#The Royal Order of Fighting Dragons

[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. 

[wendynerdwrites]

I just. Cannot. Get over. The Archon.

When other protagonists made big leadership decisions in game, it was justified and made sense and you had to work for it and it didn't always go as you wished

DAO: The Warden is not even really making THE choice in Orzammar. Their support of Bhelen or Harrowmont is not anyone going "You pick the king", you are a supporter and ultimately a tool. The Warden is the instrument in the plans of whomever the player chooses. Ultimately, it is still the Assembly who chooses in universe. In reality, it's the player who picks the king, not the Warden. On top of that, you are there and contributing out of need that makes sense in universe. Your candidate needs someone to go down into the Deep Roads and your party are literally the only ones to do it because you're made for it. It has nothing to do with your political power or importance. You are a means to an end for whomever the PLAYER picks.

Then the Landsmeet, where, in order to get your pick, you need to a) Do a variety of favors and side missions b) make huge compromises often at a loss to a character's happiness c) literally require the backing of the second most important nobleman in the realm ALONG WITH a number of other lords to get your way, d) provide actual proof of multiple crimes committed by your opponents. And even then you still have to fight a duel.

DA2: By this point, Hawke has been Champion for years. Hawke has connections with a ton of power players in Kirkwall built over a literal decade and literally saved the city. And even then, you're only put in the position of making decisions for Kirkwall's future because almost everyone else is dead/insane/giving up/crashing out.

DAI: Orlais: yes, you do get to pick the Emperor..but let's go over how it got that point shall we? You are literally a religious icon who has ended at least one major fucking war at this point. AT A MINIMUM tou command either the entire population of circle mages OR the entire renegade Templar Order. You seemingly died and came back from the dead. You have a giant fucking impregnable fortress on the FERELDEN/Orlesian border and at least one other major holdfast in FERELDEN, along with your forces being dispersed throughout southern Thedas. While all the other major institutions in Orlais including the royal family, the Chantry, and the various martial orders like the Seekers and Templars were all too busy bitch fighting with one another while the Inquisition was the only organization steadfastly addressing the actual threats in Thedas and are seen as literally Chosen by God thanks to Inky having the Mark. You are the unanimously chosen leader of the fastest rising paramilitary organization in Thedas. And that's the MINIMUM of your influence starting WEaWH. And you still have to get the court to like you and solve mysteries.

It's just as likely that in addition to all that listed above, you ALSO just won a huge military victory at Adamant and possibly grandfathered the Wardens among your forces as well and have at least one or even two other huge castles in Orlais.

You are famous everywhere. You faced down an archdemon. You are a religious icon. So yeah, IF you secure enough goodwill with the court of Orlais AND blackmail everyone who matters, then yes, you pick the emperor.

Almost exact same scenario with the Divine, except in that case, depending on the choices you make, there's no guarantee of your chosen candidate ending up on the sunburst throne.

All of these big state decisions are built up via the storylines in the game, the setting, have tons of mitigating circumstances, and come when your character has either forged major alliances and/or built up major political clout in their own right. And even then they have to accomplish a shit load of bullshit to get to that decision.

DATV: Hey Random Guy, which one of us should be Archon? You choose since you slayed a single dragon. Sure, you're just some schmuck with no institutional power, allies among heads of state, military, or actual public clout, but go ahead and just choose who you want with no actual requirements for being able to do so. No, we're not going to ask you to gather evidence of crimes or blackmail material. No, you don't need to rise to nobility or go on a massive quest to do something only you can do. No, you don't have to make any choices that might affect you negatively. Just pick between the two of us, we're both good and your choice will come with no conflict since we will both just support whatever you pick, random asshole we just met who is actually technically responsible for our city being attacked. Fuck earning anything. Fuck sacrifices. Fuck compromise. Fuck your major decisions being earned via actual decisions you've made throughout the game and work you put in. Fuck uncertainty. Fuck playing actual politics to any extent whatsoever. Fuck anyone actually knowing who you are. You just slayed the boss, so as a prize you get to decide who the leader of the second most powerful country in Thedas will be because you're the protagonist of this game.

[novaursa]

Fires That Never Freeze

- Summary: You receive the news about Rhaenys' death at Rook's Rest, before Jace arrives as he secures the Twins.

- Pairing: targ!reader/Cregan Stark

- Note: reader is referred to as Y/N, is only daughter of Rhaenyra, has silver hair and violet eyes and is bonded to a dragon. These events happen after The Heir of Ice and Ash. To read all parts in chronological order, or more of my works, visit my blog. The list is pinned to the top.

- Rating: Explicit 18+

- Word count: 5 524

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @21-princess

You cradle your son, Killian, against your chest, his soft breath a soothing rhythm amidst the storm brewing in your heart. His dark hair is thick for one so young, a stark contrast to your own silver strands that cascade down like a river of moonlight, braided intricately yet now trembling at the edges as you shudder with grief. His violet eyes—your eyes—peek up at you in curiosity, innocent to the world that has been drenched in blood and betrayal. You wish you could preserve this innocence forever, shield him from the horrors beyond these stone walls, but you know all too well that the winds of war spare no one.

The letter lies crumpled beside you, the wax seal of the Three-Headed Dragon snapped in two. The words are still fresh, cutting through you like Valyrian steel, sharper than any sword you could ever wield. Your grandmother—brave, indomitable Rhaenys—is gone. The Queen Who Never Was met her end at Rook’s Rest, where she and Meleys faced the combined fury of Vhagar and Sunfyre. The account is almost too monstrous to believe: how Meleys’ head was severed and paraded as a trophy, how Aegon the Usurper was carried away like a broken thing, sealed in a crate to hide his mangled form. They say he is scarcely more than a corpse now, held together only by pride and the twisted whims of fate.

Your tears fall silently, trailing over Killian’s soft cheeks as he looks up at you, gurgling without a care in the world. He knows nothing of what has been lost, what will never be.

Suddenly, you feel Cregan’s presence behind you—warm and steady like the roots of an ancient tree. He kneels by your side, his grey eyes searching yours with concern. His large, calloused hand rests gently on your back, grounding you in the present. “Y/N,” he murmurs, voice soft as the snow falling outside. “I heard. The raven...”

You can’t find the strength to speak, so you only nod. He understands without needing further words; he always has. The Lord of Winterfell was never meant for courtly games or gilded halls, but here in the cold North, his honesty and strength have become your rock amidst all the chaos. Yet even his unwavering strength can’t shield you from this hurt.

“I thought dragons were… unkillable,” Cregan says after a pause, his voice rough with both sorrow and disbelief. “The stuff of legends, creatures older than men, forged in fire. I thought they were eternal.”

You blink away the tears that threaten to blind you and force yourself to meet his gaze. There is no room for illusions, not in this world where even gods bleed. “Anything can be killed, Cregan,” you whisper, voice trembling yet laced with a fierce conviction. “Even the gods. Even kings and Kingmakers alike.” The venom laced in the last words is unmistakable. Ser Criston Cole, the leech in royal armor, the wretched man who enabled this war to take root with his false oaths and blackened soul—how you despise him. The thought of him twisting the fate of nations with his cruelty makes bile rise in your throat

Cregan’s brow furrows as he takes in your words. He knows of your distaste for Cole, for all those who put ambition over loyalty, who would see the world burn if only to rule over the ashes. He moves closer, wrapping a protective arm around you and Killian. “You’re right,” he says quietly, his voice a deep rumble, “but we’re still here, and we’ll fight back for those we’ve lost. For those who remain.”

Killian shifts in your arms, cooing softly, as if sensing the turmoil in your heart. You lean into Cregan’s warmth, letting yourself take solace in the strength he offers. “Rhaenys was always so brave,” you murmur, your voice breaking slightly. “She defied them all her life, never once bending to their will. They feared her because she was a woman who would not be cowed, and now… they parade her death like some kind of victory.”

“They can parade all they like,” Cregan says, his voice turning steely, “but a victory built on treachery and murder will crumble. Aegon’s body may still cling to life, but his cause is already rotting from within. The realm will see it.”

His words, though meant to comfort, bring little ease. The war rages on, and with it, the losses mount like a tolling bell. Your heart aches, both for those who have fallen and for those who must still face what lies ahead. Yet, as you look down at Killian, you feel a flicker of hope amidst the darkness. He is a symbol of all you fight for—a future not bound by the horrors of the past, but shaped by those who endure.

“Thraxata will know,” you murmur, more to yourself than to Cregan, your thoughts turning to your own dragon, the Midnight Fury. “She will mourn with me.”

Cregan tightens his grip around you, his chin resting on the top of your head. “And when the time comes, she’ll fight with you too, alongside us all. This isn’t over, Y/N. We have something they’ll never understand—a love forged in fire and ice, bound by loyalty.”

You close your eyes and let yourself be held, the flicker of strength in your chest rekindling. The tears still fall, but now, with every drop, there is something else too—a growing resolve. Rhaenys’ death will not be in vain. The world will hear the roar of her legacy through you, through your son, and through every soul that refuses to bow to the false kings who sit on thrones built on blood.

For now, you hold your family close, taking what comfort you can in the warmth of Cregan’s embrace, in the small heartbeat thrumming steadily against your chest. The autumn winds howl outside, but here, amidst stone and fur, there is still love, still life. The storm may rage, but you will not break.

Not yet.

The weirwood stands tall and ancient, its pale bark almost glowing in the dim twilight. The blood-red leaves flutter softly in the breeze, a stark contrast against the gray skies overhead. You feel small before it, like a child gazing up at something vast and unfathomable. The face carved into the heart tree’s trunk stares down at you with those deep, knowing eyes, as if it sees not just you, but every thought, every secret tucked away in the recesses of your soul.

You’ve been standing here longer than you intended, lost in the quiet of this sacred place. Yet, beneath the peace, there’s an unease gnawing at you. The chill of autumn clings to your skin, sharper now, more present. It crawls into your bones, but you can’t bring yourself to move. You’re here, but not truly—your thoughts scattered like leaves on the wind.

For a moment, everything sharpens. You feel the press of the cold more keenly now, and your breath curls in the air like faint wisps of smoke. Then, the world begins to shift. The rustle of the leaves grows distant, muffled, until it’s almost drowned out by something else—a whisper that’s barely more than a breath, carried on the wind. You stiffen, your heart quickening. It’s a voice, faint yet clear as the first crack of ice on a frozen lake.

Y/N.

It speaks your name, though you cannot tell whether it’s a man’s voice or a woman’s. It sounds old, ageless even, and it seems to echo within your mind as much as in the air around you. A rush of images floods your vision—flashes of faces, places, events yet to come or perhaps already past. You see fire and blood, wings spreading wide against a burning sky. There’s the glint of steel, a flash of a crown—someone crying out, their voice lost in a roar of flames. 

Then, as suddenly as it came, the frenzy halts. You stagger back a step, your surroundings snapping back into focus, the world real again. But the cold clings to you, more than it did before. The weirwood watches you, its eyes holding secrets it will never share. You swallow, trying to steady your breath, your heart pounding loud enough to drown out all else.

“Y/N!” A familiar voice cuts through the fog of your thoughts, pulling you back fully to the present.

You turn, dazed, and see Cregan striding toward you, his expression tense with concern. Behind him is Maester Kennet, his gray robes fluttering as he hurries to keep pace. Cregan’s eyes are locked on you, his brows drawn together, the worry evident in his every movement. “What’s wrong? You’ve been out here too long—it’s freezing.” His tone is gentle, but there’s an edge to it, the underlying fear for your well-being.

You blink, still feeling the lingering echoes of the vision, the remnants of those hurried images flickering in your mind’s eye. “I… I’m fine,” you say, but your voice is shakier than you intend, betraying the truth of your unease.

Cregan stops in front of you, reaching out to cup your cheek with one roughened hand, his thumb brushing against your cold skin. “You don’t look fine, love,” he murmurs, eyes searching yours as if trying to find the cause of whatever has you so shaken. “What happened?”

“I’m not sure,” you admit, closing your eyes briefly as you lean into his touch. “The weirwood… I thought I heard something. Saw something.”

Maester Kennet approaches cautiously, his gaze darting between you and the heart tree. “The Old Gods have their ways of sending messages, Lady Y/N,” he says softly. “The weirwoods are their eyes, their ears. It is not unheard of for them to reach out to those who carry their favor.” 

Cregan frowns at that, his grip on you tightening protectively. “She’s been out here too long, alone,” he says, not taking his eyes off you. “Whatever she saw or heard can wait until she’s had some rest.”

But Maester Kennet shakes his head, his face grim as he pulls a folded letter from his robes. “I wouldn’t have interrupted if it weren’t important. A raven came not long ago—from the Twins. Your brother, Jacaerys, has secured passage for his forces. He’s on his way to meet you, Lady Y/N.”

The words bring a sudden, fierce surge of emotion—relief mixed with dread. Jacaerys is alive, fighting as he always promised he would. Yet with every victory comes new dangers, new battles. And the visions, whatever they meant, linger in your mind like a shadow cast over the joy of the news.

Cregan, ever perceptive, sees the conflict in your eyes and places a reassuring hand on your shoulder. “We’ll face whatever comes,” he promises, his voice a low rumble, the kind that always makes you feel like you’re standing on solid ground, even when the world tilts.

You manage a small smile, nodding. “Yes…”

But as you glance back at the weirwood, its face still and expressionless, you can’t shake the feeling that the Old Gods are watching more keenly than ever. The autumn winds whisper secrets you’re not sure you want to hear, and deep in your heart, you sense that whatever lies ahead, the choices you make will ripple far beyond the snow-covered hills of the North.

With a deep breath, you turn away from the tree, allowing Cregan’s steady presence to guide you back toward Winterfell, leaving the whispers of the gods behind—for now.

The winds bite sharper today, swirling through the bare branches of the godswood and over the snow-covered battlements of Winterfell. You stand beside Cregan at the edge of the courtyard, your cloak pulled tight against the chill. Thraxata looms behind you, her obsidian scales gleaming in the pale winter light. The Midnight Fury’s violet eyes are fixed on the skies above, where your brother is soon to arrive. The air hums with anticipation, the kind that makes your heart race and your fingers twitch. Beside you, Cregan rests a hand on the pommel of his sword, his gaze as steady as the stone walls that surround you.

“Are you ready?” Cregan’s voice is low, warm like a hearth fire, grounding you in the present moment.

You nod, though the tension in your chest remains. “I haven’t seen Jacaerys in so long. I only hope he’s as safe as his letter claimed.”

Cregan squeezes your hand, a brief but reassuring gesture. “If he’s anything like you, he’ll be stronger than ever.”

You smile at his words, but the edge of worry still lingers. War changes people, molds them into something else—sometimes into something harder, colder. You’ve seen it already in the eyes of the soldiers who have passed through Winterfell, men whose laughter now rings hollow, whose smiles are mere shadows. What has the war made of your brother?

Before your thoughts can spiral further, the distant roar of a dragon echoes through the sky, accompanied by the deep flap of massive wings. All eyes turn upward, and there—emerging from the rolling clouds—is Vermax. His green and bronze scales shimmer with an ethereal glow against the muted grays of the northern sky, his wings outstretched as he circles lower. Your heart lifts at the sight, despite everything.

Thraxata rumbles low in her throat, a sound that’s half-greeting, half-challenge. She shifts, restless, her powerful tail sweeping across the ground and leaving deep grooves in the snow. You place a calming hand on her side, feeling the heat radiating from her scales, even in the biting cold. “Easy, girl,” you murmur, though a part of you understands her unease. The bond between dragon and rider is one forged in fire and instinct—Thraxata senses your tension as clearly as you do.

Vermax lands with a powerful thud in the courtyard, snow scattering like dust beneath his claws. Jacaerys dismounts swiftly, his dark curls wild from the wind, his face shadowed with exhaustion and resolve. His eyes—dark brown—search the crowd until they find you. Despite the grimness that hangs about him, a grin breaks across his face.

“Y/N!” His voice is hoarse, but filled with unmistakable affection.

You rush forward, closing the distance between you, and throw your arms around him. For a moment, you’re children again, finding comfort in each other amidst the storms that have always threatened to tear your family apart. But the moment is brief, tinged with the weight of all that has passed. When you pull back, you can see the subtle changes in him—the deeper lines etched into his face, the hardened edge in his gaze.

“Brother,” you breathe, cupping his face, your thumb brushing against the scar just above his brow—a mark of a recent battle, no doubt. “You’ve grown into a man of war.”

