#Turmoil in the Land of Mists

[swordgrace]

𝐖𝐇𝐀𝐓 𝐇𝐎𝐍𝐎𝐑 𝐃𝐄𝐌𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐒 — 𝐈𝐕.

⠀ཾ༵ 𑁍┆ jacaerys velaryon x fem!reader.

SYNOPSIS: you and jacaerys go to claw isle, the ancestral seat of house celtigar, to treat with your brother. needless to say, tensions are high.

part of a series, read part three here.

{ FORMAT: one-shot, part of a series.

{ WORD COUNT: 11.7K (another long one).

{ WARNINGS: SMUT (mdni), creative liberties taken with claw isle & house celtigar, reader has a poor relationship with her brother, canon-typical misogyny, little bit of plot, lots of smut, overprotective jacaerys, p in v sex, unprotected sex, missionary position, mild breeding kink, first time oral sex (m!receiving), handjobs, cunnilingus, oral sex (fem!rec), body worship (f&m receiving), hair pulling kink, multiple orgasms, making out, lots of love declarations, jace only makes love, everything is extremely gentle, very soft aftercare

{ AUTHOR’S NOTE: Finally, it’s here! I��m really trying to get this series squared away before the season ends, but that’s definitely not going to happen. 😭 Nonetheless, I’m going to keep pushing for weekly to bi-weekly uploads with this and work on requests! As always, thank you all so much for your continued love and support! It means the world to me! I hope you all enjoy! ❤️

𝐀 𝐟𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐭 𝐫𝐮𝐦𝐛𝐥𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐮𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫 𝐬𝐡𝐨𝐨𝐤 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐤𝐢𝐞𝐬 𝐚𝐛𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐍𝐚𝐫𝐫𝐨𝐰 𝐒𝐞𝐚, 𝐚𝐜𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐩𝐚𝐧𝐢𝐞𝐝 𝐛𝐲 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐠𝐫𝐢𝐦, 𝐠𝐫𝐚𝐲 𝐩𝐨𝐫𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐢𝐭 𝐨𝐟 𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭𝐥𝐞𝐬𝐬 𝐜𝐥𝐨𝐮𝐝𝐬 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐰𝐢𝐬𝐩𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐜𝐨𝐥𝐝 𝐦𝐢𝐬𝐭.

Something about it seemed ominous and dark, as if there was an unseen presence lingering in the fog. The thick scent of saltwater stung your nostrils as you flew above the dark waters. It was not ideal weather for travel, especially upon the back of a dragon.

Vermax maintained a steady pace as you and Jacaerys flew to Claw Isle. The journey was lengthy, but the both of you were filled with an inner fire and determination to subdue your brother and bring the Celtigar fleet into the fold. It had been a handful of hours since your departure, growing closer and closer to your home.

If it weren’t for the constant feeling of peril and dread, you would’ve fallen asleep on the saddle, slumped against Jacaerys as he steered the dragon over a vast plane of coastal cliffs. He seemed quiet, contemplative — you assumed he thought of his mother.

Her disappearance to King’s Landing for reasons unknown had put a stressor on the War Council, all in complete disarray. Rhaenys was at the helm in an attempt to steer what was now a rudderless group, and Jacaerys could think of no better person suited to bring a gaggle of old men to heel.

It was important for you to maintain your resolve, support Jacaerys in whatever he needed. He was going to help fight your battles, but you wanted to help him, too. You couldn’t imagine the inner turmoil he was experiencing, calm on the outside. He was so selfless, rarely placing his own needs before your own, and if he did, it wasn’t done willingly.

The view of the ocean from the back of a dragon was enchanting — dark waters stretching as far as the eye could see, a thick haze hovering above, salty droplets of mist peppering across your cheeks as you flew. You neglected to inform Clement of your presence, preferring the element of surprise.

A serpentine cry escaped Vermax as he swooped over a line of trees atop a peninsula, prompting you to gasp and hold on tightly to the saddle. This was only your second time on dragonback, and thankfully, it wasn’t as frightening as the first — even then, they were unpredictable creatures.

“Are you alright?” Jacaerys asked, chest snug against your back, face nearly brushing your shoulder as he guided Vermax away from any cliffsides — for your sake, mostly. Despite the dire situation of the Council, he was more determined than ever to placate your brother. They needed the Celtigar fleet if they were to win the war.

You nodded, grip beginning to slack upon the saddle as the fog of misty clouds began to break, revealing an island in the distance. “We’re nearly there.” You replied, brows furrowing together as you came upon the island. It was strange to be home under such circumstances — you wish it were different.

Claw Isle was somewhat larger than Dragonstone, and Celtigar Keep rose high above the clouds, appearing in all of its glory. It was carved of white stone, turned gray and dark in coloration from many decades of weathering at seaside. It was pointed and arching with high, spindling towers, much of the castle was built in and around the rocky mass it sat atop.

The coastlines were clear, grayish shores that seemed to match the pallor of the Celtigar stronghold. Crackclaw Point, the peninsula, was more inhabited with towns and fishing villages, able to be spotted from where you flew. A lone fisherman on the beach stared overhead at the sight of a dragon making its descent somewhere far from the citadel walls.

A massive bridge connected Claw Isle to Crackclaw Point, an impressive contraption of thick stone that ferried denizens above the violet swell of the ocean’s tides. The banners of crimson crabs against a field of white fluttered in the distance, and you had to steel yourself from becoming trapped within the past.

The memories you held of home were not all bright and mirthful — some were horrible, others good, others muddled somewhere in between. You wondered how Clement would feel about your intrusion, answering his stubbornness and pride with that of a dragon, and then you realized that he would have no choice in the matter.

“Land far along the beach,” You instructed, feeling the steady beat of Vermax’s wings crawl to a halt as he descended. Jacaerys guided him to the shore, and the landing was hard, causing you to lurch forward within the saddle. “We will walk the rest of the way.”

Jacaerys dismounted first, sliding along the olive-and-sienna wing of his dragon, extending his arms out to you. As you moved down, albeit sluggishly, his hands circled your hips, grabbing you and placing you down onto solid ground.

A crack of thunder resonated overhead, accompanied with the swirling, ominous skies of an encroaching storm. Jacaerys held you still, pressing a kiss against your forehead. “If anything happens, you stay by my side.” He murmured, somewhat afraid that it would come to a fight. As long as he could reach Vermax, the odds were exponentially in his favor.

“Of course,” You reassured him, giving his forearms a gentle squeeze on either side of you. “If Clement is willing, we should have our fleet and be off by tomorrow. Though, I fear it might not be such an easy feat.” With a soft sigh, you stretched up upon your toes, kissing Jace with a brief flutter of passion.

It was soothing, being in the presence of one another. Jacaerys found it easier to simply exist with you without worrying about wandering eyes and being caught. You were somewhere unfamiliar, but he did not let his guard down. He reciprocated your kiss, keeping it chaste before the both of you began to walk down the strand.

Vermax paced along the coastline, flying from the wet sand toward the driftwood-strewn inclines and hills, blending in against the backdrop of tall pine trees. The dragon stayed close to Jacaerys’s side, but away from the wandering eyes of any potential hostilities.

Jacaerys felt your hand slip into his as the two of you made your trek to Celtigar Keep. You regailed him with tales of your home, from the massive stone stronghold to the vast amount of treasures that resided within. The dour curtain of veiled clouds hung low upon the strand, covering some of the Keep’s spires in a hazy fog.

It was not unlike Dragonstone in terms of intimidation — any fortress of such a grim caliber was sure to strike fear into those who saw it. Jacaerys found it to be beautiful, but not when an idiotic ruler sat inside of it. He didn’t want to cast judgment upon your brother so quickly, but he was doing very little to garner any sympathy.

“What is your brother like?” Jacaerys questioned, idly tracing his thumb over your knuckles. He wanted to prepare himself for whatever happened — and he had a hunch that he and Clement would butt heads like two rearing elk. “You rarely speak of him.”

There was a good reason for it, given your strained relationship. You hesitated, casting your forlorn gaze towards the beach instead, deciding on how to proceed. “Clement and I have not always had a good relationship,” You confessed, brows furrowing together. “He is stubborn and arrogant, but my father’s enablement of him simply worsened any negative qualities.”

Jacaerys listened closely, recognizing the frustration etched into your features. Whenever you spoke about Clement, it was never anything good. Your voice was often laced with irritation or a subtle pain. “Do you think he will listen to you?” His voice softened at his inquiry.

“I am unsure,” Admitting the bitter truth of the challenge that this mission presented was a hard pill to swallow. “I don’t think he will, but I must persuade him to listen and do what is right. It will be comforting to have you here with me.” You replied, offering Jace a threadbare smile.

“I wouldn’t have let you go alone,” Jace murmured, a tender smile tugging at either corner of his mouth. He feared becoming tempestuous in your brother’s presence — if hostilities or insults were hurled, there was no telling what he would do. “Is this the Keep where you grew up in?” He asked, motioning to the castle ahead.

The ocean lived within your blood just as much as that of Old Valyria — saltwater and the tides, intermingled with that of ancient ancestry. “Yes,” You replied, gaze drifting toward the scaling fortress of naval power, its walls and towers decorated with some oceanic motif. “It looked much brighter when I was younger.”

Jacaerys could envision you, a wide-eyed child, with a love of the sea, playing somewhere along the coast with the overbearing ire of your father. It was much like Driftmark, only Celtigar Keep was thrice the size and more like some dour mausoleum than a true castle.

“Should I worry about any hostilities from your brother?” Jace questioned, keeping one palm atop the pommel of his blade. The sword had been a gift from Daemon — despite the rift, it was an item of sentimental significance.

“My brother is half the fighter that you are, so I suspect not. His tongue is sharper than his blade — he wields insults instead of a sword.” You explained, and as you walked along the strand, the Keep became close and closer, coming into your focus. “Do not give him any satisfaction, or he will use it against you.”

It was good information to have, and Jace nodded, resolute and stalwart as his gaze turned from Celtigar Keep to you. There was a softness that found his features whenever he glanced at you, and he wanted nothing more than to steal you away and shower you with his affections.

Perhaps, if you were to stay at Celtigar Keep, he would be presented with ample opportunities.

It was foolish to think that way given the dire nature of your mission, providing his mother with an army and a fleet. The excitable, amorous nature of youth prevailed, but Jacaerys had other motives that offered some context to his desire. He’d been mulling it over for some time now, and the way forward had never been clearer.

As the both of you made it to the bridge, you crossed until you were faced with the bolted Gate of the Crab, a massive stone-wrought wall armed with crossbows and footsoldiers bearing the Celtigar tabard. They blocked your path, looking between you and Jacaerys with an air of concern and bewilderment.

“Who goes there?” A guard questioned, extending a polearm to bar your path.

“Lady Celtigar, daughter of Lord Bartimos, and Prince Jacaerys Velaryon of Dragonstone, son of Queen Rhaenyra Targaryen and heir to the Iron Throne.” You announced, happening to earn a brief smile from Jace’s end. He thoroughly enjoyed the way you introduced him, regal and with a lengthy list of titles and accolades to reinforce his position, and yours.

Both of the guards appeared shocked, glancing between one another before looking at you and Jace. He stood with his hands interlocked atop the pommel of his sword, crimson cape billowing in the wind. It bore the black-and-red Targaryen sigil, doublet stitched with silver dragons and intricate patterns.

“What business does the Prince have with Lord Celtigar?” A guard piped up, demanding a suitable answer before allowing either of you inside. He addressed Jacaerys with a certain level of sternness, as if it would intimidate him — it didn’t in the slightest.

“It does not matter whether or not I have business with your lord. What matters is that Lady Celtigar is here to treat with her brother — why deny her that satisfaction?” Jacaerys quipped, brows furrowing together. His abilities in diplomacy and action had improved greatly since his time with Lord Cregan Stark in the North.

A wariness grew between the guards, who looked to the crossbowmen supplanted along the walls, and the back to the both of you. Still, they hesitated on letting either of you inside — until Vermax appeared. The dragon let out a screech, flying right over the bridge you stood upon before circling around into the thicket of pines.

Jacaerys smiled triumphantly, head canting to one side. “Surely, you will not deny us now.” He quipped, hovering protectively at your flank, curls billowing with the saltwater breeze. The guards swallowed whatever fear had risen into their throats, and promptly stepped aside, opening up the gates.

You fought to withhold the look of amusement upon your face, passing through the Crabgate with Jacaerys. Having Vermax at your side was an excellent idea, and you had to credit Jace for his ingenious use of dragons. Diplomacy wasn’t something either of you were used to, but it was a role worth growing into.

The grounds of Celtigar Keep were vast, an oceanic aesthetic interwoven into the architecture. The sigil of the red crab was everywhere you looked, repeated again and again. Jacaerys appeared perplexed, brows furrowing together as he observed his surroundings. It reminded him much of Driftmark.

The castle now seemed aware of your presence, the Lady Celtigar and the Heir to the Iron Throne, walking in-tandem toward the Great Hall. The guards allowed you passage through the courtyard and the grounds of the Keep, the hall looming in the distance, wreathed in a shroud of gray mist.

Jacaerys steeled himself for what was to come, meeting your brother head-on in his own home. From what little of him you’d described, he was his own age, nine-and-ten, bullheaded with little knowledge of how to truly rule. A challenge that he welcomed, truthfully — if he was to one day ascend the throne, he would need to know how to deal with unruly subjects.

A set of stairs ascended towards the Great Hall, marked by braziers, crabs holding large bowls with still-smoldering embers inside. The hour was beginning to grow late, sometime in the evening, and you and Jacaerys were both weathered from the journey.

As the guards opened the doors to the Great Hall, it was nothing more than a large room, dome-shaped with windows above, allowing for natural light to trickle through. Each column that held the hall aloft were wreathed in stone motifs of crabs and seaweed, winding down toward the floor.

In the primary seat of House Celtigar, a throne fashioned from the very rock that the Keep stood upon, sat your brother, Clement. He seemed less than enthused with your presence, but perplexed nonetheless, gaze drifting between both yourself and Jacaerys.

“You could’ve sent a raven, sister. I had no idea of your coming to Claw Isle,” Clement sat slumped within his supposed throne, one hand tucked into a fist beneath his chin, the other tapping against the stone arm. “It seems you’ve brought a guest.”

“In your colorful missive to me, you implored me to not send any more ravens,” You retorted, folding your hands together. “I did what anyone would do — came to see you in-person.” It had been two years, and Clement seemed older in the face, but his demeanor hadn’t changed in the slightest.

Clement scoffed, brows furrowing together at your snide comment. You were determined and ambitious, he would give you that, but he was prepared to turn you down immediately. “You’ve come here to do what, exactly? Demand half of my fleet? Admonish me for sending our father away? What outcome did you expect from this?”

Jacaerys answered instead, his tone steely and measured, the kingly voice of a man striving to fight for his mother’s claim and his own. “We expect half of your forces, as promised. Your house swore an oath to Queen Rhaenyra Targaryen — do not make your family look foolish.” He retorted, visage one of stalwart composure, a glare thrown in Clement’s direction.

“Remind me — who are you?” Clement questioned, his tone tinged with an edge of mockery as he looked upon Jacaerys with disdain. Two young men of different morals and caliber preparing to butt heads — you couldn’t imagine that this would go well.

“Prince Jacaerys Velaryon, son of Queen Rhaenyra Targaryen, Prince of Dragonstone and heir to the Iron Throne,” He declared, hands interlocked atop the pommel of his sword. “Ensuring that you hold your oath fulfilled.” Jacaerys did not like your brother — there was an arrogance there that irritated him.

Clement scoffed, turning his attention to you again, hands folding together within his lap. “Brought your Prince with you, did you, sister?” He sneered, his expression sour before he shook his head. “Where is that dragon of yours? Shall you burn me where I stand if I do not do as the Queen demands?”

“My Lord, your house is pledged to Queen Rhaenyra, surely you will not —” One of Clement’s advisers, Lord Mydas Smythe, an older man with a rather bushy set of brows, implored your brother to listen to reason.

“The fleet is needed here, in the defense of Claw Isle and Crackclaw Point. Ser Criston Cole is parading through the Riverlands, unchecked and unchallenged. Soon, he will turn his sights to us. Though, I will show you kindness and give you two ships — for your troubles.” Clement snapped, waving a hand dismissively at Lord Smythe.

“You seem very worried for a man cowering behind his castle walls,” Jacaerys relented, shoulders squaring up against Clement, dark brows furrowed together in a look of complete and utter spite. “Since you have your armies and acclaimed fleet, why not ride out and meet Cole yourself?”

Clement’s mouth twitched, throat growing thick with rage as he was put in his place before his Court, by a boy with little experience of anything. “I cannot say I’ve heard much of your valor either, Prince of Dragonstone. Instead, you’ve come to play politics with my airheaded sister.”

“Mind your tongue before Lady Celtigar.” Jacaerys’s voice was sharp and smoldering with rage when Clement so blatantly insulted you, and he nearly retorted again if it weren’t for you. He bristled, jaw unnaturally tense as he prepared to fight for your honor.

Your hand slyly tugged upon the sleeve of his doublet, urging him not to act just yet. He remained quiet, adhering to your advice as he silently fumed, glaring at Clement with all of the tempestuous ferocity of a young dragon. If a look could burn one where they stood, your brother would’ve been ash and bone.

“I would ask you to reconsider,” Your voice subtly quivered, anxiousness beginning to get the better of you. “Please, Clement. This is the cause our father pledged to — and it is a worthy one. We cannot have our house branded as oath breakers. Do not throw everything away for the sake of your pride.”

Your brother’s nostrils flared, fingers clenching together into a tight fist as he fought to maintain his composure before his small court. “My pride?” He quipped, tone harsh and unyielding before he exhaled, turning away for a brief moment. “I will have my answer for you on the morrow. For now, you are guests in my Keep — do not take advantage of my hospitality.”

Perhaps, you had gotten to Clement, even if it was for the briefest of moments. Your father had always favored your brother, but pushed him too far — excelling in everything, shoved to the very edge of greatness at the cost of his own sanity.

Lord Smythe seemed rather disappointed in Clement’s lack of action and propriety. The older man looked to you with a withering expression, visibly apologetic before he bowed and took his leave. You offered him a thin smile, one of subtle reassurance.

The halls remained eerily quiet, thick with a strained tension that threatened to erupt between Clement and Jacaerys, in particular. You wanted to avoid a physical confrontation — and you knew that Jace wouldn’t shy away, being twice the fighter that your brother was.

Despite Jace’s desire to continue pressing him, he yielded, hands gripping the pommel so tightly that it threatened to snap into two. He hated the way Clement treated you, as if you were insignificant and unimportant, more of a nuisance than true family.

One of the guards stepped in as Clement stood from the Celtigar seat, giving you a disparaging stare before he disappeared, slipping through one of the crab-adorned doors. Knights in his service followed dutifully, leaving you and Jacaerys in the Great Hall, save for the presence of guardsmen and a handful of advisors.

The halls of Celtigar Keep were incredibly familiar to you, and the guard inevitably escorted you and Jacaerys to your chambers, your quarters down the corridor from his own. Yours happened to be the very same you stayed in for most of your life, until you were made to become Rhaenyra’s lady-in-waiting.

Your chambers were far more lavish than your humble accommodations on Dragonstone, but you much preferred it to Celtigar Keep. Here, everything seemed hollow, and memories stirred with you — most of them evoked a sense of melancholy. You hoped that your time here was short and fleeting, if it all went in your favor.

𝐂𝐥𝐞𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐝𝐢𝐝 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐢𝐧𝐯𝐢𝐭𝐞 𝐞𝐢𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐨𝐟 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐭𝐨 𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐞 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐡𝐢𝐦, 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐢𝐧𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐚𝐝, 𝐬𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐯𝐚𝐧𝐭𝐬 𝐭𝐨 𝐨𝐟𝐟𝐞𝐫 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐧𝐞𝐫 𝐢𝐧 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐪𝐮𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐬.

You had barely touched your food, pacing your newfound surroundings, studying the old decorations you had scattered about your chambers.

Many fixings had belonged to you since childhood — relics of your youth scattered atop the mantle above the hearth, gowns tucked away that you hadn’t worn since your teenage years. It evoked a strong sense of nostalgia, perhaps a yearning for the past.

Jacaerys did not want to stay put in his assigned chambers for long. With haste, he stealthily moved through the door and made for your room, unseen and filled with a sense of excitement.

Before you could leave to sneak away to Jacaerys’s room, he was already at your door, quietly slipping inside with his belongings, silvery platter of seafood included. “Are you going somewhere?” You questioned, watching as he hastily stepped across the room to set his meal beside yours.

“No,” Jacaerys replied, facing you with a soft expression. “Just here,” He hesitated, searching your face for any sign of discomfort or protest at his subtle request. He cared very little for the repercussions or consequences — you were no longer on Dragonstone, and the scrutiny of your relationship wasn’t something that worried him. “If you are agreeable to it.”

A smile spread across your features, vibrant and uplifting despite the charged, dour situation earlier that evening. “There is nowhere else that I’d want you to be,” You replied, heart stirring within your chest as your stomach filled with the excitable churning of butterflies. “If you didn’t come, I would’ve found my way to you eventually.”

Content and warmed by your words, Jacaerys found it difficult to suppress a grin of his own, mirth twinkling within his eyes. “There aren’t as many wandering eyes here,” He mused, placing his knapsack on top of your footlocker. “I thought perhaps, I could stay this time — until the dawn.”

A semblance of delight rippled through you, accompanied with your still-flourishing love for him. Jacaerys being here meant a great deal to you, more than he would ever realize. To have him insist that he share your bed until morning made you most elated. “Please stay.” You insisted.

He made himself comfortable, careful gaze absorbing each and every detail of your chambers. The relics and trinkets organized on shelves intrigued him, some of them being handmade dragons and knights. Jace picked up one of them, crafted from stone, turning it over within the light.

“I am sorry for my brother,” You sighed, shrugging your overcoat aside, draping it over the foot of your bed. The gowns you wore beneath were tattered and muddied at the ends, used for traveling and practical purposes. “I did not want you to be the subject of his ire.”

Jacaerys’s jaw tensed slightly at mention of your brother, whose tongue would be cut away if he made another insult against you. “He sullies your good name,” He murmured, brows furrowing together as he studied the intricacies of your chambers. “I apologize if I lost my temper. I loathed the way he spoke to you.”

Admittedly, you felt quite the opposite — his protectiveness over you was incredibly attractive and gallant, qualities that you adored about him. “I do believe that he needs to be humbled, and you do it so brilliantly.” You replied, fidgeting with the ends of your sleeves. It was an old dress made for travel. “Thank you for defending me.”

His brown hues softened once more, dancing with an immeasurable amount of affection for you, a bright ardor that refused to be snuffed out. “You needn’t thank me,” Jacaerys stepped closer, lips briefly pressing against your forehead. “I will always protect you, until my last breath.” His words were a solemn vow, not easily broken.

With a soft exhale, you squeezed his hand, careening into his warm embrace. “Are you hungry? We could eat, if you’d like. I suspect that nothing will come of this evening until we treat with my brother tomorrow.” You sighed, knowing that waiting would make everything worse.

“Plenty of time on our hands,” Jacaerys chimed, yet his honeyed words seemed thick with implications of how to fill your unoccupied time. It was on your mind just as heavily, yet you pretended to be clueless, canting your head to one side. “Let’s eat.”

It would give the both of you ample time to figure out some play or strategy when it came to Clement. You knew that with enough pressure and whittling, he would finally obey your demands. Nevertheless, you didn’t want to plague your mind with doubt — not now, anyway.

Lukewarm seafood sat piled upon porcelain plates, accompanied by generous helpings of roasted vegetables and hunks of half-stale bread. It was better than scraps or rations, and you led Jacaerys toward the small, ornate table situated within your quarters.

It felt so blissful like this — alone with him, basking in the moment, enjoying a meal together without fear of interruptions or speculation. You sat diagonally from one another, candlelight dancing atop the driftwood table as you cut into your filet of fish.

“If we cannot convince your brother to deliver on his oath, what then?” Jacaerys asked, jaw tensing. He didn’t want to fight your brother, but if that’s what was needed of him, he would do it without question. “We cannot return home empty-handed.”

Your shoulders sank in a brief sigh. “Clement is foolish, arrogant, and stubborn — but he knows when to give it up. This is all some display and spectacle meant to goad me, but I won’t give him the satisfaction.” Glancing at Jace, you seemed more determined than ever. “And neither should you.”

That would be a difficult feat, biting his tongue while your brother assailed you with bitter, venomous words. Jacaerys would sooner cut his tongue for it than sit idly by while you suffered. “I won’t let him tarnish your honor, and I will not sit by while he insults you. I cannot do it.” He replied, shaking his head.

“Sometimes, that is what you have to do, Jacaerys. I promise that I can handle it. I just — I don’t want you to fall prey to his viciousness, that’s all.” You loved all of Jacaerys — everything about him was good, even his sharp tongue and quick temper.

Jace stared at you, love burning within his eyes, coupled with that of an unwavering devotion. “I wouldn’t stoop to that level,” He reached for your hand, digits tracing across the ridges of your knuckles. “Not with you.” Solemn and stalwart, he squeezed your fingers, and you returned the gesture.

“You’re a good man, Jacaerys.” You crooned, steadfast in your belief in him, in your own devotion. Part of you always feared that the fantasy would fade and duty would pledge him to another, but so far, it hadn’t happened yet. You hoped that it stayed that way. “I am fortunate to keep your company.”

He brought your hand to his lips, pressing a gentle kiss atop your knuckles before he released you, returning to his food with disinterest. “My heart is yours,” It was the same, saccharine assurance he’d stated time and time again. “Until the end of my days.”

Jacaerys wanted this for the rest of his life — and he could have it. He was going to ask you. Perhaps not now, but the moment felt right, and it could be upon him instantaneously if he wasn’t prepared. The idea of you being his wife, enjoying meals like this in the sanctuary of your chambers together, unperturbed by prying eyes — he wanted this, and he wanted you.

Through deliberate bites of sautéed seafood, Jacaerys gazed at you with a doe-like expression, studying your beautiful features, the way you treated him to a smile when you caught him staring. He was the fortunate one, the luckiest man alive in the realm to have fallen in love with you, and with every breath he drew, he only loved you more.

When you caught his smoldering gaze, you felt a familiar warmth dance along the length of your spine. Smitten, you absentmindedly dabbed at the corner of your mouth with your cloth. “Do I have something on my face?” You questioned, feeling gluttonous for consuming your food so quickly.

Seafood was a commonality on Claw Isle, but it tasted wonderful each time — perhaps it was the familiarity of it and the warmth of home that made you feel this way. Nonetheless, you sat back within your seat, feeling undeniably hot beneath Jacaerys’s tender stare.

“You’re incredibly beautiful, that's all.” He hummed, heart swelling tenfold when you began to giggle. Jace wondered if it seemed too silly, doting on you during dinner, but you didn’t protest whatsoever. “You have nothing on your face, if it makes you feel better.”

His sweetly-spoken compliments made your insides melt, turning to a pool of heat as you played with your fork. You smiled at Jacaerys as if he were the sun itself, warm and vibrant, keeping you in his orbit. “I love you.” You hummed, and as you finished your meal, you gently stood up, pressing a kiss against the top of his head in-passing.

Jacaerys felt his features turn warm with a rosy coloration, though he wondered what you were doing, watching as you paced across your chambers. You knelt beside the hearth, adding more kindling and wood onto the fire before you dusted your hands off on your skirts.

“These chambers were my home for the longest time,” You sighed, peering over the gray walls, decorated in plenty of your own furnishings and personal touches. “It is strange to be back here, but having you with me makes it all much more bearable.”

Removing himself from the table, he joined you in touring your quarters, following you past the small set of doors into the sanctity of your bedroom. It hadn’t been used in years, everything perfectly in-place, the same as you left it. You opened up your wardrobe with a huff of laughter.

“What is it?” Jacaerys asked, head canting to one side as you removed one gown in particular. It was resplendent and beautifully-made, handcrafted with silver embroidery against fields of cream and crimson — the colors of House Celtigar.

“My father had this made for me when he attempted to find me suitable marriage prospects,” You explained, chewing at the inside of your cheek. Thankfully, you were sent away before you could be married to some middle-aged man from the Stormlands. “I never did get to wear it.” You mused.

He envisioned you in it so very clearly — perfection incarnate, in his eyes. Jacaerys’s gaze softened at the sight of you, exuberant and smiling at him with affection interwoven into your features. “You would look beautiful in it,” He murmured, lips twitching into a soft smile. “Though, you look enchanting in anything and everything.”

You loved him so deeply, letting it seep into your bones, filling you with an insurmountable feeling of ardor. Being alone with him without fear of intrusion was a wonderful feeling, something that you wished you could have more of — on Dragonstone and everywhere else.

With a soft exhale, you stowed the dress aside, gently shutting the massive, gilded doors to your wardrobe before peering to the window. It was nearly sundown, the sunset hidden behind darker sheets of gray, thick clouds, but nighttime was close on its heels.

“Did your father ever succeed in finding you a suitable betrothal?” Jacaerys inquired, picturing you in that gown, standing by his side when he asked your father for your hand. The question was innately harmless, perhaps his own curiosity getting the best of him, but he needed to know.

The question blindsided you, filling you with a sense of mild bewilderment as you cleared your throat. “No,” It was better that way — if you had been betrothed, you might’ve never formed the bond with Jacaerys that you had. You wouldn’t trade it for anything. “He did not, and I am thankful for it — I met you.”

Jacaerys gazed at you with true love, brown hues swirling with tenderness and an adoration that drowned out everything else. He could no longer imagine his existence without you in it, and he loathed to think what could’ve happened had you already been promised to another.

Now, that possibility to become a union seemed very real, a reality that was just within his grasp, so visceral and raw that even he could see it in his mind’s eye. Jacaerys smiled at that, briefly pressing a kiss against your temples before he settled down. “I am thankful for it, too.” He confessed, voice soft and assured.

“I’m going to change out of this dreadful thing,” You mumbled, pinching the muddied fabric between your fingertips as you cleared your throat. “Are you tired?” Admittedly, exhaustion hadn’t gripped you yet — you were somewhat awkward, having Jacaerys here in your chambers.

There was no need to hurry, no suspicions, nothing to rush — it was just the both of you until tomorrow. Of course, there were always certain proclivities on your mind, but you held your tongue, for now.

“Not entirely,” Jacaerys replied, removing his leather belt and scabbard, placing both beside the foot of your bed. It was beautiful, with four towering posts draped in a curtain of cerulean silk. Even he felt the unusual tension, attempting to alleviate it with a smile. “I suppose I’ll join you.”

Something gnawed at him — the very same question he’d been mulling over within his mind for a week now, perhaps even before then. Jacaerys observed in rapturous silence as you removed an embroidered evening slip from your wardrobe, the silk nearly translucent, the color of sage.

He swallowed the growing lump within his throat, attempting to quell his nerves, but to no avail. Jacaerys had never known fear quite like this before — there were different shades of terror. The fear of death and loss, a fear of war, perhaps — but none so great as a fear of rejection.

You sluggishly peeled away your coarse dress, tugging at the leather ties as it loosened, slack upon your body. It was tattered and trimmed with mud at the edges, prompting you to toss it somewhere onto the floor. The smallclothes you wore were much of the same, common garments crafted for travel.

A semblance of sweet warmth and ardor seemed to make a permanent residence upon Jace’s features as he watched you disrobe. Those brown hues of his traced over your delicate curves, every facet of your physique committed to memory.

Your beauty was one only described in fairytales and the ballads written by wayward poets — a beauty that Jacaerys often found himself in awe of. As you carefully pried away your smallclothes to put on the silken slip in its place, his breath caught within his throat.

