, two fingers buried to the knuckles and the heel of his hand grinding against you, almost, almost, almost…

The bedchamber door bangs opens, and Aegon saunters in with a goblet of wine, emeralds gleaming on the rim.

“Stop,” you tell Aemond, but he knows you don’t mean it, not really; beneath your nightgown his hand works faster, more roughly. You sigh and kiss him, deep and messy, surrendering, very close.

Aegon takes a swig of wine, licks the stray drops from his lips, and frowns down at you both, slightly intrigued but mostly nauseated. He cannot fathom a hunger for his own.

Aemond looks to him and says casually: “Do you want something?”

“I do, actually,” Aegon replies. “Were you planning to thank me?”

“Thank you for what?”

“For what I did for you in the council chamber, obviously. For the feast.”

“I’ll consider it.”

“Thank you, Aegon,” you say, and you are sincere.

Aegon raises his goblet in a mock toast. “That’s very kind, Red, but I wasn’t asking you.”

You whimper against Aemond’s throat, embarrassed but in ecstasy, not able to hold off much longer. “Aemond, just thank him.”

“Well I’m a bit preoccupied at the moment.”

“That’s okay,” Aegon says. “I can wait.” He sits at the end of the bed, then bounces up and down a few times. “Oh, this is a great mattress! Very soft, like sleeping on a cloud! Why isn’t mine this nice?”

“Probably because you’ve ejaculated all over it five thousand times,” Aemond says.

“Oh, right,” Aegon jests. “Not quite that frequently, I think.”

“Aemond,” you plead breathlessly. “Just say thank you. Get rid of him.”

Aemond sighs and, with his hand still beneath your nightgown, turns to Aegon. “Thank you.”

Aegon smirks, mischievous. “And how will you repay me?”

“By overcompensating for your shortcomings in order to ensure the enduring success of our family, as I have done since birth.”

“Of course,” Aegon says, though a bit distantly.

Aemond glances down at you and then asks his brother: “Were you hoping to join us?” It’s not a serious question; if Aegon ever tried to touch you with genuine desire, Aemond would break both his arms. Fortunately, Aegon is the closest thing you’ll ever have to a real brother, and thus his limbs are safe.

Aegon chuckles and stands. “No, this is a bit unsavory, even for my taste.” He gulps the last of his wine and says as he leaves: “Enjoy, freaks.”

“Bye, Aegon,” you call, laughing. He waves and then closes the door behind him.

Seconds later—twenty, thirty, time evaporates like mist burned away at dawn—Aemond is making you come, and then you are yanking off his trousers and taking him in your mouth, and when you do this he always has to be touching you, smoothing back your hair, telling you how well you’re doing, and even though he warns you so you can pull away if you choose to, tonight you swallow every last drop of him and think of the sea that Lucerys Velaryon’s scraps tumbled into, the mineral bite of salt and metal and blood.

But when he finishes, Aemond doesn’t collapse like a dead man as he usually does. He throws you onto your back, licks and nuzzles his way down your breasts and belly, parts your legs and murmurs against the inside of your thigh before he begins again: “I want you, I want you, I want you, I can’t wait much longer.”

~~~~~~~~~~

It’s one of your earliest memories. You are in the garden, and it’s a blazing hot day, and a million varieties of blooms cut through the greenery: goldenrods, orchids, lilies, irises, daisies, bellflowers, red roses, blue forget-me-nots. Butterflies whirl in the air and land on Helaena’s outstretched fingertips. Grandsire is slapping Aegon and calling him an imbecile for trying to pet a bumblebee, and Aegon is wailing: But it’s fuzzy! Why can’t I hold it?!

You must not be very steady on your feet yet, because Aemond is pulling you up by both of your hands and asking: If I ran, do you think you could catch me?

Yes, you had said, and then you’d staggered after him as he darted into the foliage. Under the shade of blossoms and shrubs that towered so much taller than you, you tripped and fell and scraped your palms, one of them bleeding from striking a pebble. You cried out, but no one was there to pick you up: no Mother, no Criston, no Helaena or Aegon. You wept pitifully, thinking—as children do—that you would be lost forever, that you would never see your family again.

But Aemond came back for you, and he studied your bloodied palm, carefully plucking out every grain of brown soil; and then he kissed it, held it against his cheek, painted himself with the scarlet ink of your arteries and veins.

See? he had said, smiling so you knew everything would be okay. Now we’re both red.