Jacaerys huffs a quiet laugh, though it lacks the lightness it once held. “It seems the war gives us little choice in what we become.” His gaze flickers over your shoulder, landing on Cregan. “Lord Stark,” he greets formally, though the respect in his tone is genuine. “Your hospitality has been unmatched. It’s a comfort to know my sister has found such a strong ally—and husband.”

Cregan inclines his head, his usual sternness softened slightly by a hint of warmth. “Your family is ours now, Jacaerys. Winterfell stands with you, as do the men of the North. We fight together.”

The words, though simple, carry a promise, one that Jacaerys seems to take solace in. He nods, a flicker of relief crossing his features before his expression grows serious once more. “The Twins have bent the knee. Their armies are ready to march when we give the word. The Riverlands will rally to our cause, though they’ve suffered much at the hands of the greens.”

You clench your fists at your sides, feeling the familiar fire of rage ignite in your belly at the thought of those who serve the usurper, those who’ve turned against your mother, against your family. “We’ll make them pay for every drop of blood spilled,” you vow, your voice cold with determination. “They’ll learn the price of treachery when fire and blood rain upon them.”

Jacaerys’ gaze meets yours, a shared understanding passing between you. “We will, sister,” he says quietly. “But we must be wise in how we strike. Our enemies are many, and some hide in shadows even we haven’t uncovered.”

As he speaks, the men of Winterfell gather closer, eager to hear news from the South. Thraxata moves to stand beside Vermax, her violet eyes fixed on him, a low rumble vibrating through her chest. Vermax, ever the more temperate of the two, remains still, watching her with a calm curiosity. The two dragons are like night and day, one fierce and unpredictable, the other steady and patient—a reflection of the bond shared between their riders.

Maester Kennet steps forward from the crowd, ever the dutiful servant, and bows his head. “My lord, my lady,” he addresses you both, “the men are ready to host your brother and his retinue. Supplies are being gathered for the march south, but it would do you both good to rest and break bread together before the night grows colder.”

Cregan nods, though his gaze remains fixed on Jacaerys. “You’ve traveled far, and winter’s grip grows tighter by the day. We’ll speak of war and plans soon enough. Tonight, we celebrate family.”

Jacaerys glances at you, his eyes softening briefly before he returns his attention to Cregan. “I’d welcome that. It’s been too long since I’ve felt the warmth of kin.” He turns to you once more, taking your hand and squeezing it. “Mother would want us to stand strong, Y/N. For her, for all of us.”

You swallow back the knot in your throat, nodding. “We will, Jace. We will.”

As you walk back toward the Great Hall, arm in arm with your brother and Cregan beside you, the dragons shift close behind ready to take flight, their steps heavy on the snow-covered earth. Above, the first stars begin to pierce the twilight sky, cold and distant. You can still feel the echoes of the weirwood’s whispers, the glimpses of futures yet unwritten. But here, with your family by your side, you draw strength from the bonds that even war cannot break.

The Great Hall of Winterfell is alive with the low murmur of voices and the crackle of hearth fires. The long table is crowded with Stark bannermen, their weathered faces drawn with the seriousness of the discussion. The banners of the North hang proudly on the walls—gray direwolves on fields of white and gray. The smell of pinewood smoke and spiced wine fills the air, mingling with the scent of roasted meats brought out for the evening. It is a scene both warm and solemn, a brief moment of respite before the weight of strategy drags everyone back into the cold reality of war.

You sit beside Cregan at the head of the table, your hand resting on his arm as Jacaerys stands before the gathered lords. He wears his determination like armor, though there is a heaviness in his eyes that no amount of resolve can mask. His voice, strong despite the weariness clinging to him, rings out over the hall.

“Our enemies have grown bolder since my brother’s and grandmother's murders. Aemond has broken the oldest of laws—he’s a kinslayer, and for that, he’s forfeited not only his honor but any right to mercy. The greens think the deaths of Luke and Rhaenys will weaken us, make us retreat into mourning. They’re wrong.” His words are met with murmurs of agreement, grim nods from the assembled bannermen.

Lord Cregan speaks next, his voice deep and measured. “Justice for Prince Lucerys and Princess Rhaenys will be served, Jacaerys, but the North is not free of its own burdens. The men and Houses we pledged to your cause will march with you as promised—greybeards and veterans who have survived more winters than most. But the majority of our forces must remain here, at least until the winds shift and winter’s bite eases.”

A rumble of assent follows Cregan’s words. The greybeards, some of whom are gathered here tonight, nod their heads, weathered faces set in stony determination. These are men who’ve lived through harsh winters, wars, and endless trials. They know the cost of every step taken southward, but they also understand the weight of their oaths.

You lean forward, feeling the cold steel of duty and sorrow twisting within you. “The Wall grows restless,” you add, your voice quieter but cutting through the room. “Reports from our scouts say the wildlings stir, and there are whispers of darker things in the woods. The North cannot abandon its duties here, not entirely, not with winter closing in. We fight on two fronts—one for vengeance, and one to hold back the darkness that always comes with the cold.”

Jacaerys’ jaw tightens, though there’s no anger in his gaze, only acceptance. “I know what I ask of you, of the North. I wouldn’t pull you from your duties lightly. But we’re in desperate need of men who’ve seen true battle—men who won’t falter when the greens come for us again.” He looks around the table, locking eyes with each of the bannermen. “Aemond’s murders of Luke and Rhaenys aren't just an insult to my family, it’s a warning of what’s to come. They’ll strike at us all, one by one, until there’s nothing left to fight for.”

Maester Kennet, seated near the fire, clears his throat, his thin fingers wrapped around a goblet. “A measured approach is wise. The North is vast, and winter makes even the shortest march an ordeal. Splitting our forces to both hold the Wall and reinforce the Riverlands is a sound strategy. But we cannot be reckless. The cold is our greatest enemy—aside from the greens themselves.”

A grizzled voice interrupts, belonging to Lord Harwood Flint. “We’ve sworn our oaths to your mother, Prince Jacaerys, and those oaths stand. The greybeards and I will march south, aye, but only as far as the weather allows. If winter deepens, we’ll be forced to retreat—lest we lose more men to frost than to battle.”

Lord Cregan nods solemnly. “The North keeps its promises, Jace, but our duty here is unbreakable. If winter passes, we’ll ride in full force, dragons and all. Until then, you’ll have what men we can spare, the strongest and the most experienced. The rest must remain to guard our lands and prepare for whatever winter may bring.”

You watch Jacaerys as he absorbs their words, weighing them against the urgency of his mission. It’s a hard truth, but one he’s known in his heart. “I understand,” he finally says, though the strain in his voice is evident. “The North has always held its ground when others falter. Your men’s presence in the Riverlands will tip the scales more than you know. We’ll make every sacrifice count, for all of our sakes.”

A silence falls over the hall, filled only by the crackling of the fires and the occasional clink of cups against wood. It’s a heavy silence, the kind that carries the weight of lives yet to be lost, battles yet to be fought. You feel the tension in your own shoulders, the mix of sorrow and determination that has become all too familiar.

Cregan’s voice breaks the silence, firm and resolute. “Then it’s settled. The North will march with you, Jacaerys, and we’ll hold the line here until the time is right to unleash the full might of Winterfell. The Wall must remain guarded, our lands defended. But rest assured—the North remembers, and we will have vengeance for both Lucerys and Rhaenys.”

Jacaerys meets his gaze with a nod of gratitude, his eyes glistening with something more than just determination—hope, perhaps, or at least the stubborn refusal to let despair take root. “Thank you, Cregan. Thank you all. My mother will hear of your loyalty, and when the time comes, I’ll see that those who’ve wronged us pay with fire and blood.”

You reach out, placing a hand on Jacaerys’ arm, drawing his attention back to you. “We’ll see this through together, Jace,” you say softly, yet with unshakable conviction. “For Luke. For our family.”

His lips press into a tight line, but he nods, and in that moment, you see the boy you once knew, the one who would always protect his siblings, no matter the cost. War has hardened him, yes, but it hasn’t broken his spirit. And for that, you’re grateful.

The meeting ends with agreements made, plans solidified. As the lords begin to rise and drift away, you, Cregan, and Jacaerys remain, sharing a moment of quiet amidst the chaos. Thraxata and Vermax can be heard outside, their low growls a reminder that no matter how heavy the burden, you are not alone in this fight.

You glance at Cregan, who offers you a small, reassuring smile, and then at Jacaerys, whose eyes hold the same fire that burns within you. The North may be bound by its duties to the Wall, but when the time comes, it will roar in unison, and the South will tremble beneath the weight of vengeance and justice.

Until then, you steel yourself for the battles to come, knowing that winter is both your enemy and your greatest ally. The North will remember, and so will the world.

The chambers are dimly lit, the glow of the hearth casting flickering shadows across the stone walls. The scent of pine and smoke lingers in the air, mingling with the faint hint of sage and lavender from the herbs hung above the door. Outside, the cold wind howls, but in here, the warmth is grounding—a cocoon that holds only the two of you.

You stand before the fire, watching the flames dance, lost in the flicker of embers. Thoughts of the day’s discussions linger in your mind, heavy like the weight of armor. You’re still processing the event, the decisions, and the weight of what’s to come. But for now, those thoughts seem distant as you feel Cregan’s presence behind you. His steps are soft as he approaches, yet you can sense the strength in each movement. When he wraps his arms around you from behind, drawing you into his chest, you let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding.

“Y/N,” he murmurs into your hair, his voice a deep rumble. There’s a tenderness there that you’ve come to cherish—an intimacy that only grows with each passing day. You lean back into him, feeling his warmth seep into your skin, grounding you in this moment, away from the burden of duty and war.

His hands slide over your waist, tracing the curves of your body with a reverence that never fades, no matter how many times he’s touched you this way. “You’re troubled,” he says softly, pressing a kiss to the side of your neck. It’s not a question; he knows you too well.

You close your eyes, allowing yourself to melt into his embrace. “I’ve been thinking… about everything. About Jace, the war, what lies ahead. But mostly… about what I felt in the godswood.”

Cregan’s hands still for a moment, his grip tightening just slightly. He turns you gently to face him, his eyes searching yours, concern and affection mingling in his gaze. “You saw something, didn’t you?” he asks quietly.

You nod, reaching up to cup his face, your fingers tracing the line of his jaw, roughened by stubble. “I did, but I don’t want to think about it right now,” you whisper, letting your thumb brush over his lips. “Right now, I just want to feel alive. I want to feel us.”

Something shifts in his gaze, the concern giving way to something deeper, more primal. His hand moves to cradle the back of your neck, drawing you closer, and when his lips finally meet yours, it’s with a passion that sends a surge of heat through you. The kiss is slow at first, a tender exploration, but it quickly deepens, becoming something more urgent, more consuming.

You thread your fingers through his hair, tugging slightly as you press closer, your bodies molding together as if trying to erase any distance between you. His hands roam over you, rough and strong, yet every touch is filled with affection. It’s a contrast that you’ve always found intoxicating—the fierce warrior and the gentle lover, both sides of him intertwined in every caress.

Cregan’s mouth trails down your neck, leaving a line of burning kisses along your skin. “Y/N,” he growls against your throat, his voice thick with desire. “You’re mine.”

You shiver at the possessiveness in his tone, the words igniting something deep within you. “Yours,” you breathe, tugging at his tunic, eager to feel the heat of his skin against yours.

Clothes fall away with hurried hands, the cold air biting at your exposed skin for only a moment before the warmth of Cregan’s body presses against you. You pull him with you, leading him to the bed, his eyes never leaving yours as he lays you down then, his weight a comforting pressure above you.

The passion between you ignites like wildfire. His hands grip your hips as he enters you, and you gasp, arching into him as he moves with a rhythm that feels like a dance, one you’ve perfected together over countless nights. Every thrust is filled with a mixture of desire and love, each one drawing you closer to the edge, making the world beyond these walls fade away until there’s only him—only you.

Your hands roam over his back, nails digging in as the pleasure builds, each moan, each whispered word of affection driving you both higher. There’s a desperation in the way you cling to each other, as if the passion is the only thing anchoring you both in a world that threatens to tear everything apart.

“Cregan,” you gasp, his name a prayer on your lips as you reach that peak together, the intensity of the moment overwhelming. He groans your name, his voice rough and breathless as he collapses against you, burying his face in your neck, holding you as if he’ll never let go.

For a long while, neither of you speaks, content to simply breathe together, hearts pounding in unison. The room is warm, the glow of the fire casting soft light over your tangled limbs. Cregan’s hand strokes your hair absently, his fingers combing through the silver strands as you lay nestled against him.

But eventually, the silence gives way to the thoughts that have been haunting you. You shift slightly, turning to look up at him. His eyes are closed, a peaceful expression on his face, but you know he’s awake, lost in his own thoughts.

“Cregan,” you say softly, drawing his attention. His eyes open, meeting yours, and the concern returns as he sees the seriousness in your expression.

“What did you see, love?” he asks, his voice gentle, though the tension in his jaw betrays his worry.

You take a breath, recalling the frenzied images that had flashed before you in the godswood, the voice that had called your name. “It was like a storm in my mind,” you begin, your voice barely above a whisper. “I heard my name—felt something pulling at me. And then… I saw flashes of fire, blood, wings beating against a sky that burned. There was steel, a crown, and screams lost in the roar of flames. It was so vivid, so real, but I couldn’t make sense of it. And then it was gone, as quickly as it came.”

Cregan listens, his brow furrowed as he considers your words. “The Old Gods speak in riddles and symbols,” he says quietly. “I’ve heard tales of their whispers, of visions granted to those who stand before the weirwoods. But they’ve never been clear—they show what might be, not what is certain.”

You nod, but the unease still lingers. “It felt like a warning, Cregan. Like something terrible is coming, something we’re not prepared for.”

He tightens his hold on you, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “Whatever it is, we’ll face it together. You’re not alone in this. The North is with you, I’m with you, and we’ll do everything in our power to protect what we hold dear.”

You close your eyes, letting his words soothe some of the anxiety that gnaws at you. “I know. But there’s so much at stake… and so many unknowns. I can’t shake the feeling that the gods are watching, waiting to see what choices we’ll make.”

“The gods may watch,” Cregan murmurs, his voice a low rumble against your skin, “but it’s our choices that shape the future. Whatever comes, we’ll face it, side by side.”

You find comfort in his certainty, the steady strength he always offers when you need it most. Nestled in his arms, you feel the tension slowly drain from your body, replaced by a sense of peace, however fleeting. For now, the future can wait.

[this-resident-is-evil]

Leathers and Robes

Note: Happy Valentines Day. ;) …. And part 1? Pairing: Rider Leon S. Kennedy x Priestess fem reader Synopsis: You are one of the priestesses that follow a goddess of knowledge which requires all her followers to be celibate. Your path was clear since you were born, you hated how people could be so animalistic when it came to reproduction hence why you decided to pursue the path of the goddess all was well until a dragon rider came to the temple. Contains: Virgin reader, vaginal penetration, fingering, oral fem receiving, questionable use of daggers, dirty talk, body worship, praise kink, use of pet names (princess, holy woman, sweetheart, goddess), unprotected sex, cream pie, cock warming. Warning: Minors do not interact.

Your days have always had the same routine, you would wake up have a modest breakfast tend to the largest library stationed in the temple of your goddess until lunch then back to the books for the afternoon. Around that time students from the academy would slowly and surely tickle in to study and that was about it.

The goddess of knowledge didn’t require extensive praying or even offerings. She wanted her priestesses to follow three simple rules. First, pursue the knowledge they are interested in. Second, to take care of themselves and their bodies in order to stay healthy and third… to never get involved with men and to stay celibate.

This has been easy ever since you joined her temple well until everything went south.

One unfortunate afternoon a fight between some students occurred. One party was going to the War academy trained to be dragon riders, soldiers and royal guard. The others were going to the academy in pursuit of science and knowledge in general. Their fight brought in a headmaster of the Academy of science to the temple’s doorstep.

The man was unpleasant to say the least strict and his distaste for women was evident. It made you uncomfortable to speak to him for the short few minutes he needed to get a grasp on the situation that involved the students of his academy.

What was unsurprising the headmaster of the war academy didn’t bother to show up. Or so you thought until… he landed on dragon back before your very eyes.

Since childhood you dreamed of seeing a dragon in person however your pursuit of knowledge leads you to a place where you will never have a chance unless someone dared to break the rules. The memory brings heist to your step as you approach the man.

“Excuse me, dragons are prohibited from landing on temple grounds.” You spoke up.

The man adorned in dark flight leathers turned to you. He looked strict and dangerous. His whole face was as if he was carved from stone into a beautiful statue. His hair was blonde cut short and slicked back with a few unruly strands escaping to cover his forehead.

