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kc-writes-sometimes · 2 months ago

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Crown and Kin | Chapter One

Ao3 Account | Masterlist

Chapter One: The Bastard with Violet Eyes

Word Count: 2,641

Pairing: Aemond Targaryen x Original Female Character

Summary: Daella’s journey takes an unexpected turn when she crosses paths with powerful figures in King’s Landing. As she navigates a world where bastards are often overlooked, Daella begins to unravel mysteries about her origins and the people watching over her.

Themes & Warnings: 18+, Character Death, Rape/Non Con, Future Smut, Canon Typical Violence, Canon Typical Incest, Angst, Dad Daemon Targaryen, Bastards and Brothels, Fluff, Friends to Enemies to Lovers, Canon Divergence, Dysfunctional Family, Team Black Centric, Slow Burn, Eventual Romance

Next Chapter ↠

Daella of King's Landing

People rarely paid attention to bastards. Snow, Rivers, Stone, Hill, Waters, Pyke, Storm, Flowers, and Sand—all were cut from the same misshapen cloth. They came and went as they pleased, their movements unmonitored, their musings unheard. Whether they lived or died mattered little to those of importance.

A bastard boy might find glory in battle and be granted knighthood. He could gain both brothers and honour at The Wall, or even pursue knowledge within The Citadel. A lack of name or title did little to hinder a boy from charting his own course and seizing his freedom.

But for bastard girls, the world offered fewer paths. The highest honour they could achieve was to be sold to one of the more reputable establishments on the Street of Silk in King’s Landing. Most, however, ended up working and dying in the brothels of Flea Bottom, just as Daella’s mother had.

Daella didn’t remember her mother well. Was she truly a beauty? Did they share the same pale skin, dark waves, and violet eyes? Truthfully, she wasn’t sure if she remembered her at all. The memory of her had faded, worn down by the passage of each moon since her death. Daella recalled the somberness of the women when her mother died, how they cooed at her as though she were a lost lamb on the cusp of slaughter. Her mother’s name was still spoken sometimes, but always in hushed tones behind silk curtains and makeshift wooden doors.

From what Daella had been told, her mother was a rare prize in King’s Landing, where few had the privilege of keeping company with the Dornish, let alone bedding one. She was loved by guests and whores alike, giving everything and keeping nothing. She even spared a few Silver Stags for the City Watch to ensure the safety of the other girls, which was how Daella ended up where she was.

Her life had been a far cry from that of the ladies of the Red Keep, yet the women of the brothel had always provided for her as best they could. They’d kept her safe, warm, and fed, even subjecting themselves to the ire of men who noticed her skulking around the brothel’s dark corners. It was a strange thing, to be raised in such an establishment without the expectation or encouragement to join the trade. But the women had promised her mother they would care for her as their own, and they had.

As Daella pulled herself from her makeshift bed and set her feet on the cold ground, she could already hear the giggles and moans of the women upstairs. Some were just starting their day; others had yet to finish. She couldn't risk lighting one of the torches scattered around the room, so she fumbled under her bed for the shoes carefully stored there. Her hand brushed the rough black material, and with a small, victorious smile, she silently slipped them on. Peeking her head out of the room, she glanced down the dimly lit hallway to ensure no one had noticed her presence. The side door to the brothel, typically used by the City Watch when they didn’t wish to be seen leaving in the early hours, had often been her means of escape. Slipping through the doorway, Daella made her way onto the moonlit streets.

“Daella,” a gruff voice called from behind her. She turned sheepishly toward the sound, feeling her heart race in her chest. Her eyes adjusted to the darkness just enough to make out the figure stepping toward her.

“Ser Harwin,” she muttered, feigning innocence and stepping backward, just out of his reach. This wasn't the first time Ser Breakbones had caught her sneaking out. Their dance had become almost routine. She’d get caught, he’d chastise her, she’d run, and he’d chase her. But at only six years old, Daella could never make it far before he scooped her up and dragged her home.

“You know you’re not supposed to be out here by yourself,” he sighed, taking a few steps closer and sinking to one knee to look her in the eye. Even on one knee, Ser Harwin was a large man. The women in the brothel often remarked how broad and handsome he was.

“I only needed some air. I wasn’t going to go far,” Daella whispered, attempting to defend herself as she stared at the ground. “I promise.”

“Come, Daella, let’s get you home before you get yourself into trouble,” he said, standing to his full height. His pretty brown eyes watched her intently as he turned to lead her back. The moment he turned his back, she scurried into a nearby alleyway and ran, paying little mind to the shouting behind her. Ser Breakbones really should have known better by now.

The acrid stench of alcohol and unwashed bodies filled the air, causing her nose to wrinkle as she slipped through the throngs of people out enjoying the night’s revelry. Ser Harwin’s voice faded into the background, drowned out by the lively chatter of those pressed against walls or sitting on the floor, taking pride of place in front of the stone square where entertainers performed for coin. Her small stature proved useful as she weaved through the crowds just in time to see a plume of orange flame escape the mouth of the man before her.

Rosalie, her mother’s best friend, often said that as a baby, the only way Daella would quiet down enough to sleep was if the fire burned high and hot. The heat never bothered her, unlike the women in the brothel, who regularly complained that it was already too warm. Daella was almost certain the budget for firewood increased tremendously after she was born.

Another plume of flame pulled her from her thoughts as it ascended into the night sky. As Daella watched the flames recede, she scanned the faces of those surrounding the square. Her gaze froze when she noticed a towering figure across from her, dressed in black with both hands resting on a sword at his hip. The faces around him were a mix of shock, surprise, and wonder as they watched the fire dancers, but this man’s gaze, though shielded by a heavy hood, seemed squarely fixed on her.

“There you are,” came the deep, steady voice of Ser Harwin as he placed a gloved hand on Daella’s shoulder and spun her around to face him. “I’ve told you before, Daella, you can’t outrun a man of the City Watch. Although, you did make it further than normal this time,” he added, a slight smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. If Daella didn’t know any better, she might have thought he was proud that she managed to evade him for as long as she had.

“You only caught me because I was distracted,” Daella huffed, pouting as she crossed her arms. Her eyelids grew heavier as her gaze darted between the fire dancers and the swirling crowd. A yawn crept up on her, softening her pout as she fought to keep her eyes open.

As the crowd began to thin and the moon dipped lower in the sky, Ser Harwin grinned and said, “Come now, my little flame, let’s get you home before Rose has both our hides.” He swept Daella off the ground and tucked her against his side. His dark armour was as cold and unyielding as ever, except for the soft gold cloak draped over his left shoulder. Daella noticed his helmet was missing, likely lost during their game of chase, letting his brown curls fall into place at his jaw. No doubt he’d endure another one of the Commander’s long-winded lectures on the proper care and maintenance of City Watch equipment. The men often grumbled about those tirades when deep in their cups, though they wouldn’t usually dare speak ill of their Commander—unless encouraged by wine during their trips to the brothel.

Ser Harwin always whistled while he walked. He couldn't carry much of a tune, nor had Daella ever asked what he was whistling, but she found it soothing nonetheless, especially when she was on the cusp of sleep. As they turned into one of the alleyways leading home, Daella noticed a dark figure leaning against the wall along their path. As they drew closer, the man’s stature and presence became clearer. He held himself much like the figure she had seen earlier at the square.

“I didn’t take you for a man of depravity, Ser Strong,” the man said, eyeing Daella in Ser Harwin’s arms as he pushed off the wall. His tone was threatening, yet a hint of amusement coloured his words. “I would have thought this one was a bit young for you.”

As the man removed his hood, Ser Harwin inhaled sharply, tightening his hold on Daella. Raising her head from Ser Harwin’s shoulder, she tried to get a better look at their intruder. All she managed to notice was his long silver hair, which the moonlight caressed like it did the waters of Blackwater Bay during high tide. She had to stifle the urge to reach out and run her fingers through those strands.

“My Prince,” Ser Harwin said, bowing his head in supplication. “We were not aware you had returned to King’s Landing.”

“That would be because I did not send word. It seems the City Watch has grown careless in my absence.” The previous amusement in the prince’s voice was now gone, replaced by a steely edge. “If a man like me can infiltrate King’s Landing simply by walking through the main gate, I’d say you Gold Cloaks have quite the problem on your hands.” His mouth was drawn into a thin line, and Daella could feel the displeasure and frustration radiating from him. “I wonder, how many of you would even bother to look up if I flew Caraxes over the Dragonpit and across Flea Bottom?”

Daella’s eyes widened, and she gasped as the name slipped from his lips. The fierce conquest of the Stepstones by the rogue prince and Caraxes was a favoured tale among the smallfolk in King’s Landing. Yet, with so many versions of the story swirling around, she was never sure what was fact and what was mere embellishment. Some of the women even said the prince had finally gotten what he wanted—a crown of his own.

“I will be sure to bring your concerns to the Commander at first light, my prince,” Ser Harwin replied with a nod, attempting to move past the prince.

“You never did give me an answer, Lord Strong,” the prince said, his gaze settling on Daella. “But no matter, the answer is irrelevant. I’ve known of your preference for those of us with silver hair for quite some time.”

Ser Harwin’s mouth tightened into a thin line, but as the two men spoke, Daella felt his muscles gradually relax, his grip on her loosening. Before she could stifle it, a soft yawn escaped her throat, causing both men to turn their attention to her with faint smiles.

“Are we boring you, little one?” the prince asked, his lips curling into a smile as he stepped closer, his voice tinged with amusement.

Daella nodded, her eyes now able to take in his features as he approached. His jawline was strong, much like Ser Harwin’s, though the prince’s was clean-shaven. Where Ser Harwin’s nose was crooked from many breaks, the prince’s was perfectly straight. Her gaze wandered over his face until it met his eyes—eyes that were anything but ordinary. Instead of the usual blue or brown, she found herself staring into a pair of striking purple irises. While her own eyes were a pale violet, his were a deep indigo, so dark they reminded her of the midnight sky.

“Is she yours?” the prince asked, his gaze flicking back to Ser Harwin, a smirk playing on his lips.

“No, my prince,” Ser Harwin replied quickly, shaking his head. “She’s the daughter of one of the women who worked at the brothel. I promised her mother I’d look after her.”

The prince’s expression softened slightly, though a hint of mischief remained in his eyes. “A knight playing nursemaid. Now that is something I did not expect to see.”

“I made a promise,” Ser Harwin said, his tone firm but respectful. “And I intend to keep it.”

The prince studied him for a moment, then turned his attention back to Daella. “What’s your name, little one?”

“Daella,” she replied, her voice barely above a whisper.

“Daella,” the prince repeated, his voice gentle as he tested the name on his tongue. “A name as beautiful as the girl who bears it.”

A flush crept up Daella’s cheeks at the compliment, and she looked away, feeling suddenly shy under his intense gaze.

“Take care of her, Ser Harwin,” the prince said, his tone suddenly serious. “The streets of King’s Landing are no place for a child, especially not one as precious as this.”

“I will, my prince,” Ser Harwin replied, bowing his head once more.

The prince gave Daella one last lingering look before turning on his heel and disappearing into the shadows, his long silver hair the last thing she saw before he melted into the night.

Ser Harwin let out a breath he seemed to have been holding, his shoulders relaxing as the prince’s presence faded. “Let’s get you home, Daella,” he said, his voice softer now, almost a whisper. He adjusted his hold on her and began walking again, his pace quickening slightly as if eager to put distance between them and the prince.

“Who was that?” Daella asked, her curiosity getting the better of her.

“That was Prince Daemon Targaryen,” Ser Harwin replied, his voice laced with a mixture of respect and caution. “He’s a dangerous man, Daella. Stay away from him if you can.”

Daella nodded, though her thoughts were still fixed on the prince’s piercing purple eyes and the way he seemed to see right through her. Something about him stirred a strange mix of fear and fascination within her, a feeling she couldn’t quite place or understand.

As they approached the brothel, the familiar warmth and muffled sounds of the women’s laughter greeted them. Ser Harwin set her down gently just outside the door, his expression softening as he crouched to meet her gaze.

“You gave me quite the chase tonight, little flame,” he said with a tired smile. “But you need to be careful, alright? This city is full of people who would do you harm without a second thought.”

“I know,” Daella replied, feeling a pang of guilt for worrying him. “I just wanted to see the fire dancers.”

“And you did,” he said, brushing a stray lock of hair from her face. “But next time, let’s watch them together, alright? No more running off on your own.”

Daella nodded, the weariness of the night finally catching up to her. “I promise.”

“Good girl,” he said, pressing a gentle kiss to the top of her head before rising to his full height. “Now, off to bed with you. Rosalie will be waiting.”

Daella gave him a small smile before slipping inside, the familiar warmth of the brothel wrapping around her like a comforting blanket. As she made her way to her little corner, she couldn’t shake the image of the prince from her mind. Something told her that tonight was only the beginning, that her path and Prince Daemon’s would cross again. And when they did, she wasn’t sure if she would be ready for what it would bring.