This could be his life — he could not picture it without you anymore. It all seemed so gray and lonely without you by his side, without your steadfast support and belief in him, without your love. If the future was as bright as he imagined it to be, he could see you as his Queen, his wife, his equal in all things.

Perhaps it was his duty to make his intentions known — to have his mother’s blessing before swearing an oath, to have the favor of your father, but it all seemed inconsequential. He no longer feared consequences, no longer feared the brashness of such a decision.

War would continue to ravage the Seven Kingdoms, consuming all with it, perhaps his own life, should it go in such a route. If he perished, what then? The love he had for you would endure, the mark he left upon your life would endure, but what of your bond? What of marriage, of your union?

Jacaerys could not continue on without asking you the most important question he would ever ask.

“Be my wife.”

Time stood still, and you swore that your heart exploded within your chest. You couldn’t believe it, unsure if you had heard Jacaerys right or if it was all a very wonderful fantasy. Turning upon your heel, you faced Jacaerys with a bewildered, shocked expression.

“What?” With your voice barely above a whisper, you felt your stomach swirling with butterflies, an incendiary heat licking across your spine with a fervor. Your hands wrung together, folded across your midsection.

Jacaerys’s lips parted as he stood taller, shoulders squaring as he approached you, hands seizing yours as he reaffirmed his love for you. “I am so desperately in love with you,” He whispered, attempting to catch his breath, thumbs tracing across your knuckles. “I cannot imagine a life without you, and I cannot imagine continuing to go on knowing that I am not your husband.”

“Jacaerys.” You gasped, unable to withhold the swell of emotions that stirred within you. Tears pricked at your eyes, a byproduct of the onslaught of sentiment you felt, all hitting you at once. It was an amalgamation of adoration, devotion, love, passion — it all seemed to wash over you immediately.

“I would ask you to be the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms — together, with me. I would ask that you marry me upon the shores of Dragonstone, amongst fire and brimstone, salt and sea,” Jace murmured, gently pressing his forehead against yours for a brief moment. “I would ask that you allow me to hold your heart forever.”

Disbelief rippled through you, the initial shock dissipating into the unbelievable love you had for him — an ardor that transcended any bonds of propriety. You loved him fiercely yet gently, loved him for everything he was and everything he would be. You lifted your joined hands to your chest.

“There is no one else for me in this world, Jacaerys Velaryon,” You crooned, pressing your lips against his palm. “I am yours, until my last day — and I will love you forever.” You felt his breath hitch slightly as you drew closer, snug against his chest as you gave him a rather exuberant smile, eyes sparkling with tears. “Nothing would please me more than marrying you.”

Relief flooded through him, and the weight of fear lifted from his shoulders. It was enough to make him audibly sigh with joy as he reached to cup your face, swiping away at the singular tear falling across your cheek. He was smiling so much that it almost made his chest burst with happiness.

“We are betrothed,” The overwhelming excitement that crept into your tone was difficult to miss, and you wanted to kiss him a thousand times over. “I cannot wait to refer to you as my husband.” An ebullient giggle escaped you when Jacaerys picked you up, spinning you in a circle as he caged you in against his chest.

His mouth sought yours, the kiss charged with an excitable passion as he held you close, hands kneading at your curves through the thin silk. “My wife, the most perfect woman in all of the realm,” He mused, thumbs drawing slow circles into your hips. “You are mine, and I am yours.” Jace whispered.

Again, you clamored for a kiss, turning the joy of your shared moment into passion, manifesting into the first inklings of desire. He was quick to reciprocate, continuing to gently feel along your body, your perfect curves hidden beneath such sheer fabrics.

You kissed him hard, hands dragging towards his tunic, tugging at the collar of it as your kiss melted from sweet and innocuous to passionate. The feeling of not having to limit yourself or fear intrusion was exhilarating — and you hoped that it meant there would be plenty of time for exploration.

It was only when he pulled away just slightly to gaze at you did you realize how much this meant to you, how much you loved him. You wanted all of him — his heart and his intellect, protective nature, his body and soul. Your hands continued to trace across his clothed chest, lips parted slightly.

“I want to take my time with you,” Jacaerys murmured, fingers gently sweeping across the now-faded cut upon your brow, tucking hair behind your ear. “If you’ll allow me the pleasure.” He never proceeded without your consent, gazing at you as if you were the only thing in the world that mattered.

The familiar sting of arousal pooled between your legs, accompanied by a wave of heat. He spoke so tenderly, digits continuing to caress along your brow, swiping down towards your cheek. “Of course.” You whispered, hands skimming beneath his tunic. “As long as you’ll allow me to return the favor.”

A pang of exhilaration rippled through him as he nodded, lips twitching into a smile. He didn’t know what you meant by returning the favor, but it intrigued him. There was nothing that could stop either of you — and he intended on savoring every moment with you.

You gently coaxed him toward the plush armchair near your vanity, easing him down against the cushions. Jacaerys sat upright, hands moving toward your hips again, kneading into your pliant flesh. It allowed you to stoop down, lips molding against his as your fingers found the hem of his tunic again.

Clothing shuffled against eager hands as you removed Jacaerys’s tunic, graced with lean, pale muscle and a canvas of freckles beneath your palms. You planted your hands against his chest, fingertips dancing over every freckle, every line of taut muscle.

Jace shuddered at your exploratory embrace, savoring the feeling of your fingers tracing every inch of him, committing his musculature to memory. “I wanted to try something, if you’ll let me.” You murmured, lowering yourself to your knees before him.

There was an instantaneous notion of shock, Jacaerys’s eyes widened in surprise as he swallowed the growing lump within his throat. “What — What are you doing?” He asked, throat hoarse with desire. “You do not have to, never feel obligated to do such things, I —”

“Jacaerys,” You interjected, ensuring that your voice was barely above a whisper. Your palms soothingly caressed along his thighs, and his cock immediately roused, stirring within his breeches. “I want to please you. I would like to try, that’s all.” He still seemed apprehensive, but obliged nonetheless.

He preferred to serve you, face between your legs, tongue savoring your sweetness. He imagined that it was something he could do after this, but for now, he simply tried to relax and let you try something new. Goosebumps coalesced along his spine as your digits reached for the ties of his trousers, loosening them up.

A sliver of him couldn’t deny the thrill and exhilaration that coursed through him, the excitement. You were breathtakingly beautiful, ethereal and everything he had ever wanted, there in the flesh. “You are beautiful.” He whispered, staring at you with doe-like eyes.

Warming beneath his softly-spoken compliment, you preened, lips twitching into a comely smile. “As are you.” You assured, feeling his lips find yours for a brief moment as you freed his cock, taking his hardened length into your silky palm.

Jacaerys sat back as best as he could, lips parted, visibly flustered as you began to stroke from base to tip, thumb tracing over the flushed head. He groaned, hands gripping the back of the settee with all of his strength. It felt incredible — you only enhanced everything.

Your palm spread out against his thigh, giving you a perch, something to brace yourself against as you wrapped your mouth around the head of his cock. A sharp exhale escaped Jacaerys, whose body trembled from the foreign sensation, hand suddenly reaching down to find yours.

It was intimate, a sweet gesture despite the lewd act, digits twining together atop his thigh. Your mouth was soft and incredibly gentle, exploratory at your core as you bobbed your head in sluggish, rhythmic motions. Jace felt hot, unable to focus, but he did not force you to do anything more.

“Gods, you are incredible.” He breathed, stomach churning with a fiery heat, a sensation that mirrored your own. Molten liquid pooled within the pit of your belly, coalescing between your thighs at the sound of Jace’s pleasure. Instead of tugging on your hair, he simply caressed your cheek, watching for any sign of discomfort on your end.

With Jace’s fingertips carefully tracing across your face, you continued to tease his cock, hand stroking in sure movements as your mouth did the rest. It was brief, fleeting laps of your tongue across the head of his cock or suckling upon it altogether.

It felt strange and slightly sloppy, as if you weren’t doing something correctly, but instinct guided you. Jacaerys seemed to enjoy it regardless, hips occasionally jolting forward, followed by a soft, mumbled apology. He held himself in-check, squeezing your hand when you kissed along his length.

There was a vast amount of tenderness between the both of you, allowing for everything to be handled with gentleness and care. He didn’t push you or coax you further, simply relaxed and allowed you to do however much or little you wanted.

Between the shy laps of your tongue intermingled with the ministrations of your hand, Jacaerys worried about how long he would last in this state. Your mouth was divine, bringing him closer to a blissful beyond, abdomen tightening with a flurry of arousal.

The bitter slick of precum oozed along his length, but you paid little attention to it, continuing to pump your hand along his cock. Instead, you peppered sweet kisses against his thigh and hips, causing him to seize up and groan.

His countenance was one of beauty, contorted into a look of sheer bliss, eyes closed, mouth agape as his head rolled back against the lounge. Your fingers remained interlocked, his thumb occasionally grazing your knuckles as you kissed towards his abdomen.

Your hand remained steadfast, caressing his cock, allowing your fingers to stroke from base to tip. Jace let out a husky moan, hand involuntarily reaching for your hair. His grip was delicate, digits gingerly kneading at your scalp. The sensation was incredible, and even you felt some satisfaction from it.

The suddenness of his release seemed to catch him off-guard, muscles tense and seizing, pleasure unfurling within his stomach like a wildfire. Jacaerys moaned your name, a sound so divine coming from his mouth. He trembled in the aftermath, visage flushed with embarrassment.

He felt pitiful for this, but he couldn’t help himself, shaking from the intensity of it all. “I did not mean to …” Before Jacaerys could speak another word, you pressed your hand against his mouth.

“It was perfect.” You corrected, palm slick with his seed as you stood to clean yourself, finding a towel sitting along the edge of your vanity. You returned to do the same for him, dutifully cleaning the sticky spend from his stomach.

Visibly flustered, Jace cleared his throat, sitting up a little straighter as he attempted to compose himself again. He wanted to give you more — everything, if he could. “I do not want to stop.” He whispered, gazing at you with a look of desire, hand reaching to cup your face.

That alone was enough to make your insides melt, lips parting as you nodded several times over. “Neither do I.” You breathed, and with that, your mouths collided in a fury, ardor and want bleeding through, consuming the both of you in a tidal wave.

His cock twitched again, lust renewed, yet his love for you seemed to outweigh everything else. He made sure to loosely tie his breeches up again — not that they would be on for much longer, at this pace. Jacaerys kissed you again and stood, offering you his hand.

You took it, as a lady would a prince, and he immediately pulled you into his arms, sweeping you right up off of the ground. He carried you gallantly, cradling you to his chest as you smiled, coaxing him in for a sweet kiss. Jace carried you to your bed, placing you down against the silken sheets and feathered duvet.

“I love you,” He murmured, finding his footing between your legs, the silken slip coming to gather around your hips. Despite the sensuality of it all, the lust and carnal appetites you held for one another, love conquered it all, and tenderness prevailed. “Ñuha hūra embar.”

My moonlit sea — the love of his life.

A gentle fluttering stirred within your chest, the sound of your heart calling his name — you would never love another. It was Jacaerys’s name upon your mind, emblazoned into your very bones. You kissed him, the fire stoked, even if it wasn’t a raging one.

As he neared you, your fingers found their purchase within his mane of thick curls, tugging on them incessantly, mouth tangling with his. A breath apart, you held him close, feeling the chill of saltwater air brush along your legs.

“I love you, Jacaerys.” You whispered, allowing it to slip from your lips a few times more, and he was lost in you. Jacaerys’s hands moved to the hem of your nightgown, aiming to rid you of the thin fabric, exposing yourself to him completely.

Each time he saw you bare, it was like the first time all over again — in-awe of your beauty, completely and utterly unparalleled. His mouth found the delicate curve of your jaw, kissing you in a slow, steady trail down your neck, and then to the hollow of your throat.

Every kiss was warm and lingering — he took his time with you, finding no reason to rush. His lips felt like hot brands, emblazoning themselves upon your flesh. Jace kissed across your collarbone, and you began to shift with anticipation. You wanted his face between your thighs, his hands interlaced with yours.

Jacaerys found the plush swell of your breasts, mouth kissing along each one, over your nipples, and through your sternum. He was careful, intentionally savoring each and every kiss, drinking in your presence as if it were his lifeblood.

He delved lower, shuddering when he felt your fingers find his crown of tousled curls, mouth embracing your stomach until he found your hips. The moment was incredibly intimate, with Jace kissing wherever his mouth could reach, ensuring that you received every last drop of his affections.

You were a goddess — perfection incarnate, breathtakingly beautiful beneath him. Jacaerys’s mouth graced your thighs, shoulders spreading them apart as he kissed his way down to your slick core. Heat washed over him in the wake of discovering how aroused you already were.

This was something he’d sorely missed, the taste of your cunt — his patience certainly paid off. You watched with wide, doe-like eyes as Jacaerys’s head buried itself between your thighs, the rest of him flattened against the feather-bed. His hands carefully traced along your thighs before they held your hips in-place.

“Jace,” You moaned, craving the sensation of his mouth against your core. His tongue raked hot embers over your cunt, deliciously slow, ensuring that he took his time with tasting you. Your hand flew to his curls, eliciting a soft groan from him, too. “Gods, don’t stop — please!”

He was insatiable, hunger swelling within him as he took to lapping at your cunt, tongue splitting past your folds. Your thighs twitched and trembled even now, digits coaxing him in for more, to which he gleefully obliged.

His eagerness was palpable through each flick of his tongue, lost within the oasis between your legs. A myriad of soft whimpers and whines escaped you, hand gingerly tugging on Jace’s hair as he showered your cunt in an alternation of steady licks to lingering ones.

Bathed in pools of silvery moonlight that trickled in from the windows, Jace appeared more ethereal than ever, the muscles flexing within his back. If it were up to him, he would’ve been content to stay here forever, pleasure you over and over again until you shook.

The short, dizzying gasp that tore past your mouth spurred him on, as he pressed another string of kisses against your slit. The continued sensation of your digits carding through his curls made him sigh with elation.

He brought you closer, heart leaping into his throat when you began to writhe beneath him, hips tilting forward into each stroke of his mouth. “You are perfect.” He assured, his resonance little more than a needy whisper, a groan stifled within his throat.

Blossoming beneath his sweet compliments, your fingers curled against his scalp, unable to lay still as Jace resumed his previous ministrations. The warmth of his tongue left you with a blistering want, stomach churning with a wave of arousal.

At last, his tongue found your neglected pearl, tracing around your clit with a gentleness. Jacaerys’s tender expression also bore a great deal of concentration, dark eyes flickering toward you. “There?” He uttered, hoping that you would guide him to where he needed to be.

Your head fervently bobbed up and down, wanting him to stay rooted there. “Yes,” You whimpered, nearly shaking when his lips gingerly pursed around your clit, suckling upon the clutch of nerves until your body became tense. “R—Right there, Jacaerys, please!”

Everything felt feverishly hot, as if you would be turned to ash where you laid, bones trembling with desire. His hands kneaded into the swell of your hips, digits drawing soft patterns into your flesh, drawing you closer into his smoldering embrace.

Jacaerys was attentive and loving, following your breathy plea as he pursed his lips around the pearl of your cunt again, alternating between that and greedy, excitable laps of his tongue. Even he allowed himself to be lost within bliss and pleasure, arousal mounting from pleasuring you.

He shivered at the noises you made, sounds that took residence within the recesses of his mind, made for sweet torment. You weren’t shy about your own delight, moaning again, interwoven with breathy sighs and chants of his name until it was the only word you knew.

You reached for his hand, fingers interlocking atop the swell of your hip as he continued to lap at your aching core. He squeezed your hand as a sign of reassurance, buried deep within your sweet cunt, something that he hungered for.

Your back arched off of the blankets, hand pushing through Jacaerys’s disheveled curls, finding their anchor against his scalp. He groaned whenever you tugged upon his tresses, only serving to coax him further into your cunt.

Arousal rushed through you, molten heat oozing from between your thighs, a nectar as sweet as honey. “I—I’m close,” You whined, beginning to lose yourself to the throes of pleasure. “Jacaerys, please!” A throaty moan tore past your mouth, hips jolting forward.

Gods, he ruined you — made a mess of you in the best way possible, tearing down all bonds of propriety. Knowing that he was to be your husband, that you and him were twined together as one — it only sweetened your mounting release.

Writhing beneath him, you squeezed his hand, stomach sloshing with liquid heat, a heat that continued to devour you, making you feel unbelievably hot. You melted within Jace’s hands, reduced to nothing more than a moaning, whimpering mess.

With another barrage of his tongue assaulting your cunt, you whimpered, turning malleable, body trembling with your encroaching release. He knew that you were on the verge, and so he pursed his lips around your clit once more, and that was more than enough.

His name emerged from your lips like a reverent prayer, the only name that you knew in that moment. Your release was hot, like a rush of fire that refused to simmer, unable to be quelled. The residual sensation lingered, and Jace helped you through it.

Your thighs twitched, absentmindedly attempting to clench together, but Jace held you apart, soothing you with kisses along your thighs. The blissful, contented expression that soon followed was a beautiful one — Jace was shocked to know that he could do that to you, bring you to ruin.

It was a white-hot release, one that set your body ablaze, made the tight coil within your stomach unfurl. Your breathing was labored, still wrought with excitement as you steadily climbed down from your pinnacle, grip beginning to loosen upon Jacaerys’s tresses.

“I will never tire of that,” Jace confessed, his voice sweet against the inside of your thigh. Your slick glistened upon his chin, yet any remnants that remained, he quickly lapped up. He needed a moment to recuperate, crawling forward to rest his head against your chest. “The Gods have made you incomparable.”

Preening beneath his delicate praise and soft spoken compliments, you brought your fingers to his hair, gently raking through, correcting the dishevel you’d caused. You kissed his forehead, palm stroking along his broad, freckled shoulder.

Your lips twitched into an amiable smile, and he happened to crane his neck, peering at you with those warm, earthen-colored hues. “My heart calls your name,” You whispered, noticing the way his lips parted, a subtle exhale escaping him. His hands held you close, bodies flush against one another. “I am yours.”

Jacaerys could not wait for each day to be like this — no longer separated by duty or strife. You would be his wife, and he would be your husband, no room to be left to your own devices. The gods fashioned you both for love — and it would be as beautiful as it would be perilous.

“Calling you my wife certainly has an appeal,” Jace mused, crawling forward again until he was fully on top of you, propped up by his elbows, both of which had sunk into the pillow beside your head. “My heart belongs to you, now and forever.” He murmured.

It was difficult not to smile, bright and pearlescent, thighs still shaking in the aftermath of your release. He had made everything so perfect — steadfast by your side, supporting you in all endeavors, just as you would with him. He was your Prince, the future King of the Seven Kingdoms. You would follow him anywhere.

Part of him had always struggled with identity — who he was, who he was supposed to be. It was still a point of contention and deeply-rooted insecurities, but they all seemed to diminish in your presence.

You loved Jacaerys for his heart — blood never mattered.

He moved to kiss you, soft and lingering, allowing you to taste yourself upon his tongue. Jacaerys found his sanctuary between your legs, one hand moving to tug at the leather ties of his breeches. He had no desire to move quickly, delighted to be as slow as he could.

There would be time for haste, but this wasn’t one of those times. Instead, he cupped your face, kissing you again and again, seeking to feel your mouth and commit it to memory, memorizing every delicate feature you possessed.

“I want to be your wife,” Now, if you could. Part of you wanted to drag yourself from your bed and dress, Jacaerys in-tow, and find a septon — be wed and declare yourselves for all to see. “I would wish it into existence this very second, if I could.”

Jacaerys pressed a kiss against your brow, his countenance one of tenderness as he shook his head. “You already are,” He insisted, gazing down at you with such mesmerizing ardor, stars within his eyes. “A septon does not have to say the words for it to be true.”

You couldn’t have loved him more if you tried.

A soft giggle escaped you as you sought his lips for another kiss, even if it happened to be brief, shorter than the last. “Gods, I love you.” You beamed, and Jacaerys smiled too, pressing his forehead against yours. You had taken enough time to recuperate, and he was far from finished.

Desire took hold, and before you could manage to speak, your lips were on his. Jacaerys groaned — a low, pretty sound that made your stomach swirl with heat. You watched in silent rapture as he removed the last of his garments, breeches and smallclothes gone until he was all that remained.

Through the moonlit haze of your chambers, you fell in love with him again — each glance felt like the very first, heart stirring with a raging ardor. There was no one else like him, and there was no one else for you.

Your hands reached for him, loosely looping around the back of his neck, fingertips dancing across the valley between his shoulders. Jacaerys pressed closer, gaze half-lidded and heavy with desire and love, above all. His lips graced your forehead, breathing becoming a touch heavier.

The swell of his cock nestled against your stomach, hardened again, growing with mounting arousal as he kissed you again. You were swift to reciprocate, mouth desperately seeking him as he repositioned himself, hips adjusting to align himself with your entrance.

“Are you comfortable?” Jacaerys inquired, voice a gentle hum through the onslaught of kisses. He watched as you nodded, signaling for him to continue — he did without hesitation, cock pushing past your folds as gently inched forward.

It was a mutual blossoming of elation, with your breath hitching within your throat, a moan escaping from your lips as it tangled with Jace’s breathy groan. Your digits grasped at the nape of his neck, back arching slightly as he pushed into you, inch by agonizing inch.

It was perfection, the way the both of you melded together, two pieces of a puzzle, connected and joined. His cock filled you with such gentleness — Jacaerys never dared touch you with a rough hand. Instead, he found himself slipping into a familiar rhythm, that of lovemaking, hand finding the swell of your haunch.

He gripped you there, other palm splayed out beside your head, lips parted and visage flushed with ecstasy as he sluggishly rocked in and out of you. His countenance flourished with delight, curls framing his cheekbones, brown eyes finding yours.

The tension of his gaze bored right into you, and you happened to lock eyes, a gasp stirring within your throat when he bottomed out inside of you. “Jace,” A needy whimper escaped you as he began to find his pace, adopting a passionate constancy. “Don’t stop.” You sighed, and it only served to spur him on.

The sensation of your cunt clenching around his cock made him groan, belly filled with a fire that demanded to be extinguished. It was divine, something that he savored — and time moved slowly in your presence. He wouldn’t have it any other way.

Despite the tame nature of his pace, it was wrought with passion, ensuring that he hit that spot inside of you, over and over again. His wanton groans seemed to caress along the shell of your ear, filling you with a desire that swallowed you whole.

He was lost within you, drowning himself in your beauty, in your radiance — everything he had, he would give to you. Jacaerys surrendered it all — his heart, body, soul, anything you wanted, he belonged to you.

His mouth moved to pepper kisses all along your face, moving towards your neck. It was growing hot, unbearably so, reaching a fever pitch as he deepened each thrust of his hips, cock throbbing inside of you. Jace was becoming desperate, movements somewhat erratic as he fisted the sheets.

Some sliver of him desired to see you with his heir — a child of Old Valyria, a babe to sit the Throne after he passed, and you with him. It wasn’t something he was accustomed to, feeling this way, yet it fueled him with such desire, like the swell of a tidal wave coming to crash against him.

Jacaerys groaned into the hollow of your throat, savoring the sensation of your fingers digging into the curls at the nape of his neck. Your back arched slightly, legs shifting further apart to give way to his thrusts, lulled into submission by the steady repetition of his cock sliding in and out of you.

You rolled forward, creating a delicious friction that brought the both of you to heel, causing Jace to grit his teeth together. He showered your body with kisses, wherever he could reach, continuing to rock into you with a smoldering passion.

The volume of your lovemaking only intensified, between the breathy groans and blissful whines, the squelching of your cunt, the gentle glide of flesh against flesh. It was a cacophony of desire that only made you shiver, hand reaching for his shoulder, fingers brushing across the smattering of freckles there.

It was breathtaking to see you this way, countenance contorted into a look of sheer ecstasy, eyes closed, mouth slack — you were exemplary. Jacaerys could find no flaws with you, awestruck by your beauty in the moment, and he pushed forward once more.

He was disarmingly gentle with each and every thrust of his cock, burying himself within your cunt with such tenderness. Even if he wanted to be rough, the mere idea of it was too off-putting and strange, as if it disgusted him to no end. He enjoyed this, the revelation within each snap of hips, the enthralling charm of your physique.

“Jacaerys,” You panted, leg lifting into his hand as you moaned, face nearly nestled against his own. “Jace, I — Gods, I’m close!” Reduced to a whimpering mess within the hands of your capable husband, you felt him groan with you, cock throbbing violently inside of you.

A sharp exhale left him as he continued his steady pace, never allowing himself to grow erratic or sluggish. He stayed the course, pressing a kiss along the delicate curve of your jaw, hand kneading into your thigh. It was perfect — you were perfect.

That tight coil within his stomach began to wither, unfurling with ecstasy as he joined you in your peak, shuddering when he felt himself release. It was sudden again, seed filling your womb as he neglected to remove himself, chest heaving with breathy pants.

You followed suit, tugging at his curls, hand clamping into his shoulder as you reached your peak. It was all white-hot and blistering, like the lick of an open flame dragging all along your body.

It was akin to soaring high above the clouds, even if the moment was fleeting and brief. You composed yourself through the heaving of your chest, cunt slick and oozing with your arousal as Jacaerys remained still. He pressed his forehead to yours, mouth slowly curling into a warm smile.

Pressing a kiss against your temples, Jacaerys shifted, hips recoiling as he pulled himself from you. A sticky mess of his seed and your slick coated your cunt, causing you to press your thighs together. “Are you alright?” He murmured, swift to ensure your wellbeing.

“Wonderful,” You hummed, dimples forming at either corner of your mouth as you smiled. “I am perfect.” There was a feeling of complete and utter bliss in the aftermath, knowing that you would be wed, that he was by your side for all eternity.

“Good,” Jacaerys hummed, kissing your brow as he moved to lay beside you, pulling you into his arms. “I could draw us a bath.” He proposed, catching your attention as you nodded.

“That would be suitable, I think. I am something of a mess.” You confessed, warmth crawling along your spine as Jace held your hip, digits dancing all along your plush physique. He enjoyed everything about you, every detail, every curve and blemish — it all belonged to him.

“That would make two of us,” Jace mused, sluggishly moving from your warmth to make for the washroom. Handmaidens had filled the basin with water before you arrived, the water lukewarm, having lost its steam and heat. “Seems there isn’t a need for it.” He remarked.

You joined him, fingers reaching for your robe as you draped it over the plush chair sitting beside your vanity. Dipping two fingers into the water, you seemed unimpressed with the temperature, but it was better to be clean instead. “I suppose we do not have a choice.”

As you stepped inside, you shivered, disgruntled by the water, now somewhat cold and devoid of warmth. You sank down into the basin, with Jacaerys following suit as he sat behind you, chest pressed snugly against your back, arms looping around you.

“I’ll keep you warm, my Lady.” He hummed, eliciting a giggle from you as you happened to recline against him, head craning to press a kiss against his jaw. Jacaerys could not imagine a moment sweeter than this, basking in your presence in a blissful aftermath, holding you close against him.

With an amiable smile, you moved into his embrace, hands stroking along his taut forearm, cheek buried against his shoulder as he held you. You felt his lips grace the hollow between your neck and shoulder, mouth blazing as hot as dragon’s fire, a token of his ardor for you — his love was unwavering.

And you were warm.

copyright @ swordgrace ; please do not steal or claim my work as your own. please do not copy or translate my work onto other platforms.

[virtualreader]

cleansing the soul

rickgrimesxfem!reader

summary: hot showers and hot moments are two of the few pleasures left in an apocalyptic world, so instead of being embarrassed by your little unexpected encounter, you and Rick decide to take advantage of the comfortable situation that has recently came your way.

word count: 2,6k.

warnings: unprotected sex (p in v), little praising and dirty talking, etc. (not proofread)

requested: yes (by anonymous).

a/n: it may not be exactly what you asked for, but I felt like adding more than 'a little bit of smut' to this one (i was so needy), hope you like it all the same.

+18 content below, minors dni, nsfw, please do not read it if you're uncomfortable with this topic!

Showers—hot and drawn-out showers—, one of the many privileges that you and your group now enjoyed, thanks to the Alexandrians' hospitality.

The water running over your skin, carrying away the filth along with it as it reached the shower’s floor, disappearing through the drain with a little swirl. The vapor emanating from your wet body taking up the whole room, misting the bathroom’s mirror. And that purity feeling, both physical and mental, when you step out, enveloping yourself in a towel, just as if the water could wash away the stresses and turmoil of the day.

It was moments like these that made all the struggles and hardships worth it—the battles, the injuries, and even the sacrifices—just to relish in these simple pleasures once again.

It was a rare occasion to experience calm and quietness in the house, given that you lived with three adults, a teenager, and a baby. Therefore, when the house was left empty, you seized the opportunity to take a well-deserved shower.

It was a moment of solitude that you had been longing for, and you could finally let your mind wander without any interruptions.

While the house was usually bustling with activity, with Michonne on a run, Rick busy helping out around the settlement, Carl spending time with Enid, and Judith being looked after by Carol, you knew that this time the house would be empty long enough for you to fully relax and enjoy your shower.

You relished in the feeling of the warm water cascading over your body, washing away any stress or tension that had built up over the day.

As you reached for the shampoo bottle, you heard the unmistakable sound of the doorknob rattling. You paused, wondering who could be on the other side and if they intended to disturb you.

The bathroom door creaked open slowly, revealing Rick's exhausted face. His eyes darted around the shelving over the bathroom sink as he searched for whatever he came in for.

He then turned his gaze to your naked figure, barely visible through the steamy, condensated screen, a shocking expression taking over his face.

"Shit, sorry," Rick quickly apologized as soon as he saw you. "I didn't mean to—I um should've knocked. Um, I—I'II just go," he stuttered, backing away from the door.

You smiled at his flustered state, finding it endearing.

"No, it's okay," you reassured him. "You can stay if you want."

Rick hesitated for a moment before nodding and stepping inside the bathroom, closing the door behind him.

You couldn't help but notice his gaze lingering on your body as he leaned against the sink, watching you out of the corner of his eye, a slight smile playing on his lips.

As Rick leaned against the sink, he let out a heavy sigh of relief.

"I'm grateful that we found a safe place to stay," he said, his voice filled with exhaustion and gratitude. "I don't fully trust these people, but it's been a stressful time for us and with all the uncertainty and fear 'bout where we'd end up... I don't know, 'm just glad yours and the kids' life are no longer in danger.”

He paused, his eyes scanning the bathroom before landing on your figure, still enveloped in steam from the shower.

"We're here now, Rick," you said. "I feel like we can finally start to relax and focus on rebuilding our lives." you paused again, your voice growing softer as you added, "even be a family. And I'd love you to feel the same way about all this."

The weight of your words hung in the air, each syllable carrying with it a sense of hope and determination.

You couldn't help but feel a sense of comfort wash over you as you watched him, his face illuminated by the soft glow of the bathroom lights.

For the past few weeks, life had been a whirlwind of chaos and uncertainty. You and your group had been on the run, constantly on the move in search of a safe place to stay. But despite the constant danger and fear, you had managed to stick together, relying on each other for support and strength.

And now, as you stood together in the bathroom, the sound of the shower filling the room with a soothing hum, you couldn't help but feel a sense of peace. It was as if, for the first time in a long time, everything was going to be okay.

"I know it's not going to be easy," you reassured Rick, breaking the silence. "But we'll make it work. We always do."

He nodded, a small smile tugging at the corners of his lips.

It was true—you and your group had faced countless challenges and obstacles, but you had always managed to overcome them, together, despite the heartbreaking losses you've had to experience.

