#Witch of the Deep Shroud | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

kckt88 · 2 months

Text

Sanguis.

Summary:

'Hell is empty and all the devils are here' - William Shakespeare.

Deep in his grief over the loss of his wife Aemond desperately seeks the help of a wood witch and his wife is returned to him, but he ignores the witches warning and soon he is confronted with the horror of what his sweet wife has become.

Warning(s): Character Death, Resurrections, Language, Kissing, Smut, Oral Sex (M & F Recieving) Fingering, Anal Play, P in V, Blood, Gore, Death.

AEMOND x Y.N

Word Count: 9352

A.N - I have taken a few creative liberties, I hope you don't mind!!

Disclaimer: I do not own any of the House of The Dragon or Fire & Blood characters nor do I claim to own them. I do not own any of the images used.

Comments, likes, and reblogs are very much appreciated.

Tag List - @jasminecosmic99 @kaelatargaryen @yesterdayfeelings-blog @immyowndefender @0eessirk8 @darylandbethfanforever9

Prince Aemond Targaryen, in utter despair, knelt before his wife's linen-wrapped body. The cold stone floor of the Red Keep felt like ice against his knees, but he barely noticed.

His eye, red and swollen from endless weeping, stared at the lifeless form of his beloved wife Y.N.

The once proud and fierce prince was now a broken man. His love, his light, had been taken from this world in an act of violence that left his heart shattered.

Y.N had fought valiantly, her courage unmatched as she defended his niece and nephew against the assassins who had snuck into the Red Keep.

They sought vengeance for Aemond's involvement in the death of Lucerys Velaryon, and they had found it in the blood of his beloved.

Y.N had been gravely injured in the attack, and despite his desperate efforts to save her, she had died in his arms. Aemond could still feel the weight of her body as her life slipped away, her final breath a haunting whisper against his skin.

Since her death, Aemond's world had ended. His life had unravelled, leaving only a dark void where Y.N's love and care had once been.

Aside from Vhagar, Y.N had been the only good thing he had in this world. She had loved him, truly and deeply, and now she was gone.

Aemond's heart ached with a pain he had never known possible. The thought of living without her was unbearable. He couldn't live without her. He didn't want to.

His hands, trembling with grief, reached out to touch the linen shroud, his fingers tracing the outline of her face beneath the fabric. "Please," he whispered, his voice cracking. "Please come back to me."

He prayed to the gods, his pleas a desperate litany of sorrow and longing. He begged and pleaded, tears streaming down his face, but the gods remained silent.

The chamber was filled with his cries, the raw agony of a man who had lost everything.

"Y.N, my love," he sobbed, his head bowing low. "What am I to do without you? How am I to live in this world without your light?"

The silence was deafening, the emptiness of the room a stark reminder of her absence. Aemond's shoulders shook with the force of his grief, his tears falling unheeded onto the cold stone floor.

Aemond clung to her shrouded form, his despair a heavy shroud of its own. The pain of her loss was a constant, gnawing ache, a wound that would never heal.

He had lost his love, his heart, and without her, he was nothing. He was lost in a world that had turned cold and dark, and he saw no way forward.

As the hours passed, Aemond remained by her side, his silent vigil a testament to the depth of his love and the vastness of his grief. He was a prince, a dragon rider, a warrior—but in this moment, he was simply a man who had lost everything that mattered.

His face pressed against the linen shroud that covered her still form. His tears soaked through the fabric, mingling with the last remnants of her scent.

"There has to be a way," he murmured, his voice choked with desperation. "There has to be a way to bring you back."

In the depths of his despair, a thought flickered to life. If dragons existed in this world, great and fearsome beasts of legend, then surely bringing someone back from the dead wasn't entirely out of bounds. He clung to that thought, a fragile thread of hope in the overwhelming darkness.

Then, through the haze of his sorrow, he remembered the rumours. Whispers among the common folk spoke of a witch in the woods, a woman with skills beyond the natural world.

He had heard the stories many times, often dismissing them as mere tales meant to scare small children and the weak of mind. But now, he was desperate. He had to try. If the gods would not return Y.N to him, then perhaps this witch could.

Aemond's heart pounded with a mixture of fear and determination. He lifted his tear-streaked face from Y.N's body, his eye filled with a fierce resolve. "I will find her," he whispered, his voice trembling. "I will bring you back, my love. I swear it."

As night fell over the Red Keep, Aemond Targaryen moved with a grim determination. He waited until the shadows were deepest and the guards at their most inattentive.

Silently, he lifted Y.N's body into his arms. Every step was a careful manoeuvre to avoid detection, every breath a silent prayer that they remain unseen.

Once outside, he managed to secure her onto a horse, cradling her close as he pulled a heavy cloak over her still form. The hood of his own cloak was drawn up to conceal his identity. Aemond whispered a command, and the horse began to move, carrying them through the dimly lit streets of King's Landing.

The city was quiet at this hour, the usual bustle of life replaced by the eerie stillness of night. Aemond kept Y.N close, his arms wrapped protectively around her, as he navigated the winding streets. The walls of the city soon gave way to the open fields and the looming darkness of the Kingswood beyond.

Taking a deep breath, Aemond urged the horse into the woods, leaving the path behind. The trees closed in around them, the air thick with the scent of damp earth and decay.

The forest was a living thing, filled with the sounds of rustling leaves, the occasional screech of a raven, and the haunting hoots of owls.

Time lost meaning as he pressed onward, each step taking him deeper into the unknown. The forest seemed to go on forever, an endless labyrinth of shadow and sound.

Just as despair began to gnaw at the edges of his resolve, he came upon a muddy bog, its surface broken by the stark silhouettes of wooden crosses.

Ahead, a small wooden dwelling came into view, covered in moss and illuminated by the flickering glow of candlelight through a cracked window. Relief surged through Aemond, giving him the strength to dismount. He secured the horse's reins to a nearby pole, ensuring Y.N was still concealed beneath the cloak.

With a deep breath, he approached the door. His hand trembled slightly as he raised it to knock, but the door creaked open of its own accord.

He peered inside, the air thick with a nauseating odour. "Hello?" he called out softly. "Is anyone here?"

The room was dim, lit only by a few guttering candles. Shelves lined the walls, filled with bottles of various coloured liquids. The severed remains of animals lay strewn about, adding to the grim tableau. Aemond's eye scanned the room, taking in every detail.

A noise outside made him spin around. A hooded figure stood in the doorway, their presence almost spectral in the candlelight.

The figure's voice was a rasping whisper, "Welcome, Prince Aemond."

Aemond stood before the hooded figure, the words he had rehearsed tumbling from his lips. "I have come because—"

The witch interrupted him, her voice a rasping whisper that cut through the gloom. "I know why you are here, Prince Aemond. You seek to defy death and bring back your lost love."

He swallowed hard, his grip on Y.N's body tightening. "I need her back. I cannot live without her."

The witch's eyes gleamed with an unsettling light. "Such a thing comes at a great cost," she warned, her voice echoing in the small, dimly lit room.

"I don't care," Aemond replied, his desperation evident. "As long as Y.N is alive, that's all that matters."

The witch laughed, a sound that was almost a cackle. "The young prince does not realize what he asks for," she muttered, running a sharp blackened fingernail down his arm.

"I have no patience for your ramblings," he snapped, his tone hardening.

The witch's laughter echoed again. "Very well. I will need the body."

Aemond nodded, turning to retrieve Y.N. But as he moved, a sudden darkness overcame him, a moment where he seemed to black out.

When he came back to himself, he was confused to see Y.N already laid out on the table, her form bathed in the eerie candlelight.

"How...?" he began, but the witch cut him off again.

"Y.N must be free of her shroud," she said, her voice brooking no argument.

"No," Aemond protested, but the witch's eyes were firm.

"It must be done."

Reluctantly, Aemond took a step back, his heart pounding in his chest. The witch drew a small, sharp knife and began to cut away the linen, the fabric parting with a soft, tearing sound. As the shroud fell away, Y.N's face was revealed, pale and serene in death.

Aemond let out a small sob, his gaze locked on his wife's visage. She looked as if she were merely sleeping, but the cold reality of her lifelessness tore at his heart.

The witch moved with a slow, deliberate purpose, her hands deft and sure as she completed her grim task. "Be warned, little Prince," she said softly. "She may return in body, but she will not be the wife you remember. She will be-more."

"I don't care," Aemond whispered, his voice breaking. "I just need her back."

The witch's laughter rang out once more, a chilling sound that sent shivers down Aemond's spine. "Very well”

Aemond watched with bated breath as the witch moved with an unsettling grace. She snipped a lock of Y.N's hair, the strands glinting like spun gold in the dim candlelight and tossed it into the fire.

The flames roared briefly, casting eerie shadows on the walls. Aemond's stomach churned as the witch opened Y.N's mouth and poured in a dark, lumpy, foul-smelling liquid. The stench was nearly unbearable, and he had to stifle a gag.

The witch then took her knife and cut open Y.N's cotton shift. Aemond gasped, his eye widening in horror as he saw the knife wound that had taken his wife's life.

A tear slipped down his cheek, his heart breaking anew. The witch began muttering in a language he did not understand, her voice a low, rhythmic chant that seemed to make the very air around them vibrate.

As she chanted, the candles in the room all flared to life, their flames burning impossibly bright for a moment before everything went silent. The oppressive stillness was broken only by Aemond's ragged breathing.

"Is that it?" he asked, his voice trembling.

The witch shook her head and handed him a shovel. "She needs to be buried."

Aemond recoiled, anger flaring. "No! I brought her here to bring her back, not to bury her."

The witch's eyes flashed with something dark and dangerous. "You brought Y.N here, and now you will listen to what I say, or she will be lost to you forever. Choose a spot and dig."

Reluctantly, Aemond took the shovel and stepped out into the pouring rain. The sky had opened up, the deluge soaking him to the bone as he dug.

Mud clung to his boots and splattered his cloak, each shovel full of earth feeling like a betrayal. The witch stood silently, watching him with an inscrutable expression.

When the hole was deep enough, the witch commanded him to stop. Filthy and wet, Aemond threw the shovel to the ground and trudged back into the cabin. He lifted Y.N's body into his arms, holding her close one last time as he carried her outside. He hesitated at the edge of the grave, his heart shattering. Gently, he kissed her forehead before laying her in the hole.

"Now you need to finish it," the witch said. "Cover her with earth."

Aemond wept openly as he followed her instructions, each scoop of mud feeling like it was tearing pieces from his soul. He watched in despair as Y.N disappeared beneath the earth, the finality of it almost too much to bear.

When she was fully buried, he threw the shovel down, his hands trembling.

"Leave," the witch commanded. "Return to the Red Keep. Three sunrises, three sunsets, and she will come."

Aemond's grief turned to anger. "If you are lying, I will return with fire and blood."

The witch cackled, a chilling sound. "I do not fear you, one-eyed prince. I have been alive much longer than you, and dead a lot longer than that."

"What are you?" he demanded, his voice a mixture of awe and revulsion.

"You will find out soon enough, little prince," she replied, disappearing back into the cabin.

Aemond's gaze lingered on the freshly turned earth where Y.N was buried. His heart ached with every beat, the rain mingling with his tears. He mounted his horse and rode away, each step feeling heavier than the last as he made his way back to the Red Keep, hope and dread warring within him.

For the next two nights, Aemond was plagued by relentless nightmares. As he lay in his bed, his dreams were twisted and cruel, reflecting the torment that consumed his waking hours.

He would hear Y.N's voice calling out to him, her tone filled with desperation and pain. In his dreams, he would stand over the grave where he had buried her, only to see her clawing her way out, her skin decayed and peeling, maggots writhing over her rotting form.

The witch's cackle echoed through the trees, mingling with the foul stench of the dark, lumpy liquid she had poured into Y.N's throat.

The warning that Y.N would come back different gnawed relentlessly at his thoughts, a constant reminder of the grave mistake he had made.

With no body to bury, Aemond had been forced to lie to those around him. He had claimed that Y.N’s body had been burned by Vhagar in accordance with her wishes. The lie was a heavy burden, one that gnawed at him as he faced the mourners.

He could not tell them the truth of what he had done, the truth of the witch's promise and the body now rotting beneath the earth.

As the third day approached, Aemond waited anxiously by his chamber window. His heart leaped with every sound, every time someone entered his quarters, hoping against hope that Y.N had returned to him.

Each time he was met with bitter disappointment, the empty space only deepening his sorrow. The nights were the worst, filled with anguish as he wrestled with the realization that he had been manipulated by the witch. His beloved was lying in the earth, her body decomposing, and he felt like a fool for believing in the witch’s promises.

As night fell on the third day, Aemond sat alone in his darkened chamber, tears streaming down his face. The weight of his grief and anger felt unbearable.

The realization that he had been deceived by the witch filled him with a cold, bitter rage. He vowed to himself that on the morrow, he would return to the witch. He would make her pay for her treachery.

He lay down in bed, his heart heavy with both sorrow and fury. As he drifted into an uneasy sleep, his mind was consumed with visions of vengeance. The image of the witch’s mocking face and her cruel laughter fuelled his determination. He would make her suffer for what she had done.

Aemond was jolted from a restless sleep by a gentle, touch against his face.

His heart raced as he opened his eye, the darkness of the chamber slowly revealing a form sitting on the edge of his bed. It was Y.N, or at least someone who looked like her. For a moment, he thought it was a dream, a cruel twist of his imagination.

But then she spoke his name, her voice a soft, hollow echo in the dim light. "Aemond-"

His breath caught in his throat as he sat up in bed, his heart pounding in his chest. He reached out with trembling hands and pulled her close.

Her body was cold and filthy, covered in layers of grime and dirt, but it was undeniably her. Y.N had come back to him, just as the witch had said she would. The realization was almost too much to bear.

Aemond's tears flowed freely as he held her tightly. "I never thought I'd see you again," he choked out, his voice thick with emotion. "I thought I had lost you forever."

Y.N's eyes, though sunken and haunted, met his with a glimmer of recognition. She placed a muddy finger gently against his lips, silencing him. "Shush," she said softly. "I will never leave you again."

Her words, though whispered and tinged with the rot of death, were a balm to his shattered soul. He clung to her, his tears wetting her dirty clothes.

Aemond wrapped his arms around her, determined to cherish this second chance, even as the haunting reality of the witch's promise lingered in the back of his mind.

Aemond’s hands trembled with both anticipation and fear as he summoned the maids to prepare a hot bath. The sight of Y.N’s return was a beacon of hope, but he wanted to ensure that no one discovered her presence before he was ready.

He instructed them to fill the tub with steaming water, their murmurs of surprise and curiosity ignored as he hurried them along.

Once the bath was prepared, Aemond dismissed the maids, locking the door behind them. The chamber was now a private sanctuary, his heart racing as he approached Y.N, who waited patiently on the balcony.

“Come inside,” he called softly, his voice a mixture of tenderness and urgency. Y.N stepped into the room, her presence a stark contrast to the grim reality of her appearance.

Despite the dirt and grime, she moved with a grace that reminded him of the woman he had loved.

“I’ve had a bath prepared for you,” Aemond said, trying to mask his anxiety with a comforting tone. Her eyes brightened at his words, and a faint smile touched her lips. She began to remove her filthy cotton shift, revealing her pale, cold skin.

As she climbed into the bath, Aemond took a stool beside it, his gaze never leaving her. The warm water enveloped her, and he gently began to help her wash away the layers of dirt and muck. His fingers moved through her hair, carefully dispelling the mud that clung to it.

Y.N looked at him with gratitude, but as he tended to her, Aemond couldn’t help but notice the subtle changes in her. The knife wound on her side had healed into a scar, and despite the hot water, her skin remained unnervingly cold, and her eyes seemed different—lighter in colour, almost ethereal.

He tried to dismiss these unsettling observations, focusing instead on the joy of her presence. “I’ll help you clean up,” he said softly. “The maids won’t assist. I want to be the one to help you.”

Y.N nodded, her expression one of quiet acceptance. “Thank you, Aemond,” she said, her voice carrying a faint echo of the life she once had.

Aemond continued to wash her with careful attention, his heart aching with a mixture of relief and sorrow. He scrubbed away the dirt, the water turning murky with the remnants of her previous state.