“My apologies ma’am.” He speaks his voice rumbling in your ears. “Louis, you heard the lady.” He speaks and the dragon adorned in bronze like scales huffs, his nostrils releasing some smoke before he took flight leaving the grounds.

Your hands moved to straighten your robes before fixing your posture to look up at the man towering above you. His blue eyes bored into your own.

“I’m looking for priestess (Y/N) (L/N).” He spoke up.

You were forced to clear your throat and swallow before you were ready to answer him. “That would be me.”

“Lovely. I heard you saw what happened last week with the rookies.” His arms cross over his chest, his muscular frame was intimidating to say the least but you were not going to allow a man to intimidate you.

“I have.” You confirm. “I would assume that rough housing is a common occurrence among your ranks.” It was your turn to cross your arms over your chest.

His eyes momentarily lost the focus from your eyes landing lower where your arms crossed. This might have lasted for a millisecond but you still caught it.

“Perhaps it is true.” He had a smirk curl in the corner of his lips. “I still need to know what happened.”

“Are you the headmaster of the academy?” You question him suspicion clear in your tone of voice.

A deep chest rumbling chuckle escapes his lips. “No, I’m a Liuetenant, Leon S. Kennedy, think of it as a favor I’m doing for the headmaster.”

You sigh. It wasn’t like this was a serious offense, in fact no one got hurt and it’s not as if the information can’t go public.

“Fine… The students tend to throw insults to the other party but it was never too serious. Common rivalry one side believes they are more important than the other, however the students from the war academy seemed to be on edge that day. I’m not too sure what that ordeal was about but one rude comment and they were standing up and causing a considerable amount of noise. Before I knew it, they started throwing punches. I didn’t hear much of their conversation.” Your explanation seemed to satisfy him and after several official questions he was itching to leave.

It took several days before he came back. This time dragging the students of the war academy by the ear to apologize to the priestesses. While your collogues, waved them off claiming to be too busy you lingered to properly accept their apology.

It wasn’t as if they damaged the temples property so you didn’t expect much. Nor did the temple demand for the official apology but alas the matter was settled calmly and rather quickly.

However, this rider was rather odd. You haven’t seen him before the whole ordeal and now he made it his mission to come into the library at least two to three times a week. He wasn’t worthy of suspicion but even so, you just couldn’t get him off your mind.

This only led you to grow curious about this particular rider and eventually your curiosity needed to be satiated. Hence why you made it your mission to discover everything you possibly could.

There wasn’t much you could find with just his name. The only thing you were able to find were his academy attendance and final grades records. Now all you knew about him was his name, he was a lieutenant and a dragon rider for the military as well as he was a good student nicely nested at the tops of many charts as well as his age. Twenty-seven and at a such position in the military?

“You are a curious one, aren’t you?” The deep voice makes you flinch surprising you as you looked to the source. It was him right as you were holding the academy records.

That’s alright, he can’t know for sure you were looking into him. You straighten your robes as you turn to face him placing a mask of indifference over your face.

“I wouldn’t be here if I wasn’t. Knowledge is power.” You spoke fixing your posture.

“Right…” He smirks as he leans back against the book shelf and pulling a dagger out of its holster twirling it around is if it was a mere broken off branch and not a razor-sharp blade. “Just what knowledge would you find it the records of the war academy students?”  

So, it seems he is as sharp as his blade. “I don’t see how I must explain myself to you.”

“Oh, you mustn’t ma’am you are the holy lady of the goddess of knowledge, what would a lowly soldier do in face of such high status.” His tone is filled to the brim with mockery and sarcasm.  

His attitude annoys you. As if you were a spoiled princess and not a woman who has dedicated her whole life to the goddess of knowledge. You worked hard to climb the ranks and are currently the youngest among the priests and priestesses.

“You look bored here.” He points out.

“I most certainly am not.” You counter.

Another one of his soul shaking chuckles enters your ears. “Oh really? This mind as well be a retirement home considering there is always more elderly, I doubt even with the students’ who study here can overwhelm them in numbers.”

“Perhaps not, but I doubt that is of much importance. People come here to learn, of all ages.” You spoke up. “After all, it is never late to learn something new.”

He nods as he tugs the dagger into its holster. “Speaking of people willing to learn…” He reaches into his pocket pulling out a piece of parchment that was folded multiple times. “Some riders made a discovery of a cave. It has a whole lock and puzzle system… So, naturally, we think there might be something valuable down there.” He hands you the parchment and you unfold it.

What you found written on it was a request for a priestess to join the riders on a mission to discover what is in the said cave. Knowing the other priestesses, you had a feeling none of them would like to join on this mission.

“I will take this to the high priestess.” You spoke as you put the book you were holding back in its place.

“Thank you, ma’am.” He offers you a bright smile which would make any woman weak in the knees. But you are no ordinary woman. You are the holy woman of your goddess and you shall not falter. Offering him nothing more but a nod of acknowledgement you walk away.

It took several days for the high priestess to consider the said request. “Who would like to voulunteer?” She questioned the other priestesses and you looked around the room.

In theory, all the older women weren’t going to offer to join the mission you could assume as much. It was a new territory and there was no guarantee of the other women being present. If there is anything a holy woman following the goddess of knowledge would be horrified off the most, it was this very situation.

“I suppose we shall refuse the request then.”

“I will do it.” You raise your hand. “I studied similar topics before. I’m curious to find out if my theory is correct.”

“What is your theory?” One of the priestesses questioned you, curiosity evident in her eyes.

“The structures of places that hide valuable items.” You clarify. “More specifically, if all the obstacles could be passed without the need for the creator. Based on my research all of those places contain simple concept puzzles with a more complicated twist.” You continue to explain and the women in the room nod in understanding.

“Very well then. I shall inform the general.”

It took several days for the mission to get into motion. The cave’s location was long ways away from the temple but based on the briefing you received to prepare yourself, the trip there was several hours on dragon back and estimated two to three days to explore the cave and again several hours travel back.

When the time came you changed into more practical but still modest clothing which included lose trousers that did not accentuate your figure as well as a tunic over which you draped a cape. You left the temple that early morning and found yourself at the meet up point.

Your wait was short as several dragons landed before you. “Would you look at that.” Leon dropped down from the back of his dragon approaching you. “Glad to have you on board ma’am.” He bows his head slightly.

He looked about the same as he always does, wrapped into a tightly fitted leather with belt like straps wrapped around his torso and thighs.

“I gotta be going blind to see a Kennedy flirting with a priestess.” It was a turn for a different man to approach the two of you.

His skin was tan and a black shaggy hair was falling over his forehead. He appeared to be taller than Leon which made you step back to keep a reasonable distance from him.

“Carlos Olivera.” He offers his hand for a handshake but instead of taking it you speak your name.

“Priestesses avoid physical contact with men.” A woman spoke as she approached the three of you followed by a man and another woman who looked vaguely similar. “Jill Valetine.” She offers her hand for a shake which you take. “Our Captain Chris Redfield and his sister Claire Redfield.” She points to the man and a woman standing behind her. “And the rest are Brad Vickers, Marvin Branagh and Barry Burton.” She speaks as she points to the three other men.

You nod in acknowledgment. “Let’s move out, Mrs. (L/N) you will be riding with me.” Chris speaks and you stiffen.

His sister is quick to smack him on the back of his head. “No men remember?” She speaks. “You are with me.” She ads as she leads you to her dragon.

Claire was quick to set up a saddle for you right behind hers and kindly helped you mount the dragon adorned in burgundy scales. The journey was exhausting, making sure you held onto your own seat exhausted you quicker than you anticipated. And what was supposed to be a one lane trip ended up having a stop so you could stretch your legs and rest before you were back in the air.

Nightfall was fast approaching as you landed close to the entrance to the cave. You settled between the only women on the team surrounding the fire as you ate dinner before heading early to bed.

“Sorry missy what was the name again?” Carlos questioned you.

As you open your mouth to answer Leon was quick to speak before you had a chance to. “Can’t remember the name? A senior moment perhaps?”

Carlos was quick to punch Leon in the arm which made the men and women around the fire chuckle. “Shut your mouth. Both of you.” Chris warned. “We got no time for your monkey business.”

“I think we have plenty of time. Mission doesn’t technically start until tomorrow morning.” Leon was quick to counter.

“We are still on the clock.”

“Now I’m sure that you didn’t tag along so we can sing kumbaya together at the boy scout bonfire.” You cover your mouth to keep an amused smile from forming on your face.

Chris didn’t look nearly as amused as you did with that line and decided to end the gathering early sending everyone off to their tents. You followed the order to avoid the rage of a man that looked about done with this mission before it even began.

“I don’t think I have ever seen a scholar capable of setting up a tent properly.” Leon approached you by your tent.

“I’m no ordinary scholar.” You let out a quiet chuckle.

“No ma’am you most definitely are not.” He crosses his arms over his chest. “You like dragons, don’t you?” His observation makes your head snap in his direction. “It was kind of obvious.” He states.

You sigh being found out from the neutral exterior you kept as a mask to the little girl you once were fantasizing that you too could ride a dragon one day. Today was that day and it was exhausting but it surely didn’t lower your enthusiasm.

“And if that is so?” You question him.

“Well, I may or may not have a very friendly dragon who loves attention.”

You perk up as he speaks. His smirks at you as he proceeds to walk past you towards the bronze dragon. He wasn’t lying. Louis was a friendly one basking in the attention and praise you gave him like a needy tamed animal.

Leon looked to you from the side and his hand reached to tuck a strand of your hair that escaped your bun. The bun that you put up neatly this morning for it to get ruined by the ride here.

What surprised you was that you didn’t flinch away like you would in a presence of any other man. You weren’t as guarded when he was around and you couldn’t tell if it terrified you or if it soothed you.

That night, before slumber took you over, you stared into space. Leon S. Kennedy. A man who was slowly but surely crawling his way into your mind in the beginning was now confidently breaking down the doors. Just what was one supposed to do in such a situation?

It took you two days to reach the end of the cave, the puzzles you found in your way most were easy to crack. By the time you reached the end there was a large treasure hiding in the deepest cervices of the cave. Half of the team was ordered to ride to the closest tower to call in help for transfer, this included Redfield siblings, Jill and Carlos. Leaving you behind with the other four men to take you back to the temple.

It wasn’t ideal but you also couldn’t interfere too much into their operations. So out of the four you asked the one you were most comfortable to fly you back to the temple. And who else would that be but Leon Shit eating grin Kennedy. You mounted Louis with his help and he took off, just about an hour in a storm hit you, making it unsafe to fly so he decided to land near a small town. It was inconvenient to say the least but you will take this over dying mid flight on dragon back any day.

“Two rooms.” Leon spoke as he placed a pouch of coin on the counter in a small Inn.

“We only have one room available.” Spoke the man on the other side of the counter.

“Does it at least have two beds?” He questions and the man shakes his head. “Damn it…” He sighs. “We’ll take it.”

Shortly after the two of you were provided with a key and you made your way up the stairs to find that indeed there was one bed and the room was cold due to the storm raging outside.

“Take a bath first.” He points to the door in the room. “Well figure this out later.”

While sharing a bed with a man was looked down upon among the priestesses of your goddess it wasn’t forbidden. You still couldn’t go about this without proper caution. Leon was a handsome man and the way he invaded your thoughts even while you bathed made you feel uneasy. You were torn between your dedication to your goddess and the natural human desire.

“I would offer to sleep on the floor…” He speaks.

“But?” You question his open-ended sentence.

“But I would rather not freeze my ass off.”

You sigh as you eye the bed. “Then I will take the floor.” You offer.

“You are insane if you think I will let a woman sleep on the floor while I’m cozied up in bed.” He crosses his arms over his chest.

“Then how do you suggest we go about this?” You question him.

“Don’t tell me you can’t share.”

“No way.” You speak with conviction.

“Way.” In the name of all that was holy this man was stubborn as a mule. You glared in his direction. “I saw how you look at me.”

Your eyes shift from a glare their stunned state. “E-excuse me?” You want to cuss yourself for stuttering and he gives you one of his beautifully tempting smirks.

“You are excused. Now you can admit it.”

“I shall make no such admission.” You stubbornly counter.

He removes the strapped belts holding his weapons and places them on the night stand on one side of the bed. “No need to act bashful now.” He teases.

You stay silenced. He wasn’t wrong. You did see him in a different light from the moment he landed on dragon back on the temple grounds.

He steps closer his hair was no longer slicked back but parted on the side. Those blue eyes bored into your own making you weak in the knees. “All you have to say…” He reaches to cup your cheek. “…is stop, or that I’m wrong.”

Silence takes over the room. You are considered to be a holy woman hence you were no liar. So, you don’t speak.

His smirk grows more prominent. All his features pointed to the angelic like appearance but gods did he have a smirk of the devil himself. He leans in closer his lips barely a breath away from yours. He is giving you a choice.

It was up to you if you will disobey your goddess. He was kind enough not to take that choice away from you. He knows the dedication you put into the role you took at the temple and damn him if he will be the one to make you a sinner without your implicit consent.

And you caved.

You closed the barely existing gap as your lips press against his. The cold room seemed to warm up instantly as the kiss grew more passionate. His hands slid down to your waist pressing you against his front while yours laid comfortably against his chest which moved up and down rapidly.

The pure intensity overwhelmed you forcing you to pull back your lungs desperate for air. You didn’t have much experience in fact you had none and he could tell. The panting, the flushed cheeks and the purity swimming in your eyes.

“You never did this before…” He speaks his chest raising at a rapid pace under the palms of your hands.

Your head automatically shakes. Unease settling in your stomach.

“Do you want more?” He questions you. “Or do you want to leave it at just kissing?”

Your whole body seemed to be fueled by this unfamiliar feeling. Was it need? Desire? Want? You couldn’t tell. All of it seemed to be just different words for this feeling. You wanted to chase it. Capture it and study it. You just wanted to know.

“More.”

Your words make him quietly groan. He seemed to be holding back the urge to just take you. But he knew better. A true gentleman will please the woman he is with. And he is nothing if not a gentleman.

However, his body betrayed him, his length hardening against your body so closely pressed against his. It has been a long time since he wanted a woman the way he wanted you. Selfishly he was glad you asked for more.

“Hands around my neck.” He orders and you without much thought do as he commanded. His strong arms move to the back of your thighs picking you up. As if on instinct your legs wrap around his hips as he carries you to the bed.

Leon laid you down on the mattress. Kissing his way down your neck. The sensations were overwhelming making your breathing quicken with every press of his lips against the sensitive skin.

You couldn’t tell how your nightwear found itself on the floor of the room. Left bare for his beautiful blue eyes which seemed to sparkle under the dim lighting of the room.

“So beautiful…” Escapes his mouth as his lips get pressed against your skin once more.

Your eyes roll back as the unfamiliar sensations take over your body. It felt strange. It felt… good.  

His lips moved down from your neck, to your collarbone, over your breasts, down your stomach when his head landed between your legs. He fell to his knees but he forced himself not to burry his head between your legs as his lips pressed against the inner thigh.

“Gods…” The way your voice broke as you spoke in a sigh almost made him crumble and give up his conviction to worship you before burying his length inside you.

“No gods here princess…” He sighs. “Just a lucky man and a goddess.” He smirks against your thigh forcing himself not to rush this. “Even though… I think that a goddess is a bit of an understatement…”

You open your mouth to protest his extensive flattery but instead of words a sound rips from your throat as his lips press against your most sensitive spot.

First it was just a kiss against the clit but then he moved lower taking a slow deliberate swipe of the tongue against you. Afterwards he let go of the control lapping at your center like a starved man. The mere sensations made you shiver and crumble under his mouth and tongue.

It wasn’t long before his thumb joined to put pressure against the sensitive bundle of nerves. You twitched with every new sensation as if your whole body was spasming under his expert touch. Something made you chase after this strange feeling until it suddenly changed and a strange feeling in your stomach took over. He made you come on his tongue. The sensation alone made you want to scream in pleasure.

This only made him kick his need into the afterthought. Damn it all if he didn’t want to see you fall apart from his fingers and tongue multiple times. The second orgasm he pulled from you was from two of his fingers and his tongue on your clit.

He just wanted more. He just had to use whatever he could besides his own length. He stood up staring at your body covered in a thin layer of sweat. “You look…” He pants. “Eternal.”

You could swear that your cheeks felt warmer the moment those words left his swollen lips. He reached for the dagger he often played with holding it by the holstered blade. “Do you trust me?”