But for now, she was just a little girl, a bastard with violet eyes, hidden away in the shadows of King’s Landing, where no one of importance would think to look.

Next Chapter ↠

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kingstarkingslay · 3 months ago

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DOMESTIC FULL MOONS ( vol 4 )

The night was damp and cool, a steady rain tapping softly against the forest canopy. A thick layer of mist hung low over the clearing, casting an ethereal glow in the moonlight. It was the night of the full moon, and the Marauders had once again gathered in their secret sanctuary.

Prongs, tall and sturdy, stood firm in the center of the clearing, his antlers like a natural shelter. Moony, still shaking off the remnants of his transformation, had nestled beneath Prongs’ broad form. The rain pelted down, but the large stag provided a protective canopy. Moony’s grey fur, now sleek and shiny, bristled with relief as he found some comfort from the wetness.

In contrast, Padfoot was reveling in the rain. The black dog bounded around the clearing, splashing through puddles and letting the droplets dance over his sleek fur. He leaped and rolled in the mud with the abandon of someone who had found joy in every drop of rain. His antics were a stark contrast to Moony’s more subdued demeanor.

Wormtail, ever the practical one, had found refuge in the hollow of a nearby tree. His small form curled up inside, leaving just a glimpse of his whiskers peeking out. He had fashioned a makeshift shelter with fallen branches and leaves, his little hideaway providing a dry corner amid the downpour.

The Marauders, despite their different ways of handling the night, were together. They had learned to find solace in each other's company, their bond strengthened by years of shared challenges and triumphs. Tonight was no different.

Prongs shifted slightly, ensuring Moony remained sheltered. The stag’s warm breath misted gently against Moony’s fur. The wolf occasionally glanced up, his amber eyes meeting Prongs' with silent gratitude. The rain pattered softly around them, creating a calming rhythm that lulled Moony into a state of peaceful rest.

Padfoot, noticing the tranquil scene beneath Prongs, eventually trotted over and nudged Moony playfully. His wet fur was a stark contrast to Moony’s damp, but he seemed intent on sharing his exuberance. Moony gave a tired but affectionate lick to his face, acknowledging the gesture with a soft, contented growl.

Wormtail, observing the scene from his cozy refuge, allowed himself a rare moment of contentment. Though he often took the role of the cautious observer, tonight he felt a deep sense of belonging. The bond between his friends, their unspoken understanding, was a comfort he cherished.

As the night wore on, the rain continued to fall, but the Marauders were warm in their unity. Prongs stood guard, Moony rested, Padfoot played, and Wormtail watched over them all. The forest around them was alive with the sound of rain and the gentle rustling of leaves, a natural lullaby for the small pack.

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scotianostra · 5 months ago

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Happy Birthday actor Bill Paterson, born on June 3rd 1945 in Glasgow.

Paterson was destined at first for a career as a quantity surveyor, before he rebelled and enrolled at the Royal Scottish Academy of Music and Drama; and soon after he graduated, while he was working at the Citizens’, he became closely involved with the brilliant generation of theatre-makers – including Billy Connolly, Alex Norton, John Bett, Kenny Ireland, John Byrne and John McGrath – who would soon go on to create the Great Northern Welly Boot Show of 1972, and to found the legendary radical touring company 7:84 Scotland.

Paterson shot to national fame in Scotland in 1973, when he created the unforgettable role of Glasgow wide-boy property developer McChuckemup, in 7:84’s unforgettable opening show, The Cheviot, The Stag, And The Black, Black Oil. Then in 1977, he starred in John Byrne’s first play Writer’s Cramp as the improbable hero, Paisley poet Francis Seneca McDade; and after the play transferred to London, quickly developed a successful stage and screen career there, playing the Good Soldier Schewyk in a memorable 1982 production at the National Theatre, and winning roles in films ranging from Bill Forsyth’s Comfort And Joy to The Killing Fields and Truly Madly Deeply. He has appeared in countless television series and radio plays, and published a book of stories based on his Glasgow childhood, Tales From The Back Green; and in 2015, he made a triumphant return to the Scottish stage when he appeared with Brian Cox in the Lyceum Theatre Company’s superb 50th anniversary production of Samuel Beckett’s Waiting For Godot.

Motre recently we have seen Bill appear on the small screen in the comedy Fleabag and in Outlander. In 219 he starred in the blac comedy Guilt, set in Edinburgh.

Bill recently voiced the TV movie called A Bear Named Wojtek, it’s the story of the famous bear adopted by Polish soldiers during World War, he ended up in Edinburgh Zoo after the war. I have still to watch it, hopefully will get round to it soon. He was also in the Gameof Thrones prequal House of the Dragon

In 2015, Bill Paterson won a lifetime achievement award for his Outstanding Contribution to Film & Television in the Scottish BAFTA awards to add to his BAFTA Scotland gong for best actor in The Crow Road.

#scotland #scottish #history #actor #happy birthday

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trashland-llamas · 2 years ago

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Meow?

Regulus who puts together that Remus Lupin is a werewolf. His insomnia causing him to spend his nights in the Slytherin common room's entry. A hot chocolate and a battered copy of Alice in Wonderland in hand as he occasionally gazes out the low window. A menagerie consisting of a stag, a mouse, and what looked to be the grim ran down to the Whomping Willow. Sipping as he then saw Madam Pomfrey half-carrying a ghastly looking Remus. Not even needing to check the sky to know it was a full moon. Regulus always found it odd that their astronomy lessons never coincided with one. Bestowed with the secret that his brother was hiding, and how far the Marauders would go for one of their own, he wanted in. Where else would he find the perfect excuse to become an animagus?

Casting a concealment charm on himself, he walked down to the herbology classroom. Taking a few attempts to discern which one held the mandrake from the current week’s lesson. Regulus made sure to put a pair of earmuffs on as he didn’t want to be found dead on the floor. Retracing his steps as he returned, casting a sticking charm once he placed the leaf in his mouth. It’d give him an entire month to figure out the rest of the process needed to turn into an animagus. Regulus didn’t plan on registering as one once he completed the task. If the precious Marauders can get away with it, why can’t he? Thus he spends hours in the library, hiding his research as simple homework.

'What are you up to dear brother?' Sirius mutters to himself.

'Thank you so much for agreeing to this.' Regulus told Professor Slughorn, taking the classroom key from him. 'No troubles. Now I'll be back later in the evening, you can just place the key along the door sill when you leave.' Regulus nodded, watching until the potions professor left the accompanying hallway. Downing the blood-red liquid after the last 'Amato animo animato animagus' left his lips. 'Ugh, that's vile. Only have to do it once though.' Regulus let out a groan of pain, his bones shifting into some form of quadruped. Hair of some sort shooting from every pore. 'Hopefully, this gets easier.' Regulus thought to himself.

‘Alright, who lost their cat this time?’ James asked, plopping the black cat into Sirius’ lap. ‘Huh, you like that kitty-cat?’ Regulus wanted to laugh so badly, but all he could do is purr as Sirius found the right spot behind his ear to scratch. ‘Oi, don’t jinx it now!’ James chastised Remus when the werewolf doubted that the night would go smoothly. ‘We’ve been doing this for 2-3 years now. Yea, stuff can go wrong but you’ll tire yourself out.’ As jealous as Regulus was, he was also touched at how much they cared about one another. Thus he watched, learning their routine.

‘Hey there lovely, that for me?’ Remus asked, seeing the black cat nudge a cup of tea towards him. The liquid somehow not sloshing over. ‘How’d you know the way I like my tea?’ And Remus questioned if he saw the cat shrug or if that was just his mind playing tricks on him. ‘Are you talking to the cat again?’ James sat down across from him, scratching Regulus’ head as he past, rubbing against James’ leg. ‘Gotta find your owner eventually.’ Regulus hoped they’d forget about that despite not wearing a collar. The Marauders adored the cat’s company but they had to remind themselves that the cat didn’t belong to them.

‘Hello Reggie.’ Sirius had figured out why the green eyed cat seemed familiar to him. It didn’t make sense to him. Countless hours spent thinking about it and he was still asking himself what Regulus got out of all this. ‘I know it’s you, shift back.’ Ugh, fine, if you insist brother. Regulus rolling his shoulders & cracking his neck. Standing back on two legs. ‘They don’t.’ His voice gruff from not using it. 'Then how have you avoided questions of where you go during the day?' Sirius gaze hardened, his questions coming across more akin to an interrogation. 'I tell them I'm in the library, they truly are dumber than they look.'

'Why have you been hanging out with us then? Not that I mind, honestly. It's the only question I've been unable to answer.' The elder registering how exhausted his little brother looked, a muted-ness to his every action. 'Because I'm in love with your friend, the werewolf.' Refusing to look at Sirius, expecting hostility. 'You like Remus?'

'Well, yeah. It's why I became an animagus. That and I was jealous of your friend group, how chummy you all are with each other.' His voice small as he admitted how lonely he'd been. 'I guess I approve, but you do know Remus has to know you actually exist for it to work, right? Not as a cat, but as Regulus.'

'Oi! I'm not that daft.'

#hp series #hp marauders #marauders era #regulus black #sirius black #remus lupin #peter pettigrew #james potter #moonwater #moonseeker #animagus #animagi #not x reader

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nyxvamps · 1 year ago

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My Lady Nyx

This is a more of an animated vision of who Lady Nyx is. I see her as having the same vibes as Morticia Addams. Very regal and elegant and sophisticated but completely unhinged. and her kid inherited this.

She'll invite them over for tea and the blend would have dried blood in it. The most prized stag blood for her children and something a little more...outsourced for herself.

When they meet for dinners, it's always an affair. Especially if guests are invited. They dress to the T's. A dark academic, vampiric dream of flowy blouses, pressed slacks, leather boots, expensive looking cloaks, glittering jewelry. Looking like a pintrest board. Once dinner is over and the guests have left they go outside to the back garden and the children dance in the moonlight to The Cure and The Cramps and Judas Priest and give offerings to Cousin Artemis for providing the mood lighting for the evening while their mother watches with a fond smile, tapping her long sharp nails on the arm of her chair to the beat.

Lady Nyx refers to her individual children as "my daughter" "my son" "my child" and when they are all together, "my dears" "my loves" "my little bats".

Her children will refer to her as "Lady Nyx" or "Lady Night" as an initial greeting around company but then will refer to her as "Lady Mother" or "Mother Night" for the rest of the meeting. When alone, they will just call her Mother.

Her palace in the underworld feels as though it is never ending. With high elaborate archways, spiraling marble/obsidian staircases, large balconies and terraces, big glass windows, hidden rooms, a giant library. A throne room, two dining rooms (one for personal use and one for guests), a family room, a garden big enough to have a hedge maze. the list goes on.

The garden is full of plants and vegetation that requires little to no natural light and they tend to be monstrous. They might have teeth or make growling noises. There are a few that purr if you pet their petals or roots. There is one tree in the middle of the maze that thrives off of sacrificial offerings and because of this, it has blood red leaves and a slight metallic smell. It also grows the most delicious fruit you will ever taste, but unless you are of the underworld, maybe don't eat them.

All of the children receive a crown when they are born that will shift and change based on the wearers taste. They are only made with the purest of metals and finest cut gems and jewels from Lord Hades himself.

Since her children are of the underworld, they tend to have an affinity for witchcraft because of their closeness to Lady Hecate. Because of this, they will usually hold ritual during the solstices, beltane, full moons, etc in honor of their Mother. To thank the universe and the realm for bringing the gods to this plane and for allowing their Mother to have and keep the powers she has. And for allowing those powers to pass on to their children.

They have wings that can be retracted into the back unnoticeable because magic. Usually either leather, batlike wings or feathery, birdlike wings.

While at CHB, her children are regularly found wondering the woods at night uninterrupted because the harpies do not want to deal with the vibes they give off. When they are found, they smile serenely and say they were talking to Mother or just taking a stroll. But their eyes are a little wider and reflective than normal and their smile just a bit sharper. literally, they have fangs.

They casually walk around camp with fancy black umbrellas to protect them from the sun and are known to stay near the shadows or to bring the shadows to them. with clunky dollar store sunglasses and baggy dark sweatshirts on top of their platform boots with real silver studs they are usually something to look at.

You get the vibe. Thx for reading.