Despite the lingering strangeness of her appearance and the coldness of her skin, he was overwhelmed by the joy of having her back.

He told himself that it didn’t matter—that she was back, and that was all that mattered.

Aemond carefully helped Y.N out of the bath and dried her with gentle, attentive hands. The contrast between her cold, damp skin and the warmth of the towel was stark, but he did his best to make her comfortable.

He selected a clean nightgown, soft and fresh, and helped her into it, adjusting the delicate fabric to fall gracefully around her.

Aemond led her to the bed, his heart heavy with a mix of emotions. Y.N sat down and, as he moved to adjust the bedding, she reached for the laces on his breeches. Aemond’s breath caught, and he gently stopped her, his gaze searching hers with concern.

“Y.N,” he said softly, “you don’t have to—”

But she looked up at him with a pleading expression, her voice low and earnest. “But I want too, I love you.”

Aemond felt his resolve wavering as Y.N’s hands resuming unlacing his breeches, letting them fall to the floor once they were undone.

She pressed a series of tender kisses to his bare stomach, her lips brushing against his skin.

Aemond closed his eye and let out a low groan as he felt her teeth grazing against him.

Then Y.N removed her nightgown and lay back on the bed, her bare body on display, she reached out for him and pulled him on the bed.

“Let me take care of you” muttered Y.N as she placed kisses along Aemond jaw and then down his neck, making sure to gently nip and suck his skin as she went.

She carried on moving down, pausing as she reached his chest, she grinned as she took one of his nipples into her mouth, her tongue teasing it before she bit down gently.

“FUCK” moaned Aemond.

“Does issa Valzȳrys like that?” asked Y.N as she moved across and gave his other nipple the same attention, (My husband).

“Oh. Gods” whimpered Aemond as she moved further down his body, her tongue and teeth grazing his pale skin.

When she reached the trail of hair from his belly button down to his cock, she pressed her nose against him and giggled when she felt the hair tickle her skin.

“Kostilus issa jorrāelagon” begged Aemond (Please my love).

“Ao līs umbagon issa zaldrīzes” replied Y.N (You must wait, my dragon).

Aemond stared down at his naughty wife, his mouth hanging open as Y.N’s warm, wet mouth quickly wrapped around the head of his cock.

Her tongue gently moving around the tip – tracing the ridges and licking off that drops of pre-cum that had started to leak out.

“Fuck, Y.N!” groaned Aemond as he threaded his fingers through his wife’s silver hair.

Y.N ran the flat of her tongue along Aemond’s length, tracing every hard inch of him.

Aemond’s heart almost stopped when she sucked his stones into her mouth, one at a time.

Her hand moving slowly over the hard length of him.

When Y.N moved and engulfed Aemond’s cock in her mouth again, he squeezed his eye shut. She was driving him crazy.

But Aemond forced himself to open his eye, he needed to watch as his wife sucked his cock.

“Your taking me so well. Such a good girl” moaned Aemond.

Aemond knew it would push the limits of his control, but he did not care. He just had to watch his cock disappear into Y.N’s mouth and see it come back out, shining with her spit.

Her head moving back and forth, her perfect pink lips stretched around him.

“I’m not going to last if you carry on” Aemond admitted, though it pained him to do so.

Y.N smiled slightly and began moving faster, also using one of her hands in rhythm with her mouth.

Then she moved her other hand over his stones, caressing them before she slid one of her fingers towards his hole.

“F-Fuck” moaned Aemond as she gently massaged over the tight ring of muscle.

“Do you like that raqiarzy?” asked Y.N (Beloved).

“Y-Yes” exclaimed Aemond.

“What about this?” asked Y.N as she put a finger into her mouth and then returned it to his hole before she gently slid the tip of her finger in.

“It feels so good-that’s it” groaned Aemond.

“More?”

“Y-Yes. P-Please. M-More” groaned Aemond.

Y.N responded to his statement by relaxing the back of her throat, and swallowing as much of her husband’s cock as she could, whilst her finger slowly moved inside him.

“Another-p-put another inside me” begged Aemond his body rocking against her.

Y.N smiled and gently added another and Aemond began to whimper as she curled her fingers inside him.

“Shit-Y.N. I’m going to come. Oh, fuck, I’m coming!” shouted Aemond as he exploded.

His wife took every last drop, swallowing his warm seed and licking him clean.

When he recovered, Aemond saw Y.N’s self-satisfied smile.

“Was that to your liking husband?” asked Y.N.

“Y-Yes. Now get up here and ride my face until I’m ready again” gasped Aemond as Y.N removed her fingers from him and wiped them on her night gown.

“Are you sure” asked Y.N.

“Sit on my fucking face” ordered Aemond, his cock already twitching with interest.

Y.N hovered above Aemond’s face; her knees splayed on either side of his head.

“Such a pretty cock sleeve" breathed Aemond as he ran the flat of his tongue along Y.N’s soaked slit, from bottom to the top, tasting her.

“Oh, my god” moaned Y.N her eyes rolling into the back of her head.

“That’s it Issa dōna. Let me hear you” (My sweet).

“YES. It feels so good. Don’t stop. Aemond. Please” begged Y.N.

“FUCK” growled Aemond.

“Ooooh A-Aemond” shrieked Y.N.

"Delicious" purred Aemond as he began lapping at Y.N, running his tongue along every fold.

"More" panted Y.N "Please. I need more”.

Aemond inserted two fingers, sliding them in and out of her slick wet folds.

“Oh" whimpered Y.N; her chest heaving as she began to gently roll her hips against him.

“That’s it baby, ride my fucking face” groaned Aemond, his cock was so hard that it was boarding on painful.

Y.N was giving off a slew of whispered swear words, moans, and pleas.

Aemond’s fingers were soaking wet as they continued to pump in and out of her tight heat.

“I can’t wait to get my cock inside you. I don’t want to wait any longer, come for me baby,” moaned Aemond.

Finally, he felt Y.N’s inner walls start to flutter around his fingers, squeezing them. Y.N’s back arched taut as a bow and she screamed her release.

Aemond pumped slowly and lapped at his wife’s centre as she came.

After a few minutes, Aemond gently urged his wife to move down, so she was hovering above his cock.

Her hand wrapped around him, running the head of his cock along her warm wet folds.

“Your such a tease” moaned Aemond as his hips jerked involuntarily.

But it feels so good” replied Y.N as she slowly sunk down on his cock, so only the tip of him was inside her.

“P-Please” whimpered Aemond.

“Uh-uh” said Y.N shaking her head from side to side.

After a few torturous minutes Aemond couldn’t take it anymore and seized his wife’s hips, before surging up and ploughing his hard cock into her soaked cunt.

"AEMOND!" screamed Y.N.

"Gods. You feel so good" rasped Aemond.

"Fuck me, Aemond" urged Y.N, her tone bordering on desperate as she rolled her hips against his.

Aemond started to thrust slowly, trying to prolong the feel of his wife squeezing his cock.

“P-Please. Husband” whined Y.N as Aemond began teasing her pearl with his thumb.

“That’s it-take all of me”

“OH-MY-“ shrieked Y.N Aemond began to move.

"Faster, please" begged Y.N.

“Like this?” replied Aemond as he gave a quick deep thrust.

“Yes, Aemond, just like that-" panted Y.N.

Her hands ran along his arms, over his shoulders and down his chest, digging her nails into his pale skin.

“Gods, Y.N" grunted Aemond, speeding up slightly.

"Fuck me, Aemond" whispered Y.N "Fuck me with that big, cock of yours. You feel so good inside me”.

Aemond knew exactly what Y.N was doing, and he couldn’t help himself.

Y.N wanted faster and he was going much faster now, his feet planted on the bed to give him more leverage and his pace increased with every filthy word that dropped from his wife’s luscious lips as he pounded into her.

“Aemond-I’m going to come. Oh, fuck!” screamed Y.N.

Y.N always looked amazing when she came. Her head thrown back in pleasure, her amethyst eyes alive with lust, and her pale skin shining with sweat.

“I’m going to spill my seed inside you-”

“Y-Yes A-Aemond. Give it to me” whined Y.N as she clamped down around his cock so hard he could hardly move.

That, combined with how glorious Y.N looked, pushed Aemond over the edge, the heat shooting across his abdomen.

“God. Y.N” groaned Aemond as he exploded. His cock throbbing and twitching as he spilled his seed inside his wife’s wet heat.

Over the next few weeks, Aemond observed a series of peculiar changes in Y.N's behaviour that left him increasingly uneasy.

Despite the fact that she only slept intermittently for a few hours at a time, she seemed to have an inexhaustible supply of energy.

Her insatiable hunger was another alarming sign. She complained constantly of being hungry, and her cravings were mostly for meat, often served barely cooked.

Aemond watched with a mix of fascination and concern as she devoured the meat with her bare hands, the juices and blood staining her fingers, her appetite seemingly endless.

Confined to his chambers, Y.N was shielded from the public eye, which allowed Aemond some measure of control. However, his duties often required him to be away from her, leaving her alone for extended periods.

This solitude seemed to agitate her, and more than once, he returned to find evidence of her growing frustration.

Her rage manifested in destructive outbursts—on one occasion, she hurled a chair across the room, and on another, she seized a table and smashed it into splinters. The sheer strength she displayed was unnerving, an indication of the profound changes she had undergone.

Another change was her unrelenting desire for intimacy. Her needs were voracious and unceasing, demanding more of him than he could give.

Initially, Aemond had been willing to indulge her, and he would often place himself between her thighs fucking her into the mattress with deep penetrating thrusts, his hips pounding against hers.

But he soon found himself exhausted and overwhelmed by her constant, almost insatiable demands. The frequency of her advances became a source of physical and emotional strain.

The situation became even more complicated with his mother's growing concern. She had noticed his seclusion and questioned him about his well-being.

Aemond had claimed he was still grieving Y.N’s loss, but when word of the noises of pleasure from his chambers reached her ears, he was forced to concoct another lie. He explained that he had taken a bed mate to help with his needs, an excuse that seemed to placate her but left her visibly dissatisfied.

As the days went on, Aemond's anxiety about Y.N's behaviour continued to mount. He was troubled by the physical and emotional changes she was exhibiting, which seemed to reflect more than mere grief or trauma.

Her behaviour was increasingly erratic, and despite his deep love for her, he couldn't ignore the growing fear that something was fundamentally wrong, that the witch was right, and Y.N had returned to him, but she was forever changed.

Aemond returned to his chambers from a gruelling council meeting, his mind heavy with the complexities of court politics. The relief of finally being back in his private quarters was short-lived as he pushed open the door.

The sight that met him was one of sheer horror. Y.N was kneeling on the floor, her focus intently fixed on a cat she had captured. The small creature was held in her hands, and Aemond’s stomach lurched as he saw her face pressed against its neck.

Blood ran freely down her hands, dripping onto the floor as she seemed oblivious to the mess she was making.

Y.N looked up at him, her expression eerily serene despite the gruesome scene. Her smile was unsettling, her teeth stained red with the blood she had drawn.

The sight of her grinning so contentedly, with the blood smearing her face, was almost too much for Aemond to bear.

He put a hand over his mouth, struggling to stifle a scream that threatened to escape. His heart pounded violently, a mix of revulsion and profound distress flooding his senses.

He had to stop himself from throwing up as he watched her return her attention to the lifeless animal, her actions methodical and disturbingly calm.

The room seemed to spin around him as he took a shaky step forward, his mind racing to process what he was actually witnessing.

“Aemond,” she said softly, her voice oddly gentle despite the blood. “You’re back.”

Her tone was casual, as if nothing was amiss. The cat, now lifeless, lay discarded on the floor as Y.N’s attention was fully on him, her eyes reflecting a strange, unsettling light.

Aemond struggled to maintain control, his eyes fixed on Y.N. “What-what have you done?” he managed to croak out, his voice trembling with fear and anger.

Y.N tilted her head, a hint of confusion crossing her features. “I was hungry,” she said matter-of-factly, as if it were the most natural thing in the world to be consuming blood-soaked prey.

The scene was nightmarish, the blood and death starkly contrasting with the once-beautiful woman he had loved.

Aemond returned to his chambers after a long flight with Vhagar, hoping the time in the sky would offer some solace and clarity. But as he entered his quarters, a sinking feeling overtook him—Y.N was not there.

“Y.N!” he called out, his voice echoing off the walls. When there was no answer, panic seized him. He had to find her quickly. The risk of anyone discovering her before he was ready was too great.

His mind raced through the places Y.N had frequented before her death. He checked the gardens, the library, and even the secluded spots she had loved, but there was no sign of her.

His anxiety grew, and he began to consider revealing everything to his mother, admitting the truth about what had happened. But he knew that would only lead to further complications.

As he made his way towards his mother’s chambers, his gaze fell on the nursery door, slightly ajar. His heart skipped a beat. He approached cautiously and peered inside. The sight that greeted him was one of utter horror.

Y.N stood over his niece Jaehaera, who was sleeping peacefully in her bed. Y.N leaned down, sniffing the child with a disturbing sense of satisfaction. Her eyes were closed as she hummed softly, an eerie contentment on her face. Aemond’s blood ran cold.

Without a moment's hesitation, he burst into the room, his heart pounding with a mixture of fear and fury. He grabbed Y.N and pulled her away from the bed, her surprised eyes meeting his with an unsettling calm.

He dragged her back to his chambers, the fear of what she might have done fuelling his desperation.

Once inside his chambers, he shoved Y.N against the wall and locked the door behind them. His rage boiled over. “What the hell do you think you were doing?” he roared, his voice trembling with anger.

Y.N’s head tilted to the side; her expression serene despite the chaos. “I was hungry,” she said simply, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

Aemond’s heart ached with a mix of horror and helplessness. “You can’t do this,” he said, his voice cracking. “Jaehaera is a child! She’s innocent!”

Y.N’s gaze grew distant, a shadow of pain crossing her face. “So was I when those men took my life,” she said quietly, her voice a haunting whisper. “I pretend not to remember, but it’s a lie. I remember everything—the screaming, the feel of the knife, the pain. I remember how you cried as you held me.”

“I didn’t bring you back for this,” said Aemond, his voice broken. “I brought you back because I love you, not for you to inflict more pain”

Y.N’s eyes met his with a mix of sorrow and resignation. “I don’t know how to control it,” she said softly. “I’m lost between what I was and what I am now. I feel the hunger and I can’t stop it.”

Aemond’s heart wavered, torn between his love for Y.N and the horror of her actions. As he stood there, the weight of his decisions pressed heavily upon him, he was left to grapple with the reality of the woman he had brought back and the darkness that now accompanied her presence.

Ever since the horrific incident with Jaehaera, Aemond had thrown himself into a desperate search for answers. He scoured the library for any information on what Y.N had become, hoping to find a way to restore her to her former self.

But the search yielded nothing. With a heavy heart, he resigned himself to seeking out the witch once more, a decision he made reluctantly but with a steely resolve. This time, he brought Vhagar with him.

As Aemond approached the cabin in the woods, Vhagar's imposing form loomed behind him, her massive hole ridden wings partially unfurled. His gaze was drawn momentarily to the disturbed earth where he had buried Y.N.

The ground still bore the marks of the grave, a grotesque reminder of the events that had transpired.

He reached the cabin and, not bothering to knock, pushed open the creaky door. The stench that greeted him was overwhelming, a foul mixture of decay and herbs. He pressed a gloved hand to his mouth to stifle the urge to retch as he stepped inside.

The witch was bent over a wooden bench, engrossed in her work. Her blackened hands were busy with a collection of severed fingers on a chopping board.

The sight was nauseating, but Aemond’s focus was solely on her.

“What exactly have you done to Y.N?” he demanded, his voice taut with fury.

The witch looked up; her eyes gleaming with malevolent amusement. “I did only what you asked,” she said, her tone dripping with mockery. “I tried to warn you, but you wouldn’t listen.”

Aemond’s anger flared. “You brought her back. Now you will fix her. She is not the woman I knew.”

The witch’s laughter was harsh and grating. “It doesn’t work like that, little prince. You got what you asked for, and now you must deal with it.”