As you watched Rick, his eyes scanning the bathroom once again before meeting yours, you knew that this was just the beginning.

There would be more challenges to come, more battles to fight. But as long as you had each other, you were ready to face whatever the future held.

With a maneuver of his hand, Rick turned the faucet on, a strong flow of water hitting the sink's white structure almost immediately.

You observed his actions mindfully, not missing a single detail of how he prepared to shave what little beard he had had time to grow in the two weeks you had been in Alexandria, since he had shaved it off the very first day you arrived at the town.

You couldn't help but notice the intense concentration on his face as he meticulously shaved off each hair, one by one. It was clear that Rick had developed a routine when it came to shaving, perhaps as a way to keep a sense of normalcy and control in a world that was constantly changing and unpredictable.

As he reached for his face, sliding the razor over his foam-covered skin, you couldn't help but notice the intricate pattern of the veins on the back of his hand, standing out in relief as if sculpted from stone.

It was fascinating to watch the muscles in his arm flex as he expertly maneuvered the razor, his biceps bulging with each movement.

The thick, white foam spread across his face, obscuring his chiselled features, but his sharp jawline remained visible, accentuating the rugged handsomeness of his face.

The sound of the razor gliding over his skin was like a soft whisper, and the scent of shaving cream filled the air with a fresh, clean fragrance, as if he was emerging from a cocoon of foam, ready to face the day with confidence.

Rick kept glancing over at you, each time holding his gaze a little longer. The way his eyes lingered on you created a feeling of longing, as if he were silently begging you to come closer.

You couldn't help but feel your heart race a little faster each time he looked your way, wondering if he felt the same way you did.

"Rumor has it I make you nervous," you teased, breaking the comfortable silence between you and Rick.

He chuckled, his eyes still fixed on you. "Who said that?" he asked, feigning innocence.

"Your eyes," you replied, gesturing to his gaze that was still fixed on your body.

He shrugged, a smirk forming on his lips. "Can you blame me? You look amazing."

Your cheeks flushed at his compliment, but you couldn't deny the thrill that ran through you. "Do you not like when I look at you like that?" Rick asked, noticing your reaction.

You shook your head, biting your lip. "No, I like it," you admitted, feeling bold. "In fact, why don't you come over here and show me just how much you like it?"

He hurriedly unfastened his belt, dropping his pants onto the tiled floor. The clinking of the belt on the cold surface echoed in the room, indicating he had already freed himself from the garment. With a mischievous grin, Rick stepped closer to you, entering the shower, his clothes drenched from the shower water.

"Gladly," he murmured before pulling you into a passionate kiss.

As he looked at you, the water cascading down your body, he couldn't help but feel a sense of awe. The way the water droplets clung to your skin, glistening in the light, was a sight to behold. And as he watched you, he couldn't help but feel his desire for you grow stronger.

"Don't you look pretty?" He said, his voice low and husky. "All wet and clean for me." He reached out his hands and pulled your soaked hair out of your face, allowing him to admire your face from his height as he towered over you.

The steam from the shower surrounded you, creating an intimate atmosphere. You felt his eyes on you, taking in every inch of your body. You couldn't help but feel a little self-conscious, but the way he looked at you made you feel desired and wanted.

"I wonder if you're half as wet down there," he said, his voice filled with a hint of teasing.

You blushed at his words, feeling a rush of heat between your legs. The way he looked at you, with hunger and desire in his eyes, made you feel like the only woman in the world. You could feel your heart racing as he leaned in closer, his breath hot against your skin.

"Guess you'll have to find out yourself," you said raggedly.

His cotton t-shirt was dropping, the water turning the fabric a shade darker than it originally was. The wet garment hugged his figure flawlessly, exalting his broad and muscular physique.

Rick continued to kiss you deeply, his lips soft and warm against yours.

You could feel the heat emanating from his body and his hand, resting on your lower back, pulling you closer. As his skin touched yours, you couldn't help but feel a rush of electricity pulsing through your veins.

The sensation of his big hand on your lower back sent shivers through your body, making your toes curl with pleasure. You could feel your heart racing and your breathing quickening, as you leaned into him, savoring every moment of this intense intimacy.

As you pressed your body against his, you could feel your clit throbbing with desire, as the intense pleasure coursed through your veins. The heat and passion between you was palpable, as you lost yourself in the moment, completely consumed by the intensity of your desire for him.

Your closed eyes may have prevented you from seeing the desire in Rick's movements, but the bite he took on your lower lip, followed by a loud moan that escaped your mouth, gave it away.

Placing a path of gentle kisses, he reached your neck, where he started sucking on your skin hard enough to leave a mark - his way of letting other men know that you were his property.

As you struggled to pull Rick's t-shirt over his head, you couldn't help but notice the way his wet skin glistened in the light. Despite the fabric fiercely sticking to him, you managed to get it off with a little effort.

Rick then bent down and grabbed you by your bare hips, pulling you towards him. You felt a shiver run down your spine as his face dug into your pussy, his fingers sinking into your skin.

It was a moment of pure ecstasy, and you couldn't help but moan in pleasure. As you looked down at him, you noticed the way his eyes sparkled with desire.

The feeling was so intense, so overwhelming, that you found yourself scratching Rick's back in a desperate attempt to let out all the pent-up frustration and need that had been building up inside you.

As you dug your nails into his skin, you could feel the muscles in his back tense and ripple beneath your touch. It was as if the intensity of your desire was being transferred through your fingertips, flowing into him and back again, creating an endless loop of need and pleasure.

Despite the warmth of the water cascading over your bodies, you could feel the sweat starting to bead on your skin, your heart racing as the pleasure intensified. You could hear the sound of your own breathing, ragged and uneven, mixing with the sound of the water hitting the shower floor.

“Turn around.” he demanded, his voice strict, yet mellow.

He grabbed your shoulders, positioning you just how he desired, and when he finally had you facing the wall, slightly bent over, his hand clasped your buttock. Using only two fingers, he traced the rim of your entrance.

“Well, you definitely are wet.” Rick whispered hoarsely as he stepped closer to you. “Is that my doing, sweetheart?”

Unable to word a coherent answer, you sighly moan. His fingers lose contact with your sensitive intimate skin, earning a craving complaint from you.

“You either use your words or I won’t go on, baby girl.”

"Ye-yes," you manage to strangle out, your voice barely audible over the sound of the water. "It's all because of you, Rick.”

“Good,” he said, placing his fingers where they previously were, luckily for you. “I like having that effect on you.”

"Get over here," Rick growled, his voice low and full of desire as he distanced himself from you ever so little.

You obeyed, turning to face him, your naked body pressed against his. The heat between you was intense, and you could feel his hard cock pressing against your stomach.

Without a word, Rick lifted you up in a sudden burst, pressing your back against the shower wall. The water cascaded over your bodies, creating a sensual atmosphere that added to the intensity of the moment.

As Rick entered you, you couldn't help but cry out in pleasure. The feeling of him inside you was overwhelming, and you could feel your orgasm building with each thrust. Rick's movements were fast and hard, his body slamming into yours as he drove you closer and closer to the edge.

And then, with one final thrust, you felt yourself explode, your body shaking with pleasure as you cried out Rick's name. It was as if all the tension, all the helplessness, all the fear and uncertainty of the past few weeks had been released in that one moment of pure ecstasy.

Rick followed soon after, his body shuddering as his hot cum spilled inside you. He leaned his forehead against yours, both of you panting heavily as the water continued to rain down on you.

You clung to him, your breathing ragged as you both came down from the high of your orgasm.

"That was..." you trailed off, your words lost in the moment.

"Amazing," Rick finished for you, a satisfied grin on his lips.

As you stood there, both of you catching your breath and trying to come back down to earth, you couldn't help but feel a sense of closeness and intimacy that went beyond physical pleasure. It was as if the act of being together, of sharing this moment of pure bliss, had brought you even closer together than before.

"Let's get cleaned up," Rick said, breaking the comfortable silence between you. You nodded, a small smile tugging at the corners of your lips.

As you stepped out of the shower, enveloping yourself in a towel, you felt a sense of gratitude. Gratitude for the safety that Alexandria had provided, for the hot shower that you were sharing with Rick, and most of all, for the love that you shared with him.

[smilesatdawnmain]

ETERNAL LMK AU (Part 5) (Interactive Story)

Despite him being our protagonists murderer, there may be no one eyes who can help Macaque in this moment.

Lets continue this tragic story, shall we~?

Previous

Next

The rules are simple.: I will give the written passage, and then at the bottom there will be a vote on how the characters act next!

Story: Eternal

Ships: Shadowpeach

Angst: You betcha

Fluff: With enough choices, maybe we'll get there.

“'Wukong!” The name tumbled from Macaque’s lips, a desperate plea that sliced through the haze of mist and shadows. It rippled in the air, echoing through the void that separated them.

The moment lingered, the air thick with tension as silence engulfed the realm. And then, Wukong stirred.

His eyes fluttered open, golden irises shimmering with an unmistakable awareness. His ears straightened to attention, startled and alert. His eyes looked wildly left and right, swearing for a moment he heard his name being called.

Heard… his mate call for him.

That couldn’t be….

As he searched, the two Diyu collectors froze. As they stumbled back and into each other, clear fear in their actions, they squabbled, “I thought you said he would never be able to see us?!” one shrieked. There wasn’t a soul alive who didn’t fear Sun Wukong, the Monkey King.

Especially after his recent visit to the Diyu a year prior…. (Though that, was a story for another time.)

“He can’t! He shouldn’t!” the second quickly corrected.

“Then how—”

Wukong’s gaze landed on the figures with an intensity that seemed to burn through the suffocating shadows. For a moment it seemed like he could see them.

“…Is someone there?” Wukong mumbled. His heart raced as he sensed something was wrong. There was something in the air- it tickled the back of his neck. The air crackled with tension, a fight brewing just beyond his immediate perception. He was not in the mood for some demons games.

The two Diyu collectors shrieked and huddled together at his words, daring not to move in case Wukong did truly peer beyond the veil and see them. It was for his exact senses that most opted not to collect the dying souls of Flower Fruit Mountain. Even with the best intentions, the good natured collectors still cowered in the presence of this man.

Macaque panted quietly, angling his head to peer up at Wukong. Despite his hands tied, they itched to reach out. For a moment he wondered if Wukong could see him- yet the King’s ever scanning gaze made it clear he could not.

But he had heard him.

For the briefest second he had heard the cry of his mate. Of his Moon.

Wukong touched his temple, wondering if it had just been the wind. The echoing mountains still holding the essence of the Moon. “…Fool,” he mumbled to himself, “He isn’t here.”

But even as he muttered, the air continued to vibrate with that same uncanny sense. Wukong’s instincts were honed, sharp and unyielding—he could not ignore this. A cold knot formed in his stomach. Something was amiss, he was sure. Of course, it could just be the lingering effects of the alcohol stupor he had tossed himself into the night before. He was home.

It was time for celebration! Of course it was. Which is why he gladly took every glass of alcohol the monkeys tossed his way. In the ruse of celebration, and the turmoil of his agony.

As the King turned, searching behind him as well, the two Diyu collectors inched closer, quietly hissing to Macaque. “He can’t help you..!” They insist. Yet despite this insistence, they kept their voices hushed. “This is the way of it. A soul isn’t intended to linger after death. You can’t use that Monkey to shield you from the cycle of life-”

Macaque felt their whispers like fiery embers against his skin. “Shut up!” he snarled, the bravery fluttering within him. He wanted to insist he wasn’t using Wukong for anything of the sort. He didn’t need a protector, nor did he want it to be Wukong. He didn’t need him either! Now that he was out of that blasted Staff, he wasn’t going to let anyone boss him around.

He just- couldn’t deny the usefulness of Wukong at this time. Like a scarecrow scaring off crows.

Now that he was dead, he was free. No more needing to manage Wukong’s actions. No more needing to protect the tribe or lead in Wukong’s absence. He could… do what he wanted.

He didn’t need Wukong-

He shrieked when Wukong started to walk away.

The nerve of the man! A scarecrow wasn’t supposed to move!

The Diyu collectors were grinning as he did so, already inching closer the more Wukong got further away.

Unable to get a full grasp of the land, it seemed Wukong intended to take to the sky. It was best to look up there-, the King figured. To make sure no one was slinking around his home.

With a call to his cloud he was shooting upward, Macaque’s voice dying out behind him. “Wukong you idiot-!” of course.

OF COURSE!

The one thing he needed Wukong to do and he couldn’t even do that right!

As Wukong ascended, leaving the earthy scents of the mountain behind, the rush of wind whipped against his golden fur, filling him with a momentary sense of freedom. But that knot in his stomach tightened further.

With the King drifting away, the cowering Diyu collectors straightened their attires.

They cleared their throats, finding their confidence, “Ah, see?” they jeered. “Can’t get away that easily! Now-” as they got closer, Macaque kicked his legs feebly to try and put some distance, crawling against the ground.

He wrestled against the restraints around his torso and limbs, biting his lower lip harshly. If he was alive, he was sure it would be bleeding.

“Stop making this difficult-” as one of the collectors grasped his arm, looking intent to just toss the Moon Monkey over his shoulder to get this over with, all present were stunned when something odd occurred.

The Six Eared Macaque was bodily dragged, rather sharply and suddenly, to the right.

Macaque himself had gagged at the sensation, feeling something tight against his chest.

When he looked back at the Diyu collectors they were just as stunned, going pale. “…Huh?” They rushed to grab him again, but Macaque was only forcifully tugged rightward again- in the direction of Wukong’s retreating form.

At Macaque’s waist, below the black tendrils that binded him, a golden light began to shine. It wrapped around his waist and up his spin, coiling to his chest. Like a string it pulled outward, dragging itself back to Wukong; like a string of fate.

Macaque eyes the thing, having never seen something like this before.

"W-What the-??" he followed the trail of it, finding it was coming from Wukong. It was like this etheral string was coming from Wukong's soul it self. The farther Wukong got away the more it dragged Macaque, keeping them at a 50 foot distance to eachother at any given time.

“What?” Macaque murmured, feeling the Doty’s collectors magic loosen from their shock. A chance to escape.

"Oooh," The Diyu collectors winced, smacking their own foreheads. They seemed to recognize this phenominon, and were not pleased, "Well that ain't good." One grumbled.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” the other hissed

[danielgold-16]

A Golden Christmas Carol- Part 4

A collaborative story among Golden Army management for @goldenherc9! Hope you like it bro! We really appreciate everything you do and wanted to show you in the way we know how.

For part 3:

https://www.tumblr.com/polo-drone-001/770730791459291136/the-golden-carol-part-3

Scott was turning in his bed, deep asleep.

In the quiet darkness of his dreams, Scott found himself standing in an unfamiliar landscape. Mist curled around ancient stones that glowed faintly with an emerald hue, their shapes reminiscent of Ireland’s rolling hills. A figure loomed in the center—a giant of a man, clad in a flowing kilt, with a massive club resting lightly on his shoulder. His piercing gaze burned like embers.

“I am Dagda,” the figure declared, his voice resonating through Scott like a distant drumbeat. “The All­Father of the Tuatha Dé Danann. Yet I am also a reflection of you, Scott.”

Scott hesitated, unsure if he should speak. Dagda’s face softened slightly, as though sensing his inner turmoil. “You doubt yourself. You question your strength and decisions. Tonight, we shall test your mettle. By the end, you may find the trust in yourself that you lack.”

Scott wanted to argue, but the landscape around him shifted abruptly, the mist dissipating to reveal a stone circle surrounded by shadows that writhed and whispered. Dagda gestured toward the circle. “Face your first trial. Step forward and confront your fears.”

As Scott stepped into the circle, the shadows coalesced into a mirror image of himself, but this doppelgänger wore a mocking sneer. “You’re not good enough,” it hissed, echoing the self-doubt Scott had carried for years. “You’ll always fall short.”

Dagda’s voice rumbled from outside the circle. “Challenge the lies within. Overcome them.”

Summoning courage he didn’t realize he had, Scott stood firm. “I may doubt myself, but that doesn’t mean I’m weak.” With each word, the doppelgänger shrank, until it dissolved entirely. The mist thickened again, carrying Scott to a new trial.

This time, he stood before a chasm spanned by a narrow, shaky bridge. Dagda appeared beside him, now inspecting the bridge with a raised eyebrow. “This is your trust. It seems fragile, doesn’t it?”

Scott nodded, unsure whether to cross.

Dagda placed a hand on Scott’s shoulder, surprisingly gentle for one so imposing. “You must trust in yourself to make it across. Do not look down.”

Taking a deep breath, Scott placed one foot on the bridge, then another. The wind howled, and the wood creaked ominously, but he pressed on, focusing on the end rather than his fears. With a final leap, he landed safely on the other side.

Dagda’s hearty laugh filled the air as he joined Scott. “You are braver than you know, Scott. But one challenge remains.”

The mist swirled once more, and Scott found himself standing in a great hall adorned with tapestries depicting Irish legends. Dagda strode to the center, where a simple wooden table held a pair of garments: his kilt and shiny black rubber trousers. He picked up the trousers, their surface gleaming in the dim light.

“For the final trial, you must accept transformation,” Dagda declared. “Exchange my heritage for a modern symbol of your strength.”

Scott blinked in confusion. “You want me to take your kilt?”

Dagda nodded solemnly. “The kilt represents tradition and comfort, but these”—he gestured to the rubber trousers—“symbolize adaptability and resilience in the face of change. Choose wisely.”

Scott hesitated, feeling the weight of the moment. But then he understood: this was about embracing who he could become, rather than clinging to what was familiar. With reverence, he reached for the trousers, exchanging the kilt in return.

As he donned the gleaming rubber trousers, they seemed to fuse with his body, becoming a part of him. Confidence surged through him, and when he looked back at Dagda, the god was smiling with approval.

“Well done, Scott,” Dagda said, his voice filled with pride. “You have learned to trust yourself, to face fears, and to embrace transformation. Carry this strength with you into your waking life.”

The hall dissolved, and Scott awoke in his bed, heart racing but filled with an unfamiliar calm. Though it had been a dream, the lessons lingered, and he found himself standing taller, facing the day with newfound purpose.

Somewhere, faint laughter echoed, as if Dagda himself was watching over him, a reminder that Scott was no longer alone—he carried the strength of a god within.

On the chair, a pair of shiny black rubber trousers gleamed under the light of the moon.

We hope you are enjoying this story for Captain Scott, the next part will be on https://www.tumblr.com/polo-drone-070's page.

[eruherdiriel]

Something I've been thinking a lot about lately is how Jon knows what it's like to be burned. With his hand, he doesn't feel it in the moment but that's probably adrenaline more than anything else.

"You do not look well. How is your hand?" "Healing." Jon flexed his bandaged fingers to show him. He had burned himself more badly than he knew throwing the flaming drapes, and his right hand was swathed in silk halfway to the elbow. At the time he'd felt nothing; the agony had come after. His cracked red skin oozed fluid, and fearsome blood blisters rose between his fingers, big as roaches. "The maester says I'll have scars, but otherwise the hand should be as good as it was before." "A scarred hand is nothing. On the Wall, you'll be wearing gloves often as not." It was not the thought of scars that troubled Jon; it was the rest of it. Maester Aemon had given him milk of the poppy, yet even so, the pain had been hideous. At first it had felt as if his hand were still aflame, burning day and night. Only plunging it into basins of snow and shaved ice gave any relief at all. Jon thanked the gods that no one but Ghost saw him writhing on his bed, whimpering from the pain.

-AGOT, Jon VIII

And then there's the scene of his wound getting cauterized. Which, yeah, he's otherwise injured and just escaped the wildlings, experiencing a lot of physical pain and internal turmoil, etc., etc. Still:

Maester Aemon sniffed Jon's wound again. Then he put the bloody cloth back in the basin and said, "Donal, the hot knife, if you please. I shall need you to hold him still." I will not scream, Jon told himself when he saw the blade glowing red hot. But he broke that vow as well. Donal Noye held him down, while Clydas helped guide the maester's hand. Jon did not move, except to pound his fist against the table, again and again and again. The pain was so huge he felt small and weak and helpless inside it, a child whimpering in the dark. Ygritte, he thought, when the stench of burning flesh was in his nose and his own shriek echoing in her ears. Ygritte, I had to. For half a heartbeat the agony started to ebb. But then the iron touched him once again, and he fainted.

-ASOS, Jon VI

This doesn't even touch on how he feels about the R'hollor crew and stories of people intentionally being burned. Whether he's there when King's Landing burns or hears about it, he will be able to empathize with the people of the city. There will be survivors, some with burns like on his hand and some with way worse. There won't be enough milk of the poppy for everyone. There will be men, women, children, soldiers, civilians, and old people burned and screaming in pain. Before KL burns, Jon will have heard about the other places DT has been as well. They're not gonna be pals.

But there will be conflict in his interactions with DT. Jon fiddles with his hands when he's conflicted or distressed:

Jon's breath misted the air. If I lie to him, he'll know. He looked Mance Rayder in the eyes, opened and closed his burned hand. "I wear the cloak you gave me, Your Grace."

-ASOS, Jon II

Lots of examples from AGOT, when his hand is still freshly burned and in more pain:

"Grief and noise," Mormont grumbled. "That's all they're good for, ravens. Why I put up with that pestilential bird … if there was news of Lord Eddard, don't you think I would have sent for you? Bastard or no, you're still his blood. The message concerned Ser Barristan Selmy. It seems he's been removed from the Kingsguard. They gave his place to that black dog Clegane, and now Selmy's wanted for treason. The fools sent some watchmen to seize him, but he slew two of them and escaped." Mormont snorted, leaving no doubt of his view of men who'd send gold cloaks against a knight as renowed as Barristan the Bold. "We have white shadows in the woods and unquiet dead stalking our halls, and a boy sits the Iron Throne," he said in disgust. The raven laughed shrilly. "Boy, boy, boy, boy." Ser Barristan had been the Old Bear's best hope, Jon remembered; if he had fallen, what chance was there that Mormont's letter would be heeded? He curled his hand into a fist. Pain shot through his burned fingers. "What of my sisters?"

-AGOT, Jon VIII

When Jon had been Bran's age, he had dreamed of doing great deeds, as boys always did. The details of his feats changed with every dreaming, but quite often he imagined saving his father's life. Afterward Lord Eddard would declare that Jon had proved himself a true Stark, and place Ice in his hand. Even then he had known it was only a child's folly; no bastard could ever hope to wield a father's sword. Even the memory shamed him. What kind of man stole his own brother's birthright? I have no right to this, he thought, no more than to Ice. He twitched his burned fingers, feeling a throb of pain deep under the skin. "My lord, you honor me, but—"

-AGOT, Jon VIII

Jon raised the hood of his heavy cloak and gave the horse her head. Castle Black was silent and still as he rode out, with Ghost racing at his side. Men watched from the Wall behind him, he knew, but their eyes were turned north, not south. No one would see him go, no one but Sam Tarly, struggling back to his feet in the dust of the old stables. He hoped Sam hadn't hurt himself, falling like that. He was so heavy and so ungainly, it would be just like him to break a wrist or twist his ankle getting out of the way. "I warned him," Jon said aloud. "It was nothing to do with him, anyway." He flexed his burned hand as he rode, opening and closing the scarred fingers. They still pained him, but it felt good to have the wrappings off.

-AGOT, Jon IX

Not until he was well beyond the village did Jon slow again. By then both he and the mare were damp with sweat. He dismounted, shivering, his burned hand aching. A bank of melting snow lay under the trees, bright in the moonlight, water trickling off to form small shallow pools. Jon squatted and brought his hands together, cupping the runoff between his fingers. The snowmelt was icy cold. He drank, and splashed some on his face, until his cheeks tingled. His fingers were throbbing worse than they had in days, and his head was pounding too. I am doing the right thing, he told himself, so why do I feel so bad?

-AGOT, Jon IX

[zeciex]

A Vow of Blood - 75

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 75: A Golden Crown of Sorrow I

AO3 - Masterlist

(18K words)

Rhaenyra found herself standing in front of the ancient altar, a relic brought from Old Valyria when house Targaryen had departed from their ancestral lands. This very altar had borne witness to happier times, used when she had married Daemon in the ancient rites of Old Valyria. Those moments now felt like echoes from a distant past, as if they belonged to another life altogether. 

The morning air brushed against her skin, a gentle yet chilly caress from the sea, following a night dominated by a fierce gale that had only subsided with the break of dawn. Rhaenyra had spent the night wakeful, her gaze lost in the turmoil of the storm outside, embodying the tempest within her. She found herself before the altar, her surroundings a vague haze, as attendants had prepared her, their ministrations leaving no imprint on her clouded consciousness. Her body ached profoundly, muscles tense and sore, bones feeling as if they’d been ground together–bruised and creaking with each movement. Yet, it was the profound emptiness that engulfed her soul, a void so vast it seemed to have consumed her very essence, rendering her a shell devoid of anything but the ache of her body and the thrum of hollowness. 

The infant was laid to rest upon the wooden pyre, its tiny form almost incongruous within the immense pain its birth had inflicted upon Rhaenyra. The birth had ravaged her from within, as if a monster had burrowed deep inside her, rending and tearing with ferocity that belied its unwillingness to part from her body. It was as though the creature sensed the doom its arrival would herald, as if it understood its own nature as an aberration, and fought with a desperate, destructive instinct against its inevitable emergence into the world. 

She allowed herself a moment to shut her eyes, grappling with the sharp pang of grief that clenched her heart. Upon reopening them, Daemon had stepped forward, his hand setting the pyre alight with a torch, its flames quickly catching the wood before he handed the torch back to an attendant. 

As the fire grew, smoke billowed up, carrying with it the harrowing scents of charred wood and flesh, a visceral reminder of the life being honored and mourned. Words found no place in this moment, leaving silence to preside over the gathered mourners. This silence settled with a weighty presence, amplifying the solemnity of their vigil as the morning’s light, muted and under a blanket of pale gray clouds, found moments of brilliance where the rising sun’s golden rays pierced through, illuminating the ritual.

Rhaenyra’s head was laden with a heaviness, her thoughts tangled and obscure, as if she navigated through a thick mist, each step more laborious than the last, her mind clouded by this all-encompassing fog. She felt Daemon’s steady presence at her side, her gaze unwavering from the fierce blaze that now claimed the remains of her child. A profound weariness weighed upon her, the emptiness of her womb palpable beneath her hand.

Amidst the rising flames, Rhaenyra witnessed the disintegration of all the hopes and dreams she had nurtured for her daughter throughout the pregnancy. Those visions, so vivid and hopeful, were not being devoured by the fire, just as it laid claim to the tiny form before her. She was struck by the peculiarity of her situation–having carried a life within her, feeling it grow and move, as natural as any of her previous pregnancies. There had been no forewarning, no sign that her child would emerge as it did–an abomination. She struggled reconciling what had been to what should have been. 

The thought haunted her: had she, in some way, precipitated her child’s fate? Could her own despair and utterances, born of the intense pain and desperation she experienced during labor, have cursed the child, twisted it into the form it took? Those curses were not born of malice but of sheer agony, a prayer for relief when pleas had gone otherwise unheard. Yet, despite the aberrations, despite the suffering its birth had inflicted upon her, it was her child, a being she had loved deeply, unconditionally. She wondered, was love not sufficient? To love the child, despite everything–was that not enough?

As the fire vicariously devoured both wood and flesh, a haunting question lingered in Rhaenyra’s heart.

“Ñuha tala, hae hōzalbrot sittus. Kostilus hen jaehoti gīmēdenon iksos…” Her voice, strained and hoarse from the ordeal of childbirth, barely rose above a murmur. It could so easily have been carried away on the wind, never to be heard. But she was heard. She felt Daemon’s eyes settle on her as she continued to watch the flames engulf their child. “Iā qilōnarion. Gīmēdenon issa. Kepa ñuha morghūltas se pāletilla ñuha lāettaks tubī sitta.”

My daughter, born an abomination. Mayhaps she is a warning from the gods… or a punishment. She is an augury. Born on the day my father died and my crown was stolen.

A constricting sensation gripped her throat, yet the overwhelming void within her persisted, rendering her empty, resonant with the hollow thrum of loss–an echo of a woman. “Ñuha Visenȳs. Yn sagon ziry sytilīptos daor.”

My Visenya. But she was not meant to be.

The wind, seemingly in accord with her inner turmoil, whipped the smoke into a chaotic dance, dispersing it into the ether as the pyre’s intensity mounted. Although the blaze’s warmth lapped at her, it did little to penetrate the deep chill that had claimed her flesh.

“Kessa sagon se mōrī,” Rhaenyra murmured, each word echoing within the vast emptiness of her soul, reverberating with a profound finality. She will be the last.

Daemon’s voice, tender and cautious, broke the silence at her side. “Kosti sylugon syt tolī lo ao jaelagon ziry. Bisa daoriot emagon naejot sagon se mōrī.” 

We could try for another if you desire. This needn’t be the end.

But Rhaenyra slowly shook her head in refusal, knowing the truth of her words. “Konīr won't sagon tolī.”

There won’t be another.

The resolution within her was definite; she would not bear another child. This conviction was as unwavering as the cycle of day and night, as irrevocable as the fire that claimed the physical form of their daughter. There would not, could not, be another.

The child’s tumultuous arrival had wreaked havoc within her, a violent tempest that she knew left her barren. The tragedy of losing her second daughter to childbirth was compounded by the cruel realization that she would no longer bear children. The latest loss was just one in a series of profound grievances– the death of her father, the theft of her crown, her eldest daughter’s captivity, and now the death of her youngest in childbirth alongside her own fertility. 

Each loss layered upon the last, leaving Rhaenyra ensnared in a web of sorrow and irrevocable change. 

The flames surged upward, their tongues flickering fiercely against the backdrop of the sky, animated by the wind into a frenetic display of light and shadow. They twisted and turned, alive with a vicarious energy as they feasted upon the body of her child. Rhaenyra caught herself pondering the sensation of extending her hand into their embrace, curious if the fire’s caress would resonate on her skin. Intuitively, she knew the heat would register, yet anticipated that any resulting pain would feel remote–like the residual agony of childbirth that lingered in her body. The pain persisted, yet her consciousness had somehow distanced itself from the physical sensation, leaving her with the impression of being an observer to her own experiences, detached and adrift from the reality of her suffering.

Amidst this feeling of detachment, there lingered a delicate thread that prevented her from completely succumbing to the depths of her own mind, a small tether anchoring her to the tangible world around her and her own body.

“Nyke brōztagon syt ao,” Rhaenyra muttered, her thumb unconsciously caressing the now vacant curve of her womb. A trace of bitterness crept into her voice, a sentiment strong enough to anchor her spirit within the realm of the physical, to keep her from being entirely consumed by her own thoughts. Her words barely rose above a whisper, imbued with a haunting echo of solitude and yearning, “Nyke brōztagon syt ao. Gōntan ao daor rȳbagon ñuha limagon.”

I called for you. I called for you, could you not hear my cries?

He had indeed heard her; of that, she was certain. Her cries had reverberated throughout Dragonstone, her voice tearing through the silence with desperation, calling out for him, her pleas and prayers for intervention filling the air. Yet, despite her agonizing summons, he had not appeared by her side. 

“Nyke vēttan naejot mīsagon aōha pāletilla.  Se peldio gaomas daor umbagon naejot pryjagon skori zȳha ossēnagon iksis nākostōbā,” Daemon responded, his voice deep and resonant, echoing within her with an intensity that felt like a clash of metal on stone. I prepared to defend your crown. The snake does not wait to strike when its prey is weak.