Automatically your head nodded before you could think. Just what is going through his head at this moment. The intricate handle of the blade had an orblike shape on the end and the whole handle was adorned in textured swirls.

He presses the orbed end against your entrance and makes eye contact with you as he pushes the handle in deeper. Your eyes widen at the intrusion a sting of pain coming after you this was thicker than his fingers which stung a bit but not too much. As the handle moves in deeper your hands clutch the sheets.

Leon’s movements are slow, allowing you to adjust to the intrusion. By the time the handle makes it to the hilt he stops. The texture is making your legs shake. Your hips involuntarily move and this was a sign he was waiting for to start moving the handle of his dagger in and out.

It doesn’t take you long to come undone with a louder moan which makes him smirk. He couldn’t wait any longer removing his jacket and T-shirt revealing his bare chest to you.

It was adorned in scars he most likely got from battle. As he leans in closer to remove the textured handle of the dagger your hand reaches for his chest tracing the scarring.

“I can keep the shirt on if you like.” He speaks and you are quick to furrow your brows shaking your head.

“They must have hurt.” You speak quietly your voice seemingly lost from the extensive workout your vocal cords got because of him.

His hand grabs a hold of yours against his chest. “It’s okay. Comes with the job.” You chuckle as his tone turned lighter.

He then slides your hand down his chest and stops it against his crotch. “You ready for this?” He questions.

To say you were nervous was an understatement but this was overshadowed by the curiosity. You wanted to see how he would act; will his face stay the same as when he was pleasuring you or will he make a different expression. Will he let out sounds of pleasure or not? You just had to know. So, you nod.

“I need words sweetheart.” He speaks his voice growing deeper and far more hoarse than it ever did before.

“Yes.”

The devilish smirk makes an appearance yet again as he unbuttons his leathery pants. The moment they were off you swallowed a lump in your throat. The only time you witnessed something like this was in a book or on stone statues. But it looked limper than his does now. It was almost elegant looking. And it could have been the desire clouding your vision but it looked almost pearlescent in color. The faint blush on the tip looked like the shine you would see on paintings of pearls. The length itself was quite intimidating.

Leon heard comments about himself before. The most often adjective that was used, was pretty. But no words could replace the sheer fascination in your stunned expression the moment he dropped his pants on the ground.

“I won’t lie; this will hurt… but… it will feel so much better later on.” He warns and you nod as you swallow yet another lump forming in your throat. “I’ll be gentle… promise.” He speaks as he lines his length up against your entrance.

Slowly but surely the tip moves past the initial resistance and he waits. You flinch as the stinging intrusion takes over your body. “Easy going…” He mumbles under his breath. He said that more for himself. He reminds himself of the promise he made to force his body from ramming into you.

He pushes a bit more of himself in and cusses under his breath. The warmth and the slickness making his vision blur and his breathing quicken.

“Leon…” You call out his name and it takes the willpower of all the gods to hold back and go slow. “Hurts…” Tears prick at the corners of your eyes.

“I know sweetheart…” His expression is pained as he cups your cheek wiping the escaping tears. “Just a bit more.” He speaks as he moves about half way deeper and the intrusion makes you shake.

You can’t tell how long it takes until you take all of him. Your clit pressed against his pelvis noticing this his hand moves to it using his thumb to run circles around it to help you get used to the stretch. “Try to relax…” He speaks as he pants.

He forces himself to be patient and waits for a sign. He then leans down placing a kiss against your lips which makes your tense body truly relax.

“Still hurts?” He questions and you shake your head. “I’ll start moving.” He announces as his hips begin to move in slow deliberate strokes.

“You feel… so damn good.” He speaks between deep chest rumbling moans  

“You… too…” You practically whine as the pleasure overwhelms your body.

He smirks down at you slightly upping the pace. “Good girl.” He praises. “I wonder… just what… will your goddess… think… of her holy woman… now…” He speaks again between the pants and almost growling moans.

Before you know it, his pace is faster pounding in and hitting a spot deep inside you making you want to scream. Your hands grab onto his biceps for support, noticing this he bends over and moves your arms onto his back.

“Mark me up… show me… if I’m making you feel good…” He speaks into your ear as his lips slam against yours into a passionate kiss.

You take his instruction to heart as you dig your nails into his upper back. They begin slipping down lower as he continuously slams his hips against yours.

“That’s it…” He praises. “All yours, princess.” He slurs between panting breaths.

“Leon…” You moan his name and he bottoms out.

You just wanted, no… you needed more… to feel all of him… you feel the animalistic like frenzy you once criticized and you get it. It was this man. Leon S. Kennedy who made you feral for him.

The now familiar feeling in your stomach reappears. He makes you come three times on his length for every time he made spasm on his tongue, fingers and a dagger handle.

“Too much…” You practically whine.

“Just one more sweetheart… just one more for me…” He lost his mind just needing to feel your walls clench around him. He doesn’t know how he hadn’t come yet he just had this never ending need to please you before he allowed himself the same release. “One more with me…”

With those words both of you come… you coating his length one more time in your juices and he fills you up with his warm seed and almost collapses on top of you.

He stares in your lust filled eyes, covered in sweat and he would have just kept going but this was far too much for an inexperienced holy woman such as yourself. So, he takes mercy on you, picking you up and placing you with himself under the covers not moving his softening length from your gummy walls.

“You did… so good for me…” He praises.

Your eyes slowly began to feel heavy and you can barely keep them open. “Sleep… we’ll clean up and talk in the morning…” He sighs exhausted as he presses a kiss against your forehead.

[codywanweek]

CODYWAN WEEK 2025 PROMPTS

DATE:

This year's Codywan week will take place from the 4th of August to the 10th of August!

RULES/NOTES before starting:

As usual, you are allowed to create whatever type of creative content that you want to create, including headcanon posts, gifsets, and podfics.

The categories given below (writing, art, nsfw) are there to make sure that there's usable prompts for everyone, but you don't need to limit yourself to one or the other. You may also make explicit entries for the SFW prompts, for example.

You're free to share your WIPs with anyone, and you're welcome to tag us for a reblog on your WIPs too!

If you'd like one set of prompts for the whole week, the overall top 7 is marked in orange and with an asterisk *, feel free to limit yourself to these prompts for an extra challenge!

Make sure to check out other people's works too and give them a reblog and a comment if you've enjoyed them!

If you have any questions, or would like to join the codywan week discord, you're always welcome to send an ask to this blog!

Writing:

Day. AU prompt- - -Broad prompt- - -Specific prompt:

Modern AU*: linguist/archeologist AU- - -Sith AU- - -Jedi and Clones flee together

Western AU- - -Mandalorian culture/clones raised as Mandalorians*- - -Obi-Wan as Dooku's padawan

Pirate AU- - -Bringing out the weirdest in each other- - -Tatooine Husbands*

(Urban) Fantasy AU*- - -Wings- - -Mand'alor Cody

Royal AU- - -Force sensitive Cody/the Force ships it/Force bond*- - -Codywan adopts baby clones

Merpeople AU- - -Whump- - -Cody fights the chip*

Historical (medieval) AU*- - -Disability- - -Clones found early and moved to temple

Art:

Day. AU prompt- - -Broad prompt- - -Specific prompt:

Fantasy AU- - -Mandalorian AU (Mando Obi-Wan/Jedi Cody, Mand'alor Cody/Obi-Wan)- - -Carrying the other* (Bridal carry, Fireman's carry, Ballet Lifts)

Western AU- - -Tatooine Husbands*- - -Battlefield flirting

Wingfic*- - -No order 66 AU- - -Cody reacting to pin-up Obi-Wan

Pirate AU- - -Fanart for your favourite Codywan fic- - -Obi-Wan wearing Cody's armor/Armor for Obi-Wan*

Medieval/Liege and Knight AU*- - -Sunrises/Sunsets- - -Keldabe Kiss

Library AU- - -Old Codywan/Old men in love/Temple grandpas Codywan*- - -Codywan adopts baby clones

Dragon AU- - -Sunflowers- - -Kissing against a wall*

@swfandomevents

NSFW prompts below the cut!

NSFW:

Day. Writing prompt- - Art prompt

Cock warming- - -Ritual sex

First time- - -Body worship

Humoring a kink only to find you're way into it- - -Dualsex Obi-Wan

Edging- - -Thighs

Strip Sabacc- - -Life affirming sex

Old man smut- - -Old man yaoi

Mpreg- - -Making out

[inthedayswhenlandswerefew]

Cannibals [Chapter 2: Roses and Forget-Me-Nots]

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), violence and murder, bodily injury, Aemond needs comfort, Helaena needs to make a choice, Aegon needs revenge, Red needs stitches.

Word count: 6.4k

❤️ All my writing can be found HERE! 💙

Tagging: @themoonofthesun @chattylurker @moonfllowerr @ecstaticactus @mrs-starkgaryen, more in comments 🥰

🦇 Let me know if you’d like to be added to the taglist 🦇

Too much to drink, blood on your teeth; you stumbled going up the Grand Staircase and bit your lip and now all you can taste is warm copper. It’s the past, but the recent past. Viserys isn’t dead yet, but not far from it either, an unquiet ghost who groans from rooms cloudy with incense. Criston oversees Aemond’s training and Grandsire sits the Iron Throne when petitioners come begging for relief from taxes or the requisitioning of their livestock. Helaena plays with her children in the garden. Larys Strong dwells in shadowy corners of rooms, lurking, listening. Mother lights candles for her husband in the sept, tries to forgive herself for being so repulsed by him she shivers when her skin brushes his and comes away damp from the weeping sores.

It’s Criston’s nameday, and the court is celebrating as if it is a prince’s. Mother has ordered the kitchen to prepare his favorite foods—lamb marinated with figs and blood oranges, a myriad of olives, spiced wine, roasted eggplant, dragon peppers stuffed with cheese and onions—and the musicians to play Dornish ballads. In the midst of the festivities in the Great Hall, Aemond has been pulled aside by Grandsire to discuss a pressing concern: an idea, proposed by Master of Ships Tyland Lannister, to split the royal treasury and hide it in several different locations should a war of succession break out after Viserys’ death. No one knows what will happen when Father dies. Everybody is moving invisible pieces on an imaginary board, trying to convince themselves they are prepared.

Now the hour is late and guests are vanishing, and everyone seems to be drunk, the world warm and spinning, and you are going to your chambers to wait for Aemond. What you have together is new and exhilarating, and your pulse is thudding in your ears as you stagger down the hallway. You are going to take off all your clothes and wait for him in bed beneath blankets Helaena has stitched with red bats. If Aemond asked you for everything tonight, you’d give it; but you’re beginning to like his idea to wait. You will never fly a dragon into battle like Aegon the Conqueror’s wives, but this is one war you and Aemond can fight together: thwarting all other matches, at last claiming a victory that the realm must witness. Aemond wants a Valyrian wedding ceremony. He has no fear of your blood.

You are passing Helaena’s chambers when you hear muffled voices inside, things you should not listen to but are too drunk to politely ignore. Helaena is whimpering quietly. Aegon says, sounding like he is close to tears: “I know, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m almost done…”

You should leave, but you don’t. You are trapped there by the poison that slows your thoughts, by the horror that blooms in you like roses, thorny and maroon. You’ve never had to experience intimacy that feels like a violation. You never will. And you’re the only one of Alicent’s children that’s true for: Aemond’s first experiences were with a middle-aged prostitute on the Street of Silk, something Aegon mistook for a favor; Daeron will have to bed a Baratheon girl he barely knows.

After a few minutes the door opens, and there is Aegon swimming in a white nightshirt stained with red wine. He startles when he sees you, then averts his watery eyes. He is ashamed. He says weakly, his hair hanging in his face: “I try to make it good for her.”

“I know you do.”

“She loves the children,” Aegon explains, although you haven’t asked. “She wants more, and she understands how that happens. Now I only lie with her when she invites me. But that doesn’t mean she enjoys it. I just don’t want you to think that I’m…I’m…that I’m a monster.”

You shake your head, profoundly sad. “No, Aegon.”

“How do you not get…?” He rubs his own soft belly, then makes an arc through the air, miming a pregnancy. “We’re fertile stock. And I can’t imagine Mother allowing Orwyle to ply you with moon tea.”

You smile faintly. “We don’t do that, just everything else.”

A raised eyebrow; Aegon is intrigued. “Really? How adventurous. I’m surprised. About Aemond, not so much you.”

“We’re saving it until after our wedding. Something to look forward to.”

“Unless Grandsire and Mother eventually succeed in marrying you off to a painfully uninteresting, Andal-blooded lord with a formidable army or some nice ships or whatever.”

“And then Aemond will murder him.”

Aegon laughs, recedes again and becomes remote, goes out to sea like low tide. “It’s ironic, isn’t it? My marriage is built on obligation, and yours will be the opposite.”

You say like a confession, something you seek forgiveness for: “I’m so sorry, Aegon.”

“No, no, I didn’t…I wasn’t trying to…I mean…” He sighs, then looks at you, dazed drunk childlike honesty. “You and Aemond being miserable wouldn’t make my life better. I have no wish to disrupt your happiness.”

You don’t know how to respond. Aegon doesn’t expect you to. He gives you a drowsy little smirk, then meanders down the hallway. When he spots a maid, he snaps his fingers at her and orders: “Draw a bath for the queen.”

You retreat to your own chambers, where you walk right past your bed—you now feel no desire at all to creep naked into it—and kneel beside the roost by the open window. Most of the bats you call your babies are out flying, but Kingfisher clings to the dark blue velvet you keep draped over the large wooden box. He peers at you with clever black eyes, his ears perked straight up, and when you offer your palm Kingfisher scrambles into it. You pet him as your thoughts wander, slow, dizzy, morose.

Aemond breezes into the room, first swift and famished, then bewildered as he nears you. “Why are you sad?” And then, because he gets glimpses into your mind as well: “Something with Aegon.”

You shrug, not looking away from Kingfisher. You are trying not to cry. “I just wish the world was different.”

Aemond stares at you for a while. And you’re a little afraid, because if he grabs you and you tell him to stop, you don’t know if he’ll listen. But Aemond doesn’t grab you at all. Instead after a moment he says: “I’ll be right back,” and he leaves your bedchamber. He must go all the way to the kitchen across the courtyard of the Red Keep, because when he reappears he is carrying a small glass jar with a piece of honeycomb inside. He sits down beside you and opens the jar, wets his fingertips with honey, and holds them out to Kingfisher so he can lick them clean.

You smile at Aemond. “What are you doing?”

Instead of answering, he motions for you to dip your fingers in the honey too, and together you feed Kingfisher and watch the others swoop and glide outside, snatching insects from the starlit air like stolen coins.