“I wanted Y.N back, not whatever monstrosity she has become!” Aemond’s voice was a roar of frustration and anguish.

The witch’s eyes narrowed, and her laughter took on a mocking edge. “Can’t the little prince handle his wife?” she taunted, her voice dripping with scorn.

Enraged, Aemond lunged at the witch, grabbing her by the throat with a fierce grip. “Help her, or I swear I’ll make you pay for this,” he growled.

The witch’s reaction was swift and inhumanly strong. With a casual flick of her wrist, she removed Aemond’s hand from her throat, and sent him sprawling across the room. He collided with a shelf, bottles crashing to the floor in a cacophony of shattered glass.

Dazed and pain-stricken, Aemond struggled to his feet, his heart racing with both pain and rage. The witch, her back turned, resumed her grim task with an air of detached indifference.

“You wanted this,” she said, her voice cold and unforgiving. “Now you will deal with the consequences and if you ever come here and threaten me again, I will peel the flesh from your bones and make a necklace from your teeth. But not before I’ve had my fun with your pretty cock.”

The threat was clear, and Aemond’s blood ran cold at the thought of what she was capable of. He took a moment to gather himself, the pain from the fall throbbing through his body, before he turned and exited the cabin.

As he made his way back to Vhagar, his thoughts were a tumult of anger and despair. The witch had given him no solutions.

He knew he had to find another way to deal with the changes in Y.N and the horror of what she had become, but for now, he was left with nothing but the bitter taste of failure and the looming dread of what might come next.

The weeks following Aemond's harrowing encounter with the witch were a blur of tension and despair. Struggling to come to terms with the monstrous transformation of Y.N and the cruel nature of the witch’s promises, he barely left her side.

He kept her confined within his chambers, only stepping out when absolutely necessary. Even then, his absences were brief, and every minute away from her felt like an eternity.

His grandsire, however, was relentless. Otto hounded him with increasing urgency about the necessity of remarriage.

The weight of forging new alliances and securing the family’s future was emphasized with every meeting, and the grief for Y.N, though real, was dismissed as something that had gone on long enough.

One evening, after yet another confrontation with Otto, Aemond stormed back to his chambers, his mind a whirlwind of frustration and anxiety. The old man’s command that Aemond would be presented with suitable candidates to choose from was a crushing blow.

The thought of having to select a new bride while Y.N was alive—albeit in her grotesque and altered state—was a nightmare he could not fathom.

The walls felt as though they were closing in on him, the weight of his predicament almost unbearable. His mind raced, desperately trying to find a solution that would allow him to avoid the marriage his grandsire demanded without revealing the disturbing truth about Y.N.

He thought of the witch’s warnings and the terror that awaited if he were to fail in his attempt to protect her. Revealing Y.N’s current condition was unthinkable; it would lead to scandal and potentially dire consequences.

The very idea of the court discovering her state, coupled with the fear of her harming someone else, was enough to keep him awake at night.

His thoughts turned to possible alternatives. What if he could delay the marriage indefinitely? He could claim to be in mourning for an extended period, though the lie would be difficult to maintain. Perhaps he could use the upcoming council meetings to argue that the timing was not suitable, citing the ongoing war as a reason for postponement.

Another possibility was to feign illness or some personal crisis that would require him to withdraw from the marriage arrangements temporarily. It was a tactic that could buy him some time, though it would only be a temporary solution.

In a moment of grim determination, Aemond resolved to buy as much time as he could. He would need to play the part of a grieving widower convincingly while he sought a more permanent solution. His heart ached at the thought of living a lie, but the reality of his situation left him with few choices.

Aemond’s heart raced as he approached his chambers, the echo of a piercing scream jolting him into a frantic sprint. Bursting through the door, he was met with a scene that froze him in sheer horror.

One maid lay lifeless on the floor, blood pooling around her and another maid, terrified and struggling, was held captive by Y.N.

Her face was stained with crimson, her eyes wide and frenzied. She seemed to be in a state of maddened ecstasy as she pressed her face into the terrified maid's neck. Aemond’s stomach churned as he saw her sniffing the bloodied neck, her eyes gleaming with a predatory hunger.

“Y.N!” Aemond’s voice was a desperate roar, filled with a mix of command and fear. “Let her go!”

Y.N turned her head slowly towards him, her expression twisted into a snarl. Her teeth, once gentle and familiar, were now elongated and pointed. She growled, a deep, guttural sound that chilled Aemond to the bone.

Ignoring his command, she continued to hold the maid in her grip. Aemond rushed forward, but as he reached to pull Y.N away, she flicked him aside as though he were a mere inconvenience.

He hit the floor with a painful thud, the impact jarring his senses. Pain exploded in his side, but he forced himself to look up, unable to tear his eye away from the horrifying scene.

Y.N's grip on the maid tightened, and with a sickening crunch, she sank her teeth into the maid’s neck. The maid's muffled screams were agonizing, but Y.N silenced her by pressing her bloody hand over the woman’s mouth, drinking greedily from the wound.

Aemond's mind reeled as he struggled to comprehend the abomination before him. He scrambled backwards, his heart pounding in terror.

He slumped against the wall, his hands trembling as he covered his ears to block out the horrid sounds. The blood-curdling noises were almost too much to bear.

After what felt like an eternity, Aemond felt a hand gently stroking his hair. He dared to open his eye, only to find Y.N crouching in front of him.

The sight of her was both disturbing and tragic. Blood smeared her face and neck, and her eyes, though still carrying a flicker of familiarity, were clouded with an unsettling hunger.

Aemond’s heart ached with an intense mixture of love and revulsion. This was not the Y.N he had mourned, not the woman he had once loved. The creature before him was a demon masquerading as his beloved wife, a perversion of everything he once held dear.

“No,” he whispered, shaking his head slowly. “This isn’t you. You’re not Y.N anymore.”

The resolve within him solidified. He could no longer deny the harsh truth that had been gnawing at him. This was no longer about saving the woman he loved; it was about ending the monstrous existence she had become.

Aemond stood up, his face a mask of grim determination. He had to end this, to put an end to the nightmare that had consumed his life. His heart was heavy, but his mind was set. He would not allow the demon that had taken Y.N’s form to continue its reign of terror.

The love he had for Y.N was overshadowed by the need to rid the world of this abomination. The time for mercy had passed.

Aemond's hands trembled as he undid his weapons belt, each movement deliberate but shaky. He drew his dagger, its cold steel gleaming under the flickering candlelight.

Turning to face Y.N, who was standing before him with an almost feral hunger in her eyes.

"I'm sorry," he said, his voice barely more than a whisper. "There’s no other way."

Y.N's gaze remained fixed on him, her eyes glinting with an unsettling mixture of recognition and menace. Aemond’s heart ached with every step he took toward the door. He shut it with a decisive click and turned the lock, the finality of the sound echoing in the confined space.

Drawing a deep, shuddering breath, Aemond lunged forward. The dagger plunging into Y.N’s stomach. Her eyes widened in shock, and she gasped, staring down at the blade embedded in her flesh.

Aemond’s tears flowed freely as he watched the woman he had loved and lost collapse to the floor.

"I'm so sorry," he sobbed hysterically. "I’m so sorry."

Y.N's body quivered slightly, and she whispered in a trembling voice, "Issa vēzos se qēlossās"—. Her tears mingled with the blood staining her cheeks (My sun and stars).

After a few agonizing minutes, her movements stilled, her eyes fixed in a vacant stare.

Aemond slumped against the bed, his head in his hands, wracked with uncontrollable sobs. The weight of what he had done crushed him.

There would be no resurrection this time. The agony of his actions and the loss of Y.N was almost too much to bear. He would take her body far away, and Vhagar would incinerate it.

With a deep breath, Aemond wiped the tears from his face and stood up. The room was drenched in blood, and there was no way to cover it up without raising suspicions.

He began packing his belongings, moving with a sense of grim determination. He had enough gold from his princely allowance and could earn more if needed. The memories of the Red Keep and the pain of his actions were too heavy to bear; he would not return.

As he packed the last of his belongings, a shiver ran down his spine. The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end, a primal warning of danger.

Before he could react, strong arms wrapped around his neck from behind, pulling him into a vice-like grip.

“Surely you didn’t think it was going to be that easy”

Aemond gasped, his eyes widening in horror. "Y.N? How?"

Y.N’s tongue traced a slow, deliberate path along his ear. "You should’ve aimed for the heart," she murmured.

Then a loud snapping sound echoed through the room, and Aemond’s world plunged into darkness.

The witch’s cabin was dimly lit by the flickering glow of candles and the smouldering embers in the hearth. The room smelled of incense and old wood, mixed with the acrid tang of blood.

The witch was busy at her workbench, her attention focused on a needle and thread as she wove together a macabre piece of jewellery. She glanced up with a twisted smile as the door to her cabin flew open with a loud creak.

“Do you like my necklace?” she asked with a note of dark pride, holding up a string adorned with a number of bloodied ears. The grotesque adornment swayed in the dim light, casting eerie shadows on the walls.

Y.N, her eyes still gleaming with a predatory light, responded with a cold, detached tone. “It’s original.”

As Y.N stepped further into the cabin, she dropped Aemond’s lifeless body onto the table with a thud. The witch’s smile widened as she observed the body with interest, setting aside her needlework. She approached Aemond and gently brushed her blackened fingers across his cheek.

“Such a beautiful boy,” the witch mused, her voice almost tender as she examined him. Her gaze lingered on the eyepatch covering Aemond’s missing eye. With a deliberate motion, she pulled it off, revealing the sapphire in place of his missing eye.

“That’s much better,” she declared, admiring her work. Her eyes then travelled down to his ears. “He has good ears,” she noted, reaching for her knife with a gleam of anticipation in her eyes.

But before she could begin her work, Y.N stepped forward, her tone firm and unyielding. “No, he will not have any body parts severed. I’m rather fond of them, especially his cock”

The witch’s laugh was a harsh, rasping sound that filled the cabin. “And what do you want me to do with him then?” she asked, her curiosity piqued.

Y.N’s voice softened with a hint of longing as she replied, “Bring him back. I do not wish to be parted from my ‘Gēlenka zaldrīzes.” (Silver dragon).

“I need not warn you of the consequences of such a thing”

“I’m well aware of what he will become” replied Y.N

The witch’s eyes glittered with a dark amusement as she nodded in agreement. She snipped a lock of Aemond’s silver hair and threw it into the fire, watching as it curled and blackened.

She then poured a dark, lumpy liquid into his mouth, her movements precise and deliberate.

Next, she cut open Aemond’s leather tunic and placed her hand on his bare chest, whispering incantations in an ancient tongue. Her voice was a blend of reverence and authority as she beseeched the god of death to return life to him.

The witches breath was warm against Aemond’s ear as she bent down to whisper, “Your debt is now paid.”

Y.N was handed a shovel, and she chose the spot next to where she had been buried, beginning to dig with a determined fervour. The rain began to fall, soaking through her clothes and mixing with the soil as she worked.

Once the hole was deep enough, Y.N carefully placed Aemond’s body into it. The rain poured down, creating a muddy, bleak scene as she covered him with dirt.

When the last shovelful of earth had been placed, she wiped the rain from her face and went back inside the cabin, where the witch awaited her.

The witch stood by the fire, her demeanour calm and almost serene. “Three sunrises, three sunsets,” she intoned, her voice carrying a hint of finality. “And your love will return.”

Y.N’s eyes were filled with hope as she took in the witch’s words. She clutched the shovel tightly, her thoughts consumed with the promise of what lay ahead.

Three sunrises and three sunsets had nearly passed since Y.N took up her vigil at Aemond's grave. Her days were spent sitting on the wooden steps that led to the mound of soil, her gaze locked on the spot where she had buried him.

The heavy rain and the chill of the night did little to deter her from this self-imposed watch

The witch, who had taken to occasionally sitting with her, told Y.N stories of those who shared their condition. They were stories of distant lands and other beings who walked a path similar to hers.

The witch spoke of her origins in Pentos, and how she had journeyed to Westeros in 42 AC, a time long before the present.

When Y.N asked why she chose to remain alone in this desolate place rather than join her kin across the Narrow Sea, the witch’s answer was tinged with nostalgia. “This place has become home to me,” she said, her voice soft with a hint of sorrow.

During these conversations, Y.N learned that Aemond was not the only dragon to have transformed into one of them. The witch recounted tales of another, a figure of dark legend known as Maegor the Cruel, and her own past identity as The Lady of the Tower.

Y.N, her curiosity piqued, quietly muttered the name “Tyanna,” prompting a knowing smile from the witch.

“I haven’t been called that in a long time,” Tyanna admitted.

When Y.N inquired about what had become of Maegor, Tyanna’s eyes grew distant. “He died upon the Iron Throne,” she recounted, her voice a mixture of regret and admiration. “A blade pierced his back, striking his heart. History remembers him as a villain, and he did commit monstrous acts. But I loved him nonetheless.”

As the sun began to set on the third day, the sky painted in hues of orange and purple, Tyanna took Y.N’s hand in hers. “Never let go of Aemond,” she urged, her voice carrying a sense of urgency. “He may be a short-tempered young prince, but he has the potential to rise above such things.”

With that, Tyanna retreated to her cabin, leaving Y.N alone at the grave. The atmosphere was heavy, charged with a sense of finality and anticipation.

Then, the soil began to shift. Y.N’s heart raced as she watched a hand burst through the dirt, followed by an arm and then the rest of Aemond’s body emerging from the grave. Covered in grime and filth, he slowly stood up, his movements sluggish but determined. His eye scanned the surroundings, and when they fell on Y.N, a slow, radiant smile spread across his face.

“Ābrazȳrys,” (Wife).

#house of the dragon #aemond targaryen #hotd aemond #aemond fanfiction #hotd fanfic #aemond fic #hotd fic #aemond one eye #aemond smut #prince aemond #aemond x reader #aemond targaryen smut #prince aemond targaryen

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prythianpages · 20 days

Text

Into the Dark | Eris

Eris x Chaos Witch Reader | Summary: You have a vow to uphold but time is clicking. The darkness that lurks within threatens to take over you but Eris uses the magic of your bargain and bond to bring you back to him.

Day 1 of @erisweekofficial for bargains/bonds

warnings: brief mentions of small injuries (cuts) and death

a/n: This was originally supposed to be posted along with my other witch series but 3K words is too long to be considered a drabble so I decided to post it on its own. I had hoped to post an intro/prologue for this series first but I really wanted to post something for Eris week so I hope this makes sense. If not, then I'm so sorry and hope this can be read as a stand alone for now.

Whispers in the wind stir violently among the Autumn trees, sending leaves spiraling to their fated downfall. A shiver runs up your spine as the wind’s cold fingers grip you, goosebumps rising in a wave over your skin, threatening to burrow into your very bones. The whispers are not just furious—they are vengeful.

A storm of voices lashing at you.

Your heart hammers madly against your chest as your legs move on their own, driven by those whispers. The moon casts its silver light upon you but tonight, it offers no comfort. There’s something dark, something wicked awakening from somewhere deep inside.

Branches claw at your exposed arms and ankles, tearing into your flesh. But your feet keep moving. Relentless, unstoppable. Even as your vision blurs and your mind drowns in the chilling darkness. You don’t need to see where you’re going—you can feel it.

It’s like a pull deep within. You can feel the gloom looming ahead. The despair, the anguish. With each step, that pull grows stronger, the wind grows colder. It brushes against your skin, tangling in your hair. The trouble stirring in your chest harmonizes with the whispers carried in the howling wind, threatening to pull you down with them.

“Please.” You find yourself whispering–begging.

“We need you.” The wind whispers in protest.

Your steps falter, and as you blink to clear your vision, a cold dread settles in your chest.

The sight before you is almost unrecognizable, a stark contrast to the place that once thrived with life and vibrant energy. Now, it lies shrouded in darkness, a harrowing shadow of its former self. The autumn flowers, once bright and full of life, wither on their stems, their colors drained. The trees nearby are twisted and gnarled, their ashen branches sagging under the weight of despair.

There were no fireflies fluttering about, no chirping of cricket or night birds. No sign of life. Only death.

It’s eerily silent for a moment until the wind picks up again and the mournful wail of the wind reaches your ears. It sings a song of fury, of vengeful mourning. A lament for what has been lost–what has been wrongfully taken.