~~~~~~~~~~

“How are the babies?” Aemond asks when he arrives, dressed for the feast in a green tunic embroidered with shimmering gold threads in the shapes of dragons, flying, shrieking, breathing fire. Helaena made it for him, of course. Each of you have wardrobes full of garments she’s sewn, a collection of Aegon’s woodcarvings scattered around your rooms, seashell mosaics hanging from walls: insects for Helaena, Sunfyre for Aegon, heroes from myths for Aemond.

You grin over your shoulder. “Come see them.”

It’s dusk now, so they are leaving the roost you keep in one corner of your bedchamber, covered with dark velvet to blot out light and sound as they slumber. Aemond kneels beside you and holds out his hand so River can scurry from your palm into his, clawing with his hooklike appendages. All of your bats are named after blue things—Blueberry, Sailfish, Clear Sky, Bluejay, Misty, Dragonfly, Lagoon, Lightning, Kingfisher—just as Aemond’s hawks and war horses are given names like Fox and Rusty and Cherry and Pomegranate. He is the only one who defends your pets when Mother threatens to banish them back to the Godswood or the seaside cliffs. You have no dragon; you must find solace with some other creature that inspires dread and revulsion. But you think they’re beautiful, and strange, and fearless, and wrongly unloved.

“Let’s move things along,” Aegon says as he appears in the doorway, wearing all green except for the Conqueror’s crown. “No one can dig into the roast boar until the guest of honor enters the Great Hall. So I need Aemond to show up immediately.”

“Almost ready,” Aemond replies without looking away from River, who is now scrambling up his forearm. Lighting takes flight and attempts to land on Aegon’s shoulder; Aegon yelps and flings him away.

“No, you can’t!” you say, rushing across the room to scoop up Lightning and cradle him in your arms. Fortunately, he is unharmed. “I told you, Aegon. They have tiny bones, you have to be gentle or you’ll hurt them.”

Aegon shudders. “They’re fucking disgusting. Rats with wings.”

Aemond sets River on the windowsill, goes to his brother, shoves him hard; Aegon’s back hits the wall. His crown is knocked from his head and clatters against the floor.

“I’m not apologizing,” Aegon insists. “I’m a victim of grave injustice. I was attacked. That thing could have bitten me.”

You say to Aemond in High Valyrian: “Should we do this for a while to annoy him?”

Aemond smiles. “Yes. We should talk a lot. A great amount, we should talk. Very much talking.”

“Hey, hey, stop that,” Aegon says.

“Aemond, what else will they serve besides boar?”

“I heard something about pies.”

“What kinds of pies?”

“Who knows. Maybe apple, or cherry, or plum…”

“Oh, I adore apple pies. Perfect for autumn. I could eat them all day.”

“I could eat you all day.”

“Don’t tease me, or we’ll never make it to the feast.”

Aegon is distressed. “I mean it! Stop!”

“They aren’t saying anything important,” Helaena assures him as she swishes into your bedchamber wearing a butter yellow gown. In her hair are gold pins shaped like ladybugs.

“Okay, but what are they talking about?”

Helaena says matter-of-factly: “Sex and pastries.”

Aegon groans and rolls his eyes. “Why did I ask. Okay, time to go.”