#child of nyx #nyx cabin #nyx headcanons #pjo #godly parents #nyx goddess #pjo headcanon #pjo au

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komodocomics · 10 months ago

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My furry masterlist sorry

Pretty much all of these contain something animal or furry related

Name (special stuff to mention) √= I've looked at it

Links + text version of list (very long)

I GET ISSUES WITH TUMBLR IF I ADD MORE LINKS SO SORRY UR ON UR OWN NOW

Cmyk coloredcreature √ runaway workshop √ waggery costumes √ citymutt √ fuzzbutt fursuits √ schneepardicreations.com √ blacksticky √ casual Friday fursuits (no more commissions:( ) deep space dogs √ foxfire fantasy √ freak of nature studios √ freckled cat creations (kigurumis)√ kabber creations √ kigurumiagetsu √ kitscove √ mugiwara's creative corner √ missmonster √ murkymarten √ pawaii fursuits √ skyehighstudios √ the phoenix nest √ wearcat creations √ whizmi creations (really like the yellow dog suit) √ wolf factory √ anyabozartist.com (art dolls not fursuit) √ neffertity √ battitudestudio.com √ beautyofthebass √ bigsnootsuits √ bodozo.com √ colorful creatures (bases) √ cosmellcosplay √ curl works(kigurumi ) √ drowsyseal √ verityscamander (etsy furry badge) √ lobitoworks (etsy various) √ chasingtailsworkshop (etsy tails) √ gatorwave (fur color picker) √ koshka fursuits √ bazteki.com √ (art) F-class merch √ (neon lights) creep cat √ (plushies) fursona pins √ (pins + accessories) howl out √ (clothing + accessories) weasel gear √ (clothing) midnight makers (new maker) √ wolfberrycrafts (statues and action figures) √ midnightstudiosfx (horror masks) √ Pumpkinpulp (horror advise against looking at ones marked horror if u can't handle) √ chaosfx (horror) √ Immortal masks (horror and tons of masks) √ Made fur you (may have drama but couldn't find proof) √ multicolorbark √ neonslushie (fursuit info not a maker but has accessories) √ sleepy stag suits √ spiritpanda costumes (adoptables) √ star fursuits √ Twilight knights cosplay (adopts,accessories and a fur line @canfur.ca at website) √ twinky arts (good lizard maker) √ vaporwag studios √ wormsandbones.com (art dolls) √ Freakhound studios (wolf plushies and fursuits) √ Clockworkcreature √ Melissa mendelson art √ Mixedcandy √ becominggodzilla (fan thing with how tos for Godzilla costumes) √ planetary dog toys (only action figure pieces) √ sketchbuck (cool ref image style) √ maiafischerwalter.com (artdolls) √ cults3d (3d printing website Has furry bases) √ bark's bog (plushies no comms) √ Homemadehorrors (artdolls) √ Wormandbones (artdolls) √

If anyone makes a reblog of the rest of the links thank you

#Gmanweatherreport has known of this since the beginning cause I went insane sorry #I look at furry stuff constantly so maybe this will help Idk #I didn't put in the list but YouTube how tos are very good resources #How do I tag this?#Furry #Fursuit #Furry fandom #Furry master list #Feel free to add makers of hyper specific things not just fursuits so people get more options #If any of these have bad things going on that I wasn't aware of PLEASE mention #The horror stuff has gore and stuff not everyone will like so avoid if u can't handle it #Furry community

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ghostgirlvii-art · 5 months ago

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Here it she is! New OC! (ﾉ^ヮ^)ﾉ*:・ﾟ✧ With... much more lore and idea than I expected. Let's say it started with "would be cool to have to character with a monster arm" kind of idea. There's some secret under the cut about her 🤫

GENERAL:

Name: Anisoara Van Aken

Alias(es): Ani, "Stag"

Gender: Female

Age: 30

Birthday: 27th June

Nationality: Romanian/Belgian

Place of Birth: Oradea, Romania

Home: Belgium

Spoken Languages: Romanian and English (Mothertongue), French, Dutch, Russian, German

Sexuality: Pansexual

Occupation: Operative at [REDACTED]

APPEARANCE:

Eye Color: Brown

Hair Color: Auburn (natural), Blond (undercut, colored)

Height: 1m68

Scars: Left eye, Right upper arm, Right leg all inflicted during work.

Tattoo: Right Shoulder

Other: Freckles on the shoulders

PERSONALITY:

Adaptable, Humble, Reserved, Stubborn, sometimes insecure

Despite all that happened to her, she try to keep a positive view around her.

Skills and Abilities:

Has a higher strengh, stamina and spatial awareness when she let "the claw take control."

She is capable to blend in the crowd easily.

Relay on agility and stealth more than brute force.

FAMILY:

Unnamed mother (Deceased)

Unnamed father (Deceased)

Wout Van Aken (Uncle)

TRIVIA:

She got her tattoo against her uncle's wishes. It doesn't have any meaning, Anisoara simply liked it.

Same goes for her famous "golden jaw" mask. She liked the style.

No one is allowed to touch her left arm unless it covered up. Which in itself is always covered.

BACKGROUND STORY:

Her parents met two years before she was born. Her father was a Belgian historian with an interest in East Europe, her mother was an archeologist/teacher. Born and raised in Odarea, Anisoara spent the first six years of her life being raised like any kid. Because her father didn't speak a good romanian by the time she was born, English was used a lot, but her mother was adamant that she knew the country language as well.

Around the age of six, weird spot showed on her hand. Black spots that wouldn't go away no matter what. A visit to the doctor rassured the family that nothing was wrong, but they should keep an eye of it ever change. At first Anisoara didn't seems to have much trouble because of it at school, however has the spots grew bigger and slowly showed on her upper arm, kids started to be mean and eventually she learned to hide her arm with a glove and arm band.

Her life took a turn as her parents died in a car accident when she was twelve. Despite having relative in Romania, Anisoara was sent to Belgium to live with her uncle who gained full legal guardianship. Having to adapt to a new country in the early teen years was difficult and she often felt homesick. She was never truly allowed to return see her home country after that. Around the age of sixteen, her little problem on the left arm had by now fully grown into something much more worrisome. But she was always being told that everything was fine, as long as she hide it. However she quickly realized that this would be a problem in every day life and begin to worry about her future. Her uncle proposed her to come work for the spy/military agency he was working at. They wouldn't care about it as long as she get the job done.

Working for [REDACTED] her uncle was able to get her a place in the agence. Anisoara became a loyal and reliable agent of the company, excelling in most of her ops and showing extremly good results. She considered herself a succesful person who had her life in hand. Or so she thought, till the day a strange dossier was given to her by a stranger.

[CONFIDENTIAL] IF YOU ARE READING THIS YOU HAVE CLEARANCE LEVEL 4 OF [REDACTED]

Dossier: Subject-2706-AVA

29-06-████ : Subject was given serum ███████ only 48 hours after birth. Agent ████ ████ confirmed the success of the mission. ███████ will be designated as official pedetrician for Subject.

31-10 ████ : Subject-2706-AVA, also known as Anisoara showed up for an unsual check up. Black mark on her skin. Blood sample shows no anomalies. Same result on x-ray and MRI. Further investigation are recommanded.

17-03-████ : For the sake of the project it has been decided that Operation Jager will be excuted on ██ ██ ████ Afterward, Subject should be ████████ ████ ███████ to allow better observation.

18-07: ████: The anomalie on the arm as now reached it's probably final stage. However it remains no danger to the subject; plausible advantage? ████ recommends that we observe the other subjects. 2607-AVA is the only subject so far to show good reaction to the serum and expected results, aside from the mutation.

26-11- ████ : Agent Van Aken [Subject 2607-AVA] as shown remarkable cabapility among the agence. All in the lines of the prediction for Serum ███████. The incident of May should not be considered a threat. According to Agent ████████ we should actually see this as a new possible weapon. According to 2607-AVA, quote "I felt like I was possess, like the claw was controling me." A psycology test is recommended. On a side note, all other subjects also injected with ████████ have shown no signs of modifications and/or are unusable in the project.

#ggvii art #original character #military oc #oc: anisoara van aken #reference sheet

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camisoledadparis · 12 days ago

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THIS DAY IN GAY HISTORY

based on: The White Crane Institute's 'Gay Wisdom', Gay Birthdays, Gay For Today, Famous GLBT, glbt-Gay Encylopedia, Today in Gay History, Wikipedia, and more … October 31

Hall🎃ween !

This "in between time" has long been one which gay people have taken on as their own holiday, reveling in masks and costumes. There are reasons Halloween is so closely associated with gay people, some of which author, Arthur Evans explained in his book, Witchcraft and The Gay Counterculture.Here is a brief excerpt:

One Celtic male deity … is the horned god, "one of the most basic of the Celtic god types," whose worship goes back to the Stone Age. He is often associated with the Mothers, as well as with sex, animals, and nature. He also seems to have links with male shamans. His great antiquity is shown by a Stone Age painting in Ariege, France, which shows a man dancing in the hide of an animal and wearing the antlers of a stag. And in the eighteenth century, construction workers inside Notre Dame Cathedral in Paris uncovered a four-sided Celtic stone altar dating from Roman times and bearing the figure of a bearded male deity with antlers. The stone was inscribed with the word Cernunnos, which means "The Horned One." The horned god was especially linked with male sexuality and often appears with an erect cock. Moreover, when erect, he is sometimes portrayed in the company of men, not women. A drawing of the horned god from Val Camonica, Italy, shows him holding a ceremonial collar ring in one hand and a horned serpent in the other. He is being worshipped by a man, and the man has an erection. This picture is reminiscent of early art scattered throughout Europe. The men often have erections and appear together in groups without women. In view of the Celts' notoriety for homosexuality, these facts suggest a Gay element in the worship of the horned god. The horned god was also lord of the dead and the underworld. To the Celts, who believed in reincarnation, darkness and death were parts of the cycle of life and rebirth, and death was the very place where the creative forces of nature brought about new life. Because of this connection with the underworld the horned god was often shown as black in color. But this blackness was not considered evil, as Christianity later viewed it.... The Celts dated the feast days of their religion according to the changing of the seasons, the breeding habits of animals, and the sowing and harvesting of crops. As it happens, these dates correspond exactly with the holidays later attributed by medieval Christians to witches. The Christians called these days, respectively, Halloween, Candlemas, Walpurgisnacht, and Lammas. Ritual transvestism associated with the old holidays continue[s] in Europe down to modern times. "May Day sports perpetuated the practices, including even transvestism. in Wales, there existed, into the nineteenth century, a peasant dance and march with a garland, led by a dancer [a horned god figure] called the "Cadi." In the Hogmanay celebration in Scotland, "the boys wore skirts and bonnets, the girls, hats and greatcoats." The feast of Fools, a remnant of the old pagan religion, has persisted into modern times with clerics "wearing masks and monstrous visages at the hours of the office. They dance in the choir dressed as women, or disreputable men, or minstrels. They sing wanton songs." Today many Gay people throughout Europe and America observe Halloween as a Gay holiday with transvestite celebrations.

1940 – Craig L. Rodwell (d.1993) was an American gay rights activist known for founding the Oscar Wilde Memorial Bookshop on November 24, 1967, the first U.S. bookstore devoted to gay and lesbian authors, and as the prime mover for the creation of the New York City pride demonstration. Rodwell is considered by some to be the leading gay rights activist in the early homophile movement of the 1960s.

Rodwell was born in Chicago, IL. His parents divorced prior to his first birthday and for the next few years he was boarded out for day care where he was required to do kitchen labor and laundry to supplement his board and care. When he was 6 years old, Rodwell's mother, Marion Kastman, fearing that the child care set up could cause her to lose custody of her son, arranged for his admission to the Christian Scientist affiliated Chicago Junior School for "problem" boys, in Elgin, IL. Conditions and treatment at the school were described as "Dickensian" and Rodwell got a reputation for being a rebellious child, as well as a "sissy," during his seven years there. It was at Chicago Junior School that Rodwell first experienced same-sex relationships and also came to internalize the Christian Scientist notion that "truth is power and that truth is the greatest good."

At Sullivan High School in Chicago, IL. Rodwell continued his studies in Christian Science by enrolling in Sunday school at the 16th Church of Christ, Scientist. He later studied ballet in Boston before finally moving to New York City in 1958. It was in New York that he first volunteered for a gay rights organization, The Mattachine Society of New York.

In 1962, Rodwell had an affair with Harvey Milk, who went on later to become one of the first openly gay politicians elected to high office. It was Rodwell's first serious relationship. Rodwell's relationship with Milk ended in part due to Milk's conflicted reaction to Rodwell's early activism and his introduction to Milk of "strange new ideas that tied homosexuality to politics, ideas that both repelled and attracted the thirty-two-year-old Milk." Milk believed that Rodwell had been responsible for Milk contracting an STD. After Rodwell's arrest and incarceration when picked up cruising in Washington Square Park, Milk ended their romantic involvement. Shortly after, Rodwell attempted suicide.

When Rodwell opened the Oscar Wilde Memorial Bookshop in 1967, Milk dropped by frequently, and after moving to San Francisco Milk expressed his intention to Rodwell of opening a similar store "as a way of getting involved in community work." Milk eventually opened a camera store that also functioned as a community center, much like Rodwell's bookshop had as a community gathering place.

In November 1969, Rodwell proposed the first gay pride parade to be held in New York City along with his partner Fred Sargeant, Ellen Broidy and Linda Rhodes. The first march was organized from Rodwell's apartment on Bleecker Street.