The only time Aemond touches you that night is to thread your long, silver braid through his hands; and why did you ever begin wearing your hair in a braid at all? Because you heard the reverence in his voice when he told you about Aegon the Conqueror’s wife Visenya.

~~~~~~~~~~

Now you are on the floor of your bedchamber crushing seashells, and the afternoon light cascades in hot and golden, a day that feels more like midsummer than autumn. With each whack of your tiny steel hammer—a gift from Criston on your nameday several years past—a shell breaks into irregular shards to be arranged on the board and then glued down; you have a jar filled with paste made from boiled animal bones and a paintbrush to apply it with. You collect and boil the bones yourself. Helaena and the children went with you to the beach to search for shells this morning, an arduous task as you were on the hunt for rare specimens: blue to mimic Tessarion’s scales. This mosaic is for Mother, a vision of Daeron to hang on her bedroom wall. He was sent away so he might turn out differently from the rest of you, but he will be home again soon. The Hightower army is marching across the Reach to King’s Landing, your youngest brother and his dragon safeguarding it from above.

You don’t have to be in the small council chamber to know that Grandsire rails against Aemond, that Criston struggles to defend him. Killing Luke was a disastrous mistake, no sane person could disagree. Now they debate how to proceed. Grandsire writes his letters: to the Lannisters, to the Baratheons, to the Triarchy. Aemond sees to the gathering of soldiers and supplies, moving tokens around the map laid open on a table in his bedchamber. Aegon wants to fly into battle. Criston tries to negotiate between them, and relays their feuds to Mother. Larys Strong shares the whispers he has heard of the Blacks’ machinations: Rhaenyra sick with grief and struggling to manage her forces from Dragonstone, Daemon abandoning her to take the haunted castle of Harrenhal in the Riverlands. Rhaenyra is a weak queen, and the Rogue Prince cannot stomach bowing to her.

You drop the steel hammer again—whack!—and as the cobalt-colored seashell shatters, Aemond steps into your bedchamber and closes the door behind him. He takes off his sword and his dagger, leaves them on the dresser, then drops to the floor and crawls on his hands and knees to you. He grabs your ankles and drags you under him; you giggle as your hammer tumbles out of your grasp and you wrap your legs around Aemond, pulling him in closer.

Aemond kisses you insatiably, his tongue parting your lips, his long silver hair spilling down to the floor. Then he says: “I have to go away.”

You know this has to happen. He has trained all his life for war, and now it is here. “For how long?”

“A week, maybe. Or a month, or a year. Nobody knows.”

“A year?” You’ve never been away from him for more than a few nights at a time. It is impossible to imagine.

Aemond takes off his eyepatch and flings it aside. His sapphire eye—cold, sharp, glittering fire—unnerves others, but to you it is a talisman of his faithfulness. In the boardgame you played as children, you were always the red bat and Aemond the blue wolf. It was a game of ambition, of cruelty, but sometimes mercy as well, and there were always exactly five players until Mother sent Daeron away to Oldtown. Blue is Aemond’s place in the family. He is cunning, he is arrogant, he is difficult at times…but he knows where he belongs. He would cease to exist without the rest of you. “Rhaenyra is bedbound on Dragonstone,” Aemond says, skating his thumb across your cheek. “Still recovering from childbirth and broken by Luke’s death. Daemon is far away in the Riverlands doing gods know what, there are rumors he’s taken up with some girl there. Now is the time to bring the Crownlands under Green control. House Thorne is already with us, next we will take Massey, Bar Emmon, Rosby, Stokeworth, Byrch, Harte, Hayford, Staunton, and Darklyn. They will bend the knee to Aegon, or they will burn. Rhaenyra will be encircled, and then we can do whatever we want with her.”

“What about the Celtigars of Claw Isle? They are Valyrians, they should honor tradition. The firstborn son always inherits. And Rhaenyra has defiled the bloodline with her Strong boys.”

“They must not see it that way. I’ve heard Bartimos Celtigar is her Master of Coin.”

“Traitors,” you hiss, and Aemond beams and kisses your forehead.

“Don’t worry, I have plans for them. Crabs are delicious when boiled alive.”

So Caraxes is at Harrenhal, Syrax is unable to be ridden and not inclined towards battle anyway, Vermax and Moondancer are both too small to be much of a threat to a dragon as ferocious as Sunfyre, let alone Vhagar… “Where is Meleys?”

Aemond chuckles. “Rhaenys won’t strike on her own. She doesn’t have the courage.”

“She might now that you’ve killed her grandson.” A pause. “Alleged grandson.”

“Luke wasn’t her blood, but Baela and Rhaena are. I’m sure she wants to live to see them grow up. I can’t imagine her flying to war for Rhaenyra and Daemon, the people who murdered Laenor so they could fuck on his grave.”

“He was buried at sea.”

“It’s a figure of speech.”

“I wish I could help,” you tell Aemond, feeling small and fragile, feeling worthless. If you had a dragon, you could follow him into battle like Visenya.

“Not everyone is meant to have wings,” Aemond says gently, and you wonder—as you have countless times before—if part of him is glad that he’ll always know that you are exactly where he left you, that you’ll always be defenseless. Then he distracts you. “Do you remember how you chased Vermithor all over Dragonstone?”

Of course you do: a trip to the mist-swept volcanic rock arranged while Rhaenyra and Daemon were travelling elsewhere, Grandsire fervently hoping that one of the wild dragons would bond to you and add to the Greens’ arsenal. None of them did, not even the Bronze Fury, the beast you had dreamed of riding as a girl, whose stories gave you a sensation like flying, like falling. “I wanted him so badly.”

“And to show his appreciation, he almost incinerated you.”

You smile up at Aemond, touching the scar that cuts down the left half of his face. After his maiming on Driftmark, he developed a phobia of needles. If he saw Helaena embroidering, he would become nauseous and unsteady on his feet. So he had the maesters teach him how to stitch wounded flesh, and after months of bloody observation and practice he was cured. He is not a man who lets others break him. He makes himself whole again, one brick at a time. “You saved me.”

“I couldn’t have you reduced to charred bones. I like you warm…and wet…and willful.”

Aemond wrenches you over and onto your belly, presses his hips against yours, crushes you into the floor with his weight. His left hand covers yours, your fingers interweaving; his right hand slides under your waist and stops between your legs, stroking you through your scarlet gown. You move with him, laughing, moaning, feeling the chill of the stone floor bleed into your skin.

Aemond whispers: “I need to be inside you.”

It’s a statement that is actually a question; he’s asking for permission. No, he’s begging for it. But you want the same thing. He’ll be gone soon, for a week or a month or a year. “Then do it.”

“Right now?”

“Right now.”

He lets you up and as he takes off his tunic and trousers, you crawl into your bed, a crimson canopy, curtains that billow in the wind blowing off the ocean. Now Aemond is here too and he’s tearing off your gown so he can possess you: not the sort of coupling that could result in a child, the other way. It’s a sin, of course, but so is incest, and so is murder, and so are pride and envy and wrath, and so at this point what’s one more transgression tossed onto the heap? You aren’t sure if you believe in the Faith of the Seven anyway. Rhaenyra is one of the most immoral people you can think of, and yet she has been abundantly blessed until now: married to the man of her design, absolved of all wrongdoing by Viserys. Why would the Seven shower gifts upon Rhaenyra while your own mother is so cursed? If they exist, they must be brutal masters.

You are lying on your belly on the soft feather mattress, reaching back to touch Aemond’s face and his hair as his lips claim your neck, your collarbone, your shoulder. You lift your hips so he can reach under you more easily, where wetness is pooling for him. His right hand caresses you with rough, insistent motions, making you ravenous and breathless, making you need him. With his left hand, he slips two fingers effortlessly inside; and then, once they are slick and dripping, he pulls them out and travels farther back. There is pressure, resistance, and then: a glorious, forbidden fulness that draws a moan from deep in your throat. Your fingernails bite into your pillows, your body moves in time with Aemond as his fingers thrust into you, first slowly and cautiously and then faster as he feels your muscles relax around him.

“Now,” you plead helplessly.

“Not yet.”

“I’m ready, I promise.”

“No, no, you’re not,” he purrs, and when you turn your face to his, he kisses you in a way that is slovenly, bestial, natural like the dark moist earth or the sea. No one else would understand this. No one else will ever need to.

Aemond’s fingers work on you until there is hardly any tension, then he yanks open the drawer of your nightstand to get the jar of Dornish olive oil he keeps there for exactly this reason. He drenches himself with it—his hardness, his thickness, his length—and spills oil all over the sheets in the process. Then he settles behind you again. It was your idea to try this the first time, one humid sunlit morning when you were desperate for each other, when you had an emptiness inside you his fingers alone could not cure. You needed him closer, just like you do now. And your climax was so intense it felt like it would snap your bones and unspool your muscles like loose threads.

As Aemond’s right hand strokes you—coaxing you closer, flooding your bloodstream with sweltering riptide lust—he positions himself and pushes in slowly, so so slowly, and at first there is a burning like there always is, but the oil eases his entry and your muscles are swift to accommodate him, they are supple and trained, and as he fills you there is an indescribable intensity as his heat melds with yours, and when you are this close to him it’s like you can feel everything he’s feeling, hear every thought that flits through his mind, and he knows exactly when to pause to give you more time, when to begin again, until he is all the way inside and he moans and rests his head between your shoulder blades, drinking you in through his lungs and his pores, his long silver hair whispering over your ribs.

When Aemond is sure he can last, he moves in you carefully, divinely. The fingers of his right hand—still circling, still pressing against you with commanding force—have you panting and powerless. It’s overwhelming, the fullness, the closeness, the warm blossoming euphoria…and if you’re sore tomorrow, you won’t care. Aemond could be gone by then.

“Harder,” you plead.

“No, Red, no, I’ll hurt you.”

Your hips quicken the rhythm, jolting back against him, and as Aemond gasps—taken by surprise, trying not to finish yet—a torrent like a wave of scalding blood rolls through you, and instead of dissipating to a froth like seafoam it keeps going, unraveling you, ruining you, until you can’t stand it anymore, and your spine and ribcage ache, and there is pain where Aemond is thrusting into you as he shudders and cries out in a low rasping voice midway between ecstasy and agony, like someone has buried a blade in him, like maybe he’s dying.

“Enough,” you sigh, and Aemond knows what that means. He withdrawals from you, gingerly and very, very slowly. Then he rolls you onto your back as you gasp for air, staring up at the distorted afternoon shadows on the ceiling. He kisses the side of your face again and again, murmuring through your hair in High Valyrian. Has Aemond ever said that he loves you? Not that you can remember. He acts as if he does, but still…sometimes you wonder.

When your pulse is calm again and the sweat cooling on your belly and your chest, Aemond rises and shuffles to the door, still naked. He opens the door and looks out into the hallway until he spies a maid and beckons her over. You see her silhouette just beyond the threshold.

“Fresh linens for the bed,” he says. “And a bath.”

“Yes, my prince.” The maid peeks in to where you are naked on the oil-stained sheets, and you cannot find it in yourself to act shy or ashamed. You aren’t. You smile wickedly at her and she skitters away, blushing and wide-eyed.

You loll together in a hot bath—Aemond drifting off as he leans against the back of the tub, you dozing with your head on his chest as soap bubbles pop in your hair—then he just barely manages to throw on some nightclothes and stagger back into your bed, not wanting his own room but yours, and he is asleep in just minutes. Outside the sun is setting and the sky is turning from flames to indigo, and the bats are venturing out of their roost to feed. You spend a while with them and then, starving, leave Aemond to rest while you go down to the kitchen to scavenge a plate of dinner, something hearty and satiating: bread, butter, venison pie, an apple tart, a pint of ale. You eat alone in the garden as your bats circle overhead. The members of the small council—with the exception of Aemond, dead to the world—are dining together, and Mother is eating with Helaena. You are avoiding Mother for now; after you and Aemond have sinned, you always feel like she can smell it on you, or see it, or hear the echoes of your moans, and there is such pitiful disappointment on her face you cannot bear to meet her eyes. She deserved a different husband, and children who she could recognize as her own.

When you return to Maegor’s Holdfast, you pass Aegon as he is trotting down the Grand Staircase, a goblet of wine in his hand and escorted by Sir Willis Fell. Aegon grins at you and says: “Aemond is practically comatose. You’ve exhausted him.”

“Well, he does most of the work,” you reply mischievously. “Where are you going?”

“To get my armor fitted. Aemond will have to have his finished tomorrow, I suppose. If he’s recovered by then. Try to keep him off you for a few hours, I know it’s a lot to ask.”

“I’ll let him know about the armor. But I don’t think he’ll want to wear it in the saddle.”

“Try to convince him. It could shield him from dragonfire in combat.”

“Right,” you say, and all at once your mood plummets, because this is real: the war is descending like a storm and your brothers must fight in it, must leave you, must risk their lives. Aegon waves goodbye and strides off to the armory across the courtyard of the Red Keep, Sir Willis Fell in tow and looking disturbed but trying not to show it.

Upstairs, Helaena is in the hallway with her children, and you can tell she’s overwhelmed by them: Maelor is yowling in her arms, Jaehaerys and Jaehaera both shouting and tugging at the skirt of her lemon-colored gown. Helaena is looking around for someone, perhaps a maid; uncharacteristically, she is unable to find one.

“Well hello there!” you say, kneeling and opening your arms so the twins can barrel into you. “What are we playing, huh? Hide and seek? Chase? Tame the dragon?”

“We’re trying to find Aemond!” Jaehaerys answers exuberantly.

“Oh, is that right?” You glance at Helaena, and she smiles awkwardly and shrugs. She must know where he is and is attempting to distract them so he can sleep.

She says, a bit flustered: “Mother went to the small council chamber after dinner, and the maid…I don’t know where she’s disappeared to all the sudden…”

“It’s alright, I’ll help them find Aemond.”

“Really?!” Jaehaera says, overjoyed.

“Of course!” Then you wink at Helaena, and she is relieved. “Let’s go check his bedchamber.”

“But we’re not allowed in there,” Jaehaerys says uncertainly.

And no, they usually aren’t; Aemond has too many relics they might break or maps they could rip or stain or knock his tokens off of. “It’s okay if I go with you. I’ll make sure we don’t touch anything important.”

“Yay!” the twins yell together, and then Maelor joins them between chomps on his own fingers, even though the details of the expedition elude him.

You swish in your gown—a pale drained pink, your wet hair in a fresh braid—towards Aemond’s rooms. Jaehaerys and Jaehaera dash after you, and Helaena trails behind them carrying Maelor. You hold the door open so the children and Helaena can enter, then follow them into Aemond’s bedchamber. The hearth is lit and crackling; papers litter his desks and tables, the wooden shelves are heavy with books. Mosaics you’ve made since childhood freckle the stone walls like birthmarks. You pick up a candle, light it in the fireplace, and begin igniting wicks around the room so the children will have more light. Helaena sets Maelor down so he can wobble after his siblings.

“Aemond, where are you?” Jaehaerys calls with a beaming smile.

You say: “Let’s check in the closets, and under the bed, and behind the curtains—” Then you scream and drop the candle, because there is a man in this room, and he has lunged out from the shadows. He traps you against the wall with a blade at your throat. Another man—huge, broad, towering—has cornered Helaena and the children. He holds a butcher’s cleaver in one monstrous fist. Blood drips from it in dark, viscous threads down to the floor.

He nods to Helaena and tells you: “Scream again and I’ll put this through her windpipe, and we can watch her try to learn how to breathe blood.”

You shake your head franticly. “I won’t scream, I swear I won’t.” You are thinking: Criston and Grandsire and Mother are in the small council chamber, and Aegon is in the armory, and Aemond is sleeping so deeply he can’t be roused…so who is going to save us? Who the fuck is going to walk in and stop this?

“Quiet,” the large man growls at the children. “No noise or Mummy dies.”

“Jewels,” Helaena says, taking off her necklace and earrings. The children cling to her, trembling and sniffling, weeping but trying not to make a sound. “We can give you these.”

“We’re not here for jewels, you dumb bitch,” the smaller man sneers. “We’re here for a boy. A son for a son.”

“No,” you whisper, realizing what he means.

“Aemond killed Lucerys Velaryon,” the large man says. “We’re here to kill Aemond. But Aemond doesn’t seem to be around at the moment, is he? Fortunately, any son of the Greens will do.”

Helaena shoves the children behind her, shielding them with her willowy body. From the Dragonpit, you hear Dreamfyre’s shrill screeches. “You can have me instead.”

“You’re not a son.”

“So which one do you choose?” the small man asks Helaena, raking the point of his blade back and forth across the front of your throat, leaving shallow nicks that glow sharp and searing.

Helaena doesn’t answer—she can’t, of course she can’t—and so the large man reaches around her and drags out Jaehaerys and Maelor. He pushes them to the floor and they cower there, clasping each other and tears streaming down their cheeks. There’s a dead maid over by the bed, you notice, the same one who saw you naked in bed earlier; she must have had the misfortune of stumbling upon the intruders. There is a gaping black hole in the wall on the opposite end of the room, the entrance to a secret passageway to the beach, an escape hatch that almost nobody knows about. But Daemon would.

“Which one?!” the large man demands, glaring hatefully at Helaena. “Choose or we’ll kill them both. We’ll kill all three.”

Helaena covers her ears with her hands and shrinks into herself, trying to disappear. Jaehaera hides behind her mother; Jaehaerys is petrified; Maelor, mercifully, doesn’t fully understand. If he was struck on his tiny blonde head, he would be gone before he had time to comprehend that his short life was over.

The men are assailing Helaena: “Choose or we’ll kill them all, we’ll kill them in front of you, we’ll kill them slow.”

“Helaena, pick one,” you sob.

She shakes her head. “No, no, no, no, no.”

Aemond, can’t you feel how afraid I am? Aemond, you have to wake up.

“All three?!” The large man taunts. “Alright, that’s fine, we can do it that way!” He raises his cleaver above the boys’ heads, and Helaena attempts to stop him.

He’s going to murder her too, he’s going to sever her arm or cut her throat.

“Maelor!” you burst out. “Maelor, the little one, she chooses Maelor!”

“What?” Maelor says, gazing up at you with vast shimmering eyes. And instead, the large man seizes Jaehaerys by his hair and hacks his head off his shoulders.

Blood spurts like a fountain, blood flows over the floor, blood soaks Helaena’s gown when she bundles her dead son into her arms. Forgetting the knife at your throat, you try to get to her; the blade drops and slits your flesh from your collarbone down to the top of your left breast. A river of red flows in a sheet down the front of your gown. Everyone is screaming—you, Helaena, Jaehaera, Maelor—but it doesn’t matter now; the men throw Jaehaerys’ head into a burlap sack and vanish together into the blackness of the passageway.

“They can’t get away,” you say numbly, and then you bolt after them. You grab a flickering candle off Aemond’s writing desk and plunge into the tunnel. There are blooddrops on the dusty floor, a trail of gore. Jaehaerys’ head must have bled through the sack. You aren’t thinking, you don’t know what you’ll do if you catch up to them. But if there is a boat waiting to ferry the men and their grisly trophy to Dragonstone, somebody must prevent them from escaping.

Jaehaerys can’t be dead, he can’t be, be can’t be, he was just here and he was smiling—

Someone catches your wrist and you shriek, but it isn’t the strange men. It’s Aemond, still dressed in his nightclothes, his sapphire gleaming, blood all over him and clutching his dagger in his other hand.

He tells you, taking the candle: “Go back to my bedchamber.”

“Aemond, they…Jaehaerys…he…they…”

“I know,” he says hoarsely. “Go back to where it’s safe.”

Obediently, knowing that he needs you to, you flee; you are passed by several knights of the Kingsguard with torches, their swords drawn, in pursuit of the murderers. In Aemond’s bedchamber is a nightmare you can’t wake up from: Aegon is wailing and collapsed on the blood-soaked floor with the mutilated body of his son in his arms, Helaena is slumped and paralyzed against the wall, Mother is weeping as she embraces Jaehaera and Maelor and takes them out of the room, Criston has just appeared in the doorway and stands there horrorstruck. You go to Aegon and lay a palm on his shoulder, the words impossible. Without looking—he already knows it’s you—he reaches up to grip your hand, so forcefully it feels like he’ll crush your bones.

“What the hell is…?” Grandsire says when arrives. Then he sees the blood, the body, and he sways and his knees buckle. Maester Orwyle sweeps in behind him, carrying a small wooden trunk of remedies. He comes directly to where you are standing.

“Princess, your mother asked me to tend to you.”

“What?” you reply dully, and he gestures to the bone-deep gash on the left side of your chest. Abruptly, agony flares there. “Oh. Of course.”

Orwyle leads you patiently to the chair at Aemond’s writing desk, then begins to clean your wound. He pours a small amount of milk of the poppy into your mouth, and you accept it passively. You are barely aware of it as his needle pierces your flesh and begins to stitch it back together.

“Is this what your letters have bought us?!” Aegon is shouting at Grandsire, who doesn’t know what to say. “Not safety even here in our own castle, but killers who breach our walls and butcher my son?!”

There are echoing footsteps, and Aemond emerges from the darkness, crossing into the rage-colored firelight of his bedchamber. “We got one of them. The guards are still searching for the other. We’ll find him, I swear we will. There was a boat in the sand, but we’ve taken it.”

“It’s your fucking fault!” Aegon screams at him. “They were here, they were looking for you, you killed Luke so they killed my boy, he was only six years old, he…he…” Aegon breaks down in sobs, then he crawls across the room to Helaena and clings to her, his head in her lap. Despite her shock, Helaena’s hands come alive again and she holds him.

“Aegon, it’s my fault too,” you say.

“What are you talking about?! You didn’t kill Luke Strong, you didn’t start this war!”

“I’m sorry,” Aemond says, almost too quietly to hear. “Aegon, I’m sorry.”

“Enough letters,” Aegon seethes, hatred splitting out of him, bloodlust that can never be satisfied. “You’re done, Grandsire. I relieve you of the burden of being Hand of the King. It never sat right with you anyway, did it? Enacting the plans of a degenerate like me. Well, now you can just watch them happen. Criston, we will go to battle now, no more delays. You will lead the infantry and I’ll be in the sky, and when we drag Rhaenyra from her sickbed I’ll let Sunfyre eat her, one limb at a time.”

“Yes, my king,” Criston says, still stunned, gaping at Jaehaerys’ small, headless body.

“I’m going with you,” Aemond tells his brother.

“I don’t need your help.”

“Yes you do. And I would never let you fly into battle alone.”

Aegon sniffles and wipes the tears from his face with his bloodied palms, leaving stains of clotting crimson there. Then he stands, touches his forehead to Helaena’s as a goodbye, and stumbles towards the door.

“Where are you going?” Grandsire demands.

“To torture that man to death,” Aegon says, and is gone.

Aemond turns to where you are sitting at his writing desk, Orwyle just beginning your stitches. Your eyes—glazed and drugged, grief-stricken and horrified—meet his, and you know that he is thinking that had the blade hit just a few inches higher, you would have bled to death. Aemond approaches. “Move,” he commands Orwyle.

Maester Orwyle meekly retreats; but first, he hands over the needle. And Aemond finishes mending your flesh, one painstaking, practiced stitch at a time.