You walk together to the Great Hall, where Helaena and Jaehaera and Grandsire will dance in the center of the floor, and you and Aemond will whisper in shadowy corners, and Mother will peer around worriedly with her large watery eyes as Criston yearns to console her, and Aegon will smile patiently and never scold Jaehaerys when he gets underfoot or spills his pomegranate juice.

~~~~~~~~~~

It’s another game, or maybe it’s a ritual; you are a little girl again, and every once in a while, without any warning, Aemond will shove you into a closet or a heavy wooden trunk and lock you inside. You will scream and pound on the door, but no one will hear, and you will spend what feels like hours alone in the darkness, wondering if this will be the time when you are not discovered until you have died of thirst and hunger, until there is nothing left but bones.

Then you hear approaching footsteps and Aemond lets you out, and when you strike and scratch at him he embraces you fiercely, like he’s a soldier who’s been away for a year or more; and he holds you until you stop fighting it and your heartbeat goes quiet in your chest.

[andrew-03-minyard]

just thinking about how if aftg had remained a comic, I never would've found out about it or ever in my life read it. also how if my character for akinator hadn't been so niche that they couldn’t guess it correct and thought it was jean moreau, I would've also never ever found aftg

[bvckbiter]

re annabeth and friendship in pjotv: frankly, i think this is one of the most egregious changes in the show because it's a change rooted in writers actually having a grasp of the foundations of annabeth's personality but taking it in an erroneous trajectory. the writers are correct in that annabeth's (unusually) long stay at chb has a massive impact on her character, particularly in that she's desperate to test her mettle outside of camp. however the show also takes this to mean that annabeth struggles with being a kid, making friends, learning pop culture, being human. odd as hell, because if anything, annabeth being in camp means that she's literally surrounded by kids just like her - neurodivergent demigods, which i think is an extremely specific experience that only campers would understand.

compare that to percy, who by all logic, is alienated. in the mortal world, he's bullied, he's transferred from school to school, his stepdad is abusive and makes him feel like a burden onto the household/his mom. there is a good reason why grover is percy's only friend - a relationship which is also thrown to the rocks when percy finds out that grover and mr brunner basically gaslit him about mrs dodds. THEN HIS MOM DIES TO GET HIM TO CAMP, but even getting to camp doesn't make percy's situation much better either (which is something that the show passes over despite the book actually making sure to highlight it), because he's still in danger from enemies both within camp and from outside. cherry on top of course is the quest prophecy telling him that he will be betrayed by one who calls him friend. in a weird way, the problem with show percy is the opposite on annabeth's: he's (kind of) going in the right direction but i think there is error with the writers' fundamental understanding of where percy is coming from.

all this to say: there is a reason why in the books, annabeth is the one to make the offer of friendship to percy. is she socially awkward, abrasive, and blunt? yes! but she's not closed off; she's a deeply emotional person who longs for someone to be permanently in her life, which btw tltm perfectly captures with the invisibility cap extrapolation.and i think what's admirable about annabeth is that for all her roughness, she wears her heart on her sleeve and is every bit a 12-year-old girl, veteran camper status be damned. percy may be goofy, funny, sarcastic, but the devil-may-care impertinence is stemming from a place of deep-seated resentment that is only softened in the succeeding books because he finally feels like he has finally earned his belonging somewhere.

tldr: am still scratching my head at the "i think you were about to call me a friend" and "be a kid" lines

[holyblanchett]

This entire scene from Afternoon Delight singlehandedly rewired the synapses in my brain, literally changed the trajectory of my life and affected me on a molecular level that I am forever changed.

[howdoyousleep3]

Hey, mama. I'm not American but I live in a country with very strict laws about LGBT and porn and stuff. And you know what, literally NOTHING changed with these laws. Noone can take your queerness from you, noone can forbid you be who you are (woman, man, non binary, whatever). But I've never thought you'd be THAT angry over something that didn't even happen yet. Don't you understand ppl vote against this anger ("fuck men", "make everyone uncomfy", "double the suffering and gelive it to trump")? I have no respect for anyone who's trying to take yours from you. But you're doing exactly what they want to do. The only difference is they are against queer and you're against straight. You can send me to hell or not reply in any way. But in a four year time you'll see, that your life didn't cange much. Trust me. People always find the way to do what they want to do. Breathe out girl. Everything's gonna be okay. Even if it doesn't seem like it now.