We propose that a demonstration be held annually on the last Saturday in June in New York City to commemorate the 1969 spontaneous demonstrations on Christopher Street and this demonstration be called CHRISTOPHER STREET LIBERATION DAY. No dress or age regulations shall be made for this demonstration. We also propose that we contact Homophile organizations throughout the country and suggest that they hold parallel demonstrations on that day. We propose a nationwide show of support.

Rodwell is believed to have created the term heterosexism in January 1971 when he wrote:

"After a few years of this kind of 'liberated' existence such people become oblivious and completely unseeing of straight predjudice and - to coin a phrase - the 'hetero-sexism' surrounding them virtually 24 hours a day.

In 1978 Rodwell was one of the creators and organizers of Gay People in Christian Science. One reason for the creation of the group was that three of its members had been recently excommunicated from the local branch church. In 1980 the group began to demonstrate by leafletting at the church's Annual Meeting in Boston and by 1999, six years after Rodwell's death, the Christian Scientist church no longer barred openly gay or lesbian people from membership.

Rodwell died on June 18, 1993 of stomach cancer.

1942 – David Ogden Stiers is an American actor, director, vocal actor, and musician, noted for his roles in Disney films, the television series M*A*S*H as Major Charles Emerson Winchester III and the science fiction drama The Dead Zone as Reverend Gene Purdy. He is also known for the role of District Attorney Michael Reston in the Perry Mason TV movies.

Ogden Stiers joined the cast of "M*A*S*H" in 1977 as the arrogant but charming aristocrat Charles Emerson Winchester III. In addition to starring in the sitcom, he voiced the characters of a number of Disney movies, including Cogsworth in "Beauty and the Beast" and the Archdeacon in "The Hunchback of Notre Dame."

Stiers is also the associate conductor for the Newport Symphony Orchestra and the Ernest Bloch Music Festival. He has guest conducted over 70 orchestras around the world, including the Oregon Mozart Players, the Vancouver Symphony, the Oregon Chamber Players, the Yaquina (Ore.) Chamber Orchestra, as well as orchestras in San Francisco, San Diego, Los Angeles, Chicago and Toronto.

In 2009, Stiers announced to the world that he is gay and "very proud to be so." The actor said he kept his homosexuality under wraps for years because he feared coming out would hurt his career. Butas he has not experienced any anti-gay discrimination in the movie industry recently, Ogden Stiers is reconsidering what exactly made him stay in the closet for so long.

1955 – The "Boys of Boise" affair begins. Starting with the arrest of four men for sexual relations with male teenagers who are prostitutes, it is blown into a situation in which Boise is called a mecca where Gay men can find boys. Begun by a group of right-wing politicians to shake the moderate political establishment, the issue is inflamed by the Idaho Daily Statesman and Time magazine. As a result of the hysteria, a city councilman is defeated for reelection and a West Point cadet from Idaho is dismissed. A 1965 investigation reveals the incident to be based on outright lies.

1956 – Bruce Bawer, born in New York City, is an American writer who has been a resident of Norway since 1999. He is a literary, film, and cultural critic and poet who has also written about gay rights, Christianity, and Islam.

Bawer's writings on literature, gay issues, and Islam have all been highly controversial. While championing such authors such as William Keepers Maxwell, Flannery O'Connor, and Guy Davenport, he has criticized such authors as Norman Mailer and E.L. Doctorow. A member of the New Formalists, a group of poets who promoted the use of traditional forms, he has assailed such poets as Allen Ginsberg for what he views as their lack of polish and technique.

Bawer was one of the first gay activists to seriously propose same-sex marriage, notably in his 1993 book A Place at the Table, and his 2006 book While Europe Slept was one of the first to skeptically examine the rise of Islam in the Western world.

On an episode of the Charlie Rose Show marking the 25th anniversary of the Stonewall Riots, Bawer took part in a discussion with fellow gay moderate Andrew Sullivan and gay-left writers Tony Kushner and Donna Minkowitz. Minkowitz underlined the conflict between the two sides of the gay-rights movement by saying: "We don't want a place at the table! We want to turn the table over!

A Washington Post article about the 25th anniversary of Stonewall quoted Bawer on gay pride marches: "It's hard to make straight people understand how serious an issue gay rights is when they look and see a kind of Mardi Gras atmosphere … It doesn't communicate the idea that these are serious issues."

From 1994 to 1999, he was a regular columnist for The Advocate, the gay newsmagazine. His Advocate columns and other articles by Bawer on gay issues were later collected in an e-book, The Marrying Kind.

1968 – Silent film star Ramon Novarro was found murdered. A bathroom mirror had the words "US GIRLS ARE BETTER THAN FAGGITS" smeared in blood. Hustler Paul Ferguson and his brother Tom Ferguson were convicted of the murder and both received life sentences. During the trial, Novarro's sexual orientation was called into question with more vigor than the guilt or innocence of the defendants.

1969 – On this date Time magazine ran a cover story on "The Homosexual in America" that included a report on the Stonewall Riots. It was protested by the Gay Liberation Front because the writer said homosexuals are mentally ill and immoral.

1969 – On this night sixty members of the Gay Liberation Front (GLF) and the Society for Individual Rights (SIR) staged a protest at San Francisco's Examiner in response to another in a series of news articles disparaging LGBT people in San Francisco's Gay bars and clubs. The peaceful protest against the "homophobic editorial policies" of the Examiner turned tumultuous and were later called "Bloody Friday of the Purple Hand".

Examiner employees "dumped a bag of printers' ink from the third story window of the newspaper building onto the crowd." Some reports were that it was a barrel of ink poured from the roof of the building. The protestors "used the ink to scrawl "Gay Power" and other slogans on the building walls" and stamp purple hand prints "throughout downtown San Francisco" resulting in "one of the most visible demonstrations of Gay power".

According to Larry Little John, then president of SIR, "At that point, the tactical squad arrived — not to get the employees who dumped the ink, but to arrest the demonstrators who were the victims. The police could have surrounded the Examiner building...but, no, they went after the Gays...Somebody could have been hurt if that ink had gotten into their eyes, but the police came racing in with their clubs swinging, knocking people to the ground. It was unbelievable." The accounts of police brutality include women being thrown to the ground and protesters' teeth being knocked out.

1983 – Adam Bouska, born in Decatur, Illinois, is an award winning American fashion photographer who runs a photography studio based out of West Hollywood, California. He is known for pictures of male models in particular, and is considered a rising 'superstar photographer' in the gay community. His work has been printed in DNA Magazine and reFRESH and has already been featured on a variety of shows and mediums including The New York Times, Life & Style magazine, Guinness Book of World Records 2010, Chelsea Lately, TODAY show, The View, Million Dollar Listing, Millionaire Matchmaker, and CNBC. He is also noted for his work with celebrities such as Barry Manilow.

Bouska is openly gay. He lives in West Hollywood, California and was recognized as the community's leading photographer at the West Hollywood awards in January 2007.

In November 2008, in response to the narrow approval in California of Proposition 8, which banned gay marriage, Bouska and his partner, Jeff Parshley, founded the NOH8 Campaign to promote the overturn of this ban. While beginning at a grassroots level, by April 2009 the campaign had seen support from many celebrities and became involved in the Miss USA 2009 controversy. The campaign has now gained the support of many notables.

NOH8 is a photographic silent protest launched on February 1, 2009 in direct response to the passage of Proposition 8 in California. Photos feature subjects against a white background with duct tape over their mouths, symbolizing their voices being silenced by Prop 8 and similar legislation around the world, with NOH8 painted on one cheek in protest.

Three years since its inception, the NOH8 Campaign (pronounced No Hate) has grown to over 20,000 faces and continues to grow at an exponential rate. The campaign began with portraits of everyday Californians from all walks of life and soon rose to include politicians, military personnel, newlyweds, law enforcement, artists, celebrities, and many more. Perhaps two of the most famous NOH8 models have been Cindy McCain, wife of U.S. Senator John McCain (Arizona), and daughter Meghan McCain.

1986 – Sean Paul Lockhart, born in Lewiston, Idaho, is an American model, film actor and gay pornographic actor. For the latter, he uses his stage name Brent Corrigan and has played roles in gay porn films notably with Cobra Video and Pink Bird Media, but has also made some films with Active Duty and Jet Set Men. As for his appearances with Falcon Studios particularly in The Velvet Mafia series, he has used the stage name Fox Rider instead.

As Brent Corrigan/Fox Rider

He has also appeared in several nonpornographic films as well, using his birth name Sean Paul Lockhart trying to reposition himself as a more serious mainstream actor rather than just a porn star and has released no new pornographic films since 2010 . He has focused almost exclusively on gay-themed movies and indie films. Such gay-themed and indie films include Judas Kiss, Sister Mary, Another Gay Sequel: Gays Gone Wild!, Welcome to New York, and others.

In 2011 he starred as "Ricky" in the musical Chillerama directed by Tim Sullivan in the segment "I Was A Teenage Werebear".

In 2011 Sean Paul Lockhart won the Rising Star Award at the Philadelphia QFest Festival. In 2012, he announced his involvement in production of an indie film titled Truth to be directed by Rob Moretti. He has also recorded an album with songs by the Swedish singer-songwriter and accordionist Roland Cedermark. Lockhart heads up his own production company and enjoys writing in his spare time.

Both Lockhart and Cobra Video the gay porn company that launched him as a young porn star have created separate "official Brent Corrigan websites" promoting the performer's gay porn films creating some confusion and controversy.

Lockhart's admission of playing pornographic roles while underage created great controversy resulting in voluntary withdrawal of many of his early films from circulation.

He also appeared as a witness in the murder trial of Bryan Kocis, owner of Cobra Video for whom Lockhart worked. Prosecutors alleged the two accused suspects murdered Kocis because they wanted to get Lockhart to work for them at their porn film company. However, police investigating the murder believe Lockhart didn't know about the plot and that he fully cooperated with the police and testified for the prosecution.

1992 – On this date the coalition for Lesbian and Gay Rights held a march in London. The event was a follow-up to EuroPride 1992.

One marcher recalls: I was particularly gratified on my journey down to watch some Metropolitan Police officers turning a blind eye to a group of gay men "kicking shit" out of a group of youths who had chanted "Batty Boys" at them in Brixton.

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zeciex · 1 year ago

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A Vow of Blood - 47

Warnings: This fic includes noncon, dubcon, manipulation, violence and inc3st. Tags will be added as the fic goes on. This is a dark!fic. 18+ only. Read at your own discretion. Please read the warnings before continuing.

Summary: “You will be trapped by the obligations of love and duty, unable to escape the web of expectations others have woven around you,“ the witch said….

Chapter 47: The Vigil of the Old Gods

AO3 - Masterlist

SMUT!

The small wooden wheels of the litter bumped and rattled over the cobblestone streets, turning each stone into a miniature mountain. Daenera had never particularly enjoyed the experience of traveling by litter. It often felt like being trapped in a wooden box, shaken and jolted with every uneven cobble, leaving her longing for the steadiness of solid ground beneath her feet. However, enduring this discomfort was made somewhat more bearable by the company of her friend and aunt, Helaena.

Seated across from each other, they braced themselves for the next jolt, their faces betraying the occasional grimace as they were tossed from one side of the litter to the other. The ride was proving to be less than gentle.

Then, out of the blue, Helaena’s voice broke the bumpy silence with an unexpected question that caught Daenera off guard.

“Do you love him?” Helaena asked, her gaze unwavering as they bounced along.

Daenera’s brows knitted in confusion, and for a moment, the rhythmic rocking of the litter seemed to mirror her inner turmoil. The question hung heavily in the air, like a sword ready to descend, demanding an answer that Daenera hadn’t anticipated.

“Who? My husband?” Her voice carried both surprise and uncertainty. She hadn’t expected such a direct question.

“No, I don’t love him,” she confessed with a touch of resignation, her tone heavy and laden with wariness. “But I suppose that doesn’t matter much.”

As the litter continued its bumpy journey, Helaena’s voice turned soft and almost ethereal, like a whisper carried on the wind. Her words held an air of mystery and promise.

“ The stag shall fall, black, blue, and bleeding , ” she murmured, her gaze momentarily drifting away, lost in some distant thought. Then, just as swiftly, her eyes returned to meet Daenera’s, and a gentle smile graced her lips. “No, not your husband.”

Her words were cryptic, like a riddle waiting to be unraveled, and they hung in the air, leaving Daenera both intrigued and puzzled.

Daenera peered into her friend’s eyes, searching for the hidden meaning behind her words. It wasn’t uncommon for Helaena to possess cryptic knowledge, fragments of a greater puzzle. Unfortunately, Helaena never seemed able to fully piece the puzzle together into a clear image. But this time, there was a sense that Helaena held something significant and certain.

“I… don’t know,” Daenera replied, her voice tinged with uncertainty. A heavy lump formed in her throat, making it difficult to speak. “I pray that it is not. Nothing good will ever come of it.”

Helaena’s thoughtful hum filled the space between them, the sound carrying a sense of wisdom beyond her years. “Does he make you happy?”

Daenera hesitated, her thoughts wandering to the complexities of her marriage and dalliance with Aemond. “He makes me feel… seen .”