~~~~~~~~~~

Aemond tells you goodbye on a bluff overlooking where Vhagar is waiting for him down on the beach. He keeps you a safe distance away; not only have you no dragon of your own, but the beasts also share an aversion to you, they snarl and slink away like they would in the presence of no other Targaryen. The wind is raging and the sun bright, the sky blue and full of slow-moving clouds. Helaena is curled up in the Dragonpit with Dreamfyre. Alicent is with the surviving children. Maelor shrieks and runs away when he glimpses you.

Under torture, the larger assassin revealed that he was indeed commissioned by a messenger sent by Daemon, and that all he knew of his companion was that he was a ratcatcher. Your brothers paraded every ratcatcher they could find in front of you, but none of them were the man with the knife. Aegon, believing their ranks had nonetheless been perilously infiltrated, ordered all the ratcatchers of King’s Landing to be executed. Now they hang from walls and bridges, attracting crows. Some people weep for the dead men, but many more weep for Queen Helaena, who is known to be gentle and kind. The details have reached every street of the city: beheaded in front of his mother, made to choose between her sons. Rhaenyra has given them yet another reason to hate her. Her mortal enemies grow more numerous by the hour.

“What if something happens here?” you ask Aemond, your hands in his, strands of silver hair raked from your braid by the wind. Under your gown, your bandages loop over your left shoulder and below your right arm; beneath them, your stitches throb and your heart aches. “What if we have to leave the city for some reason? What if when you return you don’t know where I’ve gone?”

“Then I will find you,” Aemond says, as if there is no other possibility. “You belong to me, you always have. That will never change. Here, in Dorne, at the Wall, in Essos or the Summer Isles, anywhere on earth, anywhere you go, you are still mine.”

You smile, and when Aemond kisses you, his long hair trashing in the wind, he is tender and harmless, and you are reminded that he can be this way sometimes. He isn’t always fierce. He isn’t always treacherous. “Take care of Aegon.”

“Of course I will.”

“Don’t come back without him.”

“I’ll carry him the whole way home if I have to,” Aemond says, and then he leaves you, stalking down the hill towards Vhagar.

That night, when you climb into your bed, you find a note there that Aemond has left for you. You unfold the parchment, wincing; each movement pains you, reminds you of the muscles that have been slit by the assassin’s blade. You will carry the scar forever. Aemond’s note reads:

Red,

When you are here…think of me.

Soon we’ll have everything.

In place of a signature, he has finished with a sketch of a forget-me-not in blue ink.

You close the note and hold it to your chest, the parchment scratching against your bandages.

[ogorodami]

Finally read F&B in full, some thoughts:

Oh, they ruined the Greens that bad, huh.

Weird, still haven't found that part where George was like "noooo dark fantasy royal women nooo stop that you can't do that dark fantasy royal women, you're girls and all girls should be friends and never fight like dem boys do all the time" I looked everywhere, guys

I really enjoyed Rhaenyra and Alicent as characters. I mean, was I supposed to not enjoy the cutthroat rivalry between two powerful, rich, entitled women who would burn the whole world down for their families and have the absolute audacity to salivate at the thought of destroying their enemies?

It's so funny how the show seems to completely trust Mushroom's pornbrain account of events, except when it comes to Nettles (who doesn't even exist in the show) or absolute lowlife scumbags like Hue and Ulf.

Nettles has got to be the showrunners' sleep paralysis demon: bonds with a dragon without any "superior blood" (gasp, the horror), cucks their one true qween (which is solely on Nyra's creepy ass hubby), exposes her racism by just existing, lives free while their fave ends up in dragon dung. Yeah, traumatized Dany stans wouldn't have survived that. I'm willing to bet that Nettles' removal from the story was the first order of business, they were never going to bring her in.

The way it's implied that Daemon's feelings for Nettles are some true love shit because she's not as young as the girls he's used to molesting (she’s 16).

Book Daemon's whole personality not being some edgy fanfic male lead manchild took me by surprise, not gonna lie. Turns out, he had genuine connection to people in his life besides precious Rhae Rhae. You know, like people usually do outside of Condalland. In fact, I wouldn't even consider Rhaenyra "the love of his life", that's either Laena or Nettles.

I will never take show Mysaria seriously after reading the book. I mean, she’s boring and pretentious, so I pretty much forget about her existence half the time, but wow, they really made westeros diddy a fighter for women and children’s rights. That’s embarrassing.

Book Aegon loved Aemond a lot more than his brother loved him. Doesn't change the fact that Aemond's betrayal in the show makes zero sense, and you know what book Aemond doesn't do? That.

Man, Aegon's post-munch arc is dark. as. fuck. Him watching Sunfyre die, his solitude, the unfathomable pain, his quiet return to the capital. The motherfucking burning of the Shepherd and his followers. Oh my god, what if something happens? What if Ryan and Sara just leave hotd for any reason? What if TGC will be allowed to devour all these scenes? What then, what would we even do with our lives?

jk the smallfolk will storm the Dragon Pit inhabited by actual man-eating dragons because of misogyny or something. And not because they were starving, isolated, and terrified out of their minds under Rhaenyra's rule. Then it will never be mentioned again and the show won't even attempt to tackle other characters after her death. Alicent will probably poison Aegon on Dragonstone and steal the rest of his arc.

I was so ready for the Mad King Aegon II Targaryen, I was not prepared for the "pay me money for your betrayal, oh and that toddler usurper will be raised in my castle" Aegon II Targaryen. C'mon man, you could've at least killed Mushroom.

People arguing over which queen is more feminist while completely sleeping on Gaemon's mom and her gf, rip legends

Aegon being granted a dignified death despite all the humiliation he has suffered

Cregan Stark ratio'ing everybody and being the only adult in the room (literally)

It would've made a lot more sense for either Alicent or Aegon (preferably Alicent) to be the main protagonist of the show. And I don't mean Condal's idea of a protagonist, just the central POV. Make Rhaenyra a wet-eyed victim, whatever, but don't butcher such a grand story down to her tiny ass arc. She spends at least a full third of it in mourning for her children and that's exactly what CondalHess chose to focus on for the better part of s2. In a show that's supposed to be the prequel to Game of Thrones. You know? THE Game of Thrones? Well, sucks to suck.

muppet tallys

[rottenpumpkin13]

Final Fantasy 7 but it's medieval times. What roles would AGSZC play?

Sephiroth: The legendary general of King Shinra's army, raised from birth to be a perfect warrior under the eye of Hojo, the king's physician and court alchemist. He's terrifyingly good at war, barely speaks but is frequently seen in the company of Angeal and Genesis, and has single-handedly ended every battle he's ever been in, not because he takes joy in it, but because it's what he was made to do. He does not revel in destruction, doesn't seek out bloodshed, he simply knows no other path. But if he had a choice, he'd be a farmer tending to quiet fields far from Shinra's kingdom.

Genesis: The Duke of House Rhapsodos and the kingdom's resident problem, but spends more time dueling people over perceived insults than actually governing anything. He should be handling politics and trade, but instead, he spends his days seeking duels, reciting poetry and constantly quoting an ancient epic poem that only he has memorized. Wanted to be a bard but was too good with a sword and had to fulfill familial duties.

Angeal: The kingdom's most respected knight and a man of unwavering honor. He was once a peasant who was knighted (upon Hollander's—another alchemist—insistence). He believes in justice, hard work, and Zack not embarrassing him in front of the nobility. If you commit a crime in his presence, he will personally lecture you about it. The only person who can somewhat keep Genesis in check, and the only man alive who has dared to tell Sephiroth "No."

Zack: Started as Angeal's squire, now "that one friendly knight who somehow gets along with everyone", from royals to stable boys. Has challenged a dragon to a fight just to see if he could win. (He did not.) His optimism is so powerful that it bends reality. Refuses to let Sephiroth be broody in peace. Once punched a noble for insulting Aerith and was legally declared "an issue." Always volunteers for dangerous quests and somehow never dies. The only person who can joke around with Sephiroth and live.

Cloud: A stablehand who never wanted to be involved in any of this. Came to the capital with big dreams of knighthood and now regrets everything. Somehow, against his will, has been dragged into every single royal mess. Too talented with a sword for a commoner, which makes the nobility suspicious. Zack loves him and. At least once a week, he considers faking his own death and living as a hermit.

Other lore of the medieval AU:

Jenova is a legendary dragon sealed away centuries ago, said to whisper to mortals and corrupt the minds of men. The royal alchemists think they can harness its power. They cannot. It's current resting place is in a cave hidden away in Mt. Nibel.

Hojo is the royal physician and court alchemist. He has too much influence over King Shinra and no sense of ethics. Raised Sephiroth from infancy as his "greatest creation" and has too many experiments locked away in the castle's dungeons.

King Shinra is exactly as corrupt as you'd expect. A megalomaniac who funds endless wars to expand his kingdom and sees his soldiers as disposable. He treats Sephiroth like a personal attack dog and considers his own son, Prince Rufus, an asset instead of a person.

Aerith is a florist and the secret heir to an ancient bloodline, raised in hiding by Elmyra. She's considered a witch by superstitious nobles and is pursued relentlessly by the king's men. Zack is trying to date her despite this.

The Turks are a secret order of spies, assassins, and enforcers working directly under the king. Prince Rufus has too much influence over them.

[awritersbro]

Come to the Fox's Tongue and Kirin's Bone Fandom we've got:

An asexual bilingual vegetarian who missed his own murder and is making every day of his continued existence other people's problem (sometimes as a means to an end).

A thirteen-year-old Princess with a birthmark who Is In The Walls and Will Not Be Contained.

A thirteen-year-old Prince who loves the baker's apprentice's pastries and his own family in that order, and who does not want the weight of the world on his shoulders no matter how many people want to thrust it onto him.

A 20-something Prince who does not know whether or not he's a Trojan Horse.

A long-suffering lieutenant who is Trying His Best.

A royal spymaster known only as "The Lady" who wears the skins of shapeshifters to turn into different animals and who can fight toe-to-toe against dragons.

An absolute cinnamon roll who can do no wrong, who braved the journey alone from the outermost parts of the kingdom to the capital in order to become the baker's apprentice and serve his nation.

And all of them can and will stab you if the situation calls for it.

[kaymarie-bell]

TWST JP Spoilers

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bullet point form because I'm getting sleepy 💔

Idia has found a bug, he cannot keep on adding more HP recovery squares for Pomefiore because they also keep healing Malleus

Malleus still has lots of HP left

Malleus is upset about Idia's tricks

Idia is moving the Boss (Malleus) to a different stage

Ortho says it's okay, we still have lots of SSRs left

Idia is thinking about who to send next, when a call comes in. He thinks it might be about some materials he ordered.

It's his mom

His mom has been DM-ing him since he woke up, but Idia has blocked her account (😭)

Idia says it's too awkward to work with his parents. And he doesn't want to see his mom in specific because she has seen inside both his computer and his dreams (rip Idia)

Mrs. Shroud: I didn't see anything! I swear?

Idia: You made Ortho's gear perfectly, there's no way you didn't see anything!

Ortho: Brother, just forget about it. It'll be easier that way

Mr. Shroud shows up too

First of all, he's relieved that Idia is okay

Idia still feels awkward about talking to his parents in front of his juniors

Mr. Shroud praises the operation Idia has planned

Idia says it's too early for praises as it's just the beginning. His dad is definitely not calling just to say hello

It seems like Idia made a request to have the Thunder Spears from Book 6 upgraded

DAMN

They requested magic stones that wouldn't be shattered even by a dragon's blow, they were provided by the Royal Family of Briar Valley, however even those weren't strong enough

Sebek's granpa consulted the other members of the Royal Guard, but they have been unable to find anything despite their search efforts

Silver is confused as to why they would need such weapon

Idia says that he already explained it. If Malleus wants to keep on fighting once the dream spell has been lifted (?), they have to be prepared to retaliate

The more information about dragons Briar Valley provides, the more apparent that they cannot afford to use half-hearted weapons

A dragon's scales can repell both physical and magical attacks, and their fire is strong enough to melt stone (HELLO?)