Yes, I will take this opportunity to “send you to hell”, thank you lol

This is all a backwards line of thinking. This isn’t just another candidate that’s running for President and another candidate that we’ll move on from in four years; this is a man that’s been elected President that will alter and change the trajectory of our country and our government structures itself. Democracy will no longer exist the way that it has for 250 years, if at all.

He has already made announcements of forcing the government to only acknowledge two genders, of punishing teachers with civil crimes if they try and teach anything but, of altering education in schools to only teach about man and wife, man and woman.

What do you mean, “breathe out”?

This is the man that overturned Roe v. Wade, that stripped women of the rights to their bodies. He appointed extreme and conservative Supreme Court Justices that will make similar decisions for this country until the day they die. This is the man that wants to force all women to have unwanted pregnancies at any age, for any reason, even if it might kill them and even if they are the product of rape. He wants to make it illegal for pregnant women to cross state lines, wants the government to track women’s periods, wants to get rid of birth control as a whole.

“Breathe out”?

He wants to make interracial marriage illegal, wants to make gay marriage illegal, wants to get rid of the Department of Education and radicalize education to where everyone prays in school and learns a very white-washed education (moreso than now) that focuses on how amazing America is. He wants to jeopardize school funding more than it is and wave it over districts heads as a threat. Public school and children will suffer more than it ever has.

That’s just scratching the surface.

It shouldn’t matter that it hasn’t happened yet; we’ve barely recovered from the effects of his last presidency. The hate he encouraged and spewed is something I’m not sure we’ll ever recover from at all. It hasn’t happened yet, but he’s outlined exactly how it’s going to happen and exactly what we should expect.

And you think I should take a deep breath?

I’m happy that your life is exactly the same as it was before your laws were put into place. But this is WAY more than a focus on LGBTQIA+ communities. This is our entire livelihood. This is our entire government, country, communities, futures at stake. And this is extremely personal, even as a white woman in a straight presenting relationship. I can’t imagine the fear that any woman or person of color or any trans person or anyone in a gay marriage is feeling.

I’m angry for myself, my two young daughters. I’m angry for the women in my life who have to put their future plans on hold or who have to decide right now if they want to get pregnant or start a family now and are mourning for the loss of it. I’m angry for my best friend who is a woman of color who now has to wait and see if her marriage will end up being legal, whose safety I worry for every single day. I’m angry for all of my trans friends who have to yet again question why this country hates them so much and doesn’t cherish and love them for existing as they are.

I’m angry. I feel rage in my body and spirit that I have not once felt before and that’s with me being one of the lucky ones to receive generations of trauma and anger I have to work through. I’ve never felt anger like this, this stagnant, still, villain era anger. And I’ll be damned if I don’t use it for good because I think it’s ridiculous of you to say that I should be quiet and let the other side, the side that instills fear in others and wishes to take away their very basic human rights, be louder than I am.

Fuck that to the highest degree.

I’m about to use my privilege to scream my love and my support for those in need from the highest of mountaintops. And if that comes in the form of screaming my hatred for men, the patriarchy, Republicans, and conservatives directly back to them then I sure as shit will be doing that; they are the ones with hate in their heart who are wishing to take away the rights of others. I didn’t vote for that. If my hatred comes in other forms like becoming a part of local community groups with like minds, supporting local and black-owned businesses, supporting my local library, educating my daughters to be empathetic and supportive, standing up for women in public if need be, then I will also sure as shit be doing that.

The world deserves my anger.