At the heart of it all, where a great and magnificent tree once stood proudly, there is now only a void. This was no ordinary tree.

It was the tree of wisdom–the Mnemosyne. It bore magical apples that glowed softly, their surfaces a mesmerizing blend of ruby and gold. Your father had told you stories of it growing up and when you began to practice witchcraft, Deirdre showed it to you.

Deirdre had been your mentor. For many centuries, she had guarded the tree. Sworn to protect it with her life and she took that vow gravely, upheld it until her last breath…

And now, by a wicked strum of fate, it was your turn to protect the Mnemosyne.

But you found yourself in a more precarious situation than your predecessors. High Lord Beron, in a ruthless display of his power, had uprooted the tree and taken it from its sacred grove. Its roots, once intertwined with the ancient magics of the forest, had been severed. Where Beron had taken it, and what he planned to do with the Mnemosyne, was still unknown to you, but by the lengths he had gone to take it, you could only assume his intentions were far from pure.

Returning the Mnemosyne to its rightful home was of the utmost importance. The longer it remained away from the forest, the greater the risk that its memories, and the history it held, would wither and fade. Entire centuries of knowledge could be lost—forgotten forever. The thought chilled your blood, filling you with an overwhelming unease.

You had to bring this tree back and restore peace to this forest. Even if it cost you the same price it cost Deirdre. Death was a stranger but not one you feared. It was oblivion you feared. To lose the very essence of yourself. It’s why you refused to let the wicked darkness that lives in you take over. You feared it’d consume you whole.

So Eris Vanserra it was.

Desperate times had called for desperate measures. You found yourself striking a bargain with Eris Vanserra, Beron’s eldest son. Eris, with his sharp eyes and sharper tongue, had always been a figure of suspicion and intrigue. His loyalty to Beron was unclear, but his cunning and ambition were undeniable.

Never had you imagined seeking his help. Caught in a delicate dance of mistrust and shared ambition, the bargain was the only way to ensure your safety. That was, until fate played a merciless hand and those strings of fate tethered your soul to his…

A mating bond.

It snapped into place like a steel trap, the golden threads appearing the moment your life teetered on the edge of danger. There had been no warning. Only a sudden, fierce tug that anchored your soul to his. One heartbeat you were fighting for survival, and in the next, you felt the bond latch onto you. Irrevocable and final.

You should thank The Cauldron—it did save your life, after all—but at what cost?

You’d worry about it later. At the very least, the invisible chain that bound your fates together strengthened the bargain you made. A mutual safety net. If you died, a part of him died too. Any loophole of betrayal the two of you had planned had been immediately forfeited the moment the bond snapped.

Because yes, he had promised to help you with the Mnemosyne tree and you had promised to help rid Autumn of Beron. A win-win situation for you both. But that didn’t mean you couldn’t coax him with one of your potions, poison his mind as you’ve done with his brothers to encourage him to do more of your bidding…

However, now it did. There were some things uncertain to you about mating bonds and you worried about potential consequences if you were to sneak one of your potions into his food.

Tears pricked your eyes as the whispers increased with the howling wind, a distant echo of sorrowful cries and anguished screams. It brought you back to the dire situation at hand. The very reason for your deal with Eris.

The forest wanted you to feel what it did. To feel the overwhelming grief, the melancholic heartache. It stirred the shadows sleeping in the pendant you wore around your neck–the ones that harmonize with the darkness that lives inside you now.

“It’s a burden you must carry.”

“No,” you cried, dropping to your knees, fingers clenching around the ruby pendant. It was a futile attempt to soothe the shadows kept inside back to sleep. “I can do it. I just need more time. Please.”

But it’s not the whispers carried by the wind that respond this time.

It’s that wicked darkness that has been lurking within you.

The forest grows angry. If you do not answer its call, we will.

That darkness writhes further into your chest. Your breath hitches as you feel it wrap itself around your heart, your body hunching forward.

You cannot keep us away. You are us now and we are you.

“No.” You repeat again but your voice is losing its resolve.

Let us out!

As if hearing that dark voice within, the wind picks up, whirling around you like the beginning of a storm. The whispers in the wind grow louder and so do the voices in your head until you can no longer discern which is which. With a pained cry, you clutch your pulsing and aching head.

You squeeze your eyes shut, eyebrows furrowing in concentration as you try to push the looming darkness away. It’s another futile attempt. The darkness has a firm grip on you, awakened by the howling wind and strengthened by its screaming pleas…

Eris found you in the forest.

One glance at you and he knew what was happening. Your body was hunched over, trembling hands pressed tightly against your ears as the wind whirled around you violently, rustling through your hair. The three hounds he brought with him tensed and let out low growls, their keen eyes on the glowing pendant wrapped around your neck.

The hour was late and he had been about to succumb to the sleep his eyes had begged for when he felt a strange stirring in his chest. Until he recognized that it was coming from the bond–from you. The two of you often shut each other out. He did not want to project his emotions to you and he sensed you felt the same.

So for him to feel a tug against his ribcage from you…he knew something was wrong or about to be.

Eris turns to his hounds, the sharpest of his pack. He now realized why they had been insistent on coming with him. The others had tucked themselves into their beds after a goodnight pat on their heads. “Stay,” he says firmly and though their instincts sense danger, they heed his command. Albeit, reluctantly.

He approaches you with slow and cautious steps, despite the urge to run to you. He tells himself it’s the bond. As he gets closer, he can hear you murmuring something but it doesn’t sound like you. Your voice carries a venomous undertone, dripping with malice and ancient wisdom.

“You are us now and we are you.” The voice repeats over and over again like a serpent hissing in the dark.

A lump forms in his throat but he wills himself to call out your name, hoping you hear him among the many voices swirling around you.

He watches with bated breath as your hands, still trembling, fall from where they had clutched at your ears. Slowly, your head lifts upwards. Your gaze meets his and he finds himself held captive.

Your eyes are glowing red, the way they always do when you call upon your magic. But it’s not that crimson gaze that had startled him. It’s the veins surrounding your eyes that do–they have darkened, giving you a more sinister appearance.

“Son of Autumn. Have you come to play?”

The hounds, who remained feet away, release another growl.

“Y/n, can you hear me?” Eris asks, his heart racing as his amber eyes search your face for any sign of you.

Something flickers in those crimson eyes of yours, a brief hesitation that makes the darkness falter. Eris noticed it instantly, his heart tightening with a sudden urgency that compels him to step closer. He can feel you now—the sharp chill emanating from your body, a coldness that bites at his cheeks. It sends a shiver down his spine as the breeze rustles through his hair.

His body instinctively warms in response, the fire in his veins flaring brighter as if to combat the icy dread that clings to you. You were trembling, and Eris kneels before you, his eyes never straying from yours. He reaches out tentatively to that bond but is met with a steel wall.

So he reaches out physically. You flinch at the warmth coming from him before he can actually touch you and fall back onto your hands. It seems the darkness within you is desperate to put distance between you both.

“She needs us. She can’t do this alone.”

“But you’re not alone,” Eris says softly, ignoring the darkness and speaking directly to you. He knew better than to acknowledge the voice, fearing it would only give it more power. “You have me.”

“The forest wants its beloved back.” The voice hisses and your head tilts slightly, gaze narrowing at him. “It grows more restless every night. Fear makes you hesitate but not us. We can do what you cannot bring yourself to do.”

“Y/n.” Eris calls your name again. This time, when he reaches for you, his hands find their mark, cupping your face with a tenderness that surprises even him. Your skin is frighteningly cold. It fills him with a deep unease, a desperate need to bring warmth back to you.

Your trembling begins to subside, and the wind that had howled around you starts to calm. Eris remains cautious but feels a glimmer of hope. He could do this. He could bring you back. “We made a bargain, remember?” he continued.

“A bargain…”

That glimmer of hope flares up as you sound like you again. Something he’d never thought he’d feel as he often complained about your voice–how it could grate on his nerves. But now, it was the only sound he longed to hear.

The mark of your bargain appears–a ring of fire around your wrist–at the mention of it. It burns faintly with embers like a delicate bracelet, reminding you of the promise you made. That very same ring of fire appears on his left wrist, reflecting in your eyes. It fades away after a moment but the burn of it lingers.

“Yes.” Eris almost smiles. “Y/n, are you with me?”

Your body gives a shudder, wanting to escape from him. His hold on you tightens. The red glow to your eyes slowly gives out, the veins that had darkened around your eyes disappearing. Color returns to your cheeks, coaxed back by the warmth Eris is pouring into you.

“I’m with you,” you breath, your eyes wide with lingering apprehension. Eris’s hands remain firm on your face, holding you steady as you eyes wander. When you look back at him, your eyes seem distant, unfocused.

His brows draw together in concern, casting shadows over his troubled eyes. But before he can say anything, you do, a trace of your usual scorn creeping into your voice. “Why are you looking at me as if I’ve grown two heads?”

There you are.

Relief washes over him, so warm and overwhelming that it brings back that tightness in his chest, strumming those golden threads. The urge to pull you into his arms, to hold you close and never let go, is almost overpowering. But Eris ignores it, instead leaning forward to rest his forehead against yours.

You were no longer cold. He lets out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding—a sound that was half-sigh, half-laugh. A mixture of relief and something else he wasn’t ready to name.

“Have you gone mad?”

“No,” Eris replies, reluctantly releasing his hold on you. The warmth of his touch lingering on your skin as he straightens up. He brushes at the leaves clinging to his pants, an attempt to regain his usual composure. “But you almost did.”

He extends his hand out to you and you stare at it for a moment, your gaze heavy with the weight of what had just transpired. “It happened again…” Your voice was barely a whisper, more to yourself than to him. Realization settled over you and your shoulders slump.

“Come on,” Eris says, motioning for you to take his hand. The sound of familiar whines catch your attention, and you look up to see three hounds, waiting anxiously a few feet away. “The hour is late and I’m already dreading dealing with a sleep-deprived version of you. Your usual self is enough of a bane in my existence.”

You shoot him a glare and he waits, watching you. He wonders if you’ll bite back. With a resigned sigh, you take his hand, allowing him to help you up. His gaze flickers to your arms, noticing the scratches that marred your skin and the bond in his chest rages with protectiveness.

“We can stop by the infirmary first.”

“I’ll be fine,” you huff out but that distant look on your face remains, betraying your words.

The hounds approach you with soft whines. They’re careful not to brush against the cuts on your arms, their noses nudging softly against your legs instead. Your hand remains in Eris’s and he takes a step forward, prompting you to let him guide you out of the forest.

A light breeze brushes against you, carrying with it the lingering chill of the mourning forest. You turn your head, your gaze falling on that vacant spot where the sacred tree once stood. Your features soften, a wave of sympathy washing over you. Your heart aches to fill the void, to restore what had been unjustly taken and bring life back to this part of the forest.

But you were running out of time.

The darkness within you was growing stronger with each passing day. If you didn’t return the sacred tree soon, the darkness would come for you again, more relentless, more determined…

“Eris?"

There’s a slight vulnerability to your voice that unsettles him. It has his body tensing. He can only muster a hum in response.

“What if–” Your throat seizes and you’re grateful your head is turned away from Eris so he can’t see the fear that flashes in your eyes. “What if one day I don’t come back?”

Eris’s hand tightens around yours and a shaky breath escapes from you. His hand is strong and warm and for just this once, you allow the simple touch to ground you. When you finally turn to face him, you find his gaze was already on you, something strange and vulnerable swirling in those amber depths.

That look in his eyes was enough to chase away the cold that had settled in your bones, kindling a warmth to your chest and tugging those golden threads that now reside there.

“Then, I’ll follow you into the dark.”

His words hung in the air, but a question arose. Would he still follow if it weren’t for the bond?

The thought hovered, restless, at the edge of your tongue, begging to be spoken. But you swallowed it down, unwilling to risk hearing an answer you already believed to be true.

You didn’t think you could bear it if you were right.

[eris x chaos witch masterlist]

General tag list: @scooobies, @kennedy-brooke, @sillysillygoose444, @lilah-asteria @the-sweet-psycho

@daycourtofficial, @milswrites, @stormhearty, @pit-and-the-pen, @mybestfriendmademe

@loving-and-dreaming @azriels-human, @mrsjna, @adventure-awaits13, @lorosette

#erisweek2024 #eris x reader #eris x you #eris fanfiction #eris vanserra x reader #acotar x reader #eris vanserra fanfic #eris acotar #eris x witch reader #chaos!eris #eris x y/n

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s-4pphics · 5 months

Text

moth. teaser. (e.w.)

SYNOPSIS: knights of the devil, you all are to be conquered.

WORD COUNT: 881

WARNINGS: vampire!ellie, vampirekiller!oc, a lot to come FUCK, violence… so blood(drinking), death, murder, gore, religion briefly,

A/N: yasss yaaas taglist?

prolouge

1809

“Oh, my precious darling…”

Red, similar to her hair; palms painted from the tips of a finger to the points of elbows; knees sunk into begrimed pili drenched with fresh maroon. Panicked breaths are accompanied by prayers, wishes of denial. Desires for death.

“… What I would give to protect you…”

“F-F—“

Tortured hollers are directed towards the pouring skies. Bodies. Bodies everywhere; surrounded by decay.

She sobs, deep from the pits of her stomach, “Father, for-forgive them! For they do not—“

Thunder claps. Lightning is being used as weapons from the Lord above, all meant to discover her and strike. The beams in the sky are intended to punish her discernment. It was a mistake. It was a mistake! Her eyes refuse to meet the battered corpse of the young babe, no more than three. Her crime was committed in a haze, blinded by starvation, all at the cost of the family before her. Villagers would deem the view a savage attack. A mutilation only made possible by the ravenous wolves after dark. The bears that protect the trees at dusk.

All on horseback, the strangers paused their ventures to inquire guidance. She swiftly became an aid for navigating the path, instructing them with a trembling finger and a blistering throat. Follow that trail to the end of the woods. Unbeknownst to their gracious eyes, she followed. Stalked after their mount for miles like the thoroughbred they ride, carried by the wind. Urged by bloodlust.

Her vision blurred when they tied their horse’s lariats to a nearby post that barely passed the trees. Her vision was shrouded in darkness, a substance so thick that her limbs felt trapped, even in frantic movement. They’d reached the end, just like she’d promised.

Their screams satiated her hunger, but never hindered her guilt.

Demons, I tell you! All of them, demons! Witches destined to be set aflame for the masses!

And now she crouches over them with remorse in her chest. Remorse that will wash away her like the rainfall that pounds on her shoulders. Much like it had in the past when her purity was stolen. Another fatality.

1919

“Hunting requires bouts of unwavering dedication. If the entirety of your being doesn’t relish in the suffering of the demons walking, then you are to be shunned.”

Being the youngest hunter-to-be amongst legends, historical monuments that leave trails of prosperous victories wherever they advance, is humbling. Your mother pestered you for as long as you could remember: never, never become a hunter, being her only protest for you, her only child. She used to pray beside your bed at night when she assumed you to be asleep, praising the Creator for forbidding you sickness or poverty. You were her only treasure, a gift from the frosted heavens.

And the demons took her.

Hunters searched the unoccupied lands that surrounded your home relentlessly, but no traces of the Devils’ were ever discovered. They attended your mother’s burial for your protection, and prepared to assist your transition into the orphanage, but you denied. You were permanently vexed. Forever vengeful.

I wish to become a hunter!

Your recruitment was immediate due to the shortage of volunteers, and that same day, you witnessed all of the treasures and memories of your childhood home — of your mother — get burned to the ground by the Hunters. No trails for the demons should go untouched by fire.

“If you hesitate for even a second, you’re dead. Either by their hand…”

Something unsettled you that morning as you prepared for school. Something in the air, something underground. A heaviness in your home that you couldn’t trace. Your mother ironed your skirt and pinned your hair up, brushed down the small curls around your hairline, and she eased you. The weather is changing, dear, she’d said before wishing you well. You studied relentlessly, all while she was shredded by teeth sharp as knives. You want the Devil’s lifeless heart in the palm of your hand, risks be damned.

“Or mine. And I will not hesitate.”