“Ao vaoresagon naejot mazverdagon vīlībāzma pār sagon ondoso ñuha paktot skori nyke vīlībāzma ñuhon,” Rhaenyra retorted, a surge of resentment igniting within her, as fierce as the flames on the altar. This internal blaze seemed to strengthen her connection to her body, as the bitterness within her twisted and turned. “Nyke jorrāelatan ao.”

You would rather wage war than be at my side when I waged mine. I needed you.

“Emilza arlinnon daorun,” Daemon countered, his words piercing her as sharply as a knife. It would have made no difference. “I gūrotan se gaomon bona sia bēvilagon, syt aōha jorrāelagon se syt se dārion. Ao jorrāelatan nyke naejot mīsagon skoros iksis aōhon–”

I took the actions that were necessary, both for your sake and for the realm’s. You needed me to defend what is yours–

“Nyke jorrāelatan ao ondoso ñuha paktot,” Rhaenyra interjected, her voice thick with the imminent threat of tears. The ache of his absence was compounded by her grief and pain, bringing a sharpness to her words, emphasizing the depth of her need for him during her struggle. I needed you by my side. 

Exhaling deeply, Rhaenyra’s gaze was transfixed by the dance of the flames before her, feeling their intense heat graze her skin, the warmth emanating from the fire enveloping her. Fire possessed a peculiar duality; it was a force of utter destruction, devouring all in its path indiscriminately, reducing everything to mere ashes. It embodied chaos, a relentless prelude to ruin. Yet, it was harnessed for its utility–encased within candle wicks, nestled in hearths to stave off the cold, utilized in the preparation for meals, and to illuminate the dark of night. 

Standing before the voracious flames, Rhaenyra was consumed by a singular perception of its nature–not as a tool or a source of comfort, but as a manifestation of insatiable destruction. As the fire devoured the form of her child, all she could discern within its flickering embrace was an unquenchable hunger, a merciless force laying waste to the last connection she had to her daughter. 

As she stood there, Rhaenyra found herself besieged by a grim contemplation–pondering who next might be claimed by the ravenous embrace of a funeral pyre’s flames. This morbid curiosity weighed heavily on her, a shadow looming over her spirit. Weary, she closed her eyes, attempting to shield herself from such dark musings, yet the thought twisted and turned within her, a serpentine coil of dread and sorrow. 

Rhaenyra’s thoughts were a tumultuous sea of uncertainties and hypotheticals, each ‘what if’ crashing against her consciousness like the relentless waves crashing against the shore. Had she remained in King’s Landing, what course might fate have taken? Would she now be mourning her father, standing before his funeral pyre instead? Would the child still be in her belly, happy and content? Could she have seized the crown before it was usurped from her grasp? She pondered the sacrifices required to cement her rule and protect her children–how much bloodshed would have been necessary, and whose blood would have been spilled? Would any of her choices have altered the tragic fate of the child she had carried?

Yet, amidst the myriad of unanswered questions and conjectures, one regret stood above the rest, a beacon of remorse in the storm of her reflections. She fixated on the decision she believed to be her gravest error–not bringing Daenera with them when they had the chance. This oversight, more than  any speculative alternative history, tormented her, the weight of this singular ‘should have’ bearing down on her with an acute sense of loss and missed opportunity. 

The Stranger had claimed one of her daughters already; the thought of enduring such a loss again was unbearable to Rhaenyra. As her gaze returned to the dancing flames, a heavy question burdened her soul. “Is this an omen?Is this how the gods reveal that I am not meant to be Queen? The gods mock me with their cruelty.”

Daemon’s voice, low and steady, broke through her turmoil. “Misfortune doesn’t signify an omen. Sometimes, it’s merely that–misfortune.”

His gaze settled on her. Rhaenyra could feel the intensity of his look, probing, weighing, as if trying to penetrate the fog of emptiness that had settled within her. 

“And is that your consolation for your own misdeeds?” She shot back, her voice laced with an edge of bitterness–accusing. “Everywhere you go, a shadow seems to spread, darkening everything it touches.”

The accusation was harsh, and she knew it, yet the words spilled out, fueled by a mix of grief and resentment. Daemon’s response to their loss appeared distant to her–as though he did not feel it at all. He had carried her to their bed, he had been present, offering her comfort through the night, his arms wrapped around her, but his absence when she needed him the most left her feeling abandoned to the dark fate that seemed to dog his steps. She wondered, despairing, if this curse of misfortune was now hers to bear as well, dooming everything she cherished to a similar end. 

“We abandoned King’s Landing to strengthen my claim, yet it was usurped,” Rhaenyra’s voice carried the heat of resentment, feeling the simmering embers of bitterness flare within her. “They robbed me of my crown and my daughter.”

“Your father would have accepted this fate,” Daemon retorted, his tone as sharp as her own. “But you, you cannot. Summon your banners; loyal men will rally to your cause in the tens of thousands. Some already stand ready. Together, we can reclaim the throne and your daughter.”

“The realm does not want a queen,” she countered, her words echoing the hollowness she felt inside. “The truth was spoken at the Great Council, yet my father chose to ignore it. Viserys was a fool to name me as his heir…”

Rhaenys, The Queen Who Never Was, had cautioned her long ago when she was declared the heir. She herself had had her right stolen from her on the basis of her gender. Young and foolish, Rhaenyra had believed the lords of the Seven Kingdoms would willingly accept her reign. Now, she wasn’t so sure. 

Rhaenyra could feel the intensity of Daemon’s stare, laden with a piercing scrutiny. “A queen without a crown is scarcely a queen at all.”

“You shall wear your crown,” Daemon assured her. 

Meeting his gaze, she observed the weight of his brow, his eyes sharp and probing–judging her weakness. Though there was a somewhat fragile compassion within their green depths. It was the undercurrent of pity minging with his judgment that inflicted the greater wound. Daemon had reminded her often enough that they were the blood of the dragon, destined to soar over the realm as its sovereigns, bound by blood and divine right. Yet, Rhaenyra felt anything but powerful. She felt diminished, hollow, and profoundly alone. Doubts plagued her, sapping her resolve. She dreaded that her sorrow was a tide strong enough to sweep her away, to engulf her in its depths until she was lost. 

“And what more will it cost me?” She inquired, voicing her trepidation that gnawed at her spirit. 

As Rhaenyra shifted her focus back to the fire, the wind swelled around them, lifting the smoke and embers into the air, a wild dance against the sky’s canvas. Daemon left her side, stepping away from her, and almost instantly, the distinct sound of swords being unsheathed shattered the stillness. 

“I mean no harm, brothers,” a voice called out, cutting through the tension, followed closely by the approach of steps.

Rhaenyra’s attention turned from the funeral pyre to the sound, her gaze landing on Ser Erryk Cargyll as he moved towards her, kneeling in a gesture of submission. From his satchel, he carefully extracted a crown, cradling it in both hands as he presented it to her. The emerging sunlight, breaking through the clouds, caught the metal, gleaming against it in an intricate blend of gold and silver. Her eyes lingered on Ser Erryk, then on the symbol of sovereignty he held–what was left of her father and what was rightfully hers. The crown was a poignant reminder of his absence, of the intricate web of challenges and struggles he had bequeathed to her, a tangled legacy she was now tasked with carrying. 

“I swear to ward the Queen,” Ser Erryk Cargyll declared, continuing on with his vow, “with all my strength, and give my blood for hers…”

Daemon advanced to take the crown from Ser Erryk’s hands, his focus seemed tethered to the intricate circlet, a tangible link to his aspirations and the legacy of his brother. Rhaenyra retreated from the altar, watching him carefully with bated breath, bracing for the possibility that he might seize it for himself–it had been his to claim once, after all. The crown was a symbol of power and was all that remained to them of Viserys. 

Ser Erryk’s oath rang out, echoing his dedication. “I shall take no wife, hold no lands, father no children. I shall guard her secrets, obey her commands, ride at her side, and defend her name and honor.”

Amidst the solemn declarations, Rhaenyra was besieged by a surge of apprehension, a fear that Daemon’s long-held aspirations might supersede his loyalty–his love. And in the depths of her heart, a whisper of suspicion stirred, faint yet insidious. It murmured to her soul with chilling subtlety, suggesting, ‘The crown was his true ambition from the start.’

Yet, as he turned towards her, his expression softened, his eyes meeting hers with a warmth and reverence that silenced that voice, forcing it back into the shadows of her mind. He moved closer, their gaze locked in silent communion, as he gently positioned the crown upon her head. 

The crown’s cool weight settled onto her brow, fitting her perfectly despite being made for a man. Her pulse quickened, a mix of trepidation and awe rendering her momentarily breathless, uncertain of the path ahead. 

“A crown for you, my love,” Daemon murmured, his voice a tender caress against the weight of the moment. Then, with grace that belied his power, he knelt before her, his head bowed in fealty. “My Queen.”

As Rhaenyra’s gaze lifted, the rising sun climbed higher, scattering the remnants of clouds to unveil a vast azure sky. In this moment of radiance, the knights of the Kingsguard gracefully descended to their knees in a unified motion. This gesture set off a wave through the assembly, prompting each individual to lower themselves in a display of reverence. 

Watching this unfold, Rhaenyra was struck with a blend of astonishment and disbelief, tears gathering in her eyes as the profound realization dawned on her: they were kneeling in allegiance to her, acknowledging her as their true and rightful Queen. The significance of this act of fealty filled her with a seedling of hope and a burgeoning sense of duty. 

Gently, Rhaenyra extended her hand, tenderly brushing Daemon’s hair with a soft touch. He looked up at her, his eyes meeting hers, and in that brief exchange, there was a quiet understanding, a shared moment of comfort. He leaned into her caress, drawing a measure of solace from her presence, and then he stood, positioning himself by her side.

Rhaenyra navigated the corridors of Dragonstone, her path secured by a detail of guards. Their red cloaks, each adorned with the sigil of the three-headed dragon, flowed behind them with a  grace that belied their readiness for conflict. Each guard’s hand hovered near the pommel of their swords, a silent testament to their vigilance and readiness to defend their Queen. 

Progressing beyond the table situated outside the great hall, they encountered an array of swords laid upon it–a silent, steel congregation awaiting their bearers. Each blade was momentarily forsaken by its owner as they stepped into the solemn expanse of the great hall. And as they ascended the steps towards the assembly, beams of midday sunlight streamed through the lofty, slender windows, casting a luminous glow over the stone interior and dispelling the shadows that lingered. The hall was alive with the presence of an assembled crowed, gathered around the intricately carved wooden table that mapped the entirety of Westeros. This gathering of loyalists and counselors awaited her, a vivid tableau of allegiance and anticipation set against the backdrop of the kingdom they meant to reclaim. 

Positioned at the far end of the table, framed by the warmth of the hearth behind him, Daemon stood enveloped in the fiery orange flow. The light danced around him, casting his figure as if in flame, as she proclaimed, “Queen Rhaenyra Targaryen, First of Her Name, Queen of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men. Lady of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm.”

The room, filled with the court and her loyalists, turned their collective attention towards her. Heads bowed in a moment of deep respect and reverence, only to rise again, eyes filled with a blend of expectation and scrutiny. Rhaenyra felt the collective weight of their anticipation–a heavy mantle now on her shoulders. She scanned the faces before her, meeting their looks that were tinged with hope, curiosity, and a subtle trace of apprehension, all seeking to discern her capacity for leadership.

“Your Grace,” Daemon greeted her, his expression softening into a subtle smile that acknowledged her approach. 

Feeling the moment’s gravity, Rhaenyra instinctively straightened, her posture firm as she faced the assembly. With measured steps, she advanced towards the table, her guards mirroring her movements closely behind. She signaled them to halt, preferring some distance to alleviate the press of scrutiny from all sides. 

“Wine, my Queen,” offered Rhaena, her demeanor warm, a soothing presence amidst the intensity of the gathering. 

Gratefully, Rhaenyra took the wine from Rhaena’s hands, her acceptance driven more by a gesture of courtesy than any desire to drink. “Thank you, Rhaena.”

Feeling the rapid beat of her heart against her ribs, Rhaenyra summoned her strength and raised her voice as much as she could muster, saying simply, “Come.”

This moment was not just for her; she was determined to include her stepdaughters, to ensure they were part of this moment rather than observers on the periphery, as she once had been in her youth, serving merely as her father’s cupbearer during council sessions–neither allowed to express her opinions or ask questions. 

Her gaze swept across the assembled faces, finally resting on Baela, who stood close to her grandmother, Rhaenys. Rhaenyra made a subtle, inviting gesture towards the girl as she walked by, silently indicating for Baela to join her side. 

Taking her place at the head of the table, Rhaenyra gently set the wine cup aside. Her fingers entwined, absently twisting the ring on her finger, a small gesture betraying her nervousness. Her gaze drifted across the expanse of the map sprawled out before her, where the veins of its rivers glowed like molten fire, an effect of the candlelight flickering from below, breathing life into the darkened wood. 

Lifting her eyes, she found Daemon’s gaze awaiting her from the other end of the table. 

Beyond the Queensguard, Daemon was the sole figure in the room who bore arms. Positioned prominently at the head of the table, the Valyrian steel blade Dark Sister was conspicuously resting against the table, a silent testament to his readiness and authority. Around him, an aura of intense vitality was palpable; it was as if the various threads of his turbulent and unpredictable existence had converged into a singular, precise point of clarity and purpose. This newfound focus lent him an air of undeniable command. His expression was one of anticipation, a silent question hanging in the air between them. 

“What is our standing?” Rhaenyra inquired, her voice steady despite the pressure of the attentive eyes upon her. 

Daemon responded with the precision of a seasoned commander, “Our forces consist of thirty knights, a hundred crossbowmen, and three hundred men-at-arms.”

His tone was as authoritative as his demeanor, betraying no doubt about his familiarity with the demands of leadership in times of conflict. “Dragonstone is relatively easy to defend, but as an instrument of conquest, our army leaves a lot to be desired.”

His analysis was delivered with the confidence of someone deeply experienced in the strategies and realities of warfare. “We’ve sent word to my loyal men in the City Watch. I’ll have some support there, but I cannot speak to the numbers.”

To this strategic overview, Maester Gerardys contributed further encouraging news, “We already have declarations from Celtigar and Staunton, Massey, Darklyn, Bar Emmon.”

As the name of their allies were called out, Rhaenyra acknowledged each lord with a direct look, receiving affirming nods in return. Jace skillfully positioned the wooden and brass pieces on the map to denote their alliances, marking the locations such as Duskendale, Rook’s Rest, Sharp Point, Stonedance, and Claw Isle.

“My lady mother was an Arryn,” Rhaenyra stated, emphasizing her familial ties. “The Vale will not turn cloak against their own kin.”

Her assertion was met with Daemon’s keen gaze, which lingered on her with an intense, evaluative silence. He refrained from commenting on the loyalty of House Arryn, a silence seemingly born from the recognition of his strained relations with the house–a factor that could potentially threaten their support. Rhaenyra could only harbor the hope that House Arryn would overlook their contentious history with Daemon–the Rogue Prince–recognizing instead the ties of kinship that bound them. She wished for them to prioritize their shared bloodline over past grievances, rallying to her cause. 

Maester Gerardys interjected with a note of optimism. “Riverrun was always a close friend to your father, Your Grace. With Prince Daemon’s acquiescence, I’ve already sent ravens to Lord Grover.”

Rhaenyra’s expression hardened as she locked eyes with Daemon, her look laden with reproach. His response to her silent accusation was a veneer of impassive resilience, enduring her scrutiny without yielding. The tension between them was palpable, a clash of wills over unseen lines being drawn. “Lord Grover is fickle and easily swayed. He will need to be convinced of the strength of our position and that we will support him should it come to war.”

Daemon’s reply was definitive, undeterred by her reproach. “I’m going to treat with him myself.”

Their exchange was charged with an unspoken confrontation, a battle of resolve where neither party showed signs of retreat. 

Rhaenyra was no stranger to the discomfort of being excluded from crucial discussions, a sentiment that intensified during her labor. It had since become apparent that, in her absence, pivotal conversations had transpired and decisions had been actioned in her name without her consent or knowledge. She conveyed her dissatisfaction with a subdued yet unmistakable censure. In response, Daemon met her disapproval with a composed assurance, his demeanor bordering on defiant, as if urging her to see the rationale behind his actions. While Rhaenyra grasped the logic of his stance, it did little to mitigate her frustration or assuage her sense of being sidelined. 

Ser Steffon Darklyn raised a critical inquiry, “What of Storm’s End and Winterfell?”

“There has never lived a Stark who forgot an oath. And with House Stark, the North will follow,” Lord Bartimos Celtigar stated confidently. 

Rhaenyra interjected thoughtfully, “Lord Borros Barathon will need to be reminded of his father’s promises.”

“An alliance with Borros Baratheon was secured through marriage. It’s reasonable to assume they might be inclined to support us,” Lord Bartimos offered.

“Any alliance we had with the Baratheons ended with the passing of Daenera’s husband,” Daemon stated bluntly. “We cannot cling to past alliances that have since been laid to rest. Lord Borros Baratheon is as fickle as they come and he is proud, he will bide his time and see whichever way the wind blows.”

As he spoke, Ser Steffon Darklyn moved a brass pawn to Winterfell on the map, symbolizing their expected support, while Jace positioned a neutral piece at Storm’s End to represent their uncertain stance with House Baratheon. 

The conversation took a turn as Ser Lorent Marbrand directed their focus back to a pressing issue. “What of the Princess?”

The inquiry about the princess’s status lingered ominously, charged with tension akin to an executioner’s sword poised for the decisive strike. The room was thick with the implication of what her absence meant–and stifling with worry for the princess whom many loved. Apprehension moved through the room like a passing shadow, looming heavily on each face. 

Pausing for a moment, Daemon’s expression remained even as he spoke, “Princess Daenera was present at the usurper king’s coronation, where her betrothal to the king’s brother, Aemond Targaryen, was announced. We’ve yet to receive clarity on her stance, but we are to assume she has been made a hostage.” 

The response to the daunting question settled over the room with a solemnity that matched, if not surpassed, the tension of the initial inquiry. A heavy silence ensued, profound in the absence of voices. Within this silence, another query began to take form, unvoided yet palpable, casing ghostly presence over the proceedings. It was Daemon’s phrasing that birthed this specter, subtly casting a shadow over Daenera’s fidelity. 

Rhaenyra intoned, “She is a hostage.”

Her words cut through the uncertainty and lay to rest, at least momentarily, the spectral doubts that Daemon’s comments had conjured. She had made her stance clear on the issue at hand, and it was a position she intended to uphold firmly until presented with evidence to the contrary.

In the midst of this tension, Jace, with a thoughtful precision, moved to place a pawn at Harrenhal, declaring it for them. As their gazes met, Rhaenyra offered him a brief, acknowledging nod–a silent gesture of gratitude. 

Rhaenyra shifted the direction of their discussion, her voice cutting through the air to focus on Rhaenys, who had been maintaining a quiet presence away from the heart of the gathering. “What news from Driftmark?”

Dressed in a gown of deep blue, the rich fabric fell round Rhaenys in heavy folds, embodying the wealth of House Velaryon. Adorning her attire, the sigil of her husband’s house – a seahorse – was intricately stitched into the golden lace that traced a deliberate path down the gown’s front. She appeared taken aback by Rhaenyra’s direct question, quickly gathering her composure. The momentary hesitation could have been mistaken for reluctance to join the discourse. 

“Lord Corlys sails for Dragonstone,” Rhaenys finally responded, her voice carrying the weight of her words through the hall.

“To declare for his Queen!” Daemon declared in a confident manner that belied the intention of his words. 

Rhaenys remained unfazed by Daemon’s attempt to put words into her mouth, and she retorted with a statement that was both a clarification and a boundary, “The Velaryon fleet is my husband’s yoke. He decide where they sail.”

The reply was meticulously neutral, carefully avoiding any direct proclamation of support or opposition. 

Rhaenyra acknowledged the delicate balance of allegiance and hope in her response. “We shall pray for both you and your husband’s support…Just as we pray nightly for the Sea Snake’s return to good health.”

Rhaenys offered a gentle, albeit pensive smile in return.

Aiming to emphasis the strategic advantage of House Velaryon’s maritime prowess would bring to their cause, Rhaenyra asserted, “There’s no port on the Narrow Sea would dare to make an enemy of the Velaryon fleet.”

With this statement, she turned her focus back to the map sprawled out before them. Taking a moment to gather her thoughts, she delved back into the discussion of their position. “And our enemies?”

Daemon offered a blunt assessment regarding their prospects with the Lannisters. “We have no friends among the Lannisters. Tyland has served the Hand too long to turn against him. And Otto Hightower needs the Lannister fleet.”

Rhaenyra nodded in agreement, her eyes scanning the map before her, settling on the representation of the Westerlands. “Without the Lannisters, we are not like to find any allies west of the Golden Tooth.”

Daemon concurred with a simple, “No.”

The action that followed–placing a brass pawn near Casterly Rock to denote them as adversaries and another by Riverrun to symbolize an anticipated but unconfirmed allegiance–visually empathized the strategic landscape they were navigating. 

“The Riverlands are essential, Your Grace.”

Rhaenyra caught the significance in Daemon’s tone, fully grasping the pivotal role the Riverlands could play not just for their strategic positioning but for the vitality of their cause itself. 

Lord Bartimos interjected with a palpable sense of urgency and frustration, his words cutting through the strategizing. “Pray forgive my bluntness, Your Grace, but talk of men is moot. Your cause owns a power that has not been seen in this world since the days of Old Valyria.”

At this, Rhaenyra exchanged a knowing look with her husband, a silent acknowledgement passing between them.

“Dragons,” Lord Bartimos declared, his statement hanging in the air with the weight of centuries. 

“The Greens have dragons as well–” Rhaenyra reminded him, her fingers absently twisting her ring with a sense of anxiousness, even as her tone was a mirror of Lord Bartimos exasperation. 

Daemon interjected with precise knowledge of their opposition’s capabilities. 

“They have three adults, by my count. We have Syrax, Caraxes, and Meleys. Your son’s have Vermax, Arrax, and Tyraxes. Baela has Moondancer.”

His enumeration served not just as a tally of their assets but as a reminder of the significant power at their disposal, and yet, it did little to assure Rhaenyra of their advantage. All they had were young dragons, most of whom were inexperienced in war and too vulnerable to send into battle. 

Rhaenyra sought to interject a note of caution into the conversation. “Daemon, none of our dragon’s have been to war.”

Undeterred, Daemon pressed on, his confidence undiminished. “There are also unclaimed dragons. Seasmoke still resides on Driftmark.”

The air seemed to thicken at Daemon’s mention of Seasmoke, the dragon once bonded to Laenor Velaryon. The prospect of another claiming Seasmoke was intricately tied to the fate of its rider–if Laenor was indeed still among the living, hidden away in the Free Cities, the dragon remained his alone. The mere utterance of Seasmoke’s name raised a tempest of questions regarding Laenor’s fate, a mystery that either outcome–his survival or his demise–filled Rhaenyra with an equal measure of apprehension. 

The secrets of that tumultuous night on Driftmark were closely guarded, known only to Rhaenyra and Daemon, and Laenor himself. The potential unraveling of those truths threatened to bring their carefully constructed world tumbling down, a calamity known only to them, veiled from the eyes of everyone present. 

“Vermithor and Silverwing dwell on the Dragonmont, still riderless,” Daemon persisted, undaunted by the caution in Rhaeyra’s gaze. “Then there are the three wild dragons, all of whom nest here–and the Shadow of Harrenhal, wild and unclaimed, nesting at Harrenhal.”

“And who is to ride them?” Rhaenyra asked. Despite the impressive count of dragons at their disposal, the issue of finding suitable riders remained a glaring gap in their strategy.

Daemon, however, displayed a bold confidence that seemed unshaken by such logistical concerns. “Dragonstone has thirteen to their four.”

His statement emphasized their numerical advantage without dwelling on the rider dilemma, and he continued, “I also have a score of eggs incubating in the Dragonmont.”

As Ser Erryk discreetly slipped away from the conversation, his departure was barely registered by Rhaenyra as Daemon’s strategic consideration continued to unfold. He picked up a brass marker, its placement on the map symbolizing the strategic importance of the place. 

“Now… we need a place to gather, a toehold large enough to house a sizable host,” Daemon said, moving around the table, he decisively positioned the marker at Harrenhal, reinforcing Jace’s earlier placement. “Here, at Harrenhal. We cut off the west, surround King’s Landing with dragons, and we could have every Green head mounted on spikes before the fucking moon turns.”

As the assembly reached a critical juncture, Ser Erryk interjected with an urgent message that immediately drew everyone’s attention. “Your Grace… a ship has been sighted off shore: a lone galleon, flying a banner of the three-headed green dragon.”

Without hesitation, Daemon sprang into action, his instincts seeming to take over. He swiftly moved to retrieve his sword from the table’s head, signaling his readiness to confront the threat, and as he spoke, his voice resonated with authority and command. “Alert the watchtowers. Sight the skies.”

Rhaenyra found herself momentarily sightlined by the rapid development, barely managing to voice her concerns as Daemon brushed past her, his movements brisk and determined. He was already on his way out of the great hall, accompanied by Ser Erryk, Ser Lorent and Ser Steffon, as well as Ser Brandon Piper, the Captain of the Guard. 

“I will engage with them on your behalf,” Daemon assured her, his tone resolute.

“Daemon…” Rhaenyra’s voice pierced the tension in the air as she hastened after him, her decision made. The echoing steps of her hurried pursuit filled the hall as she dismissed the council with a wave of her hand, determined to follow her husband. Daemon, however, didn’t halt his stride until her command grew more insistent. “Daemon, stop.”

He finally paused, allowing the men trailing him to proceed without them, affording the two a semblance of privacy. Daemon turned to face her, his movements deliberate as he secured his sword at his waist, his expression grave and expectant. 

Rhaenyra stood firmly before him, resolve etched into her features. “I will meet with them myself. I refuse to let them return to King’s Landing with any misconceptions of cowardice or weakness on my part. I must demonstrate my power unequivocally, and I will do so mounted on dragonback. There will be no doubt who is the rightful ruler of the Seven Kingdoms.”

A gentle smile broke through Daemon’s stoic facade, his eyes alight with admiration and pride. “As Your Grace commands.”

With a respectful nod, he acknowledged her decision, then proceeded after his men, as Rhaenyra remained standing where she was. She felt a twist of unease unfurl within her, the lingering discomfort from her recent birth making itself known with each step she took. Absently, her hand drifted to her now-empty curve of her abdomen, where a dull ache persisted, a somber reminder of the life she had carried.

With resolve steeling her every move, she made her way towards Dragonstone’s underbelly, navigating the winding staircase that descended into the castle’s cavernous depths. The journey was illuminated by flickering torches that cast dancing shadows across the rough-hewn stone walls. A mingling of smoke and sulfur hung heavily in the air, a prelude to the beasts that resided within the caves beneath Dragonstone castle. 

Entering one of the vast caverns, Rhaenyra crossed the threshold into a realm where dragons dwelled. Here too, torches lined the path, their warm glow reflecting off the resplendent golden scales of Syrax. The dragon raised her head in greeting, exhaling a breath that was both hot and welcoming, recognizing her rider. 

Syrax tilted her head as if to observe as Rhaenyra approached, the dragon emitting a soft, welcoming rumble that vibrated through the cavernous space. Rhaenyra’s hand slid along the dragon’s snout and she gently pressed her forehead to the dragon, allowing the dragon to nudge against her. She whispered a soft plea, “Tepagon nyke aōha kustikāne.”

Lend me your strength.

With another affectionate nudge, Syrax seemed to express her consent, her massive form shifting slightly to accommodate her rider’s touch. Rhaenyra’s fingers explored the dragon’s neck, tracing the deep valleys between Syrax’s scales, soaking in the heat that radiated from the magnificent beast. 

The Dragonkeeper that had attended to Syrax, an old man weathered by years of experience, approached cautiously, his grip firm on his spear. “Ziry ilimagho syt aōha ao hae lo ziry gryves aōha ōdres.Issi ao sure ao naejot sōvegon isse aōha rytsāri?”

She mourns for you as though she feels your pain. Are you sure you should fly in your condition?

Determined, Rhaenyra positioned herself at the ladder that ascended to Syrax’s back, her hold on the leather steadfast. “Kostan gryves se ōdres. Mazēzi ñuha pāletilla se mazēzi ñuha tala. Bona nyke daor gryves.”

I can bear the pain. They steal my crown and they hold my daughter. That I cannot bear.

Clutching the leather tightly, and with a concerted effort, Rhaenyra heaved herself up with a determined intake of breath, her body protesting as she eased into the saddle, each movement wrought with pain. It was as if she was sitting upon an open wound–and she was. Her cunt was still raw and unhealed from the ordeal of giving birth no more than a day prior. Her bones seemed to groan with a deep-seated ache, her muscles quivering under the strain. 

A swirl of nausea churned within her, compelling her to momentarily shut her eyes in a silent plea for respite. She steadied herself, securing the tether snugly around her waist and firmly grasping the saddle’s handles, preparing to confront the ordeal with unwavering resolve. 

“Rȳbagon,” She commanded the dragon. “Rȳbās. Tepagon nyke aōha kustikāne se ivestragī nyke sagon mijegon zūgagon. Ivestragī īlva urnēptre zirȳ īlva perzys ēza daor zaltan hen.”

Listen. Obey. Lend me your strength and make me fearless. Le us show them our fire has not diminished. 

“Jikagon,” Rhaenyra directed, her voice commanding despite the pain. 

Syrax responded with a deep, resonant growl, her massive claws digging into the earth, propelling them forward. They advanced towards the mouth of the cave, where the scent of the sea mingled with the dust swirled by Syrax’s movements. Each step of the dragon sent shivers up Rhaenyra’s spine, her body tensing with every jolt. Clinging to the saddle, she felt every muscle in her body cry out in protest. The ache in her pelvis was a cruel reminder, each movement aggravating her wounded flesh. 

Nevertheless, she swallowed the pain, and ordered, “Sōvegon, Syraks!”

Responding with a powerful surge, Syrax unfurled her vast wings, catching the rising thermals, her powerful beats propelling them upward. The wind tangled Rhaenyra’s hair, intertwining with the expanse of freedom that flight afforded, momentarily easing her discomfort.

The world unfolded beneath her, the vast expanse of the sea stretching out, where the relentless waves embraced the rocks in a frothy caress, and the heavens stretched wide, adorned with streaks of clouds. The mingling of sea spray and crisp air filled her senses, and she breathed it in greedily. Syrax sore through the sky, letting her tail trace the surface of the water before ascending higher, beating her wings. Rhaenyra’s heart matched the rhythm of Syrax’s wings, pulsating with a shared vigor–a thrill known only to dragonriders.

Together, they soared above Dragonstone, embracing a momentary escape from the troubles below. As they ascended over the walls, the watchful eyes of the newly stationed men–brought by the lords that had arrived while she was abed–followed their ascent, awestruck by the sight of dragon and rider in flight. 

Rhaenyra directed Syrax to the castle’s battlements, between the twin watchtowers. They landed with a loud thud, sending a few guards sprawling on the floor in an attempt to avoid the dragon. Syrax let out a huff, shaking her head. With keen eyes, Rhaenyra surveyed the approach from the harbor, noting the group of men positioned at the landing where the path narrowed towards the harbor gates, effectively controlling access from the docks to the castle. The position atop the battlements allowed her a comprehensive view of the harbor and the solitary galleon docked within, its sails neatly furled, as a delegation made its way towards where Daemon stood. 

As the delegation halted before Daemon, Rhaenyra tightened her grip on the saddle, steeling herself for the ascent. At her command, the air trembled with the roar of Syrax, a sound that echoed across the expanse, a declaration of their might. They soared, slicing through the skies to sweep dramatically over the delegation, casting imposing shadows that danced mockingly around the startled men. Daemon did not flinch, instead his eyes seemed to follow her with pride and vivid amusement. 