This was an ignorant ask to send. I don’t hate straight people; that’s just outright fucking stupid. I don’t think you’re educated enough on the subject to be sending me an ask that is effectively telling me to calm down, WHICH IS SO FUNNY because that’s what women are always told when they’re hysterical, because this is much much more than just the rights of LGBTQIA+ people and another President being elected.

Sure, I hope you’re right and that everything is the same in four years. But you’re wrong.

Sure, I’ll breathe out. But then I’m going to take a deep breath in and scream my support at the top of my lungs even if it comes in the form of hating men, conservatives, Republicans, and Trump.

Please don’t pretend as if you know me. This is the internet, this is fandom, this is somewhat of a persona.

Yes, I am angry. I can’t understand how people are not.

[plum-pitt]

X-Men Origins Rewrite

Ok I guess this is a follow up to this post i made not too long ago abt rewriting this shit, the brainworms rlly got to me here so you’re getting a follow up sooner than expected lol

Before I actually do any rewriting though I wanted to lay out the big changes I’d be making and why, mainly for myself as a guide and to organize my thoughts both about the original film’s issues and how these changes could potentially solve them, but also to allow anyone else with some ideas for possible changes to add their own thoughts or suggestions by engaging with the post.

As for what kind of final product you could possibly expect these ideas to result in, i haven’t quite decided if I want to just do an in depth outline for the story with my proposed changes or do like a full length fic novelization. It’ll probably depend on how motivated I still feel about the exercise by the time I’m finished and happy with the cleaned up outline, but I digress. Lets just go ahead and get into the changes I want to make:

Proposed Changes:

First off, I’m removing Blob and Gambit from this cut. I like both of the characters and think it’s cool they tried to include them but the cast is crammed enough as it is and those two serve very little narrative purpose that can’t be shifted to others just as easily.

Second, I’m adding Silverfox to Team X and letting that serve as the meeting point for her and Logan, it gives the audience more time to get to know her and come to care for her and Logan’s relationship, while also harkening back to the comics where she was also a part of the weapon x program. Also I know this isn’t a real film but let it be known that if it were i’d actually hire a Native American actress to portray her, i’m still shitty they whitewashed her.

Third, I’m removing the third act “Silverfox wasn’t really dead” twist. I really shouldn’t have to explain why, that shit was dumb and completely unnecessary, not to mention introducing a shit ton of plot holes with that whack ass mutant ability they pull from thin air. In my version she’s human(as far as we know) and when she dies she dies for real, full stop.

Fourth, we are GETTING a biblically accurate Deadpool. They did my bro dirty and I refuse to compromise on this. His role will be larger to compensate for his big ass personality and the fact that i’m affectively letting him take up Gambit’s role from the original in addition to what he already had. Also I just think he bounces off of Logan really well and could serve as a really interesting parallel with having such similar trauma and very different ways of responding to it and seeing the world. Like just imagine D&W if they accidentally traumabonded over their similar origin stories.

Fifth, I’m making Victor our stand in for the films Weapon XI! He doesnt get adamantium or new powers like Wade, only the dehumanizing psychological torture present in the original Weapon X comic. I think it works great for his spiraling arc, gives me a chance to squeeze a faithful weapon X adaptation in here without upending the entire film’s structure, and helps to better position his character on a trajectory towards his more feral appearance in X1 where he doesn’t seem to fully recognize Logan.

Sixth, I’d like to include Dr. Cornelius as the head scientist in Weapon X. My current concept is that he’s in charge of all the unethical mutant capturing and experimenting, working under Stryker’s supervision but still an outsider to the government, being sent in by Stryker’s most significant source of funding for his program in Nathaniel Essex. I know this has zero basis in canon I just think it sounds cool and makes sense for Sinister to have hands in a program aiming to create perfect mutant soldiers, as someone using mutants DNA to create a genetically perfect race of superhumans and become the ultimate life form. (Sinister would not play a large role, more of a looming presence pulling strings and fucking people over)