The overseer of your battalion, who slowly paces before his future prodigies, aura menacing, pauses in front of you. With your gaze locked forward and a lump in your throat, you gawk right on the crescent on his belt — the hunter’s insignia — your feet shuffle, shoes slightly squeaking above the wood.

“Are you prepared, child?”

His tone is disparaging, and you swallow. Your head bobs and your breathing stutters.

“Yes, sir.”

He crouches before you and your cells stiffen, elbows perched on his knees, eyes finally level with yours. You appear stoic due to the grinding of your teeth, inspecting the stitched scar that sprouts at his right brow and crosses his eye.

“You are nothing,” He hisses, and your heart clenches, “You are not a child, and I am not your elder. Any identity you held prior to your arrival is worthless, now. We are vessels for the greatest power above. Hunter is your only name, do you understand?”

No verbiage escapes you. It couldn’t with how your breath trembles, so you nod once; Quite mechanic.

“Stand straight.”

His conviction forces your shoulders into alignment, and snickers from the older prodigies erupt from behind you. Your cheeks warm and your palms drip. The overseer rises to his feet once more.

“That goes for all of you!” He shouts, and the room is quiet.

The crescent sparkles under the yellow candlelight. Your palms grow clammy at his viperous swear.

“I will not hesitate.”

#vampire!ellie #ellie williams #ellie williams smut #ellie williams angst #ellie williams au #ellie williams x reader #ellie the last of us #ellie x reader #ellie tlou #works 𖧧࣪#lesbian

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fanaticsnail · 5 months

Text

Chapter 9

Masterlist Here, Moodboard Here

Sapsorrow Masterlist

Word Count: 9,000+

"Whom so ever fits the ring becomes wed to the warlord who owns it"

Themes: enemies to lovers, arranged marriage, forced proximity, lord and subordinate, one bed trope, apprehension, mutual pining, obligation, slow burn, eventual love, protective, "where is my wife" trope.

Warning: MDNI, 18+, smut, making love, husband and wife, bondage, blindfolds, marriage, gendered terms, love, romance, supernatural themes.

Notes: Here it is, the beloved sun-dress chapter that I have been carving out over the past month while practicing in between. You can see how I had to take a short break as my favoritism for Benn Beckman shone through. I wrote him his chaptered fic just after I finished the first section of this one - completely unrelated to this plot and story. I hope you enjoy this chapter, one more to go before the story is completed and the spinoffs begin! Love you all. Art link.

Song Suggestion: 'Til the light goes out - Lindsay Stirling

Rough and calloused fingertips brushed against your upper arms, causing you to unconsciously flinch away from their touch. Your breath hitched, your vulnerability heightened by the addition of a blindfold securing your eyelids tightly shut. The coarse digits were warm against your rapidly cooling skin, the dynamic of the silken ropes only adding to your intrigue and anticipation as the woven fibers began clutching to your body.

“Easy now, my Lady,” the rumbled voice of Shanks’ first mate reassured you, tapping your forearms as an attempt to sooth you, “I’ve got you, alright? No harm, nor an unwarranted touch will come to you by my hands.”

Benn Beckman, the first-mate to the ‘red haired rat’, you affectionately associated him with, was ever the gentleman towards you. As you undressed moments prior, the larger man turned his back and began laying out the materials over Mihawk’s bare desk that he was about to weave around your body and assembled them with practice and precision.

Wordlessly, you thanked the clown for burning off the heavier materials of your starlit gown. The remaining fabric managed to fall away from your body with ease, the garment pooling in a soft pile at your feet. As you stood in naught but the body you were born into, you shrouded yourself with your arms to grant yourself further privacy from your old friend.

“My lady?” the gruff call of Beckman behind you called to you, “Are you ready for us to begin?” The hum in his tone did little to comfort you as your skin pricked under the cool air of the night. A soft ruffling sound had you beer over his shoulder at the older gentleman.

His hand circled the back of his silvery hair, tying it behind his head by the elastic of a small piece of leather. Layers of his hair managed to escape the tie and fall into his eyes, prompting him to huff a curt growl at himself. As you continued to remain unresponsive verbally to him, he sighed out a deep breath before drawing up the torn cotton fabric to conceal his eyes.

“Lady Dracule, my eyes are now covered,” he commented in a soft and even tone, “I assure you, you have my word, your honor will remain intact with me at the helm here.” His hands softly began searching for the variety of materials that lay before him over the desk, fingers first meeting with a sheer piece of transparent gold, “I would never betray your trust, especially after all our time together.”

Walking towards the older gentleman, he held up his left hand in a manner to halt your descent towards him. You stuttered in your step and froze in place, heeding to his direction.

“Eye covering on now, my lady,” he warned you, a small smile was almost depicted in his tone, “Don’t wanna risk anything, alright? Let’s not give the witch any leeway.”

And now, as his hands drew themselves up over your body, you could only deduce what he was placing over your skin. The material felt almost warm, you likened the fact by how firmly your old friend was clutching it in his hands before he placed it over your body.

Silks drew themselves over your shoulders beneath his hands, his digits not lingering for a moment past its required need to be present. The cologne and nicotine smoke fragrance washing over you from the man behind you did nothing to calm your nerves, especially considering his hands were now hovering over your breasts.

“This next step is going to be rather intimate, my lady,” he informed you, his tone steady and informative. You nodded, the brush of your hair indicating your readiness by its brush against Beckman’s cheek behind you. A small huff of air exhaled through Beckman’s nose, something almost akin to a laugh following.

“You know, you can talk to me,” he chuckled, his hands maneuvering woven bars of metallic thread between the chasms of your breasts, “Might make it less awkward for the both of us?” Your eyes fluttered wide beneath the mask as you realized you were yet to speak a single word to the man so intimately placed behind you.

“I’m sorry, Beckman,” you apologized to the gray-haired first mate as his hands clasped around your midsection, “It almost escaped my mind that this experience would be more awkward for you than it is for me.”

A gruff chuckle rumbled behind your back, his right hand circling your right wrist as he wove himself around your body to collect more materials from the desk. A shift in fabric scraping against the writing desk had your ears prick up.

“We’ll keep it light, alright? Let’s think about the old days,” his body moved in front of yours, left hand reaching for your collarbone while more chains of metal found its way atop your sternum, “Remember the first time all of us met?”

You giggled out a small laugh at the memory, a laugh reflected in the deep chuckle of Benn Beckman. His fingers grazed over your stomach, the soft shift in fabric over your hips and fastened itself at your midsection by the wrapping of ropes across your naval.

“I think that was when Shanks just dropped his trousers in front of one of my blushing debutantes: belt pooling at his ankles,” your giggle rose alongside your smile, “Had to chase him out with a broom, from memory. I can still see the panic in his eyes and the stumble in his step.”

“Thankfully he managed to get the pants over his hips and fastened before he got to the Red-Force,” he chuckled with you, weaving ropes once more between your breasts and down your back, “Otherwise he would not have heard the end of it from me, that I can assure you.”

“Oh, and where were you, Beckman?” you quipped back at him, your smile now toothy and warm, “If my memory serves correct, you were attempting to woo the handmaiden to the lady of the house!”

“Attempting, my lady?” Beckman taunted back, his warm hands clapping over your hips to steady you, “Succeeding, I think you mean.”

“Rascal,” you teased him, hissing over the ‘S’ with a chittering laugh.

“Reformed rascal,” he confessed to you, his hands moving over your thighs, “I am a changed man these days,” his hands dipped between your legs and began tying several complex knots between the parting of your bare legs. “Keeping Shanks out of trouble is all I have time for, if I’m being honest.”

“Oh?” you prompted him with a quirk of your shrouded brow, “He never seems to stop, does he? Something needs to tame him, settle him down so you can get some semblance of peace.”

“Oh, I’ve been awaiting the day, my lady,” he confessed with a small chuckle, “I do need a holiday.” His hands began slowing their movement to focus on more intentional knot-work over your hips.

“I hear the new lady of Kuraigana is kind,” you comment with a smirk in your tone, “She may offer you a holiday, should you desire it, Mister Benn.”

“Will she be providing ‘captain-sittin’ duty too?” he huffed with a snicker in his tone, “And it’s ‘Mister Benn,’ now is it? What happened to ‘Beckman,’ hm?”

“I’m sure she could be persuaded to watch over the rodent for a day or two,” you continued your teasing rapport with him, “And of course it’s ‘Mister Benn’,” you blindly seek out his right hand with your left, offering a gentle squeeze once you found it, “You’re doing so much for me, you deserve more of a title than a simple ‘Mister’. I’d knight you, if I had the ability to do so.”

His right hand gave you a soft squeeze in return before releasing your digits from his grasp. He cleared his throat with a soft cough, his fingertips fastening a soft knot by your knee.

“I appreciate the gesture of knighthood, my lady,” he confessed, reaching for your adjacent knee and began fastening several intricate strands over your legs, “You have always been so kind to me. To all of us, really.” His hands cup your knee, reaching behind your thigh to grasp at a strand of gold that slipped his fingers, “Your husband is lucky to find a wife in a woman like you.”

“Thank you for saying so, Sir Beckman,” you chuckled in response, “Loyal guardian and fierce protector of the Red-Force crew, a knight and friend to the new Lady Dracule of Kuraigana.” His chuckle huffed through his nose at your declaration.

“Alright, my lady. I’ll play the role of knight for you,” his hands tugged at two ends of the golden fabric firmly, “This next part may feel a little unusual coming from my hands. Only two more knots to go before I’m done: these two are probably the most involved of the lot of them.”

“Beckman, all of this is feeling rather involved- oh!” You shrieked a strangled gasp as he tugged firmly on the golden strands between your legs, the material hoisting over your thighs to firmly secure at your pelvis. A blush rose to litter your cheeks with a warmth you were not anticipating, Beckman’s hands hastily pulling away from touching your body in reaction to your surprise.

“Nearly done, my lady,” he reassured you with an even tone, “Then you’ll be in the safety of the hands of your husband, and I’ll be out of your personal space. Cross my heart, alright?” Your breath hitched as his hands began hastily concluding a flourish of gestures.

As your body began to experience a new sensation between your legs, Beckman tightened several strands over your chest which caused your breath to hitch further. Your eyes tightly scrunched shut as the material began grinding over your erogenous zones, prompting you to bite your lip to halt further sounds exiting your body.

“One more knot, then Mihawk will be here,” Beckman reassured you with a small, tightlipped smile you would not see, “I’ll be out of your way and drinking with the rest of them in no time, my lady. It’ll be all a distant memory soon enough.” You nodded, a notion that Beckman would not see but only guess due to the shift in fabric.

“I trust you, Sir Beckman,” you whisper, feeling the intentional and hasty way his fingers coil the fabric around your body in a finite weave.

“Thank you, Lady Dracule,” he whispers in return, his hands securing the final strands of fabric behind your back from his position standing in front of you, “Your dress, as radiant as the sun that ignites the day in the flood of its warm light, is now completed.”

You both released a sigh of relief before joining together in a fit of huffed laughter. Beckman’s right hand found your left as he began brushing his left hand alongside the furniture to lead you throughout the room.

“It’s almost a shame I cannot see how hard you worked, Beckman,” your comment eased its way out of your throat as your knees knocked against the mattress of the bed.

“Aye, that it is, my lady,” he admitted, ushering you to recline against the backboard of the large bed, “But Mihawk can.”

Your cheeks flooded with a darkened heat of blush, your body aware of every sensation it was experiencing beneath the depravity of your eye sight. You felt Beckman’s hands beside your head, tugging and rearranging several plush pillows to cradle your body securely atop them. Heart swelling at the further gesture of friendship, your smile floated once again over your lips.

“You’re always so caring and compassionate, Beckman,” you compliment him with a softened smile in your tone, “We both owe you more than a single favor.”

A single hum of confirmation was all the sound that escaped him before bidding you a curt: “This is where I leave you. Good luck, my lady.”

Hearing the thud of heavy boots descend away from your side, and the small open and shut of the door. No sounds indicated anything aside from your solitude. Your breathing was heavy and fuelled by anxiety and anticipation of what is to come.

As the door clicked behind Beckman, he rolled his head back on his shoulders and shook his body to rid itself of the prior strenuous art he tied onto your body. He reached up, his fingers brushing with the blindfold and began untying the material under the new safety of the door. As the woven fabric dropped down his face, a small cough appeared reclined against the door beside him.

Lord Dracule Mihawk was glaring his amber eyes beneath the shroud of his broad hat, arms crossed over his chest and lips pursed in a soft snarl. Beckman sighed, rolling the material of the blindfold over in a soft circle in the palm of his hand.

“You been here the whole time, Hawk?” Beckman asked him with a soft smirk curling at the left hand corner of his lip, “Would’ve thought you’d enjoy a few more drinks by the fire with your company.”

“And leave my wife naked in a room on our wedding night with another man? Hardly a likely scenario,” he confessed with a dark laugh.

“I would never do anything to place a mark to her name, Mihawk,” Beckman immediately retorted, glaring his silvery eyes at the broody lord of Kuraigana. Mihawk elevated his hands defensively, pushing himself away from the wall and extending a bottle of hard liquor from behind his back to Benn Beckman.

“I know you would do no such thing,” Mihawk smirked, narrowing his eyes briefly before offering the bottle to Beckman, “And, for what it’s worth to you,” he leant in closer, passing the bottle into the taller man’s hands with a nod of his head, “I agree with the lady of Kuraigana.”

“In what regard?” Beckman elevated his eyebrow alongside his question. Mihawk’s smirk morphed into a rare smile, a smile that was becoming less rare in the days as long as he had you by his side.

“You deserve more than a simple holiday,” he nodded in confirmation, “And you deserve far more than any mere knighthood, if you’ve managed to complete this task to its entirety.” Mihawk turned his back, making his way to the door and halting as his fingertips brushed with the brass door handle.

“I appreciate the whiskey,” Beckman smiled, reaching into his breast pocket of his patterned shirt and elevated his cigarette to his lips, “And your compliments, Mihawk. You’re a lucky man to land one hell of a woman.”

“That we can also agree on,” Mihawk smirked, halting his opening of the door and waiting for Beckman to begin his walk away from the room before clicking his thumb over the door handle. ‘

A soft click, several intentional footsteps and a gasp of breath being sucked in through quivering lips were all the sounds that caused your ears to prick at the corners. Swatting at the mattress beside you, you began rising from your comfortable recline against the bed.

“Mihawk?” you whispered your call for him, “Mihawk, is that you?”

The lord of Kuraigana, the current title holder of the worlds greatest swordsman, and the man who had only hours prior been dancing in merriment with his new bride in her two dresses that captured his attention now found himself rendered speechless. A man who always had a quip and retort, a man who purred with the energy of a poised panther waiting to pounce on a meek prey, a man who always had the last word in every conversation was completely, and totally, speechless.

“Mihawk?” you whispered once again, your panic becoming adamant in your tone, “My love, are you there? Please, if it’s you, let me know you’re-.”

“-I’m here, my beloved,” he whispered, his body immediately drawing itself closer to you. He sunk his body down atop the mattress beside you and his fingertips immediately began hovering over the intricate knots, divots and sheer fabric cascading down your body in its recline against the bed.

He was a man lost, an adventurer found within uncharted territory with no map to guide him. A sailor with no north star to point him towards home. The more he dwelled on the thought of being lost to his emotions, the more he felt like you were the home awaiting his arrival. As his fingers began their hasty descent over your body, the scandalous material covering barely an inch of your revealed flesh, he halted their descent.

“My darling?” his voice quivered, his hands stuttering over your chest as his eyes hovered over the mounds of your breasts, “My love, may I touch you?” His eyes were yet to draw themselves up to meet with your face, too enchanted in a trance by the scandalous ties and ribbons Beckman had tied over your body moments prior. Too busy with the artistry Beckman had woven into your skin to notice the broad smile that rose over your cheeks.

As you rose to sit up, hands extended and reaching for your husband, you suddenly realized the intricate knotwork being woven against your sensitive flesh. As you elevated your body to reach for Mihawk, you gasped as an intentional knot of rope ground itself against your lower abdomen, causing sensations to heighten at the crude grind against your bare flesh.