Circling back, they descended majestically, directly over the delegation, inciting a wave of fear and panic, the men instinctively recoiling. 

With a command as fierce as the beast itself, Syrax landed upon the narrow path, unleashing a roar that pierced the very air, a potent reminder of the might that Rhaenyra wielded. Positioned high above them, she observed the delegation with a narrowed gaze, a smirk playing on her lips as she reveled in their fear. Her eyes locked onto Gwayne Hightower, whose posture remained defiant but apprehensive.

Rhaenyra gracefully touched down upon the ground, her boots making a definitive connection with the sturdy, unwavering stone beneath her. She expertly concealed any hint of a grimace beneath a mask of stone. Determined not to express even the slightest hint of her unease or weakness, she turned to confront the assembly, maintaining an upright posture and an elevated chin. With an air that commanded attention, she cut through the crowd of traitors as she made her way towards her husband. As she strode past Ser Gwayne Hightower, she caught a glimpse of the subtle yet unmistakable strain that marred his countenance–a frown settling on his features. 

Positioning herself beside her husband, she and Daemon’s gazes briefly locked, communicating an unspoken accord before she shifted her attention to the waiting party. Ser Gwayne Hightower seemed nonchalant–though there remained a note of unease to him as Syrax emitted a growl behind him. His hand rested casually on the pommel of his sword, the other hooked in his belt, his armor proudly displaying the Hightower sigil–a tower topped with flames. The green of his cloak fluttered in the breeze, subtly suggesting his allegiance lay more with his own house than with her estranged half-brother that was supposed to be his king. 

The air hung heavily with tense anticipation, the distant crash of waves and the whistle of wind through the narrow path providing a heavy setting to the silence. Above, the sun marked its zenith, crasting a harsh light over them as the day began its slow tilt towards evening. 

“Princess Rhaenyra,” Ser Gwayne commenced, his head bowing slightly in a semblance of respect, yet the iciness in his eyes hinted at a familiar condescension–one that reminded Rhaenyra of his father.

“It is Queen Rhaenyra now,” she corrected him sharply, her voice cutting through the air like steel. “And you all stand as traitors to the realm.”

The tension in the air thickened as Rhaenyra fixed them with a penetrating stare, the nail of her thumb digging into the flesh of her palm in an effort to maintain her composure. “You are in possession of my daughter.”

Gwayne acknowledged with a simple, “Indeed.”

A momentary flicker of vulnerability crossed Rhaenyra’s face as she sought out Daemon’s gaze, seeking a sliver of reassurance, before her eyes settled back onto Gwayne. Drawing upon a deep reserve of strength, she managed to keep her voice even, “And how is she?”

“She fares well, Princess,” Ser Gwayne responded, his demeanor serious yet imbued with a hint of compassion. “We ensure she receives all the care and honor befitting her status.”

“She is well? Truly?” The question from Rhaenyra came again, laden with a mother’s concern seeking unequivocal assurance of her child’s well-being. A knot of apprehension wound its way through Rhaenyra’s core at the thought of her daughter being wielded as a pawn. She ached for the comfort of her daughter’s company, to envelop her in a protective hug, ensuring her safety within the embrace of her arms. The desire to have her daughter by her side, safe and sound, was overwhelming.

Rhaenyra’s hand drifted unconsciously to the hollow curve of her stomach, touching upon the deep-seated emptiness inside her. The absence was palpable, a silent echo of what had been lost. In her mind, there lingered the hope, fragile yet persistent, that reclaiming her daughter might somehow heal the jagged tear in her heart left by the loss of her second daughter. 

At this, a sincere smile broke across Ser Gwayne’s features, his brows lifting in a gesture of empathy and understanding. “Indeed, she is, Princess. She remains unharmed, and I believe, quite hopeful. She is resilient and clever. You needn’t worry so much for her.”

How could she not be consumed by worry? She was, first and foremost, a mother, and her daughter was being held captive. Yet, within Gwayne’s response, there lay a thin thread of comfort, a faint hint of solace that managed to penetrate the dense cloud of her anxiety. 

“I demand the return of my daughter,” Rhaenyra declared, her tone laced with both authority and desperation. 

Gwayne met her insistence with a measured response. “The authority to grant that request does not lie with me. Nor am I sure your daughter would return to you should she be granted the freedom to do so.”

The implication was clear and it jabbed between Rhaenyra’s ribs. She fixed him with a piercing look, her hand rubbing against the ache in her belly. 

A thin smile crossed Ser Gwayne’s face as he slightly inclined his head, his demeanor cool and unmoved by the threat in her voice. “I come at the behest of the Dowager Queen Alicent, mother of King Aegon, Second of His Name, Lord and Protector of the Seven Kingdoms…”

Rhaenyra’s stare grew icier, more intense.

“King Aegon Targaryen, Second of His Name–”

“Must you recite the pretender’s title each time his name is uttered?” Daemon interjected, visibly annoyed by the needless formalities afforded to a usurper. His stance was relaxed yet poised, signaling a lack of threat but readiness–one hand rested on the pommel of his sword while the other rested on the pommel of his dagger. He let out an exasperated breath, “Are you here at the behest of my brother’s widow or his usurper cunt of a son? Which is it?”

The smile that Ser Gwayne offered in response was as frigid as his gaze, devoid of any warmth–truly his father’s son. “My presence is at the behest of both the Dowager Queen and her son, the King… who, in his wisdom and desire for peace, is offering terms.”

Rhaenyra’s eyes met Daemon’s, a silent exchange passing between them.

“Acknowledge Aegon as king and swear obeisance before the Iron Throne,” Ser Gwayne stated, outlining the conditions for her surrender. “In exchange, His Grace will confirm your possession of Dragonstone. It will pass to your trueborn son, Jacaerys, upon your death. Lucerys will be confirmed as the legitimate heir to Driftmark and all the lands and holdings of House Velaryon.”

Rhaenyra’s fingers unconsciously played with her ring, considering the offer and its implications. It seemed the Hightowers were willing to acknowledge the legitimacy of her eldest children, affirming their rights to their inheritances–offering it up as though they weren’t already theirs to begin with. But in the eyes of the Hightowers, they were generous terms, it would seem. A spark of incredulousness formed within her–would it be enough to erase the stains of illegitimacy they had already cast upon them?

“Your sons by Prince Daemon will also be given places of high honor at court: Aegon the Younger as the King’s squire, Viserys as his cupbearer,” Gwayne added, detailing what else they stood to gain. “Finally, the King, in his good grace, will pardon any knight or lord who conspired against his ascent.”

Daemon’s response was laced with contempt as he spat out, “I would rather feed my sons to the dragons than have them carry shields and cups for your drunken, usurper cunt of a king.”

Rhaenyra’s gaze flickered between her husband’s vehement sneer and Ser Gwayne’s provoking response. She noted Ser Gwayne’s demeanor, his words meticulously chosen, each serving as a challenge to her claim. 

“Aegon Targaryen sits the Iron Throne,” Gwayne declared with an imposing certainty, each word ringing with the weight of convictions–each word an indictment against her. “He wears the Conqueror’s crown, wields the Conqueror’s sword, has the Conqueror’s name. He was anointed by a septon of the Faith before the eyes of thousands… Every symbol of legitimacy belongs to him.” 

Daemon scoffed, his tone laced with disdain as he retorted, “Yet, for all his regalia, he is not Aegon the Conqueror–he is Aegon the Usurper. He is merely a puppet, a mere shadow of the figure you so desperately try to conjure, manipulated by your father’s hands.”

Ser Gwayne’s smile was thin, revealing nothing but a cold amusement. “And then there is Stark, Tully, Baratheon. Houses that have also received, and are at present, considering generous terms from their king.”

Rhaenyra sensed Daemon’s intense stare and locked eyes with him. His face, a silent query, suggested a swift conclusion to this pretense of diplomacy by severing Gwayne’s head from his shoulders. However, with a slight shake of her head, Rhaenyra signaled her disapproval for such drastic measures. 

“Stark, Tully, and Baratheon all swore to me when King Viserys named me his heir,” she confronted Gwayne with unwavering resolve, emphasizing the sacred oaths of loyalty and obedience that had once been sworn to her. “You stand before me not as honorable men but as betrayers of your word, forsaking the very oaths you swore.”

Gwayne, unfazed, responded with icy composure, “Stale oaths will not put you on the Iron Throne, Princess. The succession changed the day your father sired a son. It is regrettable that you and he were the last to see the truth of it.”

Anger surged within Rhaenyra, a storm of resentment and fury sparked by his dismissive tone and the undercurrent of belittlement that weaved through his words. “You and your house are fucking traitors and as are all who stand with you. How long did my father uphold my position as his chosen heir? For how many years did his resolve never waver? How often and steadfastly did he proclaim me the true successor to the Iron Throne?”

Rhaenyra advanced, her bearing regal and undaunted, proclaiming her sovereignty. “I stand as the true Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, and it is under my authority that I will dictate the terms of your surrender.”

Behind her, Daemon’s presence was palpable, an extension of her own will. His movements were those of a predator in wait, his readiness palpable in the air, adding a layer of imminent threat that tightened the grip of the men on their weapons, wary of the impending action from the formidable Rogue Prince. 

“With graciousness, I offer a pardon to all who have taken part in the usurpation of my crown,” Rhaenyra announced, her gaze sweeping over those aligned with Gwayne Hightower, then fixing intently upon him. “For his years of service to King Viserys your father will be afforded the courtesy of retiring his position as Hand of the King and he will be allowed to spend the remainder of his days in Old Town. This clemency will be extended to my father’s widow too, Queen Alicent.”

Rhaenyra’s gaze remained coldly on Gwayne, letting her words settle in. He seemed unsettled, his eyes shifting between her and Daemon, who maintained his stance as a relentless guardian, pacing with a predatory grace behind her. “As for my half-brothers and my sweet sister Helaena, they have been led astray by the council of ambitious men. I invite them to come here, to Dragonstone, to bend the knee and seek my forgiveness. In return, I offer them my mercy and a place within my grace.”

The proposal hung in the air like morning mist, and while it was a royal decree, it held a genuine offer of reconciliation. If her brothers were to accept her as their Queen, she would allow them to enjoy the liberties befitting princes, free to pursue their own paths in life. And as for her sweet half-sister, Helaena, she wanted to see her prosper.

Gwayne’s reaction was telling; he sighed, a gesture tinged with resignation or perhaps a calculated semblance of it, as he cautiously retrieved an aged piece of parchment from his belt. 

Daemon, ever watchful, swiftly snatched the parchment from Gwayne’s extended hand. With an urgency driven by impatience, he unfolded to reveal a page torn from a book. Holding it aloft, his expression twisted into an accusatory scowl, seemingly annoyed by the triviality of what was in his hand as it held no meaning to him. “What the fuck is this?”

A frown settled on Rhaenyra’s face as she took in the sight of the parchment held by her husband. Gently, she took the page from him, her fingers treating the aged parchment with utmost care. As she recognized the image upon the page, a heavy realization dawned on her, settling in her stomach like a weighty stone. The parchment displayed an illustration of Princess Nymeria’s historic voyage across the Narrow Sea, annotated with descriptive text. The wear pattern on the parchment spoke of its frequent contemplation, suggesting a deeper significance or a cherished sentiment attached to it–Rhaenyra felt that attachment tug at her, felt the weight of its significance.  

She was momentarily stricken, her gaze locked on the parchment as a whirlwind of emotions churned within her. The revelation brought a complex tapestry of feelings to surface, intertwining bitterness with sorrow, anger with a poignant sense of what used to be and what might have been. A lump swelled in her throat, and she fought against the tears that threatened to surface, recognizing the profound implications of this gesture. 

“The Dowager Queen Alicent has not forgotten the love and bond you once shared,” Gwayne offered gently, his voice carrying an undertone of caution and perhaps, a note of reconciliation–both of which were overt in its manipulation. “It is her wish that you may find some semblance of it once again. No blood need be shed over this, and the realm may remain at peace.”

Daemon let out a derisive scoff, his voice dripping with contempt. “You claim no need for bloodshed, yet what of the blood you have already shed? Lord Beesbury, Lord Caswell? Have you not shed their blood?”

Ser Gwayne’s expression tightened, his eyes cold as ice. “They were traitors–”

“Traitors?” Daemon repeated mockingly. “For supporting the legitimate claim to the throne? It appears the real treachery lies with you. Shall we extend to you the same judgment you passed on them?”

Rhaenyra raised a hand, silencing Daemon with a gesture, her gaze ablaze with a fierce determination. “Alicent kept this?”

“Indeed, she did,” Gwayne answered, refocusing his attention on her. 

“And she gave you this?”

He nodded. 

In that moment, Rhaenyra recognized the gesture for what it was–a desperate plea from someone who once held a place in her heart, imploring her to flee as Princess Nymeria once did, seeking sanctuary far away. Yet, she also saw it as a tactic, an attempt to sway her into submission under the guise of mercy. 

Holding the parchment aloft, Rhaenyra declared, “This holds no meaning to me anymore.” 

Even as the words left her lips, Rhaenyra felt the sting of tears threatening to breach her resolve, a tightness constricting her throat, and a profound ache wringing her heart over a friendship long lost. The impact the parchment had on her was undeniable, yet she masked her sorrow with anger. Ripping the parchment in two, it seemed to Rhaenyra as though she was also rending a part of herself, a fragment still clinging to the cherished past they shared as friends. 

“Maybe this will carry more weight, then,” Ser Gwayne said, reaching beneath his armor to produce another piece of folded parchment. “Before I left King’s Landing, your daughter tasked me with delivering you this message…” 

He presented a sealed letter, its folds secured with a wax emblem bearing the sigil of the Hand of the King. Rhaenyra accepted the letter, her gaze fixed upon the emblem as a surge of emotion threatened to breach her composure–tears prickling cruelly behind her eyes. She felt an intense pang of sorrow and fear clutch her heart, sending waves of pain radiating through her, constricting her breaths and anchoring a heavy weight within her chest. 

“Princess Daenera wanted me to remind you that she is still your daughter…” His words weren’t intended as a solace but served as a sharp reminder of her daughter’s precarious situation. This acknowledgement only amplified the sensation of tightness enveloping her chest, making the burden she carried heavier. 

Rhaenyra needn’t be reminded that Daenera was her daughter–it was a truth she felt as sharply as a blade grazing her flesh, felt as acutely as the absence of a limb. The reminder bore an edge of cruelty, serving to further hone the blade that was pressed against her skin. Syrax, deeply attuned to Rhaenyra’s inner turmoil, unleashed a fearsome roar that sliced through the air, sending a palpable wave of force through the vicinity. The men nearest to her were caught off guard by the dragon’s fury and instinctively recoiled, staggering backward with terror painted on their faces. 

Despite the intimidating roar from Syrax, Gwayne appeared unshaken, though there was a noticeable widening of his eyes and a certain tightness in his features that betrayed his unease. “Her love for you is immense, and she fears what will become of her should you decline our terms of your surrender.”

His words only seemed to drive the imagined blade deeper, letting it slip between her ribs, twisting into her heart and spreading agony throughout her being, reverberating in the emptiness of the loss of her second daughter. 

Daemon’s reaction was a guttural sneer laden with venom, “Should any harm befall her, I swear, each and every one of you will become fodder for my dragon.”

Gwayne remained unmoved by Daemon’s fury, his focus unswervingly on Rhaenyra. This only seemed to fuel Daemon’s wrath as he positioned himself protectively near his wife, his hand fast on the hilt of his sword.

“And if that one-eyed cunt you call nephew lays a hand on her, I will personally feed him his remaining eye before splitting him open from cock to throat,” he sneered. 

Rhaenyra’s gaze lingered on the letter she held, hesitant to break the seal and unveil its contents. It was only when her husband’s voice, laced with threats, cut through the air that she lifted her gaze to search his face. In his eyes, she saw the fierce promise of retaliation should any harm befall her daughter. This display of wrath brought her an unexpected solace, revealing the depth of his protective instincts–even amidst his suspicions of her possible betrayal. 

“We have no intention of causing her harm,” Gwayne assured, his words met by Daemon’s reproachful huff. “Princess Daenera wishes for your presence at her wedding… A moment of joy she hopes to share with her family, as you were unable to share her joy at her first wedding…”

Rhaenyra felt the bitter sting of his words.

“It is her desire that you accept the terms as I have presented them, and acknowledge Aegon, Second of His Name, as your King and the legitimate ruler of the Seven Kingdoms,” Gwayne continued. “She hopes you will agree to these conditions, for her sake and for the realms peace and stability.”

These words, intended to pacify, hung in the air–laden with the weight of the decisions yet made and the silent plea of a daughter caught in the middle of the political machinations. 

The gentle, seemingly sincere tone of Gwayne’s voice, only intensified Rhaenyra’s disquiet. Tears threatened to surface as she lifted her gaze to finally meet his, feeling an acute pain with each labored inhalation. It was as if a blade had been wedged between her ribs, its sharp point mercilessly piercing her heart with every breath, twisting with calculated cruelty. She fought against the tears, determined not to let them fall in front of the Hightower delegation. 

“In the light of your daughter’s well-being, the inheritance of your sons, and for the peace and prosperity of the realm, I implore you to agree to these terms and put an end to the division of House Targaryen…” Gwayne concluded, his voice carrying the weight of the decision Rhaenyra stood before. “Your daughter, as well as the King, awaits your answer.”

Daemon’s response was immediate and venomous, his position on the matter clear, “The usurper cunt might have his answer now, stuffed in his uncle’s mouth along with his shriveled cock. Let’s end this mummer's farce…”

The sharp sound of steel unsheathing sliced through the tension, as Daemon drew Dark Sister with a swift, fluid motion, the blade glinting with deadly intent as he levied it against Gwayne Hightower–a man he had always despised. He was poised for combat, as were all the other men as they drew their blades. “Ser Erryk, bring me Ser Hightower so I may take the pleasure myself.”

Syrax unleashed another roar, towering and spreading her wings wide in a display of intimidation, her snarls directed at the men in front of her. Rhaenyra felt the power of her dragon’s roar reverberate within her, drawing upon its raw energy to fortify her resolve. With the letter and the torn page gripped tightly in her hands, she set her jaw firmly and commanded Daemon to stand down with a simple, “No.”

She fixed Daemon with a piercing gaze that silently implored him to stand down. Their gazes locked, with Daemon’s head canting slightly, a look of discontent marking his gestures as if questioning her certainty. In response, Rhaenyra’s gaze hardened, conveying her decision with an unequivocal turn of her head. With a sigh tinged with frustration and a clear sense of disappointment, Daemon reluctantly lowered his weapon. 

Turning her attention back to Ser Gwayne Hightower, Rhaenyra’s demeanor was once again composed, the tempest within her kept in control. “King’s Landing will have my answer on the morrow.”

Gwayne took a step back, offering a bow, while outwardly respectful, couldn’t fully mask the calculating coldness in his gaze–a trait he had unmistakably inherited from his father.

“Princess…” He uttered, with a tone that held more than mere acknowledgement and then he turned to rejoin his men, taking the lead. His departure was not without a palpable tension, the soldiers shifting restlessly under the weight of Syrax’s thunderous roar. Syrax remained in their path, surveying them with her fiery gaze, forcing the men to halt their retreat. Gwayne cast a wary glance back towards Rhaenyra, his eyes fraught with a mix of uncertainty and apprehension–seeming to question her intentions, almost as if he feared a sudden reversal of her forbearance. 

Rhaenyra maintained her composure, her breath controlled and steady as she lifted her gaze to Syrax. As if understanding her will, Syrax ascended into the air with a resonant roar, her wings unfurling with such might that the cloak of the Green delegation fluttered violently in her wake. Syrax soared, gracefully circling above the restless sea and rocky outcrops, while the delegation retreated towards the dock, threading through the gateway leading to the harbor. Once they vanished from view, Syrax returned to land, taking up the same position on the bridge as she had before, emitting a huff. 

Rhaenyra’s voice carried a blend of inquiry and frustration as she asked, “What transpired with Lord Beesbury and Lord Caswell?”

Daemon studied her for a moment, his expression retaining a sliver of incredulity. “A message arrived from one of my contacts within the City Watch. It informed us of Beesbury and Caswell’s demise.”

“And when did you receive this news?” Rhaenyra pressed, her voice now edged with a clear strain of criticism, signaling her displeasure at being once again ill informed on matters pertaining to her as queen. 

“It arrived only as we left,” Daemon disclosed, maintaining a calm demeanor. “Lord Beesbury, it seems, did not survive the council meeting, and Lord Caswell was hanged for treason.” He then reached beneath his belt, retrieving a neatly folded note. Extending it towards her, he added, “The message mentions your daughter as well.”

Rhaenyra accepted the letter, holding both the torn page and the letter from her daughter, as she carefully unfolded this new piece of parchment. As her gaze moved across the inked words, her pulse quickened, a tumult of emotions swirling within her.

In the wake of the King’s passing, a council convened at dawn, with all key figures present. The events within the council chamber remain unknown, but what we do know is that Lord Lyman did not leave the chambers alive.

Rhaenyra absorbed the contents of the letter, her expression darkening as Daemon elaborated the council’s betrayal, watching her closely. “It appears Lord Beesbury was the first casualty of their usurpation.”

“Lord Lyman was ever loyal to my father,” Rhaenyra reflected, her mind drifting back to her youth. She recalled a council session her father had insisted she attend, despite objections from his advisors. Seated on her father’s knee, young and observant, she had scribbled on a scrap of parchment provided by Lord Lyman from his book. “He would never support Aegon’s claim over mine. He knew my father’s heart better than any of them.”

“They murdered him,” Daemon said, and there was a fire in his eyes.

Disbelief and exasperation shaded her voice as she said, “And Criston has been appointed Lord Commander…”

Daemon’s contempt was palpable. “He makes a mockery of the title. Even rats have more honor than him.”

Lord Commander Westerling has since vanished from the capital, his fate uncertain, and Ser Criston Cole has ascended to his role. Any who resisted pledging allegiance to Aegon has been detained, pending charges of treason. Lord Caswell, denied the right to trial, has been hung, alongside two of Princess Daenera’s guards, Ser Kevan Mertyns and Ser Sithric Greenfield. The maid, Joyce Garner, also met her end, while the rest of the Princesses men have been imprisoned in the dungeon.

“Lord Caswell’s allegiance to my right to the throne has always been unwavering,” Rhaenyra remarked, her disbelief evident as she digested the grim news of his fate. Already, a handful of men had been killed over this dispute. “Daenera herself has penned letters acknowledging his support… and her guards…”

Daemon interjected softly, “They were honorable men who died for their Queen.”

“And Joyce…” Rhaenyra murmured, shaking her head. The thought of her daughter’s suffering was almost too much to bear. Joyce had been a constant presence, a trusted confidante, and someone Rhaenyra had relied upon deeply for the care and protection of her daughter. 

She felt his attentive gaze on her as she absorbed the contents of the letter, her heartbeat echoing her distress, one hand instinctively resting on the aching expanse of her abdomen, the ache seeming to pulsate along with the beat of her heart. 

The princess, however, remains in high spirits despite her circumstances. She is kept in comfort, and is, by all accounts, well. She is allowed to move wherever she pleases through the ground of the Red Keep, though she is never left alone. She is under strict surveillance. Even so, she spends her days standing vigil over her men. 

“Daenera remains unharmed…” Rhaenyra whispered, a measure of relief softening the tension within her at the news of her daughter’s welfare. Yet, this assurance did little to quell her yearning to embrace her daughter closely, to offer comfort and protection. 

“Holding vigil for Caswell and her men,” Daemon observed, a hint of admiration in his voice. “No doubt to the annoyance of the Hightowers.”

Daemon shifted his stance, his hand curling around the hilt of his sword, “We should have made a bolder statement. Otto Hightower ought to have received his son’s head as our reply.”

“I will not break convention and have you kill an envoy. It is not a precedent I wish to set,” Rhaenyra countered with stern resolve. “This is not the manner in which I intend to begin my reign.”

With an exhale of exasperation, Daemon’s demeanor remained hard and unyielding, his critique sharp. “Few successions have been bloodless. Yours was never going to be. Yielding to their demands would not be the start of your rule, but the end of it–and be assured, it will not be bloodless.”

“They come here in good faith to–”

Daemon interjected with a scoff, “‘Good faith’? They have stolen your throne!”

“Permitting the execution of an envoy would have started a war,” Rhaenyra responded with a sharpness to her voice, carefully modulated to ensure their exchange remained somewhat private. She did not appreciate Daemon opposing her so openly in front of their men, nor did she appreciate his disregard for convention and what it would mean to break it. 

“The war has already started,” Daemon contested, his stance unyielding. 

“Then should it not fall upon me to quell it before it costs us any more?” Rhaenyra retorted, her gaze fierce, her hand resting against her stomach. 

He scrutinized her with an intensity that bore his frustration and disapproval, his gaze as sharp as the sword at his hip. “You cannot seriously be contemplating their offer.”

“Daemon, they have my daughter,” Rhaenyra said, her voice laced with a desperation born of maternal fear–and she wished she could strip her voice of it. Her grip tightened around the letter, it’s touch almost scalding in her hand–unopened and filled with unread words, yet still potent in its very existence. “My only daughter. I cannot–I will not–risk her safety for the ambition of a crown. The terms they offer are good–”

“It’s a farce!” He spat out, his disdain palpable. “They offer crumbs and call it a feast. They mock you by ‘granting’ what is already yours to hold. And your sons, they mean to award them with the inheritances that are already theirs.” He closed the distance between them, his stance imposing, his fury as tangible as the flames of a dragon’s breath. “And our sons… They mean to have them bear cups and shields for that drunken cunt. How do you think they will treat them? Hmm? They will be no more than hostages–if they even live.” His eyes burned with rage. “To accept these terms is to sign our own death warrants–all of us. The moment you bend the knee to the usurper cunt of a king, our fates are sealed. Otto Hightower will not allow any claimant to the throne to live–for men to rally behind.”

Rhaenyra’s own ire surged as Daemon’s words lashed at her, her gaze shifting away, unable to face the piercing truth in his eyes. “I don’t believe Alicent–”

“Don’t fool yourself into believing she harbors any kindness for you. She has a viper for a father and she is sure to have the same venom,” Daemon interjected harshly. “Do not forget what she has put you through. Your father might have yielded to their demands. Do not make his mistakes. Where is your fire?”

Her gaze whipped back to him, fierce and defiant. “They have Daenera.”

“And if you cede to their demands, then you risk the lives of your other children.” The implication of what he was saying seemed to crackle in the air like thunder.

“And if it was your daughter? Would you dismiss her so easily?” Rhaenyra challenged, her voice sharp, slicing through the tension between them. Daemon’s response was a silent, penetrative look that mingled revulsion at her seeming capitulation with his own tempest of anger. 

Rhaenyra’s voice was firm as she continued, “I understand your disappointment in Daenera, and I know you fear she has aligned with the Greens. But she is still my daughter. She was prepared to sacrifice herself to prevent this conflict–and we should take that into account. She was ready to sacrifice herself for us, Daemon. That is not something a traitor would have done…”

Daemon’s fingers tapped irritably against the pommel of his sword, his frustration palpable in the tight set of his jaw. He took a deep breath, his chest rising and falling heavily before he spoke. 

“Daenera might not be a traitor,” he acknowledged, each word strained like a tightly drawn bow. “And I genuinely hope she isn’t, but I am concerned that her love for that one-eyed cunt may change that–and I’m concerned that your love for her will cloud your judgment.”

Rhaenyra’s eyes narrowed. 

“That letter will suggest surrender, and you won’t find any true sentiments of hers in it… If you surrender for the sake of your daughter it could cost you everything else.” His tone was firm, yet there was a gentle quality to it–like that of the flat softness of a blade. “You must not bend the knee, Rhaenyra. Not even for your daughter.”

“My decisions must reflect what is best for our family and the realm.”

With a heavy pause, Daemon stood back, staring at her before he averted his gaze, a gesture so charged with finality and repulsion that Rhaenyra felt as though a wave of icy water crashed over her. Turning away, he began his departure, his movements slicing through the silent, watchful crowd of their guard. They parted for him as he walked through them, enveloped in his own storm of fury. 

Rhaenyra’s gaze lingered on the torn page and letters she held, carefully tucking them into a hidden pocket within her bodice–a safeguard to ensure their security. Her eyes briefly connected with Syrax’s, witnessing the dragon’s powerful wings flap before she soared into the sky, leaving Rhaenyra to undertake the journey back on foot. Perhaps this was a mercy; she doubted her ability to endure the saddle once more. 

Taking a deep, steadying breath, Rhaenyra gently touched the area of discomfort in her lower abdomen. The pain was acute, reminiscent of labor, yet her womb was empty–the hollowness aching. With each step, the fabric of her underclothes clung uncomfortably to her skin, exacerbating her discomfort. Her pace was slow, not by choice but necessity, every muscle in her body protesting the movements. 

“My Queen…” Ser Erryk Cargyll’s voice broke through her focus, his hand poised near her lower back in a gesture of support. As she paused, resting her hand against the cool, rough texture of the bridge’s wall, the contrast between the stone’s solidity and her own fragile state became apparent. 

Rhaenyra dismissed Ser Erryk’s concern with a shake of her head, clenching her jaw tightly to combat the waves of nausea and pain engulfing her. With sheer determination, she walked the remaining distance to the castle gates, her every movement through the courtyard and into the castle’s vast interior a testament to her will. The effort to maintain a composed exterior did little to ease the discomfort radiating along her spine and the acute, burning sensation that plagued her with every step. 

Upon entering her privat quarters, Rhaenyra found Lady Elinda Massey at the settee, carefully folding a blanket. Startled by Rhaenyra’s sudden appearance, Elinda’s hands paused, her expression shifting to concern as she abandoned her task and hurried over. “Your Grace!”

Rhaenyra, too overwhelmed to respond, staggered towards the chamber pot and was soon gripped by a bout of nausea, her stomach heaving as the stress of recent events took its physical toll. As she succumbed to the convulsions, tears mingled with her distress, clouding her sight and dampening her cheeks. 

Elinda immediately sprang into action, her voice laced with urgency as she comforted Rhaenyra. Her hands traced soothing circles across her back, trying to offer some relief amidst the tumult of her queen’s suffering. “I’ll send for the maester immediately.”

Without a word, Rhaenyra made her way to the chamber pot, succumbing to the urge to vomit, her body wracked with convulsions as tears blurred her vision. The chill of a shudder went down the weary muscles of her spine.

In the solitude of her chambers, Rhaenyra composed herself as Lady Elinda scurried off to summon assistance. With a trembling hand, she brushed away any remnants of tears from her cheeks, the bitter taste of bile souring her mouth. She winced at the sight of the regurgitated bread and cheese in the chamberpot–the scant breakfast she had managed to stomach earlier.

Methodically, she retrieved the papers she had tucked into her bodice, spreading them carefully across the surface of the dressing table. Her fingers clung to the table’s edge, seeking its stability. Lifting her eyes to meet her own reflection in the mirror, Rhaenyra faced the weary visage that stared back at her. The strain of the day’s revelations was etched deeply into her features, revealing the heavy burden of her royal duties and personal sorrows.

Her complexion remained pallid, a fine layer of perspiration glossing her skin, while the wind had left her hair disheveled and her eyes reflecting the depth of her fatigue and distress–there remained a haunted look to her weariness. With hands that trembled slightly, she reached up to unburden herself of the crown that rested heavily upon her head, setting aside the emblem of her authority and heritage. 