To get more overarching here, I wanted to hone in on the dynamics and themes present in the original that i thought had the most potential for further development. Victor’s spiral to madness and eventual complete loss of self under Stryker, Logan learning to let go of Victor’s influence and the violence that he let define his life only for both to drag him back after Silverfox’s demise. Really digging into that nature vs nurture shit, and adding more mutant politics (and their accompanying metaphors for the struggles of marginalized people) cuz honestly i feel like it’s absence in the original is very noticeable, and ties in really well with Logan’s arc of self acceptance and learning to see himself as more than the violent nature of his mutation.

Stuff I Still Want Changed:

Ok so here’s where I’m throwing my hat out for suggestions, because there are still a couple minor things present in the movie that i’m just not a fan of or don’t really know what to do with. The difference is, with these I can’t really think of tweaks that could fix/improve them. So if yall have any ideas on what I can do about these, or maybe some completely unrelated changes that you just think could improve the rewrite, please let me know.

One, not really sure what to do with Zero, he’s around for a lot of the movie but didn’t really stand out much to me. I just don’t know a lot about the character or what his deal is in the comics to find something cool to do with him. I’m going back and forth on if his role is ultimately necessary?? Does Stryker really need another henchman? Or should I use the space he occupies to hone in more on Victor and Logan’s rivalry? Idk i’m still on the fence so tell me what yall think.

Two, god I just fucking hate those memory wiping adamantium bullets. It’s such a stupid plot device that makes no sense conceptually and was clearly just thrown in as an afterthought at the last second like the writers forgot they needed to erase his memory by the end. That’s not to mention the fact that the bullets’ function was retconned later in Logan. Genuinely though I cannot find another way to go about fucking up Logan’s head without basically upending the structure of this movie in its entirety so any ideas on how to solve this dilemma are appreciated.

[moon-fairyy4]

seeing this in the corner shop at 12 changed the trajectory of my life

[skoulsons]

hey yeah it’s me still freaking out over ep4 and the one thing no one else probably care about because I am ill for these idiots. spoilers

first off. I love baylan so much and I know I said it earlier but I do. He’s SO cool and SO high up on a favorite SW character list

but the one scene that still has me is on seatos when the whole gang is together. I posted earlier about ahsoka throwing shin into the wall and then baylan losing it

But what came AFTER that when Sabine gave baylan the map back and then shin came in and started force choking sabine

Baylan kept true to his word. He’d take sabine with them. But obviously shin wasn’t really awake for that whole ordeal, so she immediately goes to protect her master

But what is getting me on an astronomical level is the way baylan says “shin, release her” and shin doesn’t and then all it takes is another “shin.” for her to stop

The second “shin” isn’t even antagonizing or loud or deep and annoyed. It’s a soft, almost a “trust me” tone. yes im short circuiting and blue screening

It’s also, and this is not the Rot talking, the dad way of getting your child to stop doing something. You ask them to stop and they don’t, so you say their name again by itself and then they do. That’s how it always goes

But MOOOORE THAN THAT, it’s calling her by her name. It’s the first time we hear either of them refer to the other by their first time. Now yes, I know, masters calling their padawans their name is super normal. They don’t call them “padawan” like padawans call their masters “master”. And it’s not like shin is gonna go “hey, baylan” to him

I was talking to some friends about this earlier today with Prospect and with Ezra calling Cee “Cee” instead of birdie, little bird, girl, or whatever else. It feels more special, almost, when it’s her first name

Yes I’m absolutely grasping at straws because im Addicted TM to the trope and yes baylan and shin are different than them but. im just crying ok and im needing to Rot over my new favorite people

[soosdraws]

“then why do you draw, fujino?”

[manichewitz]

people who only want gay characters to be played by gay actors just dont understand the appeal of two ostensibly straight actors playing two ostensibly straight characters yet having so much chemistry together that they actually want to make out with each other more than just keep with whatever weird subtextual thing is already going on

[astrolavas]

it’s his birthday today (official debut anniversary)

[chellustrates]

i miss this series so bad (tear rolling down cheek)

[drenched-in-sunlight]

should Age of Duskborn come to pass,

promise me you’ll be my Mother once more.

[homolobotomized]

ARE WE STILL FRIENDS?

[terracottakore]

in another life

[inspired from "wind back the clock" by @sarioh! i loved it so much that i felt like i just had to draw something for it TT (tysm for sharing your wonderful writing with us!!)]

+ still frames under the cut

[cjskribblez]

Everything burns, huh?