Hands finally meeting with your husband’s cool digits, you felt the subtle tremor in his motions: anticipation at the next stage of the night commencing. A loud cheer from the crowd gathered outside broke you away from your thoughts as a smile drew up over your cheeks. His fingers interlaced with both of yours, his clothed body pressing itself against your own as you felt his breath tickle your lips.

“It seems they have taken their role in this very seriously, husband,” you allowed a soft laugh to rise in your voice. You felt Mihawk’s breath shift, a sharp exhale through his nose indicating his smile had risen to his cheeks. You unlaced your hand from within his, reaching blindly to his face to press against his whiskered cheek.

“I would expect nothing less of the crews of the Red-Force, Big-Top, and our wards, wife,” he leaned into your hand, pressing his lips against your palm. Although your eyes were shrouded, you could feel the expression atop Mihawk’s face. His smile, the soft flutter of his lengthy, black eyelashes, and the soft scrunch of his nose had your lips fall back to reveal your teeth in your own smile.

He sighed, pressing his hand against the one clutching his cheek and closing his eyes as he took a deep inhale of your perfume. Lingering in the moment, he reopened his eyes to view the shroud covering yours from being able to see him. His annoyance wrote itself on his face, his expression change being tangibly felt beneath your hand.

“My love, is something the matter?” you asked him, unlacing your other hand from within his fingers and cradling his face to seek out more of his expression. He scoffed, raising his hand to cover yours and press your right hand against his neck, while your left remained cradling his cheek.

“Is it so wrong of me to want to enjoy my wife’s eyes when I intend on making love to her?” he whispered, looking down at your body for a moment before focussing on your face once more, “You are so beautiful,” he complimented you, inching his body closer, “I wish you could bare witness to your radiance.”

“You flatter me, my lord,” you smiled at him, elevating your body to draw closer to him, “I am glad this composition pleases you-.”

“-Why did you ask for such a piece?” Mihawk growled at you, pressing a chaste kiss against your hand before lifting it off his cheek to join the other on his neck, “You knew you would never see it, why ask for it?” You took a moment to think on it, cocking your head to the side and angling your face away from his.

“I suppose,” you began, pursing your lips a little with your brows furrowed, “Not only did I want the task to be unachievable,” you inched yourself ever closer, “But, should this task be truly met, I wanted something for only you to enjoy, my husband.” His breath was taken from him, the revelation causing his heart to swell with pride. He tugged at your body, pulling you from your position sitting and coaxing you away from the bed.

“Would you indulge me further?” he asked, stepping up from the bed with you to have you rise to your feet, “If this was intended for me to see, I desire to see it in its entirety, my lady.” You shook your head, biting back your smile as you allowed him to usher you to your feet. Before you had an opportunity to chastise him for using that soft title, he spoke over you.

“I know what you would say,” he held your right hand to allow you a semblance of an inkling as to where he was in the room, “For me not to refer to you as ‘my lady’.” He dropped your hand, his hand caressing your forearm and raising it to your shoulder.

“You assume correct,” you scoffed, turning your head beneath your shroud to point your face towards him.

“Ah, but here is where you remain misguided,” he traced his fingertips over your shoulder towards your spine. “You are my lady,” he whispered, the tingle of his breath on your neck caused your body to ignite with gooseflesh, “And you will forever be my lady,” he pressed a small kiss against the tip of your spine, below your hair. “My lady,” he withdrew his lips from your body, admiring your form beneath the strands of gold fabric, “You are mine, as much as I am yours.”

“I am yours,” you whispered, giving in to the desire for him that began pooling at the pit of your stomach in anticipation, “And you are mine.” He circled your body, his hands finding yours in front of you and intertwining them within his. Stepping in closer, his body heat radiated from his open shirt and buzzed against your own exposed flesh.

“May I kiss you, Lady Dracule?” he whispered, your body immediately responding to your new title by melting away your inhibitions and anchoring your chin up to search for him. Your body flooded with emotion, truly feeling this new title that he gave to you at this very moment. You were his wife, the lady of the high keep of Kuraigana, the bride of the Worlds Greatest Swordsman, and former warlord of the seas. You were truly his, beneath the shroud of his familial name and within this new role as woman of the house.

“Lord Dracule,” you sighed, feeling his aura closing in on your face, “I want nothing more than to share this moment with you.” Mihawk was forever grateful that your eyes were shrouded from his expression. He was not one to ever experience weakness, always remaining hard in the eyes of his enemies. Although you were not an enemy to him, he took the shroud against your eyes to allow himself to express pure, unbridled, and unrefined emotions for the first time since childhood.

He was so, desperately, in love with you. This moment, seeing the willingness in your body and the love in your smile was more than enough to cause his own resolve to weaken with his knees. The love you gave, the expression so freely given to him, was something unlike anything he had experienced prior. He had had women in his past, surely, but this was something else.

The love he felt ignited in his chest, the passion he felt flooded within his veins, and the emotion he felt swell within his eyes was enough to cause him to step forward and slowly draw his face down to meet with yours. Your breath was stolen from you as you felt his whiskered lips brush with your own. The soft scratch of his silken beard tingled against your chin, the broad hat brushing with your hair now completely loosened and untamed.

Mihawk’s hands unwove from yours, his lips unbreaking their contact from massaging and layering intentional motions against your flesh. A shudder against your skin, and a rustle of fabrics descending from his chest, had your smile draw itself further up your face. Your hands sought out Mihawk’s shoulders, your fingers meeting with bare skin where once his pale shirt was covering.

A strong left hand met with your right cheek, tugging and caressing your skin as he deepened the kiss. A sigh escaped your lips as his tongue drew patterns of longing against your bottom lip, grinding against yours as you opened your lips to meet him. His left hand ventured over your shoulders, mapping the skin carefully wrapped in intricate loops of gold fabrics and fibers.

“Mihawk,” you gasped as soon as his lips left yours, his face nuzzling against your cheek and neck. His lips grazed, kissed and lightly bit at your skin as his fingers dipped into the golden fibers. He murmured your name, his familial name before uttering it prompted your heart to swell and soar in your chest.

“I missed you so much, my lady,” he confessed into your neck, his lips withdrawing from your neck and finding your cheek once again, “I know it has only been a few minutes since Benn stole you from me, but it has felt like an eternity since I held my beautiful governess like this.” His hands pluck and prod at the knots over your body, his growing frustration evident on the rough huffs of his breath for each moment you remain confined in the ropes.

“Your wife, Mihawk,” you remind him, hands blindly reaching for his face. Once you found his cheeks, you hastily drew his face to meet with yours, “I am your wife.” Your desperation to welcome him into your affectionate embrace has you move from your place beneath his stooped body to climb over to him. He ushered you towards him, your mind choosing to let him play guide for you to move about willingly.

“My wife,” he whispered back to you, his hand ghosting intimate caresses over your body to guide you closer onto him. Shin brushing with the bare flesh of his leg, your anticipation only grew as you straddled his lap; him now sitting against the plush bed of his quarters. Hands exploring his shoulders, down his torso, and over his arms and stomach: you blindly began studying him. Your fingertips read him like elevated embroidery over a broad canvas, committing the poetry he was born with, and was painted against him within the art of war.

His hands cupped your thighs, head angled up to press kisses of longing against your lips. A gentle tug of your thighs prompted you to sit atop him, anchoring your full weight over his lap. As you began to sit on him, the ropes began to constrict and tighten around your abdomen. The tied knots brushed against your groin, a strangled whimper falling from your lips as you felt Mihawk’s erect and quivering cock brush against your naval.

“I need to get this off of you,” Mihawk groaned against your lips, “Beckman did too good of a job. I can’t find any slip knots to release you.” He continued to trail your knots, ties and bonds trapping you within the fabric. Your mind momentarily ceased its recollection of such a plight, but now that Mihawk had begun initiating the next installment of your evening together, you had never wanted to witness something before your eyes more. You wanted to see your husband, and he wanted to see your eyes gazing at him.

“It is rather constricting,” you admit, your lips seeking out his neck as his hands wrap around your back. His hands begin tugging at the knots harshly, you whimper into his neck as this tug had the ropes grind over your lower body. He halted his tugging, his breath hitching and his staggered movements.

The passion between you ignited further, his desperate kisses pressing lengthy and staggered motions against you. He ceased his attempts at withdrawing the material away from you, choosing to focus on the feeling of finally having his wife within his arms. You were perfect; everything about you was perfect to him. Where once was a uniform made for servitude, now lay a design so provocative and sensual that a goddess would even blush viewing it. Yet, here you were: wearing it as if it was made for you and only you.

Mihawk was in love, some foreign emotion he never thought he would ever experience. As he looked up at your form, he took a moment to gawk at you. He had never seen a beauty of such radiance, a woman that so perfectly held his heart within their hands.

His excitement was depicted by the rush of blood to swell his cock, and he wanted nothing more than to see your body in return. He didn’t only want to see your bare flesh unshrouded, but he wanted to see your eyes. The eyes he fell in love with. The stern eyes that held him hostage from the moment you first reprimanded Zoro at the doorway of his manor.

“I am-...” Mihawk’s voice lost itself in his voice, his fingertips returning to you and tugging on the strands once more. The material ground itself higher in your abdomen, the material causing pleasure to seep against your clit. Your gasp was the greatest serenade he had ever graced his ears, his mind finally realizing how truly at his mercy you were in the knots, “...-I am going to cut the damn thing off you.” His confession had you swoon, sensing his desperation for you in his confession.

A small shriek of shock flung from your parted lips as Mihawk all but threw you against the mattress beneath him. As he watched you writhe beneath him, he began to feel frustrated at not being able to see all of you at once. Teeth bit at your neck, lips sucked your pulse and his firm, covered cock ground against your body: a moan fleeing from his lips at this subtle touch. Caging you beneath him, he examined your body: focussing his gaze on each band of gold woven over your form. The sheer fabric did nothing to disguise each curve, the ties and knots accentuating your femininity in a manner so sinful: the moment his eyes met with your body, he was consumed with the flames of lust he had never encountered prior.

Although he had lain with other individuals in his lengthy crusade of piracy and swordsmanship, his mind was never as challenged as it was with you. His soul never felt the need to join with another in this way. He was perfectly content to remain in solitude, continuing to hold the title of ‘World's Greatest Swordsman’ and live alone until it was time for the next generation to claim that title from him.

Then he met you.

His confidant turned governess, his governess turned betrothed, his betrothed turned wife: his wife, lying beneath him enwrapped in bands of gold so scandalous and erotic - he was entranced by the lustful emotions plaguing him.

“My darling, I want to gaze into your eyes when I make love to you,” he confessed in a breathy whisper, “You deserve far better than to be kept beneath the shroud of darkness for our first time joining our bodies together.” You smiled up at him, your chin angling to collect his lips within yours. The same desperation flooded your veins, the pleasure you anticipated to give and receive to and from your husband finally catching up to you.

The carnal desire to have one another finally caused your mind and body to catch up at once. The confinements within the gold fabric had begun to illuminate, the metal feeling warm and pleasurable against your body. In one final attempt at reinforcing the fact that you wanted this, you collected his face beneath your hands and refocused his attention.

“There will be other times,” you whisper, your hands traveling to his back as he continues to grind his hips against your thighs, “For now, I just need to feel you here with me.” At that confession, a primal urge swept through Mihawk’s body. His hands moved with a mind of his own. He fled from your embrace, your momentary confused sorrow at his departure was eclipsed by shock at Mihawk’s arms hooking beneath your thighs and prying apart your legs.

“If you are certain this is what you want,” Mihawk’s panting breath managed to utter. His lips hovered over your skin, tracing the curvature of your cheeks and down your neck. “I want this to be good for you. I want you to experience this the way you truly deserve it,” he kissed your cheek to press in his desires, “I want this to be something you want.”

“I want you, my love,” you confessed in a breathy voice, dripping with desire, “I only want you.” He allowed a melancholy smile to rise to his cheeks, feeling his own desire truly catch up with him at this very moment. His eyes traveled down to your body: your breasts hugged beneath the fabric of the gold, the sinful knots and ties over your stomach - he took in every element before he truly gave in to his own desires.

“So be it, my love,” were all the utterances he whispered at you before he dove his face between your legs. The knots, ties and woven fibers added an additional layer of friction to Mihawk’s needy tongue lapping at your aroused core. His hands held you firmly, completely exposed to his abrasive and hungry momentum.

Tongue, lips and teeth greedily consumed your arousal like a beast awoken too early from hibernating slumber. Choking on your voice, your senses were working in overdrive to compensate for the shroud tied over your eyes. His tongue dipped into your entrance before licking a broad stripe up to your sensitive clit.

Your arousal dripped past the fibers of gold and down against the sheets beneath you. His teeth bit at the knot hovering above your sensitive pearl, attempting to pry it away from you to no avail. He growled against your heat, the vibrations tingling your body as his frustration became more ferocious. “I want to see you,” he barked, his tongue lapping at your sensitive and exposed heat, “I want to see all of you.” His hands desperately clawed at your thighs to attempt to loosen the strands of gold.

“Mihawk,” you mewled his name as his head began bobbing at your flesh. The intricate knots prompted the ministrations to become more intense at each passing swipe, “Mihawk, please.” The pit of your belly began to tingle with the simmering warmth of an impending eruption of curated bliss beneath Mihawk’s tongue. He continued swirling his tongue over your heat, your body becoming more ignited and propelled towards an awaiting explosion.

“Is it too much, my bride?” he asked you, his voice knit with concern for a moment while he halted his motions. You shook your head, reaching for him with your right hand. His left hand met with yours, giving your digits a gentle squeeze.

“You are perfect, my groom,” you praised him, squeezing his hand in response. The cloth over your eyes prompted you to begin to become agitated beneath its confining shroud. As his right hand pawed at your thigh, you pressed your head back against the mattress. Mihawk was transfixed, hypnotized at the rise and fall of your chest.

“May I continue to please you this way?” he pressed a soft kiss against your thigh, his beard tickling your skin beneath your heightened senses. You give him a soft nod with your lips parting, letting out a soft cry when he doubled his efforts to bring you ever closer to reaching the point of ecstasy.

He was mesmerized at each soft tug on his hair, your hands lacing in his soft curls and rubbing soothing circles of encouragement against his skull. He gave your hand a gentle squeeze as he groaned against you, smiling as you reciprocated the soft squeeze. He softly groaned in frustration, desperately craving to see your eyes and feel your skin bare before him.

“If I can not see you released from these bonds,” Mihawk groaned against your quivering heat, your walls beckoning him to chase your release by coating your entrance with glistening arousal, “I am going to lose what semblance that remains of my sanity.”

“Mihawk-,” you attempt to cry your warning of your climax, your toes beginning to tingle and shake, as your belly fills with the overwhelming tightness of release as he dove back in against you. His tongue lapped eagerly, the grind the metal fibers brushing against your heat and causing your whole body to tingle.

“-I know, my love,” he raised his hand, pressing down on your writhing stomach and holding you in place, “I can feel how close you are. I want you to lose yourself against my lips and tongue,” he focused his ministrations over your sensitive bud and skillfully chased your high with lips, “I want to feel your bliss, knowing it's crafted by my hands. I need to see this first, before I attempt to pry you from the bonds that contain you once more.”

The woven coil snapped within you, your senses overwhelmed as you gushed over Mihawk’s tongue. His relentless attack never ceased, forcing you to experience the full ignition of your release. Your breath was stolen from you as you desperately called his name. Writhing beneath him, he continued to hold you firmly as you were chaperoned through your high.

He withdrew from you once the world was once again within reach of your four senses, your eyes remaining shrouded with the lights of ecstasy beginning to dim behind the cloth. You felt Mihawk shift above you, his arms drawing over your body as he kissed his way up to your clavicle and neck.

Your breath once again found you in a natural progression, your whimpers and moans becoming regulated by your steady breathing. Mihawk could not get enough of watching your lips parted and panting for him, your back arching and breathing returning to its regular syncopation. He so desperately desired to see your eyes, to see you lost in the bliss he crafted for you.

“Lady Dracule?” he apprehensively whispered to you, your face turning towards the source of his beckoning tone. “My love, are you quite alright? Was that okay? Did I-.”