The crown of Jaehaerys was a marvel of craftsmanship, combining gold and silver in a delicate yet imposing design. The front was adorned with the sigil of House Targaryen, the formidable three-headed dragon, symbolizing her lineage’s power and her claim. Encircling the band were the sigils of the Great Houses that had all bend the knee of Aegon the Conqueror–Houses Stark, Arryn, Tyrell, Tully, Baratheon, and Lannister. 

Every one of them had knelt before her, swearing fealty with their houses’ strength and unwavering loyalty. Now, with the shadow of possible war stretching across the realm and the specter of turmoil beckoning, she wondered the steadfastness of their support. 

As the crown lay beside her, a silent question hung in the air, mirrored in her weary gaze: How many of these houses would stand beside her in the trials to come? And would it be worth it laying waste to the realm for her to sit the Iron Throne?

“Help me with this,” Rhaenyra’s voice was hoarse with weariness as she fumbled with the fastening of her cloak, her hands trembling. 

Elinda, ever attentive and seasoned in her role as lady-in-waiting, approached with gentle haste. With practiced hands, she eased the cloak from Rhaenyra’s shoulders, allowing the heavy, dark material to rest over the back of a chair. She then proceeded to assist her with her dress, carefully undoing the fastenings of the gown, the rich fabric whispering against itself as it was opened and slid down to pool at her feet. Following this, the inner layer was also removed, leaving Rhaenyra in her undergarments–a chemise of fine cotton and breeches, both stained with blood and clinging uncomfortably to her skin.

Seeking a moment’s respite, Rhaenyra moved towards a chair set before the warmth of the hearth. Elinda was quick to cushion the seat with a soft pillow, before Rhaenyra lowered herself, easing down on it, a sound of discomfort falling from her lips. 

The distinct sound of Maester Gerardys’s approach was heralded by the gentle clinking of his maester’s chains, a sound that carried the weight of his office and expertise. He entered the chamber with a furrowed brow, his expression etched with concern as he navigated the room to place his medical satchel upon the table adjacent to Rhaenyra. In tandem, Elinda approached, bearing a basin filled with steaming water. With care, she set it beside the maester’s bag, then soaked a cloth in the warm water, gently pressing it against Rhaenyra’s damp forehead.

“Your Grace,” Maester Gerardys gently approached her, settling himself on the stool positioned in front of her. His tone was laced with concern, his eyes settling on the blood on her undergarments. “You’ve pushed yourself beyond your limits, you should not exert yourself in such a manner.” 

The stool scratched loudly against the floor as he moved closer. “Please, Your Grace, if you will…”

Obligingly, Rhaenyra shifted closer to the edge of the chair, angling her hips and spreading her legs as she gathered the hem of her chemise to grant the maester access to her injuries. Her gaze lingered on the deepening frown of worry that marred the maesters forehead as he assessed her. 

His eyes flickered up to her, his head shaking softly as he chided at her, “You shouldn’t have ridden–and a dragon at that. You’ve exerted too much pressure and a stitch has come loose. It is imperative that I cleanse the wound before applying a new stitch to prevent any further complications and let the tear heal faster…”

Rhaenyra pressed her thumb to the inner corner of her eye, making a dismissive sound, and with a faint, weary nod, her gaze drifted to the ceiling, her eyes tracing the intricate patterns etched in the stone as Maester Gerardys rummaged through his satchel. TThe soft clatter of glass vials and the gentle clinking of bottles resonated in the quiet room as he searched for the necessary instruments. 

“You might find relief in some milk of the poppy,” Maester Gerardys suggested, his voice a blend of compassion and professional advice, intending to ease her forthcoming discomfort. 

“No. I’ll have none,” Rhaenyra replied, her voice tinged with fatigue. She had witnessed firsthand the numbing haze induced by the milk of the poppy, observed its hold on her father, who under its influence, seemed adrift, scarcely aware of his own daughter and brother beside him. Such a clouded existence was not something she wished to endure. 

“The application of the stitch might bring considerable discomfort, Your Grace,” Maester Gerardys cautioned. “You should not have to suffer the pain of it.”

“No milk of the poppy,” Rhaenyra asserted firmly, a note of annoyance weaving its way into her tone. “I can bear the pain. I will not have it cloud my mind, I need my senses with me.”

The pain of the procedure seemed minuscule compared to the trials she had already endured. The thought offered her a cold comfort; if she could withstand the tempests that had battered her during labor, surely she could bear the sharp bite of a needle’s stitch.

Acknowledging her decision, Gearardys sighed softly, placing the bottle with a foggy white liquid back into his bag. His hands then emerged holding what appeared to be slender sticks. “Your daughter procured these from the Kingswood.”

“Twigs?” Rhaenyra said skeptically. 

A small smile formed on Gerardys lips. “It's the bark of the white willow tree. It should alleviate some of your pain.”

She eyed the bark with a skeptical curiosity, “You want me to eat these?”

“They are not for consumption but for you to chew on,” he clarified, presenting a few shavings to her. “The white willow’s bark acts as a natural alleviant. It is not as effective in relieving pain as milk of the poppy, but it should offer some comfort.” He turned to Elinda as she, too, was eyeing the bark. “Lady Elinda, if you could steep these shavings in boiling water, it would make a beneficial tea for Her Grace.”

He handed Elinda a portion of willow bark and a small pouch of hers, presumably, to enhance the tea, she nodded and moved to the hearth. The maester then dampened a cloth, wiping some of the blood off her inner thighs, a concentrated and worried expression on his face. 

Rhaenyra, still somewhat dubious, reluctantly took a bite of the chewy bark. The earthy, bitter taste spread across her tongue, overpowering the acrid taste of bile that had otherwise clung to her tongue. The sound of water being set to boil filled the chamber, the crackle of fire a familiar and comforting. 

As the water cascaded over her swollen and wounded cunt, Rhaenyra couldn’t help but wince, the sensation akin to flames licking at her already tender flesh. She tensed, a grimace forming as she braced herself for the pain, hastily stuffing the rest of the bark shavings into her mouth and chewing with a visible grimace.

Maester Gerardys proceeded with utmost care, washing away the blood with a gentle touch. He delicately removed the remnants of the torn suture, prompting Rhaenyra to clench her jaw tighter, her fingers embedding themselves into the wooden armrests of the chair as she fought the urge to recoil. The maester’s eyes, full of concern, met hers as he signaled his readiness to mend the tear with a new stitch. 

With a barely perceptible nod, Rhaenyra allowed her head to recline, her gaze fixed on the ceiling, seeking distraction in its cold, unyielding expanse. The needle’s entry was a sharp bite, a pain so acute she could only grit her teeth harder, her entire being coiled in the anticipation of more pain. A low, pained sound escaped her lips as she endeavored to swallow the bitterness in her mouth, hoping it would alleviate the sharp sting of the needle as it drew through her wounded flesh.

There was a certain clarity to the pain, a singular focus that pierced through the fog of her weariness. It was a sensation both known and oddly comforting, different from the deep, unyielding emptiness that had taken root within her. The physical pain of childbirth was a familiar force, one she had faced down seven times over. But the sorrow of this birth, the sheer magnitude of the losses she had suffered, cast a shadow far deeper than any physical wound could inflict. It was a desolation amplified by the absence of the child she had hoped to hold, leaving her with nothing but the echo of her pain and the void of her embrace.

She couldn’t help but admire the strength of her own mother, who had endured this cycle of hope and heartbreak time and time again. How had she managed to bear the weight of so many lost possibilities, so many silent cradles? The thought burrowed deep, mingling with her own grief. 

Rhaenyra stifled a grunt, her form tensing as the needle pierced her once more, the maester’s murmured apology barely registering. Her gaze was fixed on the flames flickering across the room, their glow casting the stone ceiling the flames, an intricate dance between light and shadow. 

“Done,” Gerardys announced, tucking the needle and thread back into his satchel with a finality that seemed to echo in the quiet of the room.

With effort, Rhaenyra raised her head, spitting the chewed willowbark into a chamberpot Elinda had thoughtfully positioned at her side. She rinsed her mouth with sweet wine, her face contorting at the clash of flavors–the residual bitterness of the bark wrestling with the wine’s richness. She chased the lingering bitter bark with her tongue, spitting repeatedly into the pot, striving to cleanse her pallet before finally pushing the wine aside with a soft, “Thank you.”

Her leg muscles quivered as she adjusted her posture in the chair, inhaling sharply through the discomfort. As she positioned herself more upright, the tender, swollen skin of her cunt brushed against the cushion beneath her, sending a wave of pain through her body.

“Rest now, Your Grace,” Maester Gerardys urged gently, his voice a blend of concern and wisdom. “Allow the body the time it needs to recover… the soul as well.”

“Rest seems more a luxury than a necessity at this moment,” Rhaenyra replied, extending her hand for support, her tone resolute. “I will rest when I am dead.”

This response only deepened the furrow in Maester Gerardys’s brow, his gaze laden with concern as he assisted her to rise. Holding her hand, he imparted a moment of solemn counsel, “Such words are born of youthful fervor, Your Grace. True wisdom lies in recognizing the need for rest, particularly when the body and spirit yearn for it. An eternally vigilant mind risks losing its way.”

“I don’t intend to forsake rest altogether,” Rhaenyra clarified, offering a weary smile. “However, now is not the time for rest, and I fear that should I try, I will not find it.”

Despite her body’s exhaustion, Rhaenyra was besieged by a whirlwind of thoughts, the looming shadow of war hanging over her and the decisions she had yet to make. What would war mean for the realm? Death and despair? For her? For her children? The notion of sleep felt like a fanciful dream, a fleeting escape from the weariness that had seeped into her marrow. And out of the periphery of her mind, there lingered a fear, a trepidation that in the quiet of rest, she might confront the vast emptiness within, a silence filled only by the remnants of her losses. 

Maester Gerardys, ever observant, cast a look of understanding her way. “When you are ready, I shall prepare a draught to ease you into sleep.”

“Thank you, Maester,” Rhaenyra replied, her gratitude genuine though suffused with fatigue. She squeezed his hand a little before releasing it.

As the Maester moved through the chamber, the soft chime of his chain punctuating the silence, Rhaenyra’s gaze drifted to the blanket draped over the settee. A surge of emotion tightened her chest as she approached and lifted it, her fingers tenderly trancing the embroidered flowers adorning the plush fabric. With each touch, her heart splintered further, tears welling in her eyes as she brought the blanket close, searching for a scent that might connect her to the daughter she would never know.

She had no frame of reference for what her daughter might have smelled like–the coppery essence of blood, the peculiar aroma of birth waters–these were all she had. Would her daughter have carried the scent of lavender that seemed to follow Daenera, or perhaps the richer undertone of pine that marked Jace? Or maybe she would have possessed the indescribable scent unique to newborns until she had grown too old? Yet the blanket offered none of these; it bore only the clean, impersonal fragrance of soap and rosemary–of being clean. 

The absence of any familiar or discernible scent left her feeling hollow, an unexpected layer of loss adding to her grief. The disappointment was a quiet, gnawing presence, a silent echo of all that had been lost already. She thought, at the very least, that it should smell of someone.

All that remained to her of her daughter, her little Visenya, was a lingering ache within her womb and the throbbing pain that haunted her every step.

“Elinda, could you return this to Luke?” Rhaenyra asked, her voice ragged with weariness. Ever since Daenera had gifted it to him, Luke had taken to sleeping with it every night. At the tender age of six, with him just shy of four, her youthful fingers had awkwardly moved the needle through the fabric, her inexperience visible in every imperfect stitch. Years had passed, yet time had done little to refine her skills in embroidery. Despite its flaws, each stitch was imbued with warmth and affection, and Rhaenyra held it to her face for a moment, once again breathing in the scent of no one. 

Elinda offered her a nod, approaching her with a warm cup of tea. “Of course, Your Grace.”

“And before you leave, would you help me dress? I need to be presentable.” Rhaenyra let the blanket rest on the settee before moving around the sitting area, each step marked by the discomfort from the fresh stitch and the residual ache of childbirth. She moved to the water basin, splashing her face with water, the coolness a brief respite, and gently patted her skin dry, erasing the traces of her ordeal. Elinda then carefully untied the chamise, letting the stained garment drop to the floor. 

With gentle hands, Elinda dabbed at Rhaenyra’s skin with a damp cloth, soothing away the sweat and the poignant smell of dragon. Once cleansed, Rhaenyra was helped into fresh undergarments–a new chamise and cotton breeches, thoughtfully prepared with an extra cloth for added protection against any further bleeding. The first layer of her dress was then draped over her, followed by the outer layer, each piece meticulously fastened with small golden clasps.

Seated before the mirror, Rhaenyra allowed Elinda to carefully release her hair, working through the tangles that had formed during her flight on Syrax. A dull headache throbbed with the tempo of her heart, and she nursed the bitter tea, feeling it somewhat ease the tension. 

Her gaze, reflective and distant, landed on the torn page. With a sense of purpose, she reached out, gathering the remnants, letting them rest before her. 

A tide of bitterness surged within Rhaenyra, accompanied by the familiar sting of tears threatening to break through once again. The memory of her recent promise to return to King’s Landing haunted her, along with the fragile hope Alicent had sown–a hope for reconciliation, for mending the fractures of a friendship that had once been steadfast. Now, reflecting on that hope, Rhaenyra felt it might have been a fool’s wish. The chasm between them had widened too much, irreparable as the torn page that rested before her.

Yet, she had chosen to preserve the page. Despite the option to discard it, Alicent had kept it all these years. 

And with a cruelty that was once love, she had used it in this way. 

The message was twofold: a plea from the friend of her youth, imploring her to flee to safety across the narrow sea, as Princess Nymeria had once done. And from the Queen, a solemn warning: the consequences of remaining dire. 

Her gaze found the lone flame flickering in the quiet room, and she contemplated the act of burning the torn pieces in the fire. Yet, a part of her soul, a vestige of hope or perhaps what was left of the friendship, resisted.Thus, she carefully placed the torn pieces into a wooden chest, a repository for the letters her daughter had sent her during her time in King’s Landing. Her hand rested on the wooden chest, thumb caressing its surface before pushing it back into place. 

“The council has gathered, Your Grace,” Ser Lorent Marbrand announced, standing at the threshold of her chambers. 

Rhaenyra acknowledged Ser Lorent with a slight nod and lifted herself from the stool, her movements rigid and laborious. Her hand trailed over the smooth wood of the table, hesitating when her fingers encountered the sealed letter resting there. She lacked the strength to break its seal, her apprehension of the known veiled as dread of the unknown.

With a weary sigh, she left the letter where it lay, untouched and unopened, the wax seal remaining intact–a symbol of her reluctance to face what was written inside. The room seemed to close in around her, the weight of decisions unmade pressing heavily upon her shoulders as she turned away from the table.

Rhaenyra was almost through the threshold of her chambers when Elinda’s voice called out, a note of urgency in her tone. “Your Grace, your crown!”

Pausing, Rhaenyra turned to see the crown, the physical embodiment of her duty and burden. It lay on the table, its intricate metalwork gleaming dully in the muted light. Her gaze rested upon it, feeling its weight in her very soul.

“It is a heavy one, indeed,” she murmured, her voice raw with resignation. She turned and walked out.

As Daemon strode along the walled path leading back to Dragonstone Castle, irritation pulsed beneath his skin like a relentless itch. His grip on the pommel of his sword tightened with each hurried step. Frustration seethed within him, fueled by Rhaenyra’s hesitation–her reluctance to decisively reject the Hightowers audacious terms, her failure to support his impulse to strike down Gwayne Hightower as the traitor he was, gnawed at him. But above all, his frustration mounted over her contemplation of the enemy’s demands. 

Despite his agitation, a small part of Daemon understood her predicament. He acknowledged the weight of recent losses that clouded Rhaenyra’s judgment, the unbearable thought of additional losses pressing down upon her. Yet, he believed she needed to recognize her responsibilities–not just to their family but as Queen as well. The dual burdens of personal grief and the demands of leadership tugged at her, yet Daemon felt she must rise above the emotional turmoil to see her duty clear. The kingdom required her strength and resolve now more than ever, and he reprehensible that she would even consider the terms they had given her.

As Daemon had left Dragonstone to confront the green delegation, he had encountered Ser Brandon Piper, who had breathlessly rushed towards him with a letter in hand. Daemon had hastily broken the seal and read through the contents, which seemed to quell some of his inner turmoil regarding Daenera. The letter, penned by a reliable ally, confirmed that she was alive and well, subtly resisting the Greens in the limited ways available to her–standing vigil over those they perceived traitors. 

Each step he took brought him closer to the towering gates of Dragonstone castle. Guards lined the walls, their presence dispersed along them in a vigilant display of force. Yet, despite the fortress’s fortifications, a restless agitation continued to drive him forward.

Perhaps he had been too quick to judge her actions as those of a traitor–and he had been relieved to hear that that might not have been the case. Daenera was not a traitor, but a hostage, a role that Daemon found easier to forgive. 

Yet, despite this understanding, the seed of doubt sown by her prior betrayals–the lies and deceit for the sake of keeping her relationship with Aemond quiet–had taken root deep within him, and it was not so easy to uproot. 

Daemon paced up the steps, his thoughts stormy as he mulled over Daenera’s impending marriage to the one-eyed cunt. He couldn’t deny that she had fallen in love with the boy, but this affection, Daemon feared, could turn her away from her family–and this he could not forgive. 

The Greens meant to use Daenera as a way of influencing Rhaenyra, a simple tool to force her into submission. Daemon found the mere thought intolerable. The idea that Rhaenyra might even consider yielding to their demands ignited a fierce rage within him. To accept their terms would be to expose their throats to the vipers, a surrender that would only lead to their destruction. Once they showed weakness, the Greens would not hesitate to eliminate any threats to their power, starting with those who had more claim to the throne than them.

Daemon was beyond exasperated by Rhaenyra’s willful blindness to this peril–like her father before her, she refused to accept that they had to fight for their crown and secure their rule. Accepting the Greens’ terms would not only be accepting of a grave insult but a fatal error. 

He had observed a flicker of determination in Rhaenyra as they confronted the demands from the Greens, even going as far as giving them her demands. He had swelled with pride at her initial defiance, only to be disheartened as her resolve waned, shaken by the reminder of them holding her daughter. 

War was inevitable, and sacrifices necessary–something which Daenera appeared to grasp more than her mother. 

As the evening sun dipped below the horizon, its departing light threw elongated shadows across the stone paths of Dragonstone. Daemon, driven by a restless energy, bypassed the castle’s inviting warmth and instead ascended the winding staircase to the battlements. From his elevated vantage point, he watched Rhaenyra’s arrival through the castle gates. Her appearance was a blend of determination and weariness: cheeks flushed from the long walk, her usually poised hair tousled by the wind, creating a striking image of her internal turmoil as she moved through the courtyard and into the castle. 

Daemon’s chest tightened with a mix of indignation and frustration as he contemplated Rhaenyra’s possible compliance. Within him, apprehension coiled like a serpent, whispering that she might succumb to the same weaknesses that had plagued her father. He had ceaselessly warned Viserys of the Hightowers’ ambition, yet his caution had been dismissed, his presence often shunned for the truths he dared voice. How many times had he been cast aside for laying bare the venomous reach of the Hightowers? Otto Hightower had woven his web meticulously around the king, ensnaring Viserys and poisoning his mind against his own brother. Viserys had always been weak of will, had always sought to placate and be amiable–he was a good man, but he did not possess the resolve to be a good king, and House Targaryen had suffered for it. 

And now, Rhaenyra displaced the same tendency. He could not comprehend why she, fierce and fiery far beyond her father, seemed ready to restrain her own formidable spirit. In his eyes, her willingness to negotiate, to delay, projected weakness–a stark contrast to the blazing dragonblood that flowed through their veins, which demanded dominance and commanded respect. 

They were dragonriders, they were the blood of the dragon, and they should not be made to grovle at the feet of serpents. 

Daemon believed that if Rhaenyra would just let him loose to unleash chaos, to do what he was born for, they would swiftly defeat their enemies. He could have the heads of their enemies adorning the castle walls before the moon turned, if only she gave him the chance. Rhaenyra could rightfully claim her throne, surrounded by her family’s unwavering strength and unity.

He brooded over the past, convinced that if his brother only listened to his warnings about the Hightowers, they would not be facing the conflict they were now–The Red Keep would not be the home to a nest of vipers. These serpents slither through its halls, spreading their poisoned lies and deceit, turning the castle into a breeding ground for treason and corruption. It would instead be a home for dragons, as it was meant to be. 

Had Viserys taken Daemon’s counsel to heart, they would not be facing the threat of war. There would be no disputes tearing at the fabric of the realm; instead, there would only be the unchallenged might of House Targaryen. The realm would be united under the strong and undisputed rule of Queen Rhaenyra Targaryen–and Daemon would be at her side, protecting her as he was meant to. 

Even if it was from herself.

[beevean]

Here's a potentially cool writing prompt if you're up to it:

The Castlevania 3 gang faces up with Dracula at the end of the game

Or as an alternative them watching the Castle crumble after their victory

It's over.

With shaky fingers, Trevor wipes his own face, caked with blood and Dracula's ashes. The other hand still clutches his Vampire Killer, warm and thumping in his palm as if it were a creature.

It used to be his only company, a sacred heirloom of a family no one accepted. Not anymore. Sypha brushes a strand of his hair from his wound and tucks it behind his ear; his heart jumping at the touch only means that he's still alive. Despite the hell they marched through... they are all alive.

Trevor takes a deep breath of the fresh air outside, and thanks God that he's able to do that.

"I couldn't have done this without you, my friends," he speaks the first words after Dracula had dissolved into a mist of darkness and hatred.

"Aw, don't be modest, man!" Grant claps his shoulder. "You did all the grunt work. We just cheered you from behind."

"Nonsense. I wouldn't have survived on my own."

"Trevor, man, d'you realize what you just did? You killed Dracula! With your own hands! Just bask in the victory, will ya?"

Trevor smiles and adds nothing else. Yes, he did it. The cruel Count is no more. He had stared at his twisted face, carved with loathing Trevor could not begin to understand nor accept; and he struck it over and over, with the determination of mankind behind each and every blow. He fought in the name of all the people that he had hurt and killed, the terror and despair he spread in the land. And with that, he had prevailed. He even had the marks to prove it.

A gasp from Sypha, to his side. "The sunrise is so beautiful, today."

And indeed, it was. Sweetened by the aftertaste of their victory, the sight of the sun tinging the crumbling ruins of the cursed castle with oranges and pinks is nothing short of breathtaking... only matched by Sypha letting her hood down, allowing her hair to cascade down her back.

"No use in hiding anymore, is it?" he smiles. Something in that mysterious sorcerer had allured him ever since he had freed her from her stone prison, but indeed, she was particularly lovely with her face out to the world. Perhaps she could be free to live as her wonderful self, now.

"Not with you," she murmurs, leaning her head on his shoulder.

But someone is missing from the celebrations.

A few feet away from the others, Alucard does not seem as impressed at the sight. With his cape, he protects half of his face from the sun rays getting brighter and brighter.

Ah, but of course. His vampiric heritage did not matter one whit to Trevor, who only saw in him a noble soul. It did, however, weigh on the prince.

Trevor did not just destroy an evil beast and its lair. All of the sudden, the ruins of Alucard's childhood home and the ashes of his father no longer felt like a victory.

"How are you holding up, my friend?"

Alucard flinches at the last word. A small fang gets caught on his lip.

"... Mother's soul will now rest in peace," he eventually replies, with a hand on his heart.

It's not an answer to Trevor's question, and that alone confirms the worst of his suspicions. But he pushes the turmoil in his chest to the side, not wishing to upset Alucard further. There will be the time to grieve what they had all lost, and there will be time to decide what to do in the foreseeable future. For the time being, they can only rest their weary bodies and souls, and admire the light of the sun washing away the last of Dracula's shadows on Wallachia.

They had won.

[sachafaible]

The White Cloak

Chapter 1 of my Ao3 Criston Cole x Gwayne Hightower Faible fanfic after last night's HOTD episode (spoilers ahead)

The sound of hooves pounding against the earth filled the air as Sir Criston Cole led the column of riders. The morning was misty, with dampness clinging to armor and cloaks alike. It was as though the very land held its breath, sensing the turmoil ahead. Beside Criston rode Gwayne Hightower, the green of his armor vivid against the mist, his expression a mask of determination. Their destination was Harrenhal, a fortress steeped in history and sorrow.

"We're close," Gwayne murmured, his voice breaking the silence that had settled between them. Despite their recent arguments, he couldn't deny Criston’s unmatched skill and indomitable will. "The arrival of the Kingsguard should convince the local lords of our intentions."

Criston glanced at Gwayne, his gaze hard, yet not entirely devoid of softness.

"And you believe they will bend the knee so easily?"

"Not easily," Gwayne admitted. "But with tact and reason. Not everything is achieved through brute force."

Criston's jaw tightened. "Sometimes force is the only language understood."

Gwayne opened his mouth to argue but thought better of it. They had tangled enough on this matter. Instead, he nodded. "Then let us hope you won't need to speak that language today."

The conversation lapsed into silence again, the mist giving way to the massive silhouette of Harrenhal. As they approached the gate, the tension in the air was palpable. Soldiers on the walls watched with narrowed eyes, their loyalty uncertain in these fractured times.

Sir Criston reined in his horse, turning to address the men behind him.

"Be vigilant. We do not yet know how we will be received."

Gwayne's hand brushed against Criston's as they moved forward, an unspoken gesture of solidarity that neither acknowledged out loud. United in purpose if not in method, they prepared to step into the lion's den together.

With the towering gates of Harrenhal looming above, Gwayne Hightower spurred his horse forward, determination etched across his features. He understood that winning the support of Harrenhal's lords through words and reason would be more sustainable than through the edge of a blade.

"Gwayne Hightower of Oldtown!" His voice carried, strong and clear, across the walls. "We seek an audience with your lord. We come as emissaries of Queen Alicent Hightower."

Murmurs broke out among the soldiers on the walls, but no immediate response followed. Criston Cole, sitting on his horse beside Gwayne, shifted restlessly. His warrior instincts demanded action, and the prolonged silence only stoked the fire within him.

Gwayne turned his head just enough to catch Criston's eye. "Patience, Criston. They need time to decide."

Criston barely stifled a scoff. He trusted Gwayne's intellect, but words often failed in the face of doubt and fear. Minutes felt like hours as they waited, and the tension on both sides grew stiflingly thick.

Finally, the gates creaked open, revealing a small party of armored men led by a wary-looking captain.

"My lord is cautious," the captain said. "These are uncertain times."

Gwayne nodded, his demeanor serene.

"We understand. These are indeed troubled times. But we come bearing Queen Alicent's message of unity and strength. We need allies, not adversaries."

As Gwayne dismounted and approached, Criston's eyes scanned the surroundings for any sign of treachery. He moved to follow, his movements less measured than his companion's.

Gwayne continued, "Your loyalty to our cause will not go unrewarded, I assure you. Harrenhal's strength could turn the tides in favor of the Greens."

Criston saw suspicion flicker in the eyes of the men before them. Impatience gnawed at him.

"Enough talk!" he barked, stepping forward, eyes locked on the captain. "Prove yourselves true lords by standing with us, or face the consequences of your indecision."

Gwayne shot Criston a pleading glance, hoping to reign him in, but the damage was done. The captain's expression hardened, and he stepped back.

"We will consider your words, but you will have to wait outside until our decision is made."

Gwayne tensed, his effort to dissuade anger from creeping into his voice evident.

"Of course. We will await your decision."

As they retreated back towards their men, the friction between Criston's eagerness and Gwayne's diplomacy hung heavy in the air.

"You may have just made this harder," Gwayne hissed.

Criston shrugged, unmoved. "Sometimes hard is necessary. We'll see who they listen to."

--

The camp outside Harrenhal settled into an uneasy quiet as night fell, the occasional sound of rustling armor and low whispers breaking the silence. Gwayne Hightower had waited long enough. The fate of Queen Alicent’s cause hung in the balance, and he couldn’t afford to leave it to Criston’s aggressive methods. He needed a private audience with the lord, away from the mistrust and the eyes of soldiers.

Clad in darkened garb to blend with the shadows, Gwayne slipped from the camp, navigating through the terrain with practiced stealth. The moonlight offered just enough illumination to guide his path towards a less guarded side entrance he had scoped out earlier. His heart pounded with the weight of secrecy and determination.

He was nearly within the cold stone walls of Harrenhal when a shadow moved—Criston Cole, stepping into his path. His white cloak was pulled tight around him, but his armored silhouette was unmistakable. Gwayne halted, the sudden presence sending adrenaline coursing through his veins.

"Criston," Gwayne whispered, almost accusingly, "What are you doing here? You were supposed to stay back."

Criston’s eyes glinted in the dim light, a mixture of anger and something else—the same indecipherable emotion that had been simmering between them.

"And let you handle this alone? You could jeopardize the entire mission."

"I’m trying to reason with them. Your bull-headed approach won’t win us allies," Gwayne hissed, trying to keep his voice low. "Let me do this my way."

Criston stepped closer, his presence overwhelmingly intense in the confined hallway.

"Your way? And what if your way fails?" His voice was barely a murmur now, but the proximity made it hard to ignore the warmth of his breath against Gwayne’s skin.

Their faces were inches apart, the tension crackling in the narrow space. Gwayne’s heart hammered not just from the mission, but from Criston’s proximity. He could feel the heat radiating off Criston, smell the faint trace of sweat and worn leather. His chastising glare softened, replaced by a confusion of emotions he had tried to suppress.

Criston’s eyes searched Gwayne’s face, lingering a moment too long on his lips.

"This isn’t just about the mission, is it?" His voice was low and rough.

Gwayne looked away, the truth hanging unspoken in the air. "I don’t know what you’re talking about."

The silence between them spoke louder than words. The corridor was narrow, and there was no room for evasion. Criston's hand brushed against Gwayne's as he spoke next, voice softened.

"We can't afford to lose focus here, Gwayne…"

Their lingering gaze held promises and conflicts, a battle fought in the hush of a breath between them.

[ruiniel]

First Snow

Fandom: Castlevania Series (2017-2021)

Rating: G

Relationship: Alucard/Greta of Danesti

Characters: Alucard, Greta of Danesti

Count: 2.1k

Also on AO3

Additional Tags: First Kiss, Snowball Fight, Winter, Inspired by Castlevania, Post-Castlevania Season IV, Fluff without Plot, Pining, Greta POV

Summary: Published in 2021, from a time with winter #gretacard feels.

Wallachia, winter of 1476

Early December saw their first sweep of abundant snow as a sudden, restless winter took over the lands, but work and commotion never ceased. Greta walked among the people bundled in their fleece caps and winter coats, heading to and fro, milling about paths battered by frequent use. Thick smoke billowed in the air from newly built chimneys, and there were small fires started here and there, where spicy mulled wine frothed in dark cauldrons for all to share.

The winter holidays would soon be upon them, and the headwoman of Belmont looked gladly on their efforts, which yielded an already habitable location months after moving here and starting their lives anew. The fresh snow fallen in the night now clung like soft fluff to her leather boots, and her breath came misted white in the cold. She walked bundled in her own beige fleece coat, her hair braided back from her face and a green woollen cap pulled over her ears for added protection.

She sought left and right, searching for him — as she often did lately, it seemed. But, as with many other occasions, Alucard was the one who knew the details needed to help them move forward with another current predicament, namely designating which extra chambers they could convert to house some families whose dwellings were still unfinished. He repeatedly said his home was theirs, but she always asked. No one had ever given them so much, freely, without expecting a manner of recompense. It had always been so, from the monster hunters her people were forced to hire in times past to the communal authorities that never gave a damn about Danesti, a wide spot in the road to them where wandering people settled like driftwood.