Aemond possessed a quality that no one else had ever wielded–a unique ability to make her feel truly seen and known. He had seen her at her most scornful, bearing witness to the wretched and conniving aspects of her being that were often hidden from the world, yet he desired her all the same. It was his touch, so gentle, that had surprised her the most, especially when her hands were stained with blood, and he had assured her that the exhilaration she felt when taking a life was not a mark of monstrosity. He saw the darkest corners of her soul, and yet, his desire for her remained unwavering.

It was a dangerous, scary thing, that she wished she could lock away never to be acknowledged.

“He who holds the stars and she who blooms beneath them,” Helaena mused, her fingers idly picking at a string.

Daenera felt a familiar knot tighten in her stomach as she contemplated the meaning behind those words. They brought to mind the memory of the boy with the stars in his eyes , a memory she had been trying to bury. A part of her desperately hoped that he wasn’t the one the witch referred to. It would make everything so much simpler, easier to dismiss as a passing fling, devoid of any deeper significance, something she could easily excuse and forget.

However, another, more perceptive part of her knew better. Deep down, she couldn’t deny the profound impact he had on her life, the way he had touch her in ways she hadn’t ever expected. His presence had illuminated her world, making her feel alive in a way she had never experienced before. And so, despite her hopes for simplicity, she couldn’t escape the truth that there was something more to this. The boy with the stars in his eye will capture your heart, but be weary of the danger he represents.

Helaena nodded in confirmation, her brows knitting together, her eyes taking on a cloudy, distant look.

“Flowers face countless tribulations, do they not?” She pondered. “The very elements that nurture them can also cause their destruction. Nature is uncompromising in its pursuit of growth, be it through rain, sunlight, or even blood spilled on the field of battle. Only fire consumes without giving back, and yet, even after a wildfire, nature finds a way to endure–to overcome. A flower persists, even when blood stains its petals.”

“Is that a prediction?” Daenera asked in a hushed tone, careful not to startle Helaena. She placed a gentle hand on her friend’s knuckles, offering a comforting caress, and perhaps an anchor in the midst of her thoughts.

Helaena blinked as the sunlight pierced through the holes in the litter, bathing their small chamber in a warm glow.

“I believe it’s more a warning,” she replied, her voice soft and uncertain. “I’m sorry, I don’t fully understand its meaning.”

“Don’t apologize,” Daenera murmured, her grip on Helaena’s hand tightening reassuringly. “Nature, much like people, has its way of preserving through challenges. We all grow and confront adversity; it’s the essence of life. And if we must shed a bit of blood as a sacrifice for that life, I believe it’s a small price to pay .”

“Nature contains its own violence,” Helaena whispered, her words barely more than a breath. “Stags, wolves, dragons, each their own abide. The world turns harsh as war tightens its grip, parents compelled to kill their own before they grow old. ”

Daenera sensed that their conversation had sifted from the metaphorical flower to a deeper reflection on the nature of humanity. She couldn’t help but feel intrigued and concerned. “Helaena?”

“Mm?” Helaena hummed, her head turning toward Daenera. Her gaze lingered on the rays of sun streaming through the small openings in the litter for a moment longer before eventually shifting to meet Daenera’s.

“Is this one of your dreams?” Daenera asked.

Helaena’s response came as if she hadn’t quite registered Daenera’s question. “I think,” she began slowly, “you feel it as well, the strings that tie everything together. You know things, perhaps even without realizing it. It’s in the blood, in your nature, more so than the others. You will come to know, to feel, and to know… And with that knowledge, you’ll pay the price.”

Daenera felt her stomach churn, a growing weight pressing upon her chest as Helaena’s words hung in the air like an ominous fog. She grappled with the enigma of it all, her mind desperately searching for something more tangible amidst the cryptic riddles.

“What price?” She asked, her voice betraying her apprehension.

“Spools of Black, spools of Green, spools of that which lies between,” Helaena’s voice reverberated through the small chamber, a chant that seemed ancient as time itself. Daenera had been haunted by these cryptic words ever since her arrival in King’s Landing, and now they resurface with an eerie familiarity.

Helaena’s grip on Daenera’s hand tightened, her nails pressing into the skin as if she sought to anchor herself in the swirling current of her thoughts. “Three crowns, one the chosen, one the unworthy, one the liar,” she intoned with growing urgency. Her words weave strings together in an attempt at revealing an image.

“Three crowns, one throne to sit–a price to be paid, a sacrifice to be made, a hand to be stayed,” Helaena’s voice quickened, her words tumbling from her lips like leaves caught in a whirlwind. “Three crowns, one throne. Spools of Black, spools of Green, spools of that which lies between. Spools of Blue, spools of Red, spools of that which lies ahead.”

The litter seemed to pulse with an otherworldly energy, and it made the hairs at the back of her neck prickle and stand. The grip on her hand eased, and Helaena blinked once, twice, and then shifted her gaze apologetically to Daenera.

And though Daenera was brimming with questions, she swallowed them down, and brushed a hand over Helaena’s hair in a gentle gesture.

“We don’t have to talk about it,” Daenera offered gently, sensing the weight of visions that had gripped Helaena.

“It’s not that I don’t want to talk about it,” Helaena explained, frustration tainting her voice, “it’s that I cannot make any sense of it. It’s like trying to grasp the wisp of smoke–nothing is ever clear.” She shook her head as if trying to dispel the lingering confusion. “It means nothing. They’re just silly dreams.”

Daenera refused to accept Helaena’s self-deprecating assessment. Her expression remained resolute, though sympathetic.

“They’re not silly dreams,” she countered, brushing aside the dismissive words Alicent and others had used countless times. She knew that few had ever taken Helaena’s visions seriously, and so, they had been unjustly relegated to the realm of mere foolish fantasies.

“They may be like wisps of smoke, elusive and impossible to grasp,” Daenera began, her voice steady and determined, “but they are wisps that follow fire, and fire is something tangible, something we can see and understand.” She leaned in, pressing her forehead gently against Helaena’s. “It is not madness, it is riddles, and riddles can be deciphered.”

“Not all riddles yield to easy solutions,” Helaena quietly contended.

Daenera nodded thoughtfully. “True, but riddles often find clarity in hindsight.”

“I don’t want this,” Helaena admitted, a melancholic air hanging around her words as if she mourned the person she might have been if not for her burden. “And I doubt you’d want it either.”

“I’m sorry you bear this burden alone,” Daenera empathized. “But I’ll always listen and believe you.”

Helaena nodded, letting out a breath as her gaze shifted through the litter’s small openings to watch the city pass by. “I find solace in the clouds.”

During the remainder of their journey to the Dragonpit, they delved into animated discussions spanning various topics, until the litter stopped moving.

As they watched Dreamfyre emerge from the Dragonpit, bathed in the vibrant sunlight, Daenera couldn’t help but notice the radiant smile on Helaena’s face. The dragon’s azure scales shimmered like the vast ocean, and its graceful movements exuded a sense of regal vitality. When its eyes met Helaena’s, Daenera thought she detected a hint of tenderness in its deep gaze. It was truly a magnificent dragon.

“Greetings, magnificent one,” Helaena whispered to the dragon, her hand gently caressing its neck. She cast a glance back at Daenera, who nodded in silent approval. With practiced ease, Helaena ascended to the seat on Dreamfyre’s back, her melodious words flowing in High Valyrian as the dragon extended its powerful wings. In an impressive display, it soared into the heavens, its chest adorned with gleaming silver markings that resemble a necklace of precious coins. Higher and higher it climbed until it vanished into the boundless sky.

“Shall we return to the castle, Princess?” Fenrick inquired, appearing behind her.

“No,” She responded firmly. “As you can see, I’m dressed for the forest.”

“Very well, the forest it is,” he acknowledged.

As they ventured into the rolling hills beyond King’s Landing, Daenera chose to break the silence, knowing that her words would be swallowed by the gentle breeze, carried away where no prying ears could listen.

“I’m engaged in having an affair,” she uttered with such casualness that Fenrick seemed to nearly lose his balance on the horse. His head snapped to the side, and his grip on the reins tightened, causing the horse to whinny and shuffle restlessly, as if it sensed the discomfort of its rider, utterly bewildered by what it might have done wrong.

“I’m sorry?” Fenrick choked out, his brow furrowing as he tried to process her words, like a horse stumbling on uneven terrain, searching for stable ground beneath its hooves.

Daenera repeated, her voice firm and unapologetic, “I’m having an affair.” Her eyes bore into his, a mix of defiance and vulnerability weaving together on her face. “I am confiding in you because I believe you won’t betray my trust by informing my parents. But if you do, be prepared for severe consequences. I won’t be so inclined to forgive you.”

Her warning hung in the air, a palpable threat. If Fenrick dared to betray her trust once more, Daenera knew she’d have no choice but to take drastic measures. She couldn’t simply release him from his duties; he knew too much, and she didn’t want him to become a pawn in someone else’s game. As the weight of her confession sank in, Fenrick stared at her, utterly bewildered and unable to form a coherent response. His silence was thick, like the tension in the roiling hills, as if every single blade of grass held its breath, waiting for his reaction.

“Your husband–”

“Is a brute and a drunk,” Daenera interjected with a fiery edge in her voice, “who continues to insult and humiliate me by openly supporting his mistress and their illegitimate child. He hardly possesses the moral high ground in this matter.”

She clutched the reins tighter, her anger simmering beneath her controlled exterior. Boris’s flagrant disregard for her dignity left her vulnerable in the eyes of the court. His indiscretions, though not yet fully exposed, loomed like a dark cloud, ready to unleash a storm of scandal at any moment. It was a matter of time.

Fenrick’s voice held a cautious tone as he pressed on. “Are you planning to address his affair with him directly? Initiating your own in response doesn’t seem like a reasonable solution. He is your husband–”

“Yes, I am aware, you needn't remind me,” Daenera cut him off, annoyed by the reminder. “That is why it’s considered an affair, Fenrick. I have addressed his bastard but he wasn’t interested in discussing it or how it reflected on me.”

“Princess…”

“It is with Aemond.”

Her confession hit Fenrick like a sudden storm. The horse reacted, agitated by the tension in the air as it stamped restlessly at the ground. Fenrick struggled to calm the steed, guiding it in a circle to ease its nerves. He fell into position beside Daenera once more, the scowl on his face revealing his disapproval.

“Aemond?”

“Yes.”

“Have you taken leave of your senses?!” Fenrick practically roared, a crimson flush spreading across his cheeks, a sneer on his lips.

“I’m not seeking your approval, Fenrick,” Daenera retorted firmly, her tone unwavering. She sensed his judgment, like an irritating swarm of flies, but she refused to let it show. Fenrick would have unearthed the truth eventually. Confronting him now was an attempt to preempt the inevitable and, hopefully, secure his discretion and obedience.

They were passing the edge of the Kingswood, gradually surrounded by towering trees that blocked out the midday sun in patches, casting dappled shadows on the ground. The scent of pine and damp earth hung in the air, and the distant sounds of birds added a tranquil layer to the otherwise tense atmosphere.

Fenrick’s voice broke the forest’s hushed serenity. “But with Aemond?”

“Yes, with Aemond,” she replied, her tone steady and firm. Her spine straightened as she bore his judgment, feeling the tension build between her shoulder blades.

Their horses moved at a slow, measured pace, the gentle creaking of leather saddles accompanying their conversation. Fenrick glanced at her, his expression a mix of concern and disbelief.

“What if he’s the one who betrays you? He’s a Hightower, loyal to his mother and their cause.”

“Mutually assured destruction,” Daenera reiterated, her eyes scanning the woods as if seeking some hidden answer among the trees.

Fenrick’s grip on the reins tightened, and he couldn’t conceal the frustration in his voice. “You’re far too intelligent to believe that. There’s no mutually assured destruction. You are married, he is not. You are a woman. It will be your destruction.”

Daenera’s lips thinned, and she cast a sidelong glance at Fenrick. She understood the risks–understood how it would end.

“I am well aware of the disadvantages my sex presents,” Daenera countered, her voice tinged with irritation. “But have you ever considered that these very disadvantages allow me to be underestimated, to move in the shadows, and perhaps, that I can use it to my advantage?”

Fenrick’s expression remained conflicted, a mixture of concern and skepticism. He seemed determined to point out the fallacies in her motives. “You believe you can seduce and manipulate him for your own cause? Who’s to say he is not planning the same? Aemond is not stupid, he will be expecting your manipulation.”

It was an excuse, a flimsy attempt to justify her actions, or perhaps merely a desperate hope. Daenera knew that it was, in essence, a lie. The truth was far less strategic and much more impulsive. Her affair with Aemond had not originated as a calculated political maneuver, nor had it persisted to manipulate him into divulging compromising information–though the thought certainly comforted her. It had begun as an irrational, reckless, and entirely self-indulgent choice. Now, however, she found herself crafting a semblance of reason to cloak her actions.