“-Please rid me of these blasted knots, Mihawk,” you order him in return, your smile written in the warmth of your voice, “I need to see you. I miss you now more than ever before.” He called your name, a small waiver in his voice caused concern to knit over your brows, your hands meeting with his shoulders as you usher his face above yours.

You softly coax him up to your face, ushering him to position his body above your own. His lips descended on yours, his touch feeling less ravenous and more intentional than it was moments prior. His lips were soft, his actions truly depicting nothing but truth, love, and absolute honesty within his passionate kiss. His tongue traced the outline of your bottom lip, your own lips parting to shepherd him in to deepen the kiss.

“I love you, my lady,” he whispered suddenly, his face pulling away from yours to look down at your face. Your soft smile rose to your face, your lips parting and chasing his withdrawal with them. He looked down at you, truly mesmerized by the beauty he had managed to claim beneath him. He meant every word uttered, down to the last syllable. You were his, and he was yours.

“Show me,” you whispered to him, his breath hitching in his throat in response. Your final utterance had every part of him swelling with pride. “Make love to me.”

Mihawk immediately feels the twitch of his cock against his stomach, wanting nothing more than to claim his wife in this way by caging her beneath him. But as he met his eyes with the shroud that covered yours, he was met with a new challenge.

“I want to see you, my darling,” he confessed in a breathy whisper, reaching up to your face and beginning to tug at the cloth covering your eyes. “I need to see you look at me as I make love to you for the first time.” He desperately begins to pry the material from your body.

At the pull and loosen of one strand, another would tighten in its place. He clawed at your stomach, intending to rid you of the coarse fibers only for it to constrict around your core that caused you to cry out at the overstimulation. He attempted to pry further, his arms clenching and shaking at how hard he gripped the material, but yet it still remained unbudging in its firm grip.

“M-Mihawk,” you whined, feeling him hoist up the material and grind your slit; your arousal pooling atop the bedsheets below you, He growled, attempting one final time to rid you of your confines before he gave in to his urge to finally claim you as his bride.

“My love, I-...” he trailed off, feeling your hand reach down and cup his cheek. He was silent, still, allowing himself this small glimpse at the soft luxury he had not experienced before. He leant into your touch, placing his chin on your palm as you softly whispered to him.

“There will be other times,” you repeated your earlier sentiment, coaxing him towards your lips, “While I would love to see you as you are, I feel our other needs are of far greater importance.” Your teeth were revealed in your wolfy grin, hungry for your husband to finally claim you and brand you as his and his alone. As soon as Mihawk’s pointed gaze met with that smile, he was held captive beneath its majesty. He wanted nothing more than to please you, to dote on you, to claim you as his.

“My beloved,” he whispered your name on his tongue, gently rolling it over with your formal title to him, “I want this to be special for you. This is a moment we cannot take back, a moment that joins us together officially as husband and wife. I will be yours, and you will be mine.” His confession had your heart soar, feeling tangibly how much this moment meant to him.

“I am yours,” you whisper, drawing his chin up to your face, “Only yours.” Your confirmation rang in his ears, his heart beating in his chest, and his desire for you growing ever stronger. “If you are here, now, and in this moment,” you whisper to him, raising yourself up to sit before him, “I could want for nothing more.”

Mihawk felt his desire overcome him, finally wanting to claim you as his. He needed you, to feel the way you felt wrapped around him. He wanted to bring you the greatest pleasure you had ever experienced, and was feeling the pressure to pursue such a performance. As your touch lingered on against his cheek, ushering him closer and reassuring him, all he wanted at that moment was you.

You.

His governess, his confidant, his friend, his wife.

His lost lady.

All of you.

As you usher him closer, he leans over your body and cages you beneath his forearms. You smile, attempting to use your four other senses to get a read on how he is feeling above you right now. You listen to the pants in his breath, feel the heat in his skin, smell the wine on his tongue, and finally taste the arousal on his lips as they press themselves against yours. His kiss is intoxicating, filled with lust and consuming your very soul with the intensity of the oscillation.

Moving your hands down to his shoulders, you draw him in closer; lying down on your back as you slot him in between your thighs. His lips grew bold, parting yours beneath his as his tongue darted out to brush with your own in a sultry tango. You reach down to his stomach, feeling all of the bare flesh beneath your fingertips and diving lower to his waistline.

He smiles against your lips as you begin ridding himself of his pants. Struggling against the blinding shroud, you tap his skin to locate the buckle to release him of his marriage-clothes. He chuckles into your kiss, releasing himself from your lips and rising up to kneel on his calves. A bell jingles in your ear, his belt buckle ringing, as you hear shuffling material rid his pants from his hips and pool on the floor as he discarded them.

Hands from the both of you desperately grasped and grabbed at one another, flesh meeting fingertips as your lips bound themselves against each other. You moaned against his lips as you felt his tip press against your slit beneath the bonds of gold imprisoning you against viewing your husband fully within the suite.

“My heart,” he whispered to you, smoothing your hair over with his fingers, “My body,” he lined himself fully with your glistening core, prodding it with his swollen tip, “My soul,” he coaxed it within you, feeling the stretch of your body around him to compensate for his girth, “Is yours.”

Pressing more of himself into you, you throw your head back against the pillows beneath you as you feel him finally begin to claim you as his wife physically. You hear his teeth grit as he paws at your thighs, holding them steady as he slowly sheathes himself deep within you.

“Is this okay, my love?” he asks, his voice faltering at the end corner of it as he halts his movements. You wince a little, your body taking time to adjust to coaxing a lover within your body. You softly nod your head, prompting him to click his tongue in response, “Please answer me, my beloved. I need to know if it-...” he gasps, feeling the way your walls spasm around him to accommodate him, “...if it’s okay to move yet.”

You gasp, feeling the remnants of arousal against your entrance accommodate Mihawk’s impressive girth deep within you. He had worked at your body so easily earlier, his frustration adamant in his need to claim an eruption from your body with his lips and tongue. He held himself stationary, using every fiber of his being to keep from ravishing you immediately before you had time to adjust to feeling him fill your body.

“You can move, my love,” you whisper, your head desperately seeking him out beneath the blindfold with a soft smile on your face, “You have waited so patiently, and I am here for you to claim as your own.” You grin up at him, feeling his lips only a breath away from your own.

Mihawk wastes no further time, immediately thrusting his cock deep within your body and sheathing it to the hilt. You cry out a little in shock, feeling full to the brim with his length buried deep within you, prompting him to pull back a little and test you with a gentle and slow thrust back into you. He softly whispered your name, groaning on the last syllable as his hips pressed against yours.

Slow, deliberate, and fluid motions had your toes curling behind Mihawk’s hips; his right hand immediately finding your thigh and hooking it over his hip as he thrust into you. He groaned your name, feeling your hands collect his curls at the scruff of his neck as your body relaxed around him. Your back slid against the mattress, a knot in the middle of your shoulder blades beginning to loosen. Mihawk huffed his breath, his movements slotting himself within your walls becoming heavier and intentional.

The friction of the sheets grinding against your back had the slip-knot Benn Beckman placed in the middle of your shoulders finally beginning to unravel. Mihawk was too lost in the way your body felt finally wrapped around him, his eyes closing and finally giving in to the urges that began to claw and consume him. His heart, his body, his soul was yours in this moment, just as yours were his, as his hips staggered against you.

“My wife,” he whispered, the pleasure building within the pit of his belly, his eyes scrunching shut as his girth and length quivered. He reached up, leaving your leg hooked behind him and hooked his thumbs beneath the blindfold, “I don’t care. I don’t care,” he began to move the shroud, your body beginning to loosen the strands of gold over your breasts and back, “I need to see you.”

“Mihawk,” you gasp, feeling him tug the material over your eyes. You flutter your eyelashes, adjusting to the hazy image of the World’s Greatest Swordsman, your swordsman, on top of you. His brow was furrowed, his lips parted, and his eyes were filled with nothing but absolute devotion and love. He was immediately lost within your eyes, a gasp fleeing his lips as he felt himself nearly come undone just at the soft gaze you gave to him.

He lost all his composure, picking up the pace as he gazed deep into your eyes. Huffing and panting, his pleasure nearly reached the peak. Waves of ecstasy began to wash over you, feeling your husband finally gaze so lovingly into your eyes as he chased your mutual eruptions of ecstasy.

“Mine,” he chanted, leaning forward and staring at you like a beast consumed with lust, “Only mine.” You felt his motions stagger, becoming more frantic as he channeled you both towards release. You whimpered, taking your bottom lip between your teeth to stifle a soft mewl of bliss.

“Don’t you dare,” Mihawk reached up, pressing his lips to yours to take your bottom lip away from your teeth, “I want to hear you. Let me hear you.” You listen to your husband, softly crying his name as the rapid approach of your bliss draws closer. Your body began to contract around his cock, his own groans adding to the symphony of ecstasy in the air as the crowd outside began to sing loudly and joyfully.

“Mihawk,” you whined, gripping onto his shoulders as he felt you tighten around him. He cried your name, his cock twitching as he finally released himself deep within you. Your walls fluttered and contracted around him, wringing his cock of any final spurts of his spend and becoming one heart, one mind, one soul and one spirit at the join of your bodies.

Thrusting languid rocks of his hips as you rode through your highs had neither of you realize the gold fibers had finally rid themselves of their hold on your flesh. You continued gazing into his face as he looked down, a soft smile drawing over his lips the moment he recognised the absence of the sun-dress. You were fully bare, both finally equal in your vulnerability and nudity.

“There you are,” He sighed at you, bringing up his hand to caress your cheek, whispering in a voice so soft and intimate you could barely hear it, “My found-lady.”

Overcome with emotions, your eyes began to prick with tears as your smile grew over your lips. The curse had ended, Mihawk’s tasks had been completed, you had bound yourself to him as his lover, his wife, and his confidant. You were his, and he was yours.

Your tears began to spill over your lash line, prompting Mihawk to chuckle and draw you closer into his chest; sitting you upright and cradling you into his chest as he rocked back onto his knees. He smoothed over your hair, pressing soft kisses into your hairline and sighed as you circled your arms around him.

“I love you,” he whispered into your ear, his confession feeling more deep, truthful and intimate than the experience you had falling apart in his arms, “More than you could ever know.” You buried your head in his chest, his chin resting atop your head as you felt the flicker of his heartbeat thud against your ear.

He rose to his feet, hooking a hand beneath your knees and holding the other firmly behind your back, “I’m going to bathe you now, my love.” He whispered into your cheek, pressing a soft kiss against your skin, “And then I have a gift for you.” Walking over to the ensuite, he balanced you on his muscular thighs and leant over the bath and turned on the taps to fill the extraordinarily large bath full of hot water. He tested the temperature with his wrist before leaning back and kissing your temple. You pry yourself away from his chest, looking down at the water.

“This is going to take a while to fill, my love,” you smile, shaking your head at the slow rise of water flowing in the ceramic basin. Mihawk’s smirked down at you, his teeth bared in an uncharacteristic, wolfy grin.

“Oh no,” he mocked, brushing his nose playfully with your cheek and giving it a quick peck, “Whatever shall we do to pass the time?” You laughed at him, giving his chest a playful push before moving your arm up to his neck and drawing him into a lengthy kiss.

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mothmanavenue · 1 year

Text

In conjuntion with this art piece here

...

The war doesn’t end with a crash or a bang. Nothing explodes in a fiery shower the way he’d read about in books as a kid. There's no rocking of the ground as the world shifts under their feet, and a curling anxiety in his gut as he desperately reaches out in the link for a glimmer of one just one of his teammates, his family, his lover.

There’s just the dead drop of a falling lion as a ceasefire is called. It’s just the feeling of his fingers relaxing from a white knuckled grip on Red’s controls and his head falling back with a dull thud against the headrest of the pilot’s chair. It’s the unwinding of his spine as he slumps, all his strength and exhaustion collapsing in on him as he surrenders flight back to his lion, her battle roar softening to a gentle rumble in the back of his mind. It’s the gasps of relief and whispered gratitude of his family echoing in his ears, letting him know they’re safe, they’ve made it, it’s finally done.

Keith is completely unsurprised to note which one he prefers.

Red’s purr is a constant source of comfort in his mind as he curls his legs toward his chest, eyes squinted in lazy, bone deep weariness, brain barely processing Shiro and Allura from their respective command stations outlining the conditions of ceasefire. He can barely think about anything outside the cramping in his fingers and the bleariness of his eyes from entire successive days spent raising Voltron’s sword, pouring his energy and willpower into convincing the strongest weapons in the universe to bend to his will.

It’s ok if he misses something. The team will catch him up. They always have, when the tiredness consumes him, and he checks out of conversations and discussion, slumping against the nearest comforting shoulder.

Allura’s voice is as sharp and clear as the crown that adorns her head; the queen of Altea in all her glory commands her troops from the midst of battle. Keith’s attention had been laser focused on ensuring Voltron’s continued presence, but nothing in the world could keep him from watching for Allura’s flashing blue light as she approached Haggar, now withered and raging, and knelt in front of her. Keith missed what was said, the words exchanged. But he saw the tightening of his Queen, his sister’s, shoulders, and the hand wrapping tight around the witch’s neck.

It’s been a long eight days on this earth of his.

His brain clocks out in that moment, and he rides the warm haze he’s in, letting the satisfaction of success settle into his bones. It’s not time for celebration just yet. It will come later once the dead is counted and the shrouds are laid. Keith knows better than most the toll of war, and he dreads the time that will come when the lists of the dead will be handed to them, and he will need hours, days, weeks, to grieve people he did and didn’t know and names he’s cherished and ones he’s never heard, and each loss will still hit like a blow to the ribs. After that, the celebration will come. The ballrooms of the castle will glow with life and Hunk will dress in gold, Shiro’s white hair will gleam in the light, and Pidge will protest that she just won a war, she deserves a drink. Allura will stand regal at their side, and her shoulders will be light, free from the burden of an avenger, and she will turn to them with a gleaming grin and they won’t have any choice but to smile back at her.

And lance.

Lance will be so handsome in his blue suit, golden and silver threaded in painstaking embroidery in the bed of deep sky. His hair will fall loose and natural in his eyes, heavenly blues, and earthy brown under the string set of his eyebrows, and he’ll gleam like a freshly lit candle.

He’ll take Keith’s breath away and Keith will never want it back.

But that comes after.

Right now, here, Red lands on dusty earth and grumbles in his head about doing all the work. He’s sure none of the other lions give their other halves this much shit. He loves her so fiercely it burns his throat and eyes. He can’t believe he ever spent a day outside of her. Can’t believe he wasn’t raised alongside this wonderful, temperamental, protective, grouchy cat, who bossed him and fussed him, and purred and cooed when he screamed in his dreams. Can’t believe there ever was a time he resigned himself to not having this. What a fool he was.

The wave of emotion fills the cockpit in a lilting hum, and she lights up around him, Voltron blue piercing through the chunks in his armour. Red is as alive as a blaze and warm as a hearth in his head.

Her mouth drops open with one final swell of affection, as she releases her paladin to his home ground.

Keith murmurs a breathy thank you i love you you’re everything to me, as he stumbles out, hand grasping the cool metal as he comes to a rest on the shifting sands. The sand is warm from fire and fighting and it hits him all at one.

He crouches down, head hanging as he pants and gasps for breath. The emotion of the past few days shutter his eyesight till all he sees in the grains of sand sticking to his gauntlets. His head spins and his hair is falling out of the ponytail he’d tied it back in, and his breath is coming hard now.

Something is missing. Somethings not quite right.

The swords have fallen, the helmets tossed to the side, red looms protective behind him. The shields are down the guards are dropped and he can feel the press of the Voltron bond that lets him know his team is landing nearby, drawn together with a gravitational pull.

He draws in breath, cool and refreshing and tinged with the scent of burning. Around him the sand is interspersed with freshly formed glass.

He raises his head, expecting to see the heavens above him. He wants to take in the freshly healed scar of the newly collapsed Rigel star system. Wants to know how the blazing lights of thousands of planets worth of warfare look set against the familiar earth sky. He think he might look at the constellations, like he did not far from here a hundred years ago, tucked into his dad's strong, solid arms, the scratch of a stubbly chin accompanying a moving mouth as it named Orion, Cassiopeia, Gemini.