Besides, Greta didn’t grudge the extra time spent in his presence, even for necessity’s sake. Some time had passed, and like those frightful bloodied nights spent reaching his castle, she’d seen Alucard change with the last, painful visions of his parents, the return of his friends, the deepening of their relationship. They were everything to him, and he had no blood relatives left to speak of. It was a particularity Greta shared, and one that made her see beyond his calm demeanor that grey, lingering sadness. It was in his smile, his eyes. She doubted it would fade for a while yet, but, as had been her thought at the beginning, Alucard did get used to them all being here. He thrived among them with every new spark in his eyes whenever a problem to solve presented itself, and Greta had learned he liked to be of use to others, to share, to create. It burned through his melancholy like embers through spider silk as they built fresh memories together, whether it was baby Simon hugging him and nibbling at his hair or the children asking to be flown around, or learning to make good polenta from the elder women. Greta smiled, and wondered again how much time had passed since her words to him that neither had ever acted upon.

I think I might like you.

She shook free of that admission, his wavering smile, the feel of his warm fingers on her skin. It was easy to brush it off as ephemeral attraction and craving spanning from a loneliness that had clambered over her heart and dug itself beneath her breast bones, and would not budge. Alucard had seen enough emotional turmoil that she wouldn’t, couldn’t, push for her own possibly one-sided needs and risk hurting him — and herself — in the process.

A sharp wind roiled across the skies, disturbing the clinging snow from the branches. It fell in ice sprinkles over her cap, dusted her shoulders. Her smile returned. It had been long since they had a peaceful winter.

It was a crisp day, and a pale sun was setting early beyond the frost-laced forest bordering the village, through limbs of bare oaks and heavy dark evergreens, setting the sky a cool blaze of blue, purple, and orange. Plunging her mittened hands into her pockets, Greta hurried to keep warm, and soon the unmistakable bubble of children’s laughter reached her.

She found them all at the base of a risen mound, watching as others barrelled downward from the hilltop on wooden sleighs. And there was Alucard.

He stood tall, arms crossed at his chest, a smile warming his pallid face. He was wrapped in his long black coat, his head uncovered, appearing completely unbothered by the chill. Greta raised an eyebrow at that — how he didn’t freeze to death was beyond her. The cool red sun shimmered on his golden hair, and he seemed a youthful ghost against the gleaming mass of white surrounding them.

That same yearning reared its needy head, and she smothered it down, instead relishing the way Alucard’s smile grew as the children’s laughter soared to the heavens. She then remembered he’d promised to build them all sleighs to ride out when the snows hit. And apparently, he kept his word. Now the woman understood the spark of glee in his eyes. Anda and Raul rushed off their new, polished wooden sleighs after they bound down the hill, giving Alucard a quick hug before rushing back to their games with the others. Soon they forgot all about the adult in their midst, busy with their own winter competition.

Alucard slowly turned on his heel, still smiling and shaking his head at their yelps and joyful cries and words of gratitude, a gloved hand waving the group goodbye. He looked so fresh, as fresh as the damn snow and something, something impish and sneaky brimmed at the back of her mind.

It must be the season, she thought; the relief, the throwback to similar times from the lanes of her own memories.

Whatever the reason…

Who cares?

Alucard hadn’t seen her yet, though he was striding back towards the same path, and Greta took the chance to hide behind the nearest tree. She knelt, slowly, and rolled a generous snowball in her hands. She straightened, hiding as Alucard neared, whistling — whistling! that was new — some old drinking song one elder taught him two nights before. She waited, and waited, until he was closer… closer still…

Alucard walked past the tree, and Greta rounded the trunk, snowball firmly in hand. Nearly there.

She aimed. Smiled; and struck.

Swiftly she hid behind her tree again, peering ahead and nearly bursting in laughter at the utterly confused and aghast look on his face as Alucard looked left and right, one hand still in his hair, clearing away the snow caught in his rich unbound strands.

If anything, she still had good aim, and as expected, Alucard turned, gazing suspiciously around the area. 

Giggling heartily now, Greta crouched down and rolled another ball of snow between her hands, faster now, about to rise and deploy another projectile—

“I see someone’s… busy.”

Greta stood and turned so fast her head spun, and before she could think, hurled her snowball, hitting Alucard straight in that perfect face.

She was still cackling for some reason, of course he would have sensed another presence with his damn abilities and of course he’d beamed right behind her, like the smart aleck that he was.

Greta jumped back, laughing openly at his rapid blinking, at the frown slowly creasing his forehead. She was hyperventilating, and before she knew it, her legs were struggling away from him and she was grabbing another handful of snow, which ended up as a white splatter over his chest. 

He’d still not moved, and Greta stopped some distance away, panting and smiling, watching the corners of his lips quirk upward; watching him lean down, his wolf-like gaze following her movements as he gathered snow and piled it between his gloved hands.

The first snowball missed her, and she yelped in shocked triumph. Greta stumbled back, turned and fled as another ball struck a tree to her left, dotting her cheek with icy sprinkles.

She ran again, and he was thankfully not using his powers, but good God his legs were longer than hers and soon a grip was on her arm, a hefty amount of snow in his other hand “Hah!” came an exultant hiss. “Got you—“

“Not a chanc— “ She stumbled on a rock hidden in the snow just as they were reaching the downward slope of a hill, and then she was crying out, and somehow they were both rolling down as the world turned and snow entered her mouth, her eyes, gushed beneath the collar of her coat. The downhill tumble was fast and confusing, and Greta moaned faintly, shaking her head as finally, everything stilled. 

She was splayed over something hard, warm and tense. 

Alucard.

Hair was in her mouth, and she raised her head, shaking the snow out of her vision. She sought leverage and rose, supporting herself on her arms.

Greta met his eyes. Those aureate beams that melted her knees, exposed her, sought through every nook and cranny of her soul. She concluded it was a good thing she was seated (in a manner of speaking). Her cap lay somewhere ahead of them, buried in snow.

Alucard was silent, his chest heaving up and down, watching her curiously as a deep red flush tinted his cheeks. Tiny snowflakes caught in his long, black lashes. He was trapped beneath her, his warm breath melting the ice on her lips. 

She should move.

Shouldn’t she?

“Are you all right?”

His voice, usually soft and deep as an endless night, was hoarse, cautious.

“Yes,” Greta rasped. Well, she hadn’t expected this.

Her thighs were grasping either side of his hips as she straddled him, and it took an effort to soften her body, making to move; a gloved hand was on her hip, pressing down. Greta blinked, her eyes trailing to the uneasy quiver of his lips, regretting it promptly the moment she caught his gaze. Her chest seized.

He knew.

“What is supposed to happen now?” Alucard asked, his words barely above a whisper. Like he was asking her; actually asking her.

“Nothing,” Greta said, though the word felt like grinding sand in her mouth. She didn’t know what came over her, should never have started this. “Nothing happens now. I was searching for you, I had a question on…” she paused. “Let’s get back.”  Get back… to what? To secretive glances when she thought no one was watching? To short, awkward moments of silence, where neither seemed to find the words or the will? Greta made to rise when his other hand pressed down on her other side, effectively keeping her pinned atop him.

“Greta.“

“No,” she shook her head, though the longer they sat like that, the more her body was melting against him like snow on warm skin. “No, we don’t have to… you...” His hand was on her shoulder, flowing to cup the back of her head, hedging her lower, down to him. “I didn’t mean for this... I…”

She didn’t resist, but she should try. Maybe he actually didn’t know what he was doing, and less so what he was doing to her. “We shouldn’t,” Greta mumbled, eyes closing as their foreheads touched. Warm. She shuddered.

Or was that him?

She dared not move as silence fell again.

“Is that your wish?” Alucard asked, very slowly. His eyes were mere slits of gold, the fall of his hair a halo around him in the snow. “Or you think it mine?”

He felt so good beneath her, his other arm bound around her waist, holding her closer still. She felt the press of his fingers keenly even through her layers, and he smelled so good up close, he felt… oh God.

Oh God.

“I don’t know what to think anymore,” Greta shivered as his fingers stroked circles at her nape. Well, all cards were on the table, as it were. She rose a little to see him properly.

What she saw left her raw on the inside, burning on the outside. She plunged her hands into his hair, brought her face closer, impossibly closer to his. Their noses bumped together — his was cold, so cold, and Greta could only smile, swallowing once before tilting her head just so... 

She gave in. Gave more, gave everything, all the loneliness and entire months’ worth of pent-up want, gasping when Alucard met her just as recklessly, and she couldn’t move, he wouldn’t let go, deepening everything she offered, hungrily, messily and with abandon.

His lips were hot and soft, his mouth so welcoming, then seeking hers, so tender she wanted to weep. Her last coherent thought before the world melted away was how well his body fit hers, like…

Like she belonged. Like home.

More of my work is on AO3 [many stories not on tumblr]

BLOG MASTERPOST (all you need to know)

Likes/comments/reblogs always and forever appreciated

[envihellbender]

Give each Fear a Ghost song

I HAD SO MUCH FUN WITH THIS

For each song I’ve given a snap shot of lyrics that i think represent the fear, some are on the nose and some are more based on vibe…

The Buried: Square Hammer

Hiding from the light

Sacrificing nothing

Still you call on me for entrance to the shrine

Hammering the nails

Into a sacred coffin

You call on me for powers clandestine

The Corruption: Rats

In times of turmoil

In times like these

Beliefs contagious

Spreading disease

The Dark: Darkness at the Heart of my Love

And all this time you knew

That I would put you through

The darkness at the heart of my love

For you

When the summer dies

Severing the ties

I'm with you always, always

The Desolation: Deus in Abstentia

The world is on fire

And you are here to stay and burn with me

A funeral pyre

And we are here to revel forevermore

The End: Absolution

Ever since you were born you've been dying

Every day a little more you've been dying

Dying to reach the setting sun

As a child, with your mind on the horizon

Over corpses, to the prize you kept your eyes on

Trying to be the chosen one

The Eye: Watcher in the Sky

Searchlights, searchlights

Looking for the watcher in the sky

Evil-utionary the optics for us

To get answers as to why

We signal to another dimension

That we stand here ready for reply

The Flesh: Spillways

When stripped of rags of skin and spine

Human decay, Corpus dei

Terminally dispelled

And it's such a ride

The Hunt: Hunter’s Moon

Under a headstone, sister

I'm dying to see you, my friend

Back in the old cemetery

I'm dying to see you, my friend

Though my memories are faded

They come back to haunt me once again

And though my mind is somewhat jaded

Now it's time for me to strike again

The Lonely: Secular Haze

You know that the fog is here omnipresent

When the diseases sees no cure

You know that the fog is here omnipresent

When the intents remain obscure

Forevermore

Weave us a mist, fog weaver

Hide us in shadows

Unfathomable wall-less maze

A secular haze

The Slaughter: Twenties

Listen up, hatchet man

Set controls for the heart of the land

Tell 'em all it is time

You're the next in the chain of command

Apparition

Direct the course for collision

Suspicion

For the Reich to come to fruition

The Spiral: See the Light

Many a mind I have haunted

And in many a way, I have been

Often the one to have flaunted

An image grotesque and obscene

But of all these dark roads that I roam

None could compare to you

The Stranger: Jesus He Knows Me

Won't find me practicing what I'm preaching

Won't find me making no sacrifice

But I can get you a pocketful of miracles

If you promise to be good, try to be nice

God will take good care of you

Just do as I say, not as I do

The Vast: He Is

We're standing here by the abyss and the world is in flames

Two star-crossed lovers reaching out to the beast with many names

He is

He's the shining and the light without whom I cannot see

And he is

Insurrection, he is spite, he's the force that made me be

The Web: Spirit

Throw yourself

Into the vessel

Of possibilities

Your green muse

The apparatus

For soul mobility

A gateway to secrecy

Bonus-

The Extinction: Bible

Now no one heard that voice anymore

And metal-cities came to ascend

On the fifth day spring turned into fall

And a rain fell over the land

But no walls can stop such a rain

That keeps on falling forever more

I was told that by the sixth day

The earth was like an open sore

[captain--nox]

Chapter Two

-*-

Hera shot up awake with a start, a sudden roaring filling her ears. The depth of the roar, the deep deafening rage echoing before she could fully adjust to the room around her. It was still slightly dark out, sparkings of dawn glancing at the sky as Hera looked out of her window to the distant horizon. Arcs of light spread like arms pushing at the darkness over the land, awakening the air from its deep slumber in gentle caresses as their pale beams drifted over the ceiling of Hera's room.

Hera turned and gathered her face in her hands, attempting to steady the thumping ruminating through her body and shoving off the throw she'd pulled over herself in the night. The house on the other hand, was completely silent in deep sleep leaving her reeling over what she'd heard and, almost as suddenly as the roar blinded her senses it was gone, leaving Hera wondering whether it was something she'd dreamt instead. Dreams had that affect on Hera, dreams so raw, so intense and severe that they encircled Hera in an invisible stain and trailed after her even when she freed herself from the sleep. Or maybe it was not a dream, maybe it was real--as real as an anguished cry erupting in torment from the walls around her.

There was no real joy in experiencing dreams like Hera did, so vividly real and cryptic in their messages through a startling vision. It also felt delusional; believing in a knowledge of those unspoken in their wants or needs, barely presenting them to Hera if they ever did at all. Dreams like these tended to linger within Hera for days afterwards with some concerning almost private matters, and she often felt awkward at possessing and fixating on some of the knowledge. Diving into messages and symbols within the realm of the unknown, yet resurfacing and taking a step back; the whole thing could also very much be a cover to mask the fact her own brain had conjured it up, mixing and twisting all thoughts and feelings of the day into figments of the night. Whenever her seemingly prophetic dreams arose, in the days following she would crawl through her mental perplexes, wandering through mists of uncertainty that often left her disjointed far beyond what she had begun with. Yearning for a tug that solidified her in reality and not dragging her into dreams; like lost families across a stretch of water with no real means to build a bridge to. Thankfully, her warped dreams had stopped becoming regular occurrences that Hera thought was due to her moving on and taking steps past her old life, and she leant more towards the idea of her body developing a coping mechanism rather than an ability that she had little belief or faith in. Having internal issues as well as external became too much to juggle as it meant that she couldn't trust what she saw and felt, and so with eliminating a few hurdles that plagued her Hera was then caught off guard by this most recent encounter. It cracked at the foundations she had built for herself, the tether waning despite the long length of plaited rope she weaved from the failings of her past into a grounding existence. Unsettling for Hera, as she vowed to create a world where she --and only she-- was in control.

In a more positive reflection of her life, Hera was once happy with those around her and they in turn reciprocated those feelings; her own morals were reflected in them, and they clasped each other in unity. The beliefs and support systems Hera was convinced were enough to challenge any and all scenarios granted they held to. However it was an unfair choice to be made for those around her once parts of her life were tossed up into Hera's own chaotic storm; walk alongside her or leave in an attempt to salvage their own wellbeing. Hera did think that the noble cause was to support those in turmoil yet when she herself was left in her most vulnerable state, tumbling down into a well of despair there was no one for her to turn to. Except perhaps; to look inwards. She chose to be her own best friend; her own mother, father, lover and guardian--or so she hoped was a revelation in a moment of clarity rather than a dire result of her lowest form. And so, walking in dreamland, discovering messages and feelings unknowingly sent ruptured the anchor setting her off the straight road, and she yearned for its cure. There was however, one person she caught a glimmer of support from, even as they lived a great distance away.

When Hera felt herself frightened, alone and most vulnerable, she remembered the kindly and weathered face of the village elder of her homeland, his words ringing true even if they were spoken long ago. An Uncle to many, and a voice of reason lost to the onward strut of time and cultures; she'd met the man through her father at one of the few gatherings held by her people, and she'd met him again before slipping away into the world. He had an aura about him that Hera connected to, which made opening up all the more comforting and aiding in settling the constant dark rumble within. Hera met the elder to bid him farewell and ask as to where she could grow encouragement from now that she was by herself though a lot of it was more to provide solace and validation before she finally left. Throughout Hera's struggles of later years, he remained the only figure in her life that gave her an ounce of respect, who didn't turn her away nor chastise her for her decisions. He was also someone respected in their community, and someone who accepted that what is is what would be, with a level of deep understanding lost on most who walked on by.

"Your ancestors live within you," the old man said, eyes distant in their peering at Hera. "They are in every part of your make up; your hair, your eyes, skin and bones. Your spirit. Don't reject your ancestors, for you're rejecting yourself. If you're ever in need, call to them; they created you, and they'll guide you in the most intimate ways. Speak to your ancestors. They're your guardians; ghosts of love through time, walking the paths you tread on. You are their legacy; don't leave them, and they won't leave you."

The words weren't overly profound to Hera though they did provide her with another perspective. While she was lost in herself, yearning to fix the seemingly unfixable, the Uncle had reminded her of something she found herself rejecting; her culture and her people. It was what they were all tied to wherever they were and for many years she felt half of something and half of another; torn between two cultures so vastly different and constantly clashing. Yet, Uncle had reassured her in his words no matter how lost she felt either now or in the future, her people accept her as part of them and sharing the bloodlines was enough despite how she may appear to others. His words echoed those who came before her, and it stayed with Hera everywhere she went; she was welcome amongst her people and that door was always open.

"Could probably use some help right about now," Hera muttered raggedly, rubbing her eyes in the process to regain some sense of her surroundings. She wasn't even sure how to call on those ancestors; hadn't known of them before or had met and built a relationship with. Somewhere internally, it was clear to Hera to seek comfort in her long lineage, but given the amount of pain she had been in she doubted it would alleviate those feelings. Another part of her ridiculed the idea, feeling so foreign in its concept and she struggled with the idea of accepting that what made sense to her in those moments was enough.

"You'll know when to call them, there will be times where you can't explain and yet want the company of those who came before you; they'll protect you."

Protection. 

"Where were they when everything turned to shit," Hera muttered, suddenly annoyed at the state she was left in from her dream and her mess of thoughts.

Making her way up from her bed, she grabbed the long coat hanging by the bedroom door and then treaded out into the darkened hallway, needing the outside air after suffocating under her restless sleep. Her sudden rise from the bed along with the heat of the night caused her to clumsily move, and lightheaded and stumbling she sought the coolness of the dawn's fresh touch. Slowly staggering past Brahms' room as her muscles sluggishly awoke to movement, Hera made her way to the end of the corridor to where a balcony entrance lay behind the dark red of the velvet curtain. The cool, sharp breeze enveloped Hera in a brisk hug as she stepped out onto the balcony stones and made her way to the edge of the balustrade. Wrapped in her coat, she greeted the day marking the beginning of her stay at the manor, as glimpses of the dream haunted her from the night before.

Hera dreamt of moving through the endless rooms in the house alone, a gleaming specter lost in the abundance of woods and carpets. Eyes had followed her; eyes in the fabrics, the curtains, books, toys and walls. Sunken, harrowing eyes masked in despair and inflamed bored into Hera as she struggled to free herself from the following gaze, lost in the manor's strobe of hidden memories and private warrens.

She shivered then, immune to the chills of the morning air and attempting to slow the puffs of warm that swarmed her face. A fine mist settled along the ground below, likening the house to sitting amongst the clouds as the damp lawn dyed a green haze. Birds began to stir the insects, calling out to awaken them in the familiar sounds of dawn; dull to their song, Hera looked up to the steadily lightening sky, to glimpse at the stars above while taking in deep breaths in uneven rhythm.

Green eyes had watched her; green eyes layered in warm honey morphing in all the objects Hera had passed. Closer and closer they followed, trapping and surrounding; predatory eyes glowing brighter and deadlier, and just as they were about to engulf Hera the almighty roar ripped her from her slumber. 

"Hello to the stars," Hera whispered, yearning for their comfort to turn the stark glows of her dream into the warm guidances of the night. A breath of wind shifted around Hera's ankles billowing her coat out from between her legs, laying kisses on her now freezing toes. Head still titled to the heavens, her long hair trailing down her back as she stood like a sullen beacon against the nearing light. For a long while Hera stood silently, a sense of ease washing over and refreshing her from the dream shadows; being outside had a calming affect on Hera, outside to the noises of the early morning. Her whipping thoughts stemmed their flow as she took in eveything around her; the chains of her past rattled less and the embers of somewhere new started to glow and reawake her senses. Suddenly, the wind changed direction and wrapped her from behind where she was overcome with a sense of someone--or something--watching her from the house. The embers went out and terror grew again as her hair stood on end, afraid to turn and confront whatever it was hiding in the shadows of her new home.

Echoes of her dream encapsulated Hera, sending a cold reminder of what followed her when she roamed the house in the night before. Sharp, icy tendrils weaved their way through her veins as she turned slowly back to the opened door to the balcony, staring into the beyond of the darkened hallway. Flashes of gold and green ripped their way across her eyes, the fear of the night confusing her vision as she tried to peer into the darkness. Rage, rage like the roar that awoke her earlier merged with the presence before her; she was an intruder, she wasn't supposed to be here. 

Get out.

It was like a gale, a brute force, a wind of warning erupting from the door entrance; sparks radiating from the dark sent to shock and deter while Hera stood frozen blinded by its growl. It was enticing yet impending; lovingly cold and, as suddenly as it came, it was gone; a phantom glazing past, disappearing into morning sun.  Hera dropped to her knees, coat sprawling around in defence and gasping for air. The familiar rush spread through her limbs as she was overcome with the rapid events of the morn.

"What the fuck was that?" she heaved to herself, released from the warped chokehold held by the hall. It took a few moments for Hera to regain stability and slow her breathing; moments inviting her to spiral and lose control of everything around her. It wasn't the first time something like this had happened to her though it was the first in a long time, and shuddering greatly she dragged herself back up again.   This house was old, and whoever walked the halls in a past lifetime no doubt left their cold mark guarding against anything foreign that entered. Maybe the house was sinister; and what Hera sensed when she first entered was an intense caution cloaked in dampened residue of a tortuous past. Or maybe; her own brain yet still struggled to balance out. It was a tiresome concept, wondering whether she should push it all to the back of her mind instead of acknowledge and be consumed by every sense of wrong thrown at her. Leaning back on her knees Hera exhaled in a slow blow, moving as the numbness of what happened was replaced by the cold. She got up and began to make her way back to her room; entering the house again despite the warning that it sent her, the deep tones of malice defrosting in the air.

*

After she washed away the sweat of the night before, Hera fixed herself in her mirror and went to wake Brahms as per his morning routine. Everything had seemed a blur; waking, walking and dropping back into her room. The morning had felt very real but due to her own suspicions Hera constantly wondered if she had imagined the events in the dawn. Sometimes, not everything could be trusted once Hera abruptly awoke; reality mixed with dreaming, filters gone and hallucinations could run wild. She wondered if what really happened on the balcony was instead something she dreamt, refusing to believe the house was capable of manifesting something horrid to frighten her, so very real and foreboding. Truthfully, Hera would like to welcome the fact something had occurred, for it meant that her brain ceased in creating scenarios that weren't entirely true, and that she was indeed capable of withstanding any other trauma and mental anguish that plagued her once coming to the manor. The move was supposed to be a chance for her to heal, to be away with everything that had hurt and affected Hera, and start afresh in a new environment. If her brain didn't want that to happen, she was determined to force herself into believing the very real events of living at the house--reality being in what others would deem unreal.

She shifted to enter the hallway, but before her hand met the doorknob, a resounding crash erupted from outside making her jump back in shock. Another crash, and another shaking through the old manor while Hera stood rigid waiting for it to end. Hearing the now familiar footsteps of Mrs Heelshire passing by, she slowly opened her door to the scene she spied through the opposite doorway and into Brahms' room.

"What have you done!?" yelled Mrs Heelshire, ripping the curtains to Brahms' window apart and unveiling the absolute mess about the doll's room. Mrs Heelshire looked flustered around, panicking at the heap before her. "You said you would be a good boy! Mummy and Daddy have to leave soon, you can't do this now!"

Hera's eyes darted to the doll lying in its bed, head staring straight to the ceiling; it looked almost defiant to Hera, almost as if a real boy was choosing to ignore his agitated mother. But this doll was not a real boy, and could not have caused the mess in the room--unless the Heelshires exhibited traits unbelonging to any sane mind.

"Would you like some help?" Hera asked hesitantly, and Mrs Heelshire snapped her head up at Hera from the kneeling position she took trying to gather the toys lying dispersed along the floor. Mrs Heelshire's face was in shock, and Hera noticed something else: fear. Perplexing at the woman's expression, it struck a cord of familiarity within Hera. A fear of consequences, fear of what would happen next. A fear of the unknown in the present of-- an unknown, it seemed. Hera cautiously began to move to enter the room before a voice behind her made her jump.

"Good morning Miss Arthur; pardon the ruckus but it seems Brahms isn't all too happy at his parents leaving." Mr Heelshire caused Hera to rapidly spin as she had not heard him enter the hall behind her.

"Good morning sir," she said, eyes flicking between the elderly couple and the scene before her.

"Are you alright?" Mr Heelshire asked, glancing at Hera's face. 

"Fine sir," Hera replied, remembering to relax her brow and she gave a tepid smile in reassurance.

"Early morning starts-- come with me, Mrs Heelshire has that sorted. She'll ready Brahms before we take off shortly."

Hera nodded at the man, following into the hallway. They passed portraits of aristocracy in frames tilted bearing down on Hera, watching her tread the halls of the family. She shuddered then, remembering her dream of the night before. It seemed she'd be haunted long after the Heelshires had gone, if it weren't in her dreams it would be in the winding halls of the manor.

"I apologise about Brahms, he can be very temperamental. I, uh, I do hope you haven't changed your mind?"

"Not at all sir. A bit of child's mess is something I was expecting, somewhat."

Somewhat.

"Good good. I need to double check things over, do you mind preparing Brahms' breakfast? I think everything is there," Mr Heelshire rattled off and suddenly stopped his walk down the staircase both had started taking. Standing on a lower step he peered up at Hera and she too noticed he had a glazed look of fear--or nerves rather, emanating from him. The behaviour of both parents was unnervingly a stark contrast to the reserved persona both had displayed previously. The lines of Mr Heelshire's forehead creased in peaks as he paused to speak to Hera, conflicted in what he may say next.

"Are you alright sir?" Hera asked.

Mr Heelshire snapped out of his small trance, his eyes focusing back on Hera's. "Oh yes yes of course, forgive me. I'm a bit frazzled this morning, I think it's because we're finally leaving for our holiday. It has been so long since we've gone anywhere; I guess I am somewhat anxious to be underway."

"Ah, that's understandable Sir. I guess you have been holding out for one for a long while. You enjoy yourselves."

"Yes indeed, thank you. I hope we haven't forgotten anything; our cab driver will be here shortly."

"Early morning start?" Hera repeated Mr Heelshire's words back to him attempting a more relaxed tone between the two.

"Yes we need to make way for travel." he replied absentmindedly to Hera's quiet dismay.

As if on cue, a loud knock echoed up the stairs coming from the antique entranceway. The cab driver had arrived, and Mr Heelshire turned to resume his passing of the steps down the staircase while Hera followed along silently. Both his luggage and Mrs Heelshire's stood guard at the door as they reached the bottom landing; Hera departing to the kitchen and Mr Heelshire greeting the driver.

Hearing muffled voices and small thunks of luggage moving, Hera moved to put the kettle on while deciding on what sort of breakfast to make the doll. Or herself, rather. The jug rumbled in a growing crescendo as it drowned out all other sounds of the house, with Hera leaning against the bench contemplating the Heelshire's conduct. Peculiar they were, on the morning of their journey. Again, it was the apparent behaviour that Brahms was treated as a real boy, but how the parents were acting was as though they were leaving their child in the care of others for the first time. Be it, it was the situation but Hera could hardly understand it as their first time; it seemed they were reluctant to leave, and fearful of the consequences if they did. Hera chugged it down to the distant feeling of a holiday needed, for the mysterious history of their child coupled with their rapid aging meant that a stress free time away was warranted.

Mrs Heelshire suddenly waltzed into the room, carrying Brahms in her arms. The frantic terror of earlier was gone and a earnest embrace was had around the doll. "Miss Arthur, we're ready to be off."

Hera nodded at the woman, following her into the foyer once more. The door hung open as she spied the taxicab driver waiting expectantly against his wagon for his passengers, luggage loaded and engine running. Mr Heelshire joined them before both Heelshires turned to Hera.

"You will be alright in this house Hera," Mrs Heelshire said with certainty. "You're a bright woman, young and sharper than most."

"Thank you ma'am." Hera replied, surprised at the sudden informal addressing and though not fully convinced at the woman's words, accepting them more as a last encouragement before she was left alone in the house.

"Remember Hera," Mr Heelshire started, eyeing her closely. "Just like the plants; be good to Brahms and he will be good to you. Be bad-"

"-Oh she will be good to him. Won't you Miss Arthur?" Mrs Heelshire finished.

"Of course, I'll treat him well."

Mr Heelshire kissed his son goodbye, turning to Hera to shake her hand and heading off through the entranceway. Mrs Heelshire did the same, but when it came to Hera she handed over the doll before pulling her into an embrace that caught her off guard. The sudden intimacy coupled with the next lukewarm whisper in her ear unsettled Hera.

"I am so sorry,"

Mrs Heelshire kissed her on the cheek then, regaining her composure as she pulled away. Her face was grim, resigned and once more glimpses of fear through her eyes. Before Hera could say anything in response, Mrs Heelshire nodded and walked out the door leaving her alone in the foyer, the final shutting click commencing Hera's stay. She slowly walked back to the kitchen, reeling at what Mrs Heelshire had just done.

I am so sorry.

"Jesus," Hera said, suddenly realising it was the first time she had held the doll properly. "You can sit over there." She almost chucked the doll on the opposite of the dining table, and resumed the task of making herself a tea, consuming herself in her thoughts, and back turned to the doll so that she could think without witnessing the prying, porcelain eyes watching her. Feeling watched wasn't something Hera was all too fond of on her first day, the events of the entire morning giving her mental whiplash and tiring her out before the sun was properly high in the sky. 

Sitting down at the table opposite the doll, she watched it silently, slowly turning the spoon in her mug. It was her and the doll, no noises except the old grandfather clock ticking away at the house. Hera and Brahms; an odd pairing, but nothing short of odd with what the parents had displayed minutes earlier. "What was wrong with your parents?" Hera asked Brahms, half expecting the doll to shrug its shoulders. "Actually no, don't answer that."

The room; mysteriously totaled in the morning. Hera's eyes bored into the doll's, the realisation of how rapid and tumultuous the morning really had been. Her dream, the balcony, the room, the Heelshire's behaviour; Mrs Heelshire's words. Nerves started to wash over Hera, goosebumps beginning to rise as she felt the phantom eyes of the house on her once more. She had been whisked away from Brahms' room, Mr Heelshire employing an out-of-sight-out-of-mind manner that until now, Hera had little time to process. Her body started to lock up at the enormity of what had happened, her limbs growing tense while the underlying tones of unease flickered about. The kitchen started to grow smaller, bearing down on her and the doll sitting silently opposite seemed to grow in size, its face slowly creeping larger as it sat staring ahead at Hera.  

"You know what, fuck this." she said, quickly standing from the table and marching over to the doll, grabbing it roughly from the seat. "I've had enough of a fucked up morning, I'm trying again later."

Adrenaline started to course through Hera as she quickly walked out of the kitchen, beelining for the staircase and tunnel visioning her way up the levels. The feelings of eyes grew heavier, the walls around her groaning while she moved as if the portraits of those hanging in the paintings were shuffling through each frame to follow her. Reaching both her room and Brahms', she shoved open the bedroom door of the doll's and tossed it onto the bed. "Sleep in this morning." she declared, turning to leave the room, "And don't trash your toys while I'm gone."