Fenrick’s persistence in questioning her motives remained justified, though it did little to quell her irritation. His demand for an explanation was only fair. “He does. I suppose it depends on who can outwit the other.” Daenera clung to the falsehood, clutching it firmly to avoid facing the alternative interpretations it might entrail.

Fenrick shook his head, still struggling to accept her rationale. “Is this your plan, then? Or is it a rebellion against Daemon and the marriage he imposed on you?”

Daenera’s gaze darted towards Fenrick, her eyes narrowing with indignation.

“Both,” she responded, her shoulders lifting in a nonchalant shrug. She exhaled, slowly attempting to dispel the tension that Fenrick’s judgment had created within her. It felt akin to being reprimanded by a teacher, a parent, or a friend. “Boris, he…”

Fenrick’s expression seemed to soften a little. “He doesn’t treat you well?”

“He degrades me with his actions,” Daenera answered.

Fenrick’s countenance sagged slightly. “And yours doesn’t?”

She shot him a warning glare. “Boris has been frequenting the brothels ever since he arrived in King’s Landing and this behavior has persisted throughout our marriage. He has fathered a bastard and openly claimed the child’s mother as his mistress. He seems utterly unconcerned about how all of this tarnishes my reputation, and he insists that he’ll acknowledge the child as long as I do not provide him with a legitimate heir. He threatens me with the child’s legitimacy and carries not a trace of remorse for it. To him, I am merely an object, a vessel for bearing children, nothing more.”

Daenera’s voice carried an air of resignation as she continued. Boris becomes unking when he indulges in drink, offering me little companionship. He may be my husband, and I will fulfill my wifely duties, but I won’t endure his company more than necessary. And let’s not forget why I became his wife in the first place.”

Daenera was well aware that Fenrick had carried guilt for being the catalyst behind her marriage. Perhaps out of a sense of sentimentality, she had concealed most of her discontent within the marriage from him so that the guilt did not grow. But she wasn’t about to let him off the hook so easily. It was his act of defiance that had ultimately led her into this situation, wed to a man who posed threats, insulted her, and even struck her.

“But why Aemond?” Fenrick asked, appearing more exasperated by the choice of Aemond than anything else.

That is the questio n, she mused internally. Why Aemond?

It wasn’t part of some elaborate scheme to gain insight into the enemy’s plans. The repercussions of this affair far outweighed any initial value that it might have held. Yet, she couldn’t stop herself. There was a strange sort of comfort in Aemond’s presence, despite his coldness, cruelty, and resentful demeanor. She found herself drawn to him in an inexplicable way, and it was a disconcerting notion.

As they continued their ride through the forest, the trees seemed to close in around them, their thick husks standing as silent witnesses to the unfolding conversation. The sunlight streamed through the canopy above, casting patches of warmth and light on the forest floor as they rode on.

“Would you rather it had been Aegon?” Daenera questioned, more a jape than anything else.

“Daenera,” he began after realizing he wouldn’t receive a direct answer to his earlier question, “I must strongly caution against this path you’re taking. I don’t want to witness you suffering due to some imprudent, childish decision.”

Daenera pressed her lips together, attempting to quell the anger that was steadily mounting in her. “I’ve taken note of your advice, but please pardon me if I do not choose to heed it.”

It was Fenrick’s turn to press his lips into a thin line. “And who else is privy to this secret of yours?”

“Joyce,” Daenera answered shortly.

“Joyce?!” Fenrick exclaimed exasperated, taken aback by the revelation.

A grin crept across Daenera’s face, an expression of utter pettiness. “Yes, Joyce. She’s quite adept at keeping matters under wraps, isn’t she? She seems to understand the meaning of loyalty, trust and obedience.”

Fenrick clenched his teeth, a telltale sign of his suppressed words. There was little he could argue against that. It was an indiscretion that would hang over him for the foreseeable future. He seemed to understand that it had shifted something fundamental within their relationship, leaving an ever present lingering doubt: can he be trusted? It was a shadow that would persist, a whisper of uncertainty within their interactions.

“Joyce and Finan,” Daenera clarified.

“Finan? You told Finan before me?” His expression held a touch of offense, as if he couldn’t fathom that she’d confided in Finan before him.

“Finan knows some, not all. But yes, he knows because he has proven to be discreet, unlike some,” Daenera said teresly.

Fenrick bristled at her words.

“And Aegon.”

“What do you mean Aegon knows?” Fenrick sputtered, his complexion darkening as blood rushed beneath his skin. Daenera briefly pondered the inconveniences of a possible burst blood vessel in his head would cause. She would have to leave him here or manage to tie him to the horse so she could bring him back to King’s Landing.

“He has been speculating about it since my arrival,” Daenera grumbled.

“And was his speculation accurate?” The questions as not subtle enough to go unnoticed, nor the slight bite to the tone.

“No.” It was not a lie entirely, but she decided to spare Fenrick the nuanced details. He would only judge her further. “Aemond has assured me that he won’t pose a problem.”

“He assured you,” Fenrick repeated skeptically. “But how can you be certain the Queen isn’t aware and biding her time for the perfect moment to expose you? You are aware of her talents for using such information against your mother.”

“The Queen and the Hand are both in the dark about this,” Daenera affirmed.

“I apologize if I remain unconvinced, princess. It appears one of us must exercise caution,” Fenrick retorted.

Daenera rolled her eyes, her patience thinning with each passing moment. “That’s your role, Fenrick, and I do not hold it against you.”

“Very well, then. I assume you won’t take offense when I assert that I believe this is a grave error and should be halted immediately to prevent further repercussions,” Fenrick continued, his tone snide. “You are married. If the Hightowers uncover your affair with Aemond, they will without a doubt use it against you, to ruin your prospects and to tarnish your mother.”

“I appreciate your concern. I understand my role as both a princess and wife, and I won’t disregard my duties to my husband or my family,” Daenera retorted.

“Why take such a risk?” Fenrick challenged. “Do you believe Daemon would commend your efforts to sway the prince? Do you think he would agree to this ploy of seduction? The risk is far too great.”

“I believe Daemon would go to great lengths to secure an advantage,” Daenera responded.

“Not like this,” Fenrick began, his tone carrying a note of stern but caring authority.

“No, he’s a man,” Daenera muttered obstinately.

“Much can be said about Daemon, but one thing is undeniable: he loves you dearly and desires only the best for you and your siblings.”

She couldn’t help but have doubts about whether Daemon would ask this much of her brothers, of the twins. Perhaps he would if it came to it.

“Was it truly the best for me to be wed to Boris Baratheon?” Daenera attempted to suppress the lump forming in her throat. “I understand the risks, Fenrick, but please don’t expect me to resign myself to this marriage. I will fulfill my duties, but allow me the occasional respite, even if it involves someone you might not condone.”

“I thought it was a ploy,” Fenrick noted, caution heavy in his tone.

“Can’t it be both?”

“Do not fall in love with him. It won’t end well for anyone, least of all you.”

Daenera looked upon him, an assured set to her shoulders. “My loyalty lies with my family. I would forfeit everything for their sake.”

They fell into a heavy silence, words escaping them. At that very instant, Daenera yearned for the simplicity of a regular girl’s life, free from the weighty expectations that accompanied her titles of princess, wife, and pawn in a political game. She wished she could enjoy the company of a boy without the constant overthinking of consequences. To be able to act selfishly, pursuing her desires without the burden of considering the repercussions. The pretense of it all offered a peculiar sense of freedom, if only for a fleeting moment.

But there was, in reality, no freedom for girls in this world.

As they ventured deeper into the forest, a peaceful shroud of shadows enveloped them. The air bore the sweet scent of spring intermingled with the earthy aroma of freshly fallen rain. The ground beneath the hooves of the horse retained the moisture from the recent downpour, and glistening droplets clung to the vibrant leaves of the surrounding trees, refracting dappled sunlight.

Their horses carried them until they reached a vast expanse of a clearing. Here, she dismounted at the outskirts of the clearing. Daenera found herself treading through the lush, dew-kissed grass towards the colossal mount of Vhagar. The dragon stood regally, its massive form casting an imposing silhouette against the serene woodland backdrop. Its scales, dark as storm clouds, reflecting the subtle play of sunlight.

The dragon’s rider leaned casually against the dragon’s powerful frame, a striking figure of strength and unity between rider and beast. Vhagar lifted her head, regarding Daenera’s approach.

Fenrick’s penetrating gaze remained fixed on Daenera as she approached Aemond. She could feel the disapproval prickle along her skin as his eyes bore holes into her.

Aemond, with a sly grin, traced his fingers tenderly across Daenera’s face before capturing her lips in a heated kiss, solely meant to taunt Fenrick, who, in response, turned his back on the two.

Daenera couldn’t help but notice Fenrick’s discomfort, and she couldn’t suppress the faint sense of sympathy for her sworn shield. She addressed Aemond, her tone a mix of playfulness and concern. “You could make it a bit easier on him, you know.”

Aemond, however, seemed unfazed by Fenrick’s irritation. He shrugged nonchalantly, his confidence shining through. Mischievousness widened his grin, the sharp corners of his mouth twisting as he brushed off Daenera’s worries, his gaze never leaving hers. “Why should I?”

This time, Aemond was the first to climb Vhagar’s massive form, displaying the graceful fluidity of a practiced rider. Daenera, on the other hand, moved cautiously, gripping the rope with each deliberate step, her focus solely on holding on. Her fingers grasped onto the weathered and worn rope that served as a makeshift ladder. The once-sturdy fibers grown frayed with age and slick with algae.

Upon reaching the dragon’s formidable back, Aemond leaned over and extended a hand to assist Daenera with the final steps. Her fingers found his, and with his guidance, she was hoisted into the saddle, settling herself in front of him. Aemond’s practiced hands deftly secured the tether that would keep them safely in place.

As Vhagar began to move beneath them, Daenera’s heart skipped a beat, only to race even faster moments later. She clutched the saddle with white-knuckled determination, her fingers digging into the supple leather. Aemond’s chest pressed firmly against her back, one hand resting gently on her lower stomach, his thumb idly caressing her in a reassuring manner. The sensation sent a shudder through her, mixing with the thrill of being atop the powerful dragon.

“Sōvegon, Vhagar.” Fly, Vhagar.

The colossal dragon stretched its immense wings, a magnificent display of power and grace. They unfurled like vast, tattered banners, casting shadows that danced across the surrounding landscape. Like an old man stretching his back before lifting, the dragon flexed its wingtips experimentally before fully committing to the powerful strokes.

The effect was awe-inspiring.

The long grass beneath Vhagar’s colossal wings bowed and swayed in a wild frenzy, yielding to the force of nature embodied by the ancient creature. The nearby trees, their prances laden with leaves, creaked and groaned under the onslaught of air currents, protesting the sudden storm.

The air itself seemed to come alive with each mighty beat. It rushed to fill the expansive, thin skin of the wings, creating an audible symphony of wind and power. Daenera, her heart pounding wildly in her chest, couldn’t help but feel the rush of both fear and exhilaration wash over her.

Amidst this overwhelming display of nature’s might, Daenera clung to her perch on Vhagar’s back, her nails digging into the leather as her vice strained almost painfully with which she was holding on. She berated herself for the surge of terror that coursed through her veins, her breath coming fast and shallow.

In contrast, Aemond seemed entirely at ease. She heard his deep, throaty chuckle, its rumbling quality traveling through his chest and into hers. It was a sound that mixed amusement and perhaps, a touch of teasing.

“Keep your eyes open this time,” he murmured softly into her ear, his warm breath sending a shiver down her spine. His cheek brushed against hers as if in a gentle caress.

Tears welled in her eyes, not from fear, but from the sheer force of the wind buffeting her face as they soared higher into the sky. The brisk air whipped at her cheeks, the sensation akin to a thousand tiny needles pricking her skin. Her cheeks flushed with the combination of exhilaration and the biting chill of the high-altitude, and as they ascended above the lush canopy of trees, the sprawling image of King’s Landing came into view. The city stretched out in the distance, a sprawling tapestry of red-roofed buildings and winding streets. The grandeur of the Red Keep, with its towering structures of crimson stone, stood as a majestic centerpiece.

From this vantage point, everything below seemed to shrink into insignificance.

Aemond directed Vhagar to rise even higher, their ascent a relentless climb towards the ethereal realm of the clouds. Daenera’s fingers, still white-knuckled from their death grip on the saddle, reluctantly released their hold. With determination, she extended one hand towards the fluffy white cloud, her delicate fingers disappearing into the cool mist.

Aemond’s strong arm wrapped around her waist, pulling her even closer to him. His voice, soft as velvet, reached her ears despite the howling wind that threatened to drown out any sound.

“Let go,” he coaxed, his breath warm against her ear. “I won’t let you fall.”

It took a few steadying breaths for Daenera to summon the courage to release her grip on the saddle entirely. She felt a momentary rush of dizziness, the sensation of being suspended in the sky without any solid ground beneath her nearly overwhelming. But Aemond’s steadfast presence reassured her, his hold a comforting anchor against the vast expanse below.