The only thing that can protect against their fire is the world's highest magic resistance metal, "Mystium" (I guess this is what the Knight of Dawn's armour was made of 😔)

and the only thing that can hurt a dragon is a sword made of hard magic stones containing a special purity magic

I see where this is going ☹️

The point is, they need ultra-rare materials for this. Idia's parents worked with Baul and somehow managed to find metal for the armour, but no luck with the magic stone for the sword

Idia: if only there was a legendary sword laying around

Silver and Sebek: flashback to being in Lilia's room and finding his big ass weapon fron his General days

Silver and Sebek: AH!

Silver: I don't know about a legendary sword, but would the weapon used by the General during his active duty be good?

Sebek mentions the importance it holds in Briar Valley

Idia: what? Where is it?!

Silver: It was shipped to the Land of the Red Dragon via international mail the day before the farewell party

Mr. Shroud/Idia: you sent a magical weapon via international mail??!??

Silver: well...my family has always used it to chop firewood

Silver: I followed the postal office's instructions and wrapped it tightly in cloth, and it was shipped labeled as "tool."

Idia: DON'T TREAT A LEGENDARY MAGIC WEAPON AS A TOOL!!!

Idia: anyway, that's even better than the original plan

He says to contact the post office immediately and intercept the package with Lilia's name. And to hurry up

Ortho warns him that Malleus is trying to escape by force, so Idia says that he has chosen the next dorm to battle him

[yuamusuzuran]

The Dragon & the Foreseer who loved him - pt.3

Pairing: Sylus x Zayne/SnowCrow

Chp word count: 2660

Minors DNI/ Mature and Explicit content ahead!

Chapter TAGS: nicknames, banter, tension, hurt/comfort, heavy canon divergence, Sylus POV

Previous chapters: CHP1, CHP2

I've realized I've kinda merged Zayne's two myths together, you'll see what I mean.

If you wish to become a part of the tag list, refer here!

ENJOY!

CHAPTER 3 - Why do you look like you're about to shed tears?

As it was expected, the royal army went into pursuit of the escaped dragon only three days after his prison break.

The nation of Philos was thrust into a state of general unrest and panic, the fact that a single dragon was still living and on the run prompting many citizens to spend most of their time indoors, be it in larger cities or villages.

But the biggest surprise for the royal family was the fact that their trusted Foreseer also went missing, and around the same time as the vicious beast broke out of his bondage.

It didn’t take those humans long to connect two and two together, their struggle to come up with a reliable plan rather amusing to imagine and observe from afar.

At that point, the dragon and the Foreseer have been traveling across the kingdom for almost two weeks, successfully evading the approaching royal army that could only take accounts of citizens and villagers that managed to spot the ominous figure in the sky by pure stroke of luck.

And even those accounts weren’t accurate… and mostly because none of those foolish humans even thought of the fact that this dragon could do much more than just destroy everything in his path.

Traveling in the dead of night, resting during the day, that was this duo’s main course of action.

The dragon already knew this land by heart, remembered the location of every cave or underground tunnel they could use to rest for the day, knowing that whoever remembered his previous escape was long dead and forgotten.

Finding him will be as impossible as finding a needle in stack of hay.

They would fly across the dark sky, sometimes even above the clouds if the weather wasn’t too pleasant for travel, the dragon occasionally casting illusions of his own form just to confuse or distract any possible onlookers.

But even though he had passed through this escaping routine once before, there was one factor that was very much different from back then…

His traveling companion, or rather, his captive was something the dragon had to pay extra close attention to, and not just because he was human and therefor more fragile.

In spite of that very fact, the Foreseer was more than willing to put the dragon at the unease just by acting as the most obedient captive one could imagine.

But the dragon was no fool.

That human wielded powerful ice magic, and from what the dragon saw and heard, he could very much fight if needed. But instead, he chose to follow his captor’s every order, like an obedient puppy.

He was definitely scheming, the dragon was sure of it. Waiting for me to put my guard down…

But the most disturbing thing in that human’s behavioral pattern wasn’t even his obedience or his massive unwillingness to use his magic when near the dragon. It was his attitude and calm demeanor that had put this vicious beast on edge.

Aside from the first night when they met, when the dragon could so clearly smell the fear and terror on him, the Foreseer acted as if he was on a relaxing stroll through nature, his scent of jasmine being the only thing the dragon could smell.

There was no emotion in that man, not a single one the dragon could use to his advantage… and that scared him more than anything…

“You’re awfully antsy tonight, Snowflake” the dragon mumbled, his wings carrying them high above a vast, deserted valley.

The human’s hands gripped onto his shoulders tightly, digging his fingers in the softer skin of his right shoulder “I told you not to call me that, it’s unflattering”

“You refuse to tell me your name” the dragon reminded, sultry chuckle once again leaving his lips “But maybe you like being called ‘human’. Would the Foreseer prefer that?”

A loud scoff could be heard from behind “You just called me a Foreseer. Why not use that when talking to me?”

The dragon shook his head, wildly amused by this interaction “Why would I call you that? You’re not clairvoyant anymore, remember?”

The human stayed quiet this time around, only his grip around dragon’s neck and shoulders stiffening in a silent protest.

“You didn’t answer my question” the beast prompted again.

“What question?”

The dragon signed “Why are you so antsy? You are making it difficult to fly in a straight line… unless you want me to drop you, hm?”

Even more silence ensued, only wind brushing against their ears as they continued their journey.

“I was trying to… see something” the human eventually mumbled, his voice so weak the dragon barely heard him.

“See what?”

A frustrated sigh was rather close to the dragon’s ear, so close in fact he could feel the Foreseer’s cold breath on his earlobe.

But once he finally spoke, the human hesitated, unlike any time the dragon had heard him speak before:

“This valley…” he murmured “This is the place where I grew up”

The dragon turned his head to look at the human sideways, his eyes truly trying to focus on whatever he might see below.

“This place has been abandoned for more than a century…” he explained, the Foreseer’s grip tightening once more.

“I’m aware…” he acknowledged “It was the drought… then the famine… and then the outbreak of a mysterious plague…”

The dragon shook his head in mild amusement “You know all that and yet you’re still hoping everything’s intact?” he chuckled “And besides, it’s been a century, so unless you’ve been living from scraps and lounging in these abandoned houses-”

“I’m more than four hundred years old”

The dragon frowned, turning his head once again to look at the human. When he couldn’t read him, the beast pulled his wings in before turning on his back mid-air, throwing the human a bit higher before spreading his wings again.

He could clearly see surprise and a tinge of fear in the Foreseer’s eyes, but aside from that, he didn’t even make a sound while being tossed and turned high up in the sky.

In a matter of moments, the human landed right on dragon’s chest, the beast using his scaly arms to embrace him and hold him in place.

“Excuse me?” he demanded, the Foreseer’s eyes widening as their noses almost touched, only to frown deeply once again.

“You’ve heard me” he retorted “I’m more than four hundred years old… and yes, the longevity comes with the title of a Foreseer.”

The dragon chuckled, amused smile spreading across his features “You’ve read my mind with that answer. And you say you’ve completely lost your clairvoyant powers”

The human inhaled sharply before looking away, not able to move even an inch in that position “It was a logical question one would ask, I’m not lying about not foreseeing anything in the future…”

“I know, I know” dragon’s smile widened “I just love teasing you. That’s the only way this little Snowflake will show any type of emotion at all”

The human’s frown deepened even more, those green eyes locking with the dragon’s crimson ones “I know what you’re trying to do… and it won’t work”

“Oh?” dragon sounded almost amused “And what am I doing, hm?”

The Foreseer proudly raised his chin “You’re trying to make me show emotions so you can use them to your advantage” he elaborated “I know dragons are able to make people go mad with their feelings… and just because you have a handsome face doesn’t mean it’ll work if I don’t allow you to latch onto any of my emotions”

The dragon’s eyebrows widened, his lips revealing his sharp fangs in a half-amused, half-wicked smirk “You think I’m handsome?” he laughed “I’m honored”

The human promptly looked away and closed his mouth, refusing to even look dragon’s way from that moment onward no matter how much the beast chuckled and giggled.

Doesn’t matter, the dragon thought. We’ll reach our hiding place for the night very soon, anyway. You can sulk there, little Snowflake…

︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶���⊹︶

A chill ran down the dragon’s spine, a sensation he hasn’t felt since he was a tiny hatchling.

He propped himself up on the ledge where he slept, raising his right hand where the burning sensation etched into his flesh.

There it was… mark of an escapee.

The little Snowflake was trying to run away.

His eyebrows twitching, the dragon leapt from his hiding space in the mountain cave, his wings breaking his fall before he took a flight. The cave they used as a hiding place was spacious but shallow, only hidden away by a massive waterfall at the edge of the valley.

But water wasn’t something that would bother a dragon… unlike a human on this cold, rainy night.

Once outside, the dragon soared high up in the dark sky, the first traces of dawn already illuminating the very edge of a vast horizon.

According to the mark, the human didn’t go far. How could he? He had no wings to carry him around.

Despite his immense talent for use of ice powers, the Foreseer was still just a human-

The dragon could feel his heart fastening, his face contorting in a shape he didn’t recognize. Was he angry? Why?

Because his prey managed to run away? Because he was outsmarted by a mere human-

The beast’s flight came to a sudden halt, his crimson eyes focused on a single dark dot in the vast field of sand and stones.

Found you, he thought before plummeting towards the ground.

There was no doubt he’ll manage to catch up to the human, his wings were simply too powerful for any human or animal to outrun them… except, this human didn’t seem like he was running.

In fact… he wasn’t even moving at all.

He was merely sitting there, resembling a motionless statue carved by a passionate artist, allowing the rain to completely drench him.

The dragon landed softly, all of his anger instantly turning into bewilderment.

His long robes became even darker in color as the cold rain slid down his body, his hair which was usually tied in a low ponytail coming almost completely undone.

With his head lowered, he looked rather small from the dragon’s perspective. Fragile, almost…

“You thought I had run away, didn’t you?” the human’s voice was measured as always, not even turning his head to look at his captor.

The dragon chuckled before finally approaching the human, aware that his own voice had a small tinge of tremble in it as he spoke: “You’ve ventured a bit too far, little Snowflake. You should have known I’d react”

The Foreseer let out a breathy chuckle, his face unchanging “How could I forget? Your bite was rather painful, too” he reminded, only slightly turning his left hand to showcase the bite mark left on his robes.

The dragon chuckled again, rather proud of his work as his tall figure stopped besides the sitting human.

“Why are you sitting here? In the rain, no less…”

A faint smile appeared on the Foreseer’s lips, only one of his index fingers pointing towards something the dragon didn’t notice so far.

Only a couple of feet in front of them, two stones were posted upwards, letters and numbers carved into them like scars.

“Graves?” the dragon asked, the human only humming in response.

“Whose?” the beast demanded this time, suddenly feeling the man’s green gaze on him.

“My parents” he admitted “They’ve passed away about thirty years after I left the village… and after my departure, I’ve never seen them again”

A tinge of something painful suddenly gripped at the dragon’s heart, the beast attempting to ignore it by remaining cold and resolute.

Still, the said coldness didn’t mean he couldn’t be polite…

“My condolences…” he said, barely managing to remember the words humans used to comfort someone who had lost a loved one to death.

What he didn’t expect… was a bitter, broken chuckle.

“No need for that” the Foreseer said after a moment “Why would I mourn people who have abandoned me?...”

Heaviness suddenly overtook the dragon’s chest, a sensation he was unable to ignore.

He slowly lowered himself next to the human, folding in his wings in an attempt to not push him.

“Then…” he murmured, looking intently towards the man next to him “Why do you look like you’re about to shed tears?”

Another bitter chuckle escaped the Foreseer’s lips, but this time, it really seemed like he was about to cry as he whispered:

“I’m… mourning a child I used to be before getting this forsaken power…” the human looked towards the sky, heavy rain drops falling onto his face “Since getting captured by you… it’s like I’ve found a long-lost peace… and this place had just reminded me of what I used to have… of what I could’ve been if…. If Astra hasn’t chosen me…”

The dragon frowned, completely at the loss for words. Until now, you used to call your god Almighty or Merciful…

Without even noticing he was moving, one of dragon’s wings extended, their leathery consistency acting as a perfect shield from the heavy rain.

The human gasped at the sight, giving dragon a rather puzzled look “Why would-”

“I know you’re not bothered by cold” the beast murmured, removing a stray strand of hair from the man’s cheek “But you can still get sick.”

The two looked at each other for a moment, only a sound of falling rain filling the void this moment had created.

Dragon didn’t understand why he did this… what was the benefit of doing it… but something about seeing this hurt expression on the Foreseer’s face made him feel incredibly uneasy.

Almost like… his chest was about to cave in…

“Shall we go back?” the dragon prompted, offering his scaly hand.

The human didn’t even hesitate in taking his hand this time, his gaze lowered.

“Zayne…”

The dragon frowned, tilting his head “Excuse me?”

“You may call me Zayne…” he repeated, looking dragon in the eyes “So, please drop that awful nickname…”

For a moment, the beast was completely dumbfounded… only to be overtaken by laughter a second later. It’s been a while since he’d laughed like that, from the depth of his stomach, like a joyous child…

“Alright then… Zayne” the dragon purred as he said the man’s name, the Foreseer’s jaw clenching as he heard that.

A few moments later, the duo had taken off towards their hiding spot, the rain slowly subsiding as they reached their destination. They were both drenched, but thankfully, the dragon still had some flame left for usage. They will both get dry in no time-

“How should I call you? You must have a name…” Zayne suddenly asked, the dragon turning to look at him.

He was already taking off his wet robes, the longer part of his hair falling down his pale and scarred back.

As he gulped heavily, the dragon chuckled “I don’t think you’d be able to say it out loud… it’s an ancient dragonic language, I don’t think humans could ever understand it”

“Try me” the man challenged, fully turning towards the dragon.

Amused, the beast approached him and raised one of his hands, a few ancient letters appearing as small flaming stones floating above his palm.

Zayne frowned, inching slightly closer to the letters as his eyes squinted. The dragon had to give him credit for trying, his enthusiasm rather amusing-

“You’re right, it’s impossible to read in the dragonic language” Zayne admitted with a chuckle “But… there is a way to translate it into ours, as far as I remember”

“Oh?” the dragon’s eyebrows raised “And what would my name be when said in your human language?”

The Foreseer stood there for a moment, silent and with his finger scratching his own chin.

Then, with a victorious yet faint smile, he announced: “Sylus… Your name would be Sylus”

︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶

New update will be on weekend of 29th-30th of March! See you then and thank you for reading!

CLICK HERE FOR NEXT CHAPTER

TAG LIST: @rafayelsplushiekiller @jasmines-greentea @nezuswritingdesk @angelwhizpers @katiralovely @nothoughts-justzayne @zarakem @saltyobservationcheesecake

SMALL EDIT HERE: I'll update a weekend later, April 5th or 6th, I had a medical emergency, I'm ok! See you this weekend and thanks for waiting!

[crimsonbastard]

"Criston Cole is an Incel! He called Rhaenyra slurs! He killed Innocent People! He led his men to a fiery death!"

Blah blah blah, I couldn't care less about him calling a White Woman of noble birth slurs, especially when the said woman carelessly endangered him and treated him as a sneaky link (He literally told her to "stop" and tried to walk away. Don't give me a hateful 10 Page essay on how he should've yeeted her or ran to Viserys, when he's her literal employee. I'll just fucking block you).

Calling Women Slurs? who doesn't in that sad medieval world? Women call Women slurs, Men call Women Slurs, it's misogyny battle royale, although it doesn't make it right, I would rather have him have beef with One Woman of higher class who personally wronged him rather than disrespect sex workers (which he doesn't). He in fact treats them respectfully.

He killed Innocent People!

- Nobody cares about Joffrey. Even if they do, they just bring him up to hate Cole and accuse him of homophobia. Honestly speaking, I would rather have Cole kill him in a tourney than a wedding.

- Beesebury, bro killed another Team Black Glazer? So what? Daemon gets brownie points for killing Vaemond who was speaking the truth about Rhaenyra committing treason by putting her bastsrds up for the Throne and Driftmark (the writers are so biased that they made him call her a whore just so that they can distract us from the fact that he was making sense), but Cole killing Beesebury who was accusing Alicent of committing Regicide is a big no?