Hera almost ran into her own, her heartrate picking up again as she shut her own door. She hadn't been spooked like this in a while, not for a long time; it felt as though the house itself was folding inwards to ogle at her every passing movement. Growing more and more sluggish, she shuffled over to her bed and crawled under the covers huddling herself into a ball, eyes staring ahead at the bookshelf before her. Silence danced around to the tempo of her heartrate drumming in Hera's ears, an unpleasant silence that kept her still from moving even the slightest. The joys of discovering a new house, one full of enticing histories and extravagance had nearly vanished, replaced by a haunting aura instead with all that Hera had witnessed. There was something unsettling about the house, enigmatic to anyone stumbling through lost in its dark chasms.

She felt weak, lazy and incompetent about her hiring now that the Heelshires had gone. It seemed straightforward and easy, though now she was caught up in the paranoia of her own mind susceptible to every changing air about her through each room she entered. This house was odd; the family odd, and whatever was going on wasn't healthy for Hera and her rapidly changing moods now that they were set off by the uneasy environment. The once grand house shrouded in old melancholy sheltered a far more unsettling aura now that she was alone though Hera could not fathom whether it was the reality of something more ominous or not. In fact, Hera couldn't fathom much at all in her state; lying frozen under the covers and alert to every noise the manor plagued her with. She lay like this for a long while, watching the sun slowly pass shadows across her room as it beamed brighter with every minute. Each surface, each crevice solidifying in form as the light soothed over the area like a warm compress, easing wounds left by the gloom.

After a long while, Hera's stomach rumbled, pleading to fill the emptiness within and summoning her to move. Calmer than what she was earlier, Hera pushed away the covers of protection now she felt she didn't need them. Sitting up, she slowly slid her feet over the bed and crept to the door that lay closed, blocking off the dark corridors of the house. "You've dealt with much worse Hera, come on." she muttered to herself, feeling more confident and stable. Hera opened the door and made her way to use the bathroom, a purpose that would override any feelings of anxiety about her. The sun cast filtering shades in the hall through the windows sitting high up though instead of the animals and statues standing forbiddingly at each post, they gleamed in spotlights of their own celebrating the house arts.

After washing her hands, Hera used the dampness to palm her face and wipe underneath her eyes, taking in her ragged appearance in the bathroom mirror. Her curls stuck out haphazardly in parts where she had lain on the bed, a full mess of a mane. "Good, you match your brain then."

She shook her hair out further and made her way through the halls and back down the house into the kitchen to prepare lunch due to her missed breakfast. Opting for a sandwich, she sat at the kitchen table again chewing at her food and mentally planning her day now that she had maxed the quota on unsuspecting events in the manor. The gleaming white of the room contrasted with her hunched figure as she ate, Hera concluding that she would at least fulfill one task set out in the list given by the Heelshires:

Play music loud.

After finishing her food, Hera stalked her way back up the stairs to Brahms' room as she yet again climbed on up to a chorus of creaks and groans; the sounds now a constant soundtrack to the house. Entering the bedroom, she spied the doll still perched half facing down on the bed she threw him on earlier.

"Right where I left you," she whispered, side eyeing the doll in reluctance. Grabbing it by the arm, she traipsed again through the house to a small music room, scatterings of chairs, poufs, a grand piano and a gramophone lay waiting. Embellished woods climbed high into the ceiling from the stone walls that enveloped the room, large tapestries full of hunting motifs and paintings of past lords peppered around. Red leather armchairs gathered in a small half circle against the dormant fireplace, a fur rug nestled about their feet in a contrast of beige, browns and blacks. The grand piano was illuminated in the morning light through the tall window, swirls of dust sparkling in the air as Hera moved past and gushing after the doll that she tossed onto one of the armchairs. She walked over to the cabinet that held the records, sheets of music and books, scanning until she came upon a piece she thought fit her wants as well as what would please the silent doll. Drawing the record out of its sleeve, she placed it into the player and dropped the needle to begin.

Deep, slow tones hummed in the air dark and brooding before slowly melting away, the wind instruments creating a daunting atmosphere around the room as Hera sat in one of the armchairs facing the doll again as the music built in volume until it burst forward in a haunting crescendo. She had turned the volume high as per Mrs Heelshire's instructions and now in the midst of the echoing vibrations she watched the doll intently, consumed by the music and scrutinising Brahms' outfit. Sweet sounds of clarinets and bassoons drifted around melting with their string cousins; Hera enjoying the noises other than the moans of the house and she sat silent with small satisfaction. The piece played on, building into a grand finale of triumph and celebration and died down again before becoming silent.

"Well Brahms, I hope you like Wagner because the mans was cool as shit." Hera said to the doll, getting up from her chair to flip the record. "Play that at my funeral, or better yet play it when I'm entering a room. Fitting for this house I'd say." Hera drifted over to the window, sitting herself on the small ledge that heralded soft cushions against the panes. The music played on as she gazed out into the gardens beyond, small sparrows flittering by in a blur of browns where they disappeared into treetop canopies. Comfortable in her position, Hera grew mesmerised at the world beyond the gloomy manor and slowly but surely she drifted into a dreamless sleep, sounds of the Norse Gods playing in lullaby.

*

Hera's eyes slowly opened to the setting sun and a stiff neck as she'd slumped downwards in her now cramped sleeping position. Stars were beginning to peel themselves away from the masks of day as her eyes turned upward, trying to regain composure after her nap. Hera started to move from where she lay half turned from the room now quiet as the music she'd put on hours earlier had finished. Pushing herself upwards, a small clink surprised her movements as she turned to look at what made the noise next to her body.

"What the fuck!?" Hera shouted, startled at what lay tucked next to her and kicking her foot out in the process. Brahms the doll toppled from his position curled next to her body and landed with a thud on the rug below, face staring upwards at where it had previously been perched. "H-How did you get there?!" Hera questioned in disbelief, snapping her head up to look around the room. It lay silent, not a movement in the slightest with no indicator that anything had occurred out of the ordinary save the doll moving to where Hera slept.

Hera sat frozen in horror, still watching the doll as if it were to get up and charge at her. She wondered if she had grabbed the doll in her sleep, walked over to bring it to her for comfort; her position against the window, barely moving save for her slumping downwards meant that she had not grabbed the doll-- and nor had she pined for it. "This day is getting worse," Hera whispered aloud to herself in an attempt to confirm what was happening as she barely believed it. She slipped off the edge she had slept on and cautiously moved away from the doll, leaving it on the ground as its eyes seemingly watched her shudder away from it. Opening the door to exit the room, she stalked down through the passageway flicking on each light switch she came to, wanting the warm glows of the lamps exposing the shadows she grew more and more fearful of. No noises could be heard, nothing to suggest anyone was found in the manor with her; Hera felt there was no one present, unwillingly realising something weird was happening to the doll. Resigning to that fact she took off up the stairs and slammed herself into her room. Creaks and groans began to rumble all through the walls, stalking around her den in a low menacing growl. Hera rushed over to her windows to try pry them open in an attempt to feel the air against her face in the crowded and overbearing room but to her disdain she remembered Mr Heelshire's words from the day before;

"The windows are sealed shut I'm afraid. A workman painted over them some time ago."

Hera banged the panes in frustration as they failed to move, sending painful thuds shuddering up her arm. She slumped herself down into the corner, holding her head in her hands in defeat. There was too much noise; too much of what was happening and she was alone to deal with it; alone to the terrors of the house that scared her already fragile mind, pushing it to break and shatter. It was like a tempest; through after one bout of whirlwinds she lulled herself into a false sense of security in the lullaby of the storm before now she was plunged into something so unknown and on her lonesome. Hera felt trapped, stark against the darkness of the house and at the beck and call of a doll that plagued her with its eerie silence. Too afraid to move and too afraid to sleep, Hera sat for hours willing the noise to fade as she felt her last sane defences started to melt away.

-*-

[umbralsound-xiv]

Prompt #25 - Call It A Day

Characters: Bexy and Mist The Black Shroud, 1, Seventh Umbral Era

"You don't have to do this anymore, Bexy."

Smoke still hung thick in the Shroud air, but the worst of it was over. The Calamity had come to it's violent conclusion not even a week ago, and had churned the land and every soul upon it into turmoil. Dirt and blood marred Mist's grey features, strands of hair stuck to her cheeks at awkward angles from sweat. Bexy had no doubt that she was fighting to preserve what she could; she only hoped the Gridanians held greater respect for the woman, now.

Bexy had only run and hid from the flames. Why fight for people who want you dead? She didn't care. Why should she? Bitter purple eyes glance to Mist; the only person in the world she had a whisper of trust for, and even that was delicate.

"There are... So many people dead." Mist speaks in a breathless tone, slumped with her back against a rock; no doubt Ouryu wasn't far to be seen, keeping the silent watch that the Chocobo often did. "...It's impossible to count the bodies back in the city. Who's to say you aren't one of them?"

It takes Bexy a moment, but the realisation eventually dawns on what Mist was trying to say. Barely tempered disbelief washes over her features as she shook her head, sending lengths of midnight hair spilling over her shoulders.

"And what? Do what, Mist? There's nothing out there for someone like me." She pauses, expression scrunched into half a scowl. "I can't trust people again. I won't."

"You don't have to. You just have to stop... This." Mist gestures vaguely at Bexy, to some mild offense from the Seeker. "So don't trust people. Go travelling. See the world or... Anything but this. Say the Coeurl died with the flames. They won't look for a dead woman, Bexy. Just... Please. Try. There's some good in the world, if you'd just look for it..."

"I doubt that." Bexy half spat back. Mist's words had given her pause, however. "Why do you care so much what happens to me? Because of our deal? Salomont was so close to having his hands on you before this. He's only going to get closer. You're not exactly inconspicuous anymore, Mist."

"He is, with or without your help, Bexy. I'm... Thankful for it. I am. But it has to stop. People are suspicious enough of me that i've been hunting the Midnight Coeurl so long and have never found her. Salomont won't think twice about doing something terrible to you if it leads you to me. He's noticed you enough. He's not some airheaded bard you can take to bed and pry for coin. He'll hurt you."

"So you're... What? Cutting contact? Pushing me away?" She sounds more hurt than angry, now. Mist's violet gaze settles on her own, but she refuses to let the sadness show. From the very sound of her words, she knew she had fostered some kind of trust with the Seeker, and was just as soon to break it. "I..." She pauses, and looks away, anger bubbling up through lips which she pursed shut.

"It's for the best. You leave and start a new life somewhere. Turn a new leaf. We... We can't talk like this anymore, Bexy. Least of all now."

"You just want the Gridanians to look upon you more favourably, rather than consorting with a criminal!"

"---I want you to fucking live, Bexy!"

Mist's sharp words are enough to quiet Bexy for even a moment, before she continues.

"If i wanted you dead, i've had more than enough chances and opportunities, don't you think? I won't deny that my newfound favor with the Gridanians will work to my advantage, but if i wanted that i'd turn you in! I want you to live, Bexy. Not be another obstacle for Salomont to cut down. Not to meet a grizzly end for the sake of a bounty. Make something better of yourself! You say there's no good in the world, so change it!"

Bexy stands in some quiet, wavering silence. Emotions surely swelled beneath the surface, her expression a collision of thoughts that she doesn't quite show. It's all dismissed with a long sigh from her nose.

"Fine. I'll go." Her reply is barked back, pained. "There will be no bards now, anyway. People won't want to part with their coin in the ruin of this wretched world." Sharply turning, Mist swears she can see the shudder of Bexy's shoulders, but she doesn't say anything for it. The Seeker continues. "Thank you, Mist, for what it's worth. I..." She swallows, but doesn't grace her with another look back. "...I'll try to find it."

Bexy turns her head only enough to see Mist from the corner of her glassy gaze, to which she's given a nod.

"You will." Mist manages.

"...We'll see." Bexy replies, before slipping away between the trees, into the ashes of the Calamity that still smouldered in the night.

[bridgyrose]

aw salem was fine cinder disscaing about mavis

(I know this wanst necessarily a request, but treating it like one)

Cinder took a deep breath as she looked out over Beacon Academy, gently holding Mavis to her chest. It was strange to be back where everything had started, and this time she’d leave with the relic now that their spy on the inside had been able to confirm where the vault had been hidden. For a moment, she looked down at her child and let out a heavy sigh as she thought about the next steps she’d have to take. 

“The relic will be yours to bring to me, Cinder,” Salem said as she walked up behind her. “You know where to find it?” 

Cinder nodded. “Summer told me where to find it. And once you have it, you’ll make the world better, right? Change the world to break the cycles the gods have put in place?” 

“Yes.” 

Cinder paused at the slight hesitation in Salem’s voice, but made her way down to Beacon anyway to get the relic. She held Mavis close as she used her own maiden powers to make her way to the ruined school, doing her best to keep the summer maiden calm. The last thing she needed was for a storm to erupt from a tantrum of a child. 

As she made her way through the ruins of the school and passed by the grimm that infested the grounds, she couldnt help but feel a bit of dread as she felt like she was being watched. She pulled Mavis close and started to make her way to the dorms, the air starting to freeze around her. Cinder turned around as she watched the world around her turn to shadows and a blue mist started to form around her, almost beckoning her to follow. With a tight grip, she kept Mavis close as she followed the mist, making her way down a flight of stairs that wasnt there before. Whispers started to fill the air as she stepped closer to a crown resting on a stone head. 

“Pick me up and see what your future holds” 

Cinder slowly picked up the crown with one hand and rested it upon her head. The blue smoke started to swirl around her as the crown started to glow, the world around her changing as she took a step back. “What’s going on?!” 

“You are seeing the visions of the choices in front of you,” a voice calmly spoke. “Your own mind is in turmoil with everything you’ve been through. Let me help you sort everything out.” 

Cinder held Mavis tight as she watched Salem bring the relics together. Then, she watched as a bright light flooded across all of Remnant, shattering the land and destroying cities as humanity was wiped clean from the face of the planet. Cinder took a few breaths as she tried to steady her shaking body as the vision cleared from her. “She… she said she was going to break the bonds the gods had on us. Break the cycles of death and give us freedom in a new world.” 

“And she will,” the voice continued as the smoke started to form into the figure of a young girl. “She will start Remnant over just like the gods had and rule over a new humanity as a god. Your world will end, Remnant will continue to turn, and the gods will never be able to return. However, you can still prevent this.” 

“What could I possibly do? If I turn on Salem, I’ll die! And if she doesnt kill me, then I’ll be taken in as a slave again! I wont let that happen!” 

“And you still have a choice to make.” 

Cinder reached out to hit the figure with her clawed hand, finding herself in a small cottage. She froze as she watched herself, Emerald, Mercury, Blake, and Yang sit down to eat as a small child ran around the room. Her heart started to break for a moment until she ripped the crown off her head and threw it to the ground. “I thought you were going to show me a choice!” 

“And I did,” the young girl continued as more smoke started to form into her. Finally, her body settled on a younger version of Cinder before she had killed Rhodes. “A choice for the freedom that you so desperately crave. You know what its like to be locked up and collared, treated like a possession instead of a person. That’s why you took the child in your arms from Vacuo, isnt it? And yet, you still insist on wearing the collar that Salem gave you. You took out the one person that could stop Salem, took your revenge on Atlas and those that survived it, and now you have the final relic that Salem needs to change the world to her desire. Is this really the path you want to continue down?” 

“She will give me freedom! A place to be in her new world!” 

“Or will she hold you back and keep you as a slave like your adopted mother did?” 

Cinder froze as she heard the familiar voice of Ruby behind her, her heart stopping as she slowly turned around. “You… you cant be here.” 

“And she’s not,” Ruby said as she walked past Cinder. “The crown shows you the choices you made and the choices that are to come. And yet, you still cant seem to keep your mind off this one girl. What did she mean to you? The choice you wished you could’ve made?” 

“Leave me alone!” Cinder yelled as she ignited the air around her in flames. “I know the choice I need to make!” 

The Ruby sighed and shook her head as the smoke started to fade away. “Then I hope you make the right choice.” 

Cinder panted and absentmindedly started to rock Mavis as the child started to cry, her heart racing as she picked up the crown. Her hand trembled as she thumbed over it, finally latching it to her belt. “What is the right choice anymore?”

[colleenmurphy]

In the Land of Gods & Monsters - Jack & Colleen Donnelly

“I don’t see how this could possibly be important, Jack. I mean, really. How does anyone think I’m a target?”

Warm hands enveloped hers as he stood behind her adjusting her stance moving a leg between her legs to get her to shoulder width. The scent that was unmistakably him.  A heady mixture of tuscan leather of the shoes that matched the belt and gun holster he wore, the herbaceous inviting spice with the warmth of black pepper and lilac of his cologne and hair tonic mingled with the Benson & Hedges cigarettes he smoked and the metallic tang of the gun oil he had just serviced his chosen piece with. All of those things were cemented in her mind as Jack Donnelly. They always would be, just as she was cemented in his mind as the scent of home, burnt sugar and toffee of bread and butter puddings she made for him after a long business trip and an under current of the lavender soap she loved followed very closely by all things as baby lotion that she preferred rather than the expensive skincare things all the women in her social circle were using. The innocence and light to his dark malice. He, admittedly was not a soft man, he never could afford to be, but with his wife he was Changed. But that was always behind closed doors. She brought out the softer, warmer side of the blue eyed man that nearly every other person was terrified of. In the land of the powerful, the gods, and the power hungry, the monsters, she was an angel. His angel in the garden of evil. 

“Because you’re the one thing, the one person that means the very world to me. You have to know how to defend yourself. Just in case.”

He hadn’t needed to finish the sentence because she knew.

 In case I don’t make it home.

Her panic rose and her hands started to shake even with his over hers the tremble was there. He braced her once more and planted a gentle kiss to the long column of her milky white neck. Aiming her towards the target he noticed her face take on a hard edge. He could tell that she was trying to steady herself internally. 

“Breathe in and hold. Count to three, exhale and fire.”

He felt her breathe in, her heart hammering as she counted and then came the bang. Smooth and fluid. A rapid succession of shots almost startled him. She had surprised him, as well as his trusted driver and assistant Jackie Flannery, by emptying the remaining rounds into the target. The holes in small spaced points around the center of the target’s bullseye.  She calmly turned and kissed his cheek before handing the firearm back to him. Jack hadn’t missed the tears that had misted over his wife’s eyes she studied his face for a moment before she headed back towards the car. 

“I’d sure as **** say she can take care of herself, Mr. Donnelly. I’d feel sorry for whatever poor bastard crosses her. Did Mrs. D. tell you she started taking defense classes along with the defensive driving?”

This surprised him, he knew his wife went to the gym and they had talked about taking those defensive driving courses together but to know that she took her own safety into her own hands had surprised him a bit. 

“No, she didn’t.”

“I know this might not be my place to say this but...I’d seriously consider taking her with you on the next trip. Even if she sat in the hotel room with me you might ease her mind. Even with all the training you’ve given her she still crumbles. When you pack a bag and head out it’s like she’s lost a part of herself, man.”

He knew Colly was prone to feeling things deeply and he also knew that she would tear up if she was moved to but knowing that he was the cause of her emotional turmoil broke his heart. How many times had he called her when he was away on business and noticed that she had sounded down or like she’d been tearing up. Her voice huskier as she let loose a rapid fire succession of questions to him, was he safe, did his flight or drive go okay, was he sure he packed everything he needed? But the one question, that always managed to choke him up was the one she asked when trips had run over a bit longer than anticipated. When will you be home? That panicked edge filled with longing and loneliness. Jack Donnelly had never had a home before he’d met his wife. Only places where his collections of things bought with the money he earned were. Four walls and a roof, nothing more. She was his home. Wherever she was he felt at ease and here he was tormenting the one person he’d ever loved.  “Maybe you’re right, Flannery. I’ll call Vitaly and make the arrangements. But know that I’m leaving her in your hands until after the deal with your brother is done.”

“You got it, boss. Besides...you did see her back there...right? If Frank comes anywhere near her or moves one hair on your head, and probably mine too, Mrs. D’ll kill him herself.” “I noticed. Jackie?”

“Yes boss?”

“Don’t call me boss, okay? It’s Jack or Donnelly.”

“You got it...b...Mr. Donnelly.”

“That was my father. How about just calling me Jack?”

“You got it...Jack.”

[jayceskleinerjunge]

Uh, I made a little thing

rough draft of a muscial script ab Vlad the impaler :3

 Crowned In Blood

---

Act 1:

---

1. "Prince of Shadows"

(The stage is dimly lit. A young Vlad, dressed in simple noble clothes, walks across the stage as a haunting melody begins.)

Vlad: 

(singing softly, almost to himself)

In the shadows, I was born,  

Where light is scarce and hope is torn.  

A kingdom in turmoil, blood on the earth,  

A son of darkness, I define my worth.  

Chorus (Whispers)

Prince of Shadows, heir of night,  

Take your crown and claim your might.  

In the darkness, you shall reign,  

Born to rule with sword and pain.

---

2. "The Iron Will"

(Vlad stands tall, the shadows now retreating as he rises to a more commanding position. He’s older now, with a steely gaze. The music shifts to something more determined.)

Vlad:

I will bend the world to my will,  

A blade forged in the fire’s chill.  

No mercy in this heart of steel,  

To rule with iron, not with zeal.  

I stand alone, no soul to guide,  

A throne of thorns, where kings must die.  

Ensemble:

The Iron Will, the cruelest creed,  

Where blood must flow to plant the seed.  

No turning back, no looking past,  

The iron will—forever cast.

---

3. "Swords and Sorrows"

(The stage darkens, and figures of betrayal appear, circling Vlad. Flashbacks of broken promises and lies haunt him. He raises his sword, ready for revenge.)

Vlad:

My sword has tasted bitter tears,  

My soul is drenched in years of fears.  

Betrayed by kin, betrayed by crown,  

In this world, there's no way down.  

Ensemble:

Swords and sorrows, blood and grief,  

The cost of loyalty is brief.  

A heart once warm, now turned to stone,  

A prince, a king—forever alone.

---

4. "Blood of My Enemies"

(The music shifts to something dark, ominous. Vlad’s army appears, and there is a great sense of menace as he takes the stage, triumphant yet terrifying.)

Vlad:

The blood of my enemies, it paints the land,  

With every drop, I take command.  

Fear is my ally, pain my friend,  

Their cries will echo to the end.  

Ensemble:

Blood of my enemies, blood of my foes,  

A king's crown is where terror grows.  

Drink from the chalice, taste the doom,  

Let the blood flow, let the fear loom.

---

5. "The Impaler's Curse"

(The atmosphere grows eerie, and shadowy figures whisper tales of Vlad’s cruelty. The music is haunting, with a dark chant-like quality.)

Ensemble:

The Impaler’s curse, it haunts the night,  

A king of terror, a king of fright.  

A name to fear, a heart of ice,  

A soul condemned, a soul to slice.  

Vlad (low, almost a whisper):

Let them think me monster, think me mad,  

Let them curse the darkness I have had.  

In their whispers, I shall thrive,  

For through their terror, I survive.

---

**Act 2:**

---

6. "Betrayed by the Crown"

(A darker turn as Vlad is betrayed by the Hungarian King. His anger fuels a burning desire for revenge.)

Vlad:

A crown once promised, now betrayed,  

The very throne on which I’ve stayed.  

You wear your crown with hollow pride,  

While I, the prince, am cast aside!  

Chorus:

Betrayed by the crown, forsaken by kings,  

The bitter sting of broken wings.  

With vengeance in my heart, I rise,  

A flame of fury in my eyes!

---

7. "To Rule or to Rot"

(Vlad, now questioning his path, reflects on the morality of his methods. The music becomes more somber as he stands alone, torn.)

Vlad:

To rule or to rot, the choice is clear,  

A king of blood, or one who fears.  

The cost of power is written in scars,  

But the throne, the throne is mine to guard.  

Ensemble:

To rule or to rot, the price we pay,  

A soul once pure, now led astray.  

The fire of power burns so bright,  

But can it outshine the endless night?

---

8. "The Forest of Sticks"

*(The stage is covered in mist. Shadowy figures march in line, leading to a dark forest. The chilling sound of impalement echoes in the background as Vlad watches coldly.)*

Vlad:

Here they stand, in endless rows,  

The forest of sticks, where death grows.  

A fate so cruel, a fate so grim,  

For those who dare to cross my whim.  

Ensemble:

The forest of sticks, the trees of woe,  

A punishment that none shall know.  

A crown of pain, a heart of stone,  

In the forest, you are alone.

---

9. "A Son of Darkness"

*(Vlad reflects on his father’s legacy and how it shaped his path. The music is introspective, with moments of fury and resolve.)*

Vlad: 

A son of darkness, bound by blood,  

My father’s legacy, a crimson flood.  

I carry his name, I carry his rage,  

A beast unleashed, a king in a cage.  

Chorus:

A son of darkness, born of night,  

A soul consumed by endless fight.  

In his shadow, I must stand,  

A prince, a king, the land in hand.

---

10. "The Wall of Skulls"

(A grotesque display of Vlad’s power—piles of skulls on stage, representing his many victims. The music becomes intense, full of dread and awe.)

Ensemble:

The Wall of Skulls, the price we pay,  

For kings who rule in fear and sway.  

A monument to blood and bones,  

The wall that speaks in whispered tones.

Vlad (loud, proud):  

They feared me once, and fear remains,  

A monument to endless chains.  

The wall will stand, my reign will last,  

A legacy in stone, so vast.

---

Act 3:

---

11. "Bloodlines and Vengeance"

(Vlad now sits on his throne, reflecting on his family’s history. His rage simmers as he plots the final steps of his vengeance.)

Vlad:

Bloodlines and vengeance, my birthright clear,  

A thirst for retribution, nothing to fear.  

My father’s killers, they shall pay,  

For what is blood, if not to slay?  

Ensemble: 

Bloodlines and vengeance, a legacy fierce,  

A royal wrath none can pierce.  

For every drop, for every cry,  

My kingdom's shadow will never die.

---

12. "In the Name of God"

(Vlad justifies his actions, a clash between righteousness and terror. His fervor is absolute as he speaks to his people and to himself.)

Vlad:

In the name of God, I take the throne,  

A kingdom forged in blood and bone.  

My right divine, my path is true,  

Who can stand against what I must do?  

Ensemble:

In the name of God, I strike my foes,  

For His will, the darkness grows.  

The righteous rule, the sinners fall,  

In His name, I stand above all.

---

13. "The Throne of Thorns"

(Vlad sits on his throne, which is now covered in blood-red thorns. He feels the weight of his decisions, both triumphant and tragic.)

Vlad:

This throne of thorns, it pierces deep,  

A crown of suffering, secrets to keep.  

To rule is pain, to lead is cost,  

For every gain, a soul is lost.  

Ensemble:  

The throne of thorns, the crown of grief,  

A ruler’s burden, beyond belief.  

In the end, what is to gain,  

But the endless echo of your pain?

---

14. "Crown of Fear"

(A powerful, climactic number. Vlad is at his peak, but the cost of his reign is unbearable. His enemies close in, and doubt begins to surface.)

Vlad: 

The crown I wear is not of gold,  

But forged in fear, and made to hold.  

A king of terror, a king of night,  

But in the end, who is in sight?  

Ensemble (Quiet, slow):

The crown of fear, the crown of doom,  

A king of darkness meets his tomb.  

For fear, for power, for endless pain,  

The crown remains, but what’s to gain?

---

15. "End of the Impaler"

(Vlad, now in his final moments, reflects on his life—his rise, his reign, and the inevitable fall. The music is somber and reflective.)

Vlad (softly):  

The end has come, the final breath,  

A prince

of shadows faces death.  

What have I built? What have I lost?  

A kingdom’s worth, but at what cost?  

Chorus: 

The end of the Impaler, the end of night,  

A legacy fading in the light.  

A king of terror, a soul of fire,  

Now only ashes, now only desire.

---

*(The stage goes dark, the final notes linger in the air, and the curtains fall.)*

[ebooklibrary]

A Court Of Thorns And Roses Series by Sarah J. Maas

Genre: Romantasy, Fiction, YA

A Court Of Thorns And Roses

When nineteen-year-old huntress Feyre kills a wolf in the woods, a terrifying creature arrives to demand retribution. Dragged to a treacherous magical land she knows about only from legends, Feyre discovers that her captor is not truly a beast, but one of the lethal, immortal faeries who once ruled her world.

At least, he’s not a beast all the time.

As she adapts to her new home, her feelings for the faerie, Tamlin, transform from icy hostility into a fiery passion that burns through every lie she’s been told about the beautiful, dangerous world of the Fae. But something is not right in the faerie lands. An ancient, wicked shadow is growing, and Feyre must find a way to stop it, or doom Tamlin—and his world—forever.

A Court Of Mist And Fury

Feyre has undergone more trials than one human woman can carry in her heart. Though she's now been granted the powers and lifespan of the High Fae, she is haunted by her time Under the Mountain and the terrible deeds she performed to save the lives of Tamlin and his people.

As her marriage to Tamlin approaches, Feyre's hollowness and nightmares consume her. She finds herself split into two different one who upholds her bargain with Rhysand, High Lord of the feared Night Court, and one who lives out her life in the Spring Court with Tamlin. While Feyre navigates a dark web of politics, passion, and dazzling power, a greater evil looms. She might just be the key to stopping it, but only if she can harness her harrowing gifts, heal her fractured soul, and decide how she wishes to shape her future-and the future of a world in turmoil.

A Court Of Wings And Ruin

Feyre has returned to the Spring Court, determined to gather information on Tamlin's actions and learn what she can about the invading king threatening to bring her land to its knees. But to do so she must play a deadly game of deceit. One slip could bring doom not only for Feyre, but for everything-and everyone-she holds dear.

As war bears down upon them all, Feyre endeavors to take her place amongst the High Fae of the land, balancing her struggle to master her powers-both magical and political-and her love for her court and family. Amidst these struggles, Feyre and Rhysand must decide whom to trust amongst the cunning and lethal High Lords, and hunt for allies in unexpected places.

A Court Of Frost And Starlight

Feyre, Rhysand, and their friends are still busy rebuilding the Night Court and the vastly altered world beyond, recovering from the war that changed everything. But Winter Solstice is finally approaching, and with it, the joy of a hard-earned reprieve.

Yet even the festive atmosphere can't keep the shadows of the past from looming. As Feyre navigates her first Winter Solstice as High Lady, her concern for those dearest to her deepens. They have more wounds than she anticipated-scars that will have a far-reaching impact on the future of their court.

A Court Of Silver Flames

Nesta Archeron has always been prickly-proud, swift to anger, and slow to forgive. And ever since being forced into the Cauldron and becoming High Fae against her will, she's struggled to find a place for herself within the strange, deadly world she inhabits. Worse, she can't seem to move past the horrors of the war with Hybern and all she lost in it. The one person who ignites her temper more than any other is Cassian, the battle-scarred warrior whose position in Rhysand and Feyre's Night Court keeps him constantly in Nesta's orbit. But her temper isn't the only thing Cassian ignites. The fire between them is undeniable, and only burns hotter as they are forced into close quarters with each other. Meanwhile, the treacherous human queens who returned to the Continent during the last war have forged a dangerous new alliance, threatening the fragile peace that has settled over the realms. And the key to halting them might very well rely on Cassian and Nesta facing their haunting pasts. Against the sweeping backdrop of a world seared by war and plagued with uncertainty, Nesta and Cassian battle monsters from within and without as they search for acceptance-and healing-in each other's arms.

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