Slowly, she stretched both arms outward, mimicking the wings of a dragon in majestic flight. The rush of wind through her fingertips, the caress of the sun on her face, and the exhilaration of their climb to the sky, all combined to send a surge of blood through her veins, a rush of excitement. In this moment, she was not just a princess or a wife burdened with duty; she was a creature of the skies, embracing the freedom the world below could only dream of.

Her laughter rang out like sweet music in the wind as exhilaration coursed through her.

“Don’t you dare let go of me,” she playfully admonished, her eyes sparkling with mirth.

Aemond chuckled, the vibrations of his laughter felt through the firm press of his chest against her back. “If I wanted you dead, I would do it in a far less conspicuous way.”

Curiosity tugged at her the same way it did a persistent child. “Where are you stealing me off to?”

A mischievous glint danced in Aemond’s eye as he replied, “I thought you might wish to see what should be rightfully yours.”

Daenera’s brows furrowed in bewilderment, and she glanced down to discern which way they were taking. “Don’t tell me you’re taking me to Dragonstone.”

Aemond shook his head. “No.”

“If you’re taking me to Storm’s End, I will throw you off this dragon,” Daenera threatened playfully, though her voice held a tremor of promise.

Aemond’s lips curved into a wry smile. “I’m taking you to Harrenhal.”

“Ah, so you’re just being a twat and calling me a bastard.” Daenera rolled her eyes in jest. The sting of being referred to as a bastard no longer pricked her, not in these moments, not when it was him. His words lacked the calculated cruelty that had once been aimed at her, and so, she didn’t take it to heart.

“You once mentioned your curiosity, wanting to see it for yourself and judge whether it lives up to its infamy,” Aemond explained, his voice smooth and warm.

Daenera responded with a touch of sarcasm, “Yes, how utterly romantic of you to whisk me away to a castle where hundreds have met their untimely end, including Lord Lyonel and Ser Harwin. The very castle that’s steeped in tales of curses.”

“ Romantic ,” Aemond echoed, his tone laced with sarcasm. “But I never claimed to be romantic .”

A small smile played on Daenera’s lips, though she couldn’t hide the flush in her cheeks she could, however, attribute it to the wind. “I’m not sure you could be. It is not in your nature.”

A genuine laugh rumbled through Aemond’s chest and brushed against her warm, blushing cheeks, carried away by the wind.

Harrenhal loomed ominously amidst the encompassing, ancient woods, its immense walls appearing both colossal and yet dwarfed by the five soaring towers that pierced the sky, surpassing even the tallest of all trees, taller still than perhaps the towers of the Red Keep. Time had not been kind to the castle; its stone facade, marred by the relentless onslaught of time, bore the indelible scars of soot and flame. Years of weathering had done little to cleanse the dark residue that clung to its surface, as though the very walls retained the memory of the inferno that had once raged within them.

As they circled Harrenhal on the back of Vhagar, it was as though they were retracing the footsteps of Aegon the Conqueror himself, who had once circled the castle on Balerion the Black Dread, before putting the structure to the flame. The towers, twisted from the intensity of the flames, displayed their scars–stone that had liquified and then congealed into grotesque contortions, warped into a haunting ghost of what it once was.

Daenera had heard countless tales about Harrenhal, read the histories of the castle and its legend, but never had she been able to fathom the sheer magnitude of this formidable stronghold. It stood as a testament to the folly of hubris, grandiose in its aspirations, and more so in its blight.

Now, upon seeing it, she believed the stories of blood being mixed in the mortar that bound the stones together.

A place that had borne witness to such profound suffering and loss was destined to hold a twisted existence, forever haunted by the ghosts of the dead and the echoes of memories long past. The very foundation seemed tainted, doomed from its very inception.

Dread gripped her heart, her skin tingled with goosebumps, the hairs at the nape of her neck prickling. Was it the curse that had ensnared Ser Harwin and not the prophecy? After all, fireflies could not set fire on their own.

Daenera couldn’t help but feel a strange sense of relief that her feet had never touched the rotten soil of Harrenhal. There was an unsettling intuition within her that whatever malevolent force lingered within those sodden, blackened walls would demand a steep price in blood from anyone who dared to tread upon its cursed grounds.

“Does it live up to its notoriety?” Aemond asked, his voice almost swept away from her ears.

Daenera’s eyes remained on the ruins. She couldn’t shake the sensation that they were under an intense, unrelenting scrutiny, as if a myriad of invisible eyes were fixed upon her. Even the warm embrace of the sun’s rays failed to dispel the eerie chill that settled deep within the marrow of her bones. It was as if the very castle itself, or the curse that clung to it like a shroud, hungered.

In response to Harren the Black’s audacious hubris–an arrogance that must have defied the gods, for they had infused their wrath into the very stones, a divine retribution only gods could bestow. Aegon the Conqueror had, in turn, eternally bound the curse with the searing might of dragonfire, sealing the fate of Harren the Black and all those within.

And now, it seemed that Harrenhal, the blackened ruin, still retained an insatiable hunger for blood.

“I suppose it’s fortunate that I bear the name Velaryon rather than Strong, then,” she remarked, her voice laced with somber recognition of the castle’s grim history and the ever present hunger that seemed to cling to the ruin.

Aemond guided Vhagar to land on the Isle of Faces, where the weirwoods, ancient and revered, stood sentinel for the old gods. The eerie sensation of malevolent ghosts watching her dissipated, replaced instead by the feeling of being observed by the quiet presence of the old gods, their ancient wisdom etched into the very wood. Their faces, weathered yet wise, seemed to observe their descent, their eyes oozing sap like somber, crimson tears.

Descending from Vhagar was more of a daunting task than ascending had been. Her muscles quivered with the effort, and it felt as if her feet possessed a stubborn will of their own, hesitating to find secure footing on the woven netting. Finally, as she reached the last step, her foot snagged in the net as Vhagar made a slight shift, threatening to send her sprawling. In that precarious moment, Aemond’s arm encircled her waist, steadying her and gently lowering her to the ground, averting an unfortunate fall.

Even after the unyielding ground supported her once more, her legs persisted in their quivering dance. “I doubt I’ll ever grow accustomed to that.”

Aemond’s chuckle, accompanied by a self-satisfied grin, responded to her comment on riding a dragon. “You seem to have quite the knack for it.”

With her unsteady legs, she gingerly tread onto the small lakeside area, inhaling the crisp forest air that surrounded her. The lake sprawled before her, a deep and enigmatic expanse. What hidden secrets lay beneath its dark surface, and how many of them had been silently witnessed by the weirwood trees in their solemn vigil? An aura of sanctity hung in the air like morning mist.

“Should we truly be here?” She questioned.

“Are you worried that the children of the forest will rise from the earth and carry you away into the very core of the world?” Aemond replied with a playful glint to his eye. “Or is it the old gods that give you pause?”

“I do not fear the old gods or the children of the forest,” she retorted with a slight scowl. “But you cannot deny there’s something… sacred about this place, can you?”

He regarded her thoughtfully. “There’s nothing inherently sacred about carving faces into trees. I would carve a thousand faces into a thousand trees, and it would not transform them into sacred relics.”

“I’d be quite intrigued to see you try, carving faces into a thousand trees,” Daenera retorted playfully.

Aemond rolled his eye, a gesture indicating his exasperation. “The faith of the Seven is the only gods I believe in. The rest, these tales of old gods and fantastical beings, are nothing but stories fit for children.”

“People once claimed dragons were mere childrens stories,” Daenera countered. “Perhaps the world has room for more gods than just the Seven.”

Daenera understood that arguing the matters of religion and belief with him would be a futile endeavor. After all, Aemond had been raised by Alicent Hightower, a woman deeply devoted to the Faith of the Seven.

Aemond regarded her with skepticism and something that bordered on appal. “You don’t believe in the Seven?”

Daenera bent down, her fingers finding a smooth rock. She turned it over in her hand, feeling the weight of the question. With a subtle flick of her wrist, she sent the rock skimming across the calm surface of the lake before responding. “I believe that the gods, whether they go by the names of the Seven or the old gods, wear many faces and carry many names. And I believe that there’s great power in blood.”

“Blood?” His eye remained on her, searching her face. “You mean blood magic?”

She shook her head, causing her dark braid to swing over her shoulder. “No, not blood magic. I simply think we should honor our blood, our lineage, and our traditions.”

The realms of blood magic and fire magic remained veiled in obscurity, scarcely detailed in any of the texts she had read. Little was known about these esoteric practices, shrouding them in mystery and speculation, their secrets seemingly lost to the cataclysmic Doom.

According to legend, the downfall of Old Valyria was attributed to the practice of blood magic. The gods, offended by the Valyrians’ sacrilegious claim of divinity, were said to have taken umbrage. In response, they delivered their divine judgment, summoning colossal infernos that razed the once great empire. All knowledge of these ancient practices seemed to have been erased in the Doom or lost to the annals of history.

Aemond grasped a rock, emulating her previous attempt to skip it across the lake’s serene surface. However, his toss fell short, resulting in a loud splash as the rock plunged into the water.

Daenera couldn’t help but burst into laughter at his unsuccessful throw. She swiftly grabbed another stone, showcasing her skill as it danced across the water’s surface, bouncing four times before finally succumbing to the depths below. With a playful and challenging glance, she raised an eyebrow, daring Aemond.

Undeterred by his previous failure, Aemond selected yet another stone, examining it carefully before sending it sailing through the air. This time, it managed to skip once before following its predecessor into the lake’s watery embrace.

“You’re terrible at this,” Daenera teased with a laugh.

Aemond, ever the challenger, retorted with a smirk, “I am sorry for not matching your proficiency in the art of skipping stones. I had believed it to be a pastime more commonly enjoyed by peasants. Did your upbringing on Dragonstone provide you with ample chances to hone this skill, or is it something that comes naturally to you?”

His jest was light-hearted, devoid of any sting, and Daenera responded with a hearty laughter, her eyes playfully rolling. “You can’t skip rocks on waves, you know.”

Unfazed by her comment, Aemond retrieved another smooth, flat stone from the lake shore. He examined it briefly, turning it over in his hand before hurling it forth with determination. The rock skipped once across the surface before plunging into the deep.

Daenera selected a smooth, flat stone and approached Aemond with a gentle smile. She placed the rock into his palm, her hand guiding his fingers to the correct grip, demonstrating the precise technique for skipping rocks. “Like this.”

Aemond followed her lead, imitating the motion. This time, the rock danced across the water’s surface, bouncing not once, not twice, but thrice before succumbing to the lake's depths. Daenera beamed at him, a wide grin spreading across her face.

“What a meaningless skill to have,” Aemond commented, though a smile tugged at his own lips.

“It’s only meaningless because you couldn’t do it.”

The sun cast a brilliant shimmer upon the water’s surface, and Daenera couldn’t resist the temptation to bask in its warmth. She bent down to touch the water, finding it refreshingly cool but far from bone-chilling. With a determined air, Daenera began to loosen the laces at her side, gradually slipping out of her simple dress. She removed the shift underneath. A gentle breeze whisked through the undergown as though it were nonexistent, tickling against her skin.

Aemond watched her curiously, his voice tinged with surprise and apprehension, “What are you doing?”

Daenera met his gaze, a mischievous glint in her eyes as she kicked off her boots and elegantly slid the long stockings from her legs. Her foot dipped into the water as she removed the underdress, tossing it carelessly onto the growing pile of discarded clothing.

“It’s a rare occasion when we find ourselves unburdened by the court,” Daenera remarked, her voice brimming with palpable excitement. “We ought to make the most of it.”

Aemond’s eye glided over the trees adorning the opposite shore, almost as if he were in search of any unwelcome onlookers. There was a certain sharpness to his caution. “What if someone sees?”

Daenera, undeterred, stepped deeper into the cool water, her voice holding a hint of playful defiance.

“What would they see?” She countered. “Just a girl with brown hair and blue eyes, unremarkable features shared by half the realm. You, on the other hand, with your silver hair, eye patch, and the company of the largest dragon in existence, are far less inconspicuous. Nevertheless…”

As Daenera ventured deeper into the water, she could feel Aemond’s watchful gaze tracking her every movement. Goosebumps pricked across her skin as the cold water sent a shiver through her, briefly making her breath catch. His scrutiny felt intense, reminiscent of a hawk locking onto its prey scurrying through a field, and she knew then that he would follow her.

Her delicate fingers grazed the water’s surface as she waded further into the lake, her breath escaping her lips in a soft exhale as the water level rose, caressing her stiffened nipples. The chill, although momentarily freezing, soon transformed into a refreshing sensation. Here, amidst nature’s embrace, away from the stifling confines of court and marriage, Daenera relished a fleeting moment of respite.

Strong arms enveloped her, drawing her tenderly against his chest. The warmth radiating from his skin seeped into her own, creating an exquisite fusion of their bodies. As she nestled into his embrace, her head gently descended, finding its resting place against the curve of his collarbone she hummed.