Led his men to death by dragon fire. The keyword being "led his men". He WAS on the Battlefield, he was fighting alongside his men, he was getting his hands dirty, and he too was prepared to die for the cause.

He didn't sit back and grab a bucket of popcorn as he watched his men die. He fought with them and he would've died too if it weren't for the fluke of him falling.

He doesn't take responsibility for his faults.

- He asks Alicent to give him a merciful death when he willingly confessed his sin of sleeping with Rhaenyra.

- He tries to kill Himself after the wedding, if it weren't for Alicent.

- He's still suicidal and nihilistic, but only keeps going for Alicent.

Now comes the disclaimer that yes he can be hated for his crimes. But I'll say this, overhating his character is no longer funny, it has gone to the point where he's being placed in the same tier list as Joffrey, Ramsey and Daemon. Like people, he's not some psychopath who tortures and mutilates people after hunting them down with hounds, nor is he a rich privileged brat who sees people as playthings to inflict his cruelty on. Or someone who bashes his wife's head with a rock or orders hits on toddler's.

He's a douchebag for sure. But placing him in THAT tier with THOSE characters? Really?

[novaursa]

Aegon II Targaryen Masterlist

main list

- Embers of War - Aegon steals you and starts the Dance of Dragons. - explicit 18+

- The Fires We Make - When they decreed to marry Aegon to Helaena, he decided to do what his namesake had done. Aegon takes you as his second wife. - explicit 18+

- The Kiss - After years of being forbidden to each other, you and Aegon finally find the moment to be together.  - explicit 18+

- Web of Gold - Alicent could only watch as you played with her son like a lioness with her food. - mild 13+

- Web of Gold (aegon in love) - mild 13+

- Web of Gold (aegon has a cold) - mature 16+ (just to be safe)

- Web of Gold (aegon is jealous) - mild 13+

- Web of Gold (royal wedding) - mature 16+

- Web of Gold (honeymoon) - mature 16+

- Web of Gold (addendum) - mature 16+

- Web of Gold (rook's rest) - mature 16+

- Web of Gold (the final choice) - mature 16+

- To Save Us Both - Aegon was your shadow ever since you were a child. And once you come of age and Viserys gives your hand to Lord Tyrell's son, Aegon makes a decision that would save you both—and ruin you all the same. - mature 16+

- A Fire Worth Burning - Aegon loved you since you were children, but your father, Daemon, would never let him have you. Not while he lived. - mature 16+

- A Fire Worth Burning (ruins of an empire) - explicit 18+ (for blood, gore, violence and death)

Works (twin!wife!reader/Aegon II) below are listed in chronological order:

- The Silver and The Gold - This was the first time you and Aegon acknowledged the bond between you, and the first time you are truly one. - explicit 18+

- Silken Shadows - You sneak with Aegon out into the brothel, like you usually do, so both of you can be free. After the brothel is raided by mercenaries and you are saved by Ser Arryk, he escorts you with Aegon back to the Red Keep where your mother, Queen Alicent, is waiting. - explicit 18+

- Flame Kissed - As you and Aegon never had a problem expressing your desires openly, neither did your dragons. And as both of you just tormented the inhabitants of the Red Keep, your dragons kept the whole capital awake for weeks. - explicit 18+

- Twin Fires - Both you and Aegon have no problem expressing your desires openly and torment everybody in the Red Keep. - explicit 18+

- The Silent Pyre - It was a rainy night when Blood and Cheese came to deliver you your half-sister’s message; a son for a son. - explicit 18+ - (there is no adult content present, but there are detailed descriptions of violence, blood and gore)

- The Fire That Binds Us - The aftermath of Blood and Cheese. Aegon and you find comfort in each other once more, and later, make plans with your council for attack on Rook's Rest. - explicit 18+

- Eternal Blaze - You go after Aegon with your dragon to fight at Rook’s Rest. - explicit 18+

- In the Wake of Fire - Aegon and you lay broken together in the aftermath of the battle of Rook’s Rest. - mature 16+

- The Searing Flame - Rook's Rest broke you and Aegon both. But it didn't separate you. And Stranger, it appears, has other plans for you. - mild 13+

- The Searing Flame (chapter in-between chapter) - Aemond drags Grand Maester Orwlye to Aegon, so the maester can confess what he suggested to your mother. - mild 13+

- The Last Dance - The Dance of the Dragons is over. You and Aegon finally find peace. - mature 16+

[borkunlimited]

Ordinary Days - 1

Away from the capital, Sylus leads the insurgency movement from the northern regions of the country with the help of a deer hybrid. Your presence made him all more convicted to his cause and when the war ends, he looks forward to the day you don't have to dig up sweet potatoes for breakfast anymore. A Deer Hybrid! Reader x Dragon Hybrid! Sylus Fic Summary: Gaining the favor of a war veteran to declare his support for the movement is difficult at is, much alone said war veteran is also your father. Tags: Sylus x Reader, Hybrid AU, Suggestive Themes, Fluff, Predator/Prey, Implied conflict Word Count: 977 words Author's Note:  Title is based on a fan comic by Silver from Pixiv. This isn't a series (yet) but more of a collection of snippets while I figure out how to outline this concept and I thought maybe I should share what I have while I am at it. Had elements from both Love and Deepspace and Arknights with some of my ideas blended in. Anyways, enjoy!

Favor, Not Easily Obtained

Patriot.

It is a title your father is most infamous of and Sylus grew up in the halls of Imperial Palace at Deity Grypherburg, the capital of Ursus, with that title spoken reverently even by high ranking officials themselves.

Unmatched.

Unparalleled.

Indestructible.

Your father led the Ursus Imperial Army to victory against many of its conquests several times without fail and you would be a fool to not run away when you see him from a distance leading the march, the antlers on his head coupled with his imposing stature is enough to make a rational man turn and go back from where they came. 

(Irrational ones will only realize they are on the losing end once the halberd of your father flying all the way from the other side of no man’s land pierces them right on their faces.)

Beloved hero of Ursus.

One would have thought the man would be at least amicable to be around with based on the tales that Sylus heard from the nannies that looked after him before they tucked him for the night coupled with the images he saw in books and in the paintings at the royal barracks but no-

-Your father is without a doubt, the most overbearing man he has ever met.

The old guard had never once spoken a word to him the first time you have introduced them to each other (Sylus would never understand how you don’t see the need to mention that your father is the war hero every citizen in Ursus loves on your way to the village where you live the first time you met) and even when they were here in the freezing tundra fighting side by side in a civil war that will make or break the country, the closest conversation Sylus ever had with him was a grunt.

A grunt.

That’s basically it.

Sylus had heard him talk to the soldiers and even the other villagers, his voice soft and replies clipped apparently because of his damaged larynx, and it will only increase volume when he is barking orders but to Sylus?

The least Sylus can get is a finger pointing to a pin on the map before reconnaissance and the best is a grunt.

Initially, Sylus does not see the need to bring this up to you because he doesn’t want you to play mediator on this matter, not when you already are between him and the common folk.

He had been educated well enough to know that you can earn the support of a battleworn veteran through action and that means-

-A demonstration of his military intellect and strength.

Even then, your father’s overbearing presence and scrutinizing gaze did not only stay in the battlefield but also in the village doubling as camp as well.

“Is there something bothering you, your highness?”, you asked, pausing from mending a tear on his coat, and Sylus only shook his head, wrapping his tail around your waist while simultaneously pulling you closer to his side.

The laughter of the children playing with the soldiers, the cackle of the bonfire, and the faint scent of food from the kitchens being prepared wafting all the way here was almost enough to soothe his worries regarding the possible outcomes of this civil war.

Almost enough because-

-He doesn’t have to turn around to see that your father’s eyes are trained at his back.

Word has it that your father deserted the Ursus Imperial Army for what the elites have done to your older brother and that distaste extends to anyone, anyone who is born with a golden spoon in their mouth which unfortunately, includes him.

It would take tremendous effort for the war veteran to support his cause and even more for Sylus to convince that he, the bastard prince of the Royal Family, does not see you as a passing fancy but something more.

Afterall, Sylus is more motivated than ever to reshape the country just for you.

“Didn’t I tell you there is no need for formalities, little doe?”

“Old habits die hard, your highness.”

“Then maybe I should help you practice saying my name, sweetheart.”

The tips of your deer ears always turn red on such comments, a shy smile on your lips, and Sylus was about to rub his horns against your antlers in amusement, a little routine between the two of you, when he heard the all too familiar grunt coming from your father observing you both from a distance-

-No, it wasn’t a grunt but a huff.

A huff of disapproval.

That’s new.

Yet, always the oblivious girl that you are, you continued what he is about to do instead and told him ‘If your highness try not to wound himself often, I’ll consider it’ then amidst the falling snow and the cold stare of your father, the kiss you placed on his cheek and your warmth that stayed on his coat with tears already mended superseded all of his worries.

It only occurred to Sylus as he followed you to the kitchens that it was the first time you did that in front of your father.

“I can beat up the prince for you, old man.”

“My daughter- Too naive-,” your father sighed, then turned to the one who spoke, a rabbit hybrid (The little girl you and your father picked up while you travelled to the northern regions of Ursus, now in her teens), “And you- Too rowdy-”

“Rowdy enough to punch his face just in case he breaks big sister’s heart.”

The war hero did not comment any further.

After all, he is still yet to declare his support to the young dragon’s cause and-

-He has not seen enough if this estranged prince indeed cares for you or if he is just like the bourgeois he had left behind in the capital.

────────────────────

Author's Note:  Big shoutout to @cygnuusss and to my friends for enabling me to write this. Once I am done writing the side story for Luke and Kieran, I will most likely move to this but for now, I'll probably keep posting these drabbles here and there. As always happy to share this with everyone here.

[calisverse]

ENEMIES TO LOVERS, ENEMIES AND LOVERS AND ALL THE FLAVORS IN BETWEEN. all these quotes, sentences and prompts are based on the topic of enemies to lovers and all the flavors that come with it. antagonistic, enemies and lovers, enemies and former lovers, and more. change names, locations and pronouns as you see fit.

“I hate you more than I’ve ever loved anyone.”

“Every time you glare at me, my heart skips a beat.”

“If I had a dragon for every time I thought about you, they’d burn this kingdom to ashes.”

“You wound me more than your sword ever did.”

“Stop saving me—it’s disrupting my plan to hate you.”

“Why do I feel safe when danger has your face?”

“I wouldn’t trust you with my life… unless you’re the only one left.”

“You’re poison and perfume wrapped in one.”

“I can’t stand you. And yet… I can’t stand to be without you.”

“You’re my greatest rival—and the one I want beside me in battle.”

“Must you always be so infuriatingly right?”

“The more you mock me, the deeper your words carve into me.”

“You destroyed everything I built… and then rebuilt me.”

“I loathe your arrogance—yet your confidence makes my pulse race.”

“I’ve never wanted an enemy’s lips on mine… until now.”

“Your smile is the most dangerous weapon you wield.”

“You call it crossing a line; I call it coming closer.”

“I’ve sworn to break you… but you’re the one who broke me.”

“When you cry, I’ll be the only one to wipe your tears.”

“Our history is written in insults—but our future in whispers.”

“I’d rather fight a legion than admit how much I need you.”

“You make me question everything I believed about hate.”

“I once thought your heart was ice…but it melts at my touch.”

“We’re two halves of the same war.”

“You infuriate me, enthrall me, and haunt my dreams.”

“Enemies on paper, defenders in practice.”

“I hate you with the intensity I’d rather feel for someone else.”

“If I could burn this world down to keep you safe, I would.”

“Your betrayal cuts deeper than any knife.”

“I despise what you did… but I love what you made me feel.”

“You’re a puzzle I never want to solve.”

“I’ll fight you to my last breath—and then kiss you.”

“Your voice is the war drum to which my heart marches.”

“I can’t decide whether to kill you or kiss you.”

“In another life we’d be allies. In this one, perhaps lovers.”

“You dared challenge me—and stole my admiration.”

“Every enemy is just a lover in disguise.”

“I hate you fiercely—and love you recklessly.”

“Your scars match mine—and bind our fates together.”

“For years I’ve trained to defeat you, never to surrender to you.”

SCENARIOS.

Two rival spies must negotiate a fragile truce in a midnight exchange—and discover sparks in the shadows.

After being captured, a knight and the enemy captain must travel through hostile territory together to survive.

Both infiltrating the same corrupt court under false identities, they suspect each other’s cover—until their truths collide.

Stranded in a ruined keep during a snowstorm, a hostile prince and rebel commander share warmth and secret confessions.

At a masquerade, two sworn enemies dance unknowingly—only to recognize each other when the masks come off.

A thief and a paladin must team up to find a legendary artifact; along the way, moral lines blur.

An enemy dragonrider and a knight guard a newly hatched dragon—forcing them to cooperate to escape.

Two heirs to opposing thrones are forced into an arranged marriage to broker peace—whether they like it or not.

Thrown into a magical trial to prove their loyalty, they must protect each other—or perish together.

A diplomat’s child is taken hostage by a warlord; the warlord’s second-in-command questions their orders when the child smiles.

A witch hunter teams up with the very witch he was sent to execute to stop a greater evil.

Two genius inventors compete for the same royal patent—and discover sparks in their code and contraptions.

Decades after slaughter, two spirits—once foes—reunite to set right old wrongs and fall in love amidst the tombstones.

When a new tyrant rises, two leaders who once hated each other must form an uneasy alliance.

High‑school debate rivals forced to partner up for nationals discover their best arguments start with “I love you.”

A naval captain and a pirate queen survive a wreck on a deserted island and learn to rely on one another.

A challenge for swordsmanship at dawn becomes an intimate conversation under the stars after the blades lower.

A ruthless general is injured in battle and saved by the enemy’s most compassionate healer.

Two CEOs battling in the courtroom must spend a week in team‑building retreats and discover common ground.

Each trapped on opposite sides of a talking enchanted mirror, they argue endlessly—until their reflections lock lips.

[mrsdarkandyandere7]

Slave

Pairing: Dark Viserys Targaryen III x (female) Reader

▶ This is a yandere/dark work and it may contain triggering content so please READ THE WARNINGS before. Do not read if minor.

More at Masterlist

SUMMARY: Your job is to obey orders, even if they are wicked ones. 

WARNINGS: Noncon (blowjob); Power Abuse.

Please, reblog and give me feedback.

--

“Go on, I don’t have all day.” Viserys urges you, his hand pushing your head forward.

You hesitate for a moment, fighting the nausea that rises in your throat at the sight of his cock, nestled between a small set of blonde hairs.

“Don’t you know what an honor this is for you? To touch the Dragon? It’s a privilege few people have.” Viserys impatiently says, his hand repeating this motion and this time he forces your head forward until your lips touch the tip, a blissful sigh coming from him.

The salty taste has you grimacing, but the man only pushes his hips forward, forcing you to open your mouth as he slides all of his length.

Your eyes widen as the intrusion makes it impossible for you to breathe and you slap his thighs, shiny eyes begging for some mercy. 

The Targaryen man doesn’t pull out, instead starting to slowly move in and out of your mouth, ignoring your gags. Your spit gathers in your lips, cascading down your chin and neck, making a mess.

“Such a soft mouth.” He compliments, voice thick with lust. The small candles around the room cast shadows to his face, eyes lightening up with a spark of desire and insanity.

Perhaps the stories speak the truth and all Targaryen’s are mad.

“Just like that, suck all of it. Like the good slave you are.” his remarks are mean and soon tears are copiously falling down as he keeps fucking your mouth at a steady pace, small whines lifting into the hair.

The tension in your jaw worsens, the same with your knees hurting from the unpleasant position and you speed up, the sudden motivation having you bobbing your head back and forth, earning a jolt from Viserys.

“Oh, gods. Fuck, you’re better than what I though.”

You keep up the frantic motion, ignoring the way you feel so lightweight from the lack of breathing.

Sticking your nails into his thighs, you scratch until the blood comes out and you’re rewarded when Viserys hisses. 

It doesn’t take long before his body goes limp and you receive a few broken moans and a splash of his seed.

Immediately pulling yourself back, you throw a fit of coughing.

“Aren’t you a little minx? Didn’t know you’d be such a cock-sucking whore.”

You look up, Viserys taking deep breaths as he smiles at you, pleased. You yearn to slap him, to spit on his face. But you hold yourself.

He’s a man.

Men always get away with everything.

While you’re just a slave.

“Don’t worry, when I’m King I can get you a spot as my royal concubine.”