“You came,” Daenera purred, a self-satisfied smirk curling her lips as she relished the sensation of his body pressing against hers.

Aemond’s lips found the delicate curve of her ear, their warm caress sending a shiver down her spine, and setting her heart aflutter. In a low, resonant draw, he responded, “How could I resist?”

His hand boldly cupped one of her breasts, granting it a rough squeeze that made her sink her teeth into her bottom lip, suppressing the grin on her face.

“You’re a witch,” he continued, his voice dropping to a husky, seductive tone. “You’ve bewitched me, body and mind.”

“Have I now?” Daenera purred, a seductive glint in her eyes as he planted a fervent kiss at the juncture where her neck met her shoulder. His other hand, enshrouded by the water’s embrace, ventured beneath the surface, descending into its depths. It trailed along the sensuous curve of her stomach, eventually slipping through the velvety curls of her cunt.

With practiced finesse, his fingers expertly located the tender bundle of nerves that ignited Daenra’s desire. He began with a gentle, almost teasing touch, applying delicate pressure before tracing sensuous circles around the sensitive nub. Each movement seemed calculated to stroke the fires of her arousal.

“It seems to me, you are the witch,” Daemera murmured, her voice raspy as she spoke. “Casting a spell on me.”

As the moments passed, his fingers became more assertive, gradually increasing the intensity of their caress. He artfully manipulated the protective hood of her clitoris, creating a sinfully delicious friction that sent waves of pleasure coursing through her. His finger continued its hypnotic dance, swirling around the sensitive nub before delivering an arousing pinch.

Daenera’s response was immediate and passionate. SHe couldn’t contain the throaty moan that escaped her lips, her hips involuntarily surging forward to meet the electrifying pleasure coursing through her body.

The persistent throb in her core seemed to create a rhythm of its own, a primal drumbeat echoing through her body. Each pulse of desire was intensified by the icy embrace of the water, the stark contrast between her heated arousal and the coolness of the lake enhancing her sensations to an exquisite degree.

Aemond’s lips remained firmly pressed against the sensitive column of her neck, tracing a path of fervent kisses. Meanwhile, his skilled fingers ventured between her slick folds, their touch as light as a whisper but as electrifying as a bolt of lightning. The caressed her aching core, gliding in just enough to provoke a sharp catch of breath.

With teasing precision, he toyed with the entrance of her aching cunt. His teeth grazed over the fragile skin of her neck, igniting a tingling thrill that coursed through her entire body, amplifying the pulsating need that consumed her.

With a sensuous turn, Daenera twisted in his strong arms, her lips seeking his in a heated kiss. As their mouths fused, a delicate dance of tongues ensued, each breathy exhale mingling with the others in a sultry exchange.

Her hand traveled down his chest, fingers trailing over his sinewy body to grast his hardened arousal with a confident grip. She began a slow, tantalizing ascent along its length. At the touch, Aemond let out a low hum, his hand gripping the flesh of her ass roughly.

The water’s icy caress had ignited her nipples, stiffening them to points that brushed against his chest as she leaned into him. The stark contrast between the frigid lake and the fevered warmth of his skin sent a shudder through her.

His large, capable hands found their place on her thighs, gripping them just below the inviting curve of her ass. He effortlessly lifted her, allowing her to wrap her legs around his hips in an intimate embrace that seemed almost preordained. The water rendered her almost weightless. Their bodies melded together seamlessly.

Aemond’s heat, like a relentless pure, defied the chill of the surrounding water. It burned with a ferocity that only intensified in their close proximity.

As their bodies pressed closer, Daenera felt the friction of his cock brushing teasingly against her slick, eager folds. His cock twitched with anticipation, yearning for more contact. In response, her hips moved with instinctual grace, guiding her aching core over the head of his cock. She toyed with him just enough to provoke a deep, primal growl that reverberated from the depths of his throat, a raw expression of his consuming need and lust.

Aemond reluctantly tore his lips from hers, their breaths heavy with anticipation as he positioned his cock at the entrance of her cunt. With a possessive urgency, he allowed the head of his cock to dip into her heat, stretching her with an unapologetic demand.

Her fingers dug into the taut flesh of his shoulders, leaving behind red lines and deep crescent marks as her head arched backward, a fervent moan escaping her parted lips. He gradually sank deeper into her, her velvety folds embracing his throbbing length as it stretched her to accommodate his size. The initial burn was tempered by the coolness of the surrounding water, creating a unique contrast that seemed to drown out the searing sensation as he slowly impaled her on his cock.

Daenera’s hips eagerly rolled against him, an unspoken invitation for him to continue. She brought her lips back to his, a ravenous kiss that conveyed her craving for more. Aemond, unceremoniously but skillfully, thrust into her with an intensity that made her breath hitch and her senses reel. He established a deliberate rhythm, driving into her aching core with just enough force to keep her perpetually on edge, her ragged breaths escaping in pants.

The water, a sensual accomplice, eased the motion, rendering their movements languid and sensuous. Nevertheless, Aemond seemed determined to assert his control over the pace, his powerful thrusts causing water to splash and ripple around them as Daenera met his movements with the roll of her hips.

Aemond halted his thrusts, a decision that sent a ripple of anticipation through the water. He carefully turned within the lake, the gentle movement causing his rigid cock to remain somewhat lodged within Daenera’s throbbing core. As he inched towards the shore, her body slowly descended along his length until he was fully submerged within her heat. Rivulets of water cascaded down their entwined bodies, provoking shivers and goosebumps in response to the dual sensations of coolness and scorching passion.

With fluid grace, Aemond guided them towards the woods, his grip on her firm as he laid her down on a soft blanket beneath the canopy of a weirwood tree. Its crimson leaves rustled gently in the light breeze, casting dappled rays of light upon her skin. A palpable sense of sacrilege coursed through her veins, the thrill of it coiling within her like a tightly wound spring, only adding to the exhilaration of being out in the open.

As Aemond descended upon her once more, their bodies aligned perfectly beneath the ancient tree, he captured her lips in another fervent kiss. One of his hands claimed the smooth expanse of her thigh, his grip firm yet tender, while the other supported his weight, ensuring he didn’t crush her.

The kiss began with a languid, sensual pace, his lips brushing tenderly against hers. But soon, it transformed into something altogether more demanding, a blazing inferno that coursed through her like wildfire. Aemond tore his lips from hers, his gaze dark and smoldering with unbridled desire.

With a primal need that bordered on ferocity, Aemond undulated his hips against hers, driving into her with a commanding force that sent her body arching upward. A passionate moan reverberated skyward. Her hand shot up, seeking refuge on the gnarled root above her, her nails digging into its white bark as Aemond hoisted one of her legs over his muscular shoulder, setting a frenzied pace.

His thrusts came in rapid succession, each one a seismic eruption of pleasure that seemed to steal her breath away. Waves of pleasure surge through her with every fervent plunge, leaving her in a state of rapture, her mind scattered and breath stolen.

“Aemond… oh, gods,” Daenera moaned, her voice breathless as it harmonized with the rustling leaves stirred by the gentle breeze that caressed the surrounding trees.

“Praying to the gods now, are we?” Aemond teased, his voice a low, smug drawl. Her cunt fluttered around him and his face contorted into a primal snarl, his brows furrowing with unrelenting concentration as he committed to a relentless rhythm that was propelling her towards oblivion. His cock plunged into her depths with an audible squelching sound, her slick desire coating his pulsating length and trickling down his throbbing balls as he claimed her. With a possessive force, his rough hand seized her other leg, deftly guiding it over his strong shoulder to mirror the position of the first.

“And to which god are you praying? Hm?” Aemond questioned, this thrusts gaining depth and vigor as he held her in the new position.

Daenera fumbled for a witty retort, but each time she reached for words, they were whisked away by the overwhelming sensations coursing through her. Her mind was awash with a dizzying blend of sensations–the rhythmic glide of his cock in and out of her, the firm grasp of his rough hand on her breast, the pleasurable ache from his possessive squeeze, his smug snarl that graced his lips, and the crimson leaves rustling above. It was as if the world had condensed into these intoxicating moments, where nothing else existed except their unquenchable desire.

“No response, hmm? Have I rendered you speechless?” Aemond taunted with a wicked glint in his eye, punctuating his words with a firm slap to the side of her quivering ass that elicited a sultry moan from Daenera.

“Gods, Aemond,” Daenera breathed, her nails tracing desperate patterns over the rough bark of the roots above, an attempt to tether herself to the world as her cunt fluttered and tightened around him.

“I– fuck– I’m not the praying type, remember?” She managed to mutter between gasps, her voice laden with a heady mix of desire and amusement. “Your gods would not find us here. Only the old gods.”

“Then let the old gods bear witness,” Aemond responded in a husky tone, drawing in a sharp breath through gritted teeth as her cunt clenched around his cock in an intoxicating sensation. “As I defile you.”

Daenera found her knees suddenly pushed up around her ears, folding her body in half as Aemond continued to thrust into her with a relentless intensity that showed no mercy. His thrusts were primal, each one a forceful push towards the precipice that loomed tantalizingly close. It was as if they danced on the edge together, the waves of pleasure beckoning them below.

He expertly angled his hips, ensuring that each rapid thrust struck that elusive spot within her, the one that made her toes curl and her breath hitch in euphoric anticipation.

Daenera felt herself fall into the depths of pleasure, the waves crashing over her with breath stealing intensity. Her cry reverberated through the serene surroundings as her core clenched around him in exquisite release.

Aemond, his groan caught in his throat, succumbed to the tempestuous climax that seized him. He spilled his seed inside her, filling her womb with a potent surge of warmth and making her very essence his own. His thrusts gradually became more languid, each one a lingering caress than an impassioned surge, his hips quivering as he emptied the last of his desire into her.

Daenera’s legs slowly drifted apart, a silent invitation for Aemond to find refuge in the curve of her chest as they both labored to regain their breath.As she sprawled beneath the ancient weirwood tree, her chest heaving as she tried to catch her breath, the leaves overhead cast shifting patterns of crimson and gold upon her flushed skin, and the gentle rustling of the branches seemed like the whisper of the old gods themselves. Her fingers idly traced the rough texture of the weirwood’s bark as she lay there, her senses still tingling from the intensity of their union.

Her hand drifted from the wood of the weirwood tree, her nails carrying the uncomfortable remnants of bark as she tenderly placed her hand against Aemond’s back. Beneath her touch, she could feel the rapid cadence of his heartbeat, a rhythm that seemed to beat in synchrony with her own.

With a gentle withdrawal, Aemond eased himself out of her, a quiet sigh of release escaping his lips. As he pulled his softening cock from her, he rose to his feet, the flush of exertion still adorning his chest and neck. His gaze settled on Daenera, his expression carrying a playful amusement as he looked down at her.

“I had entertained the notion of taking you on Vhagar,” Aemond drawled, his voice still husky as he began to dress, leisurely fastening his trousers around his hips and sliding into his boots. The little muscles beneath his skin moved with a sinuous grace as he shifted.

Daenera couldn’t help but laugh at the audacity of the idea, propping herself up on her elbows to observe him. “And how, exactly, would you have gone about that?”

Aemond responded with a casual shrug, though a smug grin played on his lips, and as he replied, the glint in his eye suggested he found the challenge appealing. “Oh, I’m certain we would have figured something out.”

“A way to plummet to our deaths, you mean,” she quipped, her imagination momentarily entertaining the thrill of such a daring endeavor. “Or perhaps freeze to death.”

In her heart, the idea was undeniably exciting, a hedonistic fantasy that ignited something daring inside of her. However, in practical terms, the notion seemed fraught with peril, and she couldn’t help but wonder about the feasibility of such a reckless escapade.

“Is it not enough to defile me in front of the Old gods?” Daenera mused, her tone teasing. “Must you also defile me on your dragon? I’m sure Vhagar would appreciate it if you did not.”

“The old gods have yet to smite me,” he retorted, flinging his arms wide as he stepped backwards from her, as if daring the ancient gods to manifest their presence and guide a lightning bolt from the sky. “And as for Vhagar, I am sure she wouldn’t care whether I fuck you senseless on her or in front of her again.”

The dragon did not respond, its eyes closed and breath eased as it slept.

Yet, Daenera couldn’t help but harbor an uncertainty. Her gaze fixated on the solemn faces etched into the weirwood trees, their ancient eyes forever observing the inexorable passage of time and bearing witness to the countless histories steeped in blood. A disquiet shiver coursed through her, raising goosebumps on her skin like silent omens.

She rose from the blanket, her movements unhurried as she padded barefoot across the soft earth towards Aemond. He stood by the lake, his gaze following the tree line on the opposite bank, lost in thoughts known only to him.

Pressing her forehead between his shoulder blades, Daenera encircled her arms around his lean waist. Her silent gesture seemed welcome as he leaned into her touch.

If the Old gods were to take offense at their audacity, she could only hope for understanding and a merciful response to their impetuous trespass.

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