He looks up expecting to see stars, and instead, he sees the sun.

Lance's smile is crooked, and his breath comes fast, like he ran, as he hovers over him. Their faces are so close he can count each individual freckle on this boy’s face, as precious to him as the gleam of moonlight cutting paths across the castle hallways. Oh this boy, this absolute death of him.

“Hey lover,” the words leave Lance’s mouth with ease and anticipation, years of pent-up adoration spilling out with every vowel, “we did it.”

Keith feels his own smile steal across his face, “yeah, we did.”

If possible, Lance's smile grows wider, crinkling the already forming smile lines at his eyes. Keith thinks of the products that line the counter of his bathroom sink, just waiting for a pretty bronzed hand to pick them up when the separation hits, and their resolves are softened by the press of late hours and long silence.

A silly waste. Keith likes this look on Lance.

Aging.

What a wonderful thing he never thought he’d get to have.

“You know what that means?”

Lance's voice is smooth, the tremble that only a practiced ear could pick out masked by the sincerity and anticipation that has dogged their every conversation since that night on the dais.

“We’ll wait.”

“Until when, Keith?”

“Until it’s done. When it’s done then we can have this. We can’t lose everyone for each other.”

“I’m yours?”

“When it’s done then. And when it’s done, I’m bringing you home with me. I’m putting a ring on your finger and I’m never letting you go. You’re it for me, Keith.”

“I’m not asking you to wait, that’s not fair-“

“I followed you into space Keith. I followed you to the point of no return. You aren’t asking me anything and that’s a damn shame. I’d give you anything you asked for.”

“When it’s done lance, when it’s done, I’ll ask you anything you want me to. I’ll come home with you, I’ll share a bed with you. I’ll be yours as long as you’ll have me.”

“Don’t joke, honey,”

“I’m not. You’re mine, lance”

“And-“

“you’re mine.”

The words reverberate in his head, and oh. This is what it was. The smooth slot of this thing that’s been so long coming.

Lance drops to his knees in front of him, one warm hand coming to rest on his cheek. Keith leans his head into it. He’s too tired for restraint, or shame, or any other useless emotion that would’ve held a younger him back. He’s got nothing to lose. He’s won. There’s no reason left to hold back. What a novel idea. It coats him and leaves him shivering at the feel of a gloved thumb running gently over his cheekbones.

His eyes fall back open from their unconscious close, and Lance is so close.

Honest, sweet, honourable lance. The sandpaper to all his rough edges. The iron that absorbed his burning heat. The shore that meets his rocking tide.

Keith can hear the thunder of Pidge’s feet as they run across the uneven terrain. Hunk is following after her, his voice a cacophony of relief and joy. Shiro’s laughter is warm and thick as honey, coming easier than it has since aliens were a late-night story. Allura is giggling, high and bright, and a little hysterical. It’s ok. She’ll pull herself back together and they’ll be there to fill the cracks with liquid gold.

(Or glitter. She’d like glitter.)

Lance is watching him, and Keith’s eyes drift back to him. Lance hasn’t looked away in years. Something, some last resistance hidden away so deep he didn’t even know to search for a cure, falls away.

He leans in and closes the gap.

...

posted on ao3 here

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entamewitchlulu · 3 months

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There are so many things to love about witch hat atelier. Amazing worldbuilding. Deep moral questions with no one right answer. Canon gay couple. An actual reason for the magic society to be shrouded in secrecy. A sensitive portrayal of sexual abuse and how victims are silenced. Beautiful art. Incredible character work.

But I have to say my personal favorite moment in WHA is that scene, where Coco has been told by the villains to do something potentially bad, and not to tell anyone about it. And she's uncertain of confiding in anyone either, because it could bring danger to her and her friends to question witch society. And what she does eventually?

She decides to trust her mentor, and tells him the truth anyway. And he trusts and believes her. And says he will do everything in his power to support her no matter what.

I just. I don't think I've ever once seen a mentor relationship portrayed this way. The trust they have is incredible. He is a safe adult that she trusts to help her, and he believes in her and wants to support her. Most stories with young people going against the grain always mistrust adults. And for usually good reason!

But it was so worldshaking to me to watch Coco not only decide to trust and go to an adult in a situation that might have been dangerous to do so, but for Qifrey to then prove himself worthy of that trust.

I can't properly explain why this is so important to me but it really, really was, and I hope others who get into WHA from the anime will find thr same comfort in these characters that I do

#witch hat atelier #lulu talks

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darkficsyouneveraskedfor · 1 year

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Wherever You Are

Sequel to Come Out, Come Out

Warnings: noncon and violent elements. Warnings are not exhaustive. Please curate your reading accordingly.

Summary: Steve comes home.

As always, please, please, please, send me your thoughts and feedback, horny and otherwise! Love you all so much 💗

A sudden vertigo overcomes you, sweeping you out of your static sleep. You blink away the shroud of drowsiness and greet the man above you with a vacant stare. Your breath hitches as you turn fully onto your back to face Steve.

“We doing this again?” He stands straight and crosses his thick arms over his bulging chest, “the hiding?”

“Sorry, Captain,” you push yourself up, bending your legs in front of you as you keep your heels on the blanket below you, half of it trailing behind you under the bed.

“I don’t like you sleeping under there. You know that.”

“I do, sir, but…” You bat your lashes and pout. You can’t tell him who you are truly hiding from. “I don’t like sleeping alone in the bed.”

He tilts his head and the stony edge leaves his jaw. He nods and bends over you, gripping you around your sides as he lifts you to your feet. He steadies you before him before he lets you go, fingertips brushing up your nightgown.

There’s a cut above his cheek and smear of dry blood down his stubbled throat that trails onto his dark collar. There’s a rent in the fabric across his chest, another deep along his torso, that one reddened and tattered. He cradles your chin as you eyes drift down to his wounds and he forces you to look at him.

“Starshine, I’m alright,” he assures you as his thumb caresses your cheek, “go get the kit.”

“Yes, Captain,” you touch his hand gently, angling your head up as he leans in. You give him a kiss, breathing in the scent of blood and sweat. You part and give a meek smile before you spin on your heel.

You flit off to find the silver chest stored under the bathroom counter. You hear him just through the doorway as he starts to strip away his layers. The clink of buckles and rustle of fabric underlines the silence.

As you return to the bedroom, he sits on the bench of your vanity. The one he proudly reminds you he built himself. He still wears his grimy boots and stained pants, the dark blue fabric dusted with some unknown soot.

He sighs as he pushes his head back and stretches his neck. He winces as you see how it tugs at the shallow slice along his abdomen. His firm muscles draw taut and his broad chest rises and falls. Along his left peck, a purpled welt stretches up to his shoulder but the skin remains unbroken.

He sets his head straight and watches your approach. You lay out the kit and flip the top open. You flick away the last of your fatigue with a flutter of your eyelashes. You take out the alcohol first and set to cleaning the cut along his stomach first.

“It’s going to sting,” you warn, just as you do every time, even though you know he barely feels it.

“Worth it,” he purrs as he brushes your hip, welcoming you closer as you set to work.

When you finish with the bloody slice, placing a bandage neatly over it, you move on to his hands. You only just notice his split knuckles. He gives you each in turn, letting you clean them and wrap a few fingers.

You finish with a dab of witch hazel over his bruises. He watches you intently. You’re overly aware of his attention as his hands wander along the silky fabric of your nightgown. As you tidy up, he lifts the hem and leans around to get a glimpse of your ass. He gives a tiny spank before he sits back, resting his elbows on the edge of your vanity as he looks you up and down.

“Good girl,” he praises, pushing his legs wide.

“Captain,” you eke out as you close up the kit and dump the peel wrappers and cotton balls in the small bin beside the vanity.

“I’m sorry I was gone so long, starshine,” he says, “as much for myself as you, you know?”

“I know, Captain,” you face him again.

He nods curtly, wordless order. You walk around his knee and stand before him, just in the vee of his legs. He pats his thigh, his eyes slipping down to the gesture and back up again. You sit obediently on his leg as he brings an arm forward, setting his hand against the small of your back.

“You missed me,” he slides his other elbow off the vanity and sits straight, reaching to your hand and dragging it up over your lap.

“Yes, Captain.”

He lifts your hand and places it against his jaw, guiding it along the thick trim of his beard. He leans into your touch and lets you go reluctantly. You keep your fingers moving, petting him as he hums in delight.

“Give Captain a kiss,” his voice grinds like gravel.

You lean in and press your lips to his. It’s easier now. Before, everything you did was so mechanical but you know better now. It only makes him mad when he sees your reluctance.

His tongue pokes out, gliding along your lips. You let him in, angling your head as he invades your mouth. His hand creeps up your back and he braces the back of your head. He locks you in a hungry kiss, snarling as if he might devour you whole.

When he pulls away, you’re breathless and dizzy. His eyes are dark pits you could fall into. His hand falls to the back of your neck as his other dances along the edge of your nightgown. He gives a small tug as his eyes drift down your body.

“Stand up,” he orders.

You stand.

He leads you without a word. Turning you to face him and knocking apart your feet with his boot. He draws you closer until you stand over his leg. He slips his hands beneath your nightgown, raising it above your pelvis as he frames your hips. He forces you down to straddle his thick thigh, a small gasp escaping you as you wince. You’re still tender…

“I missed you, baby girl,” he lets a hand fall down to your ass, the other keeping a firm hold on your hip, “I want to feel how much you missed me.”

He rocks you once. Pull your pelvis forward then urging it back. The friction of your cunt on his thigh sparks a thrill that ripples down your thighs. You nearly squeal as the sensation reminds you of the rawness nestled between your legs. You repeat the motion. Mimic how he moved you. You tilt against his thigh, another babble trickling from your lips.

You trail your other hand up his arm, watching how the tendons in his arm react, bicep rounding as you grasp his shoulder.

His hand clamps around your hips as the other brushes down to knead the tender flesh of your thigh. You let out a willowy breath as he leans in and hovers his lips before yours. You kiss him, heeding another mute order. You have to know how to read his body as much as his words.

You roll your hips, grinding against him as your fingers graze along his beard. You push your hand back to twine into the tails of his hair. His need melts into you as the pressure blooms beneath you. You squeak and moan, a mixture of pleasure and pain.

You ride him without restraint. The bench creaks below his weight and yours. He groans into your mouth as your tongues meet in desperation. Your legs quiver and burn as you chase your release. It’s close yet so far away.

Gasp and pull your mouth from his, puffing wildly as lifts his chin and lets out a gritty growl. You dip your head down and kiss his neck, nipping at him as you clutch the strands of his hair and dig your nails into the firm muscles of his shoulder.

“That’s it, I can almost feel it, baby girl, hmm, you gonna cum for your captain?”

“Mmhmm,” you purr as you ply frantic pecks along his throat, “yes… cap… tain.”

You rut spastically as the swell of fire roars through you. You quake as the slickness between your leg smears along your cunt and onto his pant leg. Your pleasure spills over as it spreads to the creases of your thighs.

You slow, little by little, shame coursing anew in your veins as your orgasm recedes. You still and lift your head, wavering just slightly as you look Steve in the eyes. You drag your hand down to his chest.

“You came, didn’t you, starshine?” He asks with a taunting smirk.

“Yes, Captain, I did,” you answer and turn your face down in embarrassment.

His fingertips tickle along your thigh and up to your ass. He feels along your nightgown, almost curiously and follows the curve of your chest up to the base of the strap. He glides the thin string down your shoulder, then the other.

He pulls down the top of your nightie and fondles your chest with his large hand. Your nipple react at once and goosebumps rise across your skin. You tremble and look down to watch him grope you.

“You’re… sensitive.”

“Captain,” you breathe cluelessly.

“Were you a good girl?”

“Good?”

“You didn’t touch yourself, did you?” He pinches your nipple and you yelp.

“No, Captain, never,” you whimper.

“No?” He tweaks the other and you squeeze his arm, “so why are you so… tender?”

“Captain?” Your eyes round, “I swear, I didn’t–”

“Hmmm,” his hum undercuts your protest and he clucks and he smirks, “Buck did say you were a good girl. Maybe he was a bad boy, huh?”

You gape at him. He’s mocking you. He knows why. He knows everything. You look up to the corner where the lens is. He sees it all.

“He won’t have to be bad if you don’t hide from him,” he bounces your tit in his hand, “you know he likes to play games.”

“Yes, Captain.”

“And you know I don’t like it when you make me look bad,” he flicks your nipple with his fingernail and you yelp as you cover it with your hand, “when you act like you have no discipline.”

“I didn’t– I was scared, Steve– Captain,” you panic and pull your hand away from your chest to press to his, “please, Captain, I was only afraid.”

He growls as his throat bobs. Thoughts storm in his eyes as they bore into you. He grasps the bunched fabric of your nightgown and rips it all the way to your waist.

“You will behave this time,” he sneers, “won’t you, starshine?”

“Yes, Captain.” This time?

“Go put something pretty on,” he grips your hips and slides you down his thigh, “he’ll be here soon.”

You don’t argue. You stand and let the nightgown fall to your feet. His eyes rove up and down and he gives a noise of approval.

“Or maybe, you should stay like that, baby girl,” he taunts, “you’ve never look more delicious than you do right now.”

#steve rogers #dark steve rogers #dark!steve rogers #steve rogers x reader #drabble #dark drabble #dark!drabble #sequel #mcu #marvel #captain america

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itstheendofthegoddamnworld · 11 months

Text

Kissed by Moonlight (Alucard x Witch! Reader) 2

A/N: Thank you for your patience! I've been very busy with Monstober and have taken time to focus more on this story. Hope you enjoy it!

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Chapter 2

In your dreams, you’re whole again, and the happiest you’ve ever been.

You jolt in a familiar bed, one cold and worn from the years melting away: a bed too small. Yet, it’s not the bed you had when you were under Bogdan’s roof, and it brought forth fond memories.

Your mother was situated by her workbench, humming a soft tune you remembered from your childhood. Standing behind her, you could only watch, observing how she had not aged since that day, and she looked as you remembered.

“You are very hard to communicate with, sweet girl,” your mother spoke, her dark dress swayed in the deadness of the air, keeping her back to you. “Your mind has been elsewhere.”

“I don’t understand how I’m speaking to you,” you wavered, holding a hand hesitantly but pulling away, afraid of touching her again, “you are not here anymore, mama.”

“I and my sisters are in the ancestral plane, my girl,” she continued. “I have always been with you, in mind and spirit.”

You could only choke on a laugh, bitterly replying, tears threatening to spill. “Then I must have failed myself for losing all my powers. I’m not the prophecy you spoke of.”

Your mother turned so you could see her face finally, and a veil covered her face, darkness shrouding her appearance. Despite not being able to see her face, you knew she was smiling.

“Why do you think that?”

“I cannot do anything,” you held your hands out in front of you, trying to concentrate on anything, flames or cold to reach your fingertips, yet nothing came, “I am hopeless.”

“You are speaking to me through a veil of limbo, are you not?” She questioned and there was sadness in her tone, as if you had disappointed her.

It made you question her words, thoughtfully reflecting on them. “You did not teach me about astral projection—or how to reach the veil of the ancestral plane. I… did not know it existed.”

“It belongs to us,” she sang sweetly, “it has always belonged to us, my Y/N.” She reached towards you and placed a hand on your shoulders, her grasp as cold as death.

“There is one thing that has always made me proud of you, what has made the sisters believe in you,” she spoke, and you felt the chill spread like wildfire through your chest. “You were everything they needed in a witch.��

The comfort of dreams and darkness spat you out until you felt exhausted, shuddering back life into you.

Your mind felt as if it was in the middle of a fog, slowly clearing up as your heavy eyes opened and shut with the contrasting brightness. The burning sensation seemed to dwindle from your chest, and you were replaced with the cold that came harshly.

You shivered, groggily taking in the sight of flames that brightened the already dark room. You seemed to be in a reception or lounge, the Corinthia you were laid on was a deep crimson colour, and gold leaf trim took part most of its decoration.

“I see you’re awake.” The same voice cut through the sharpness of the air, startling you to stare at the entrance. Oh, right, your saviour—if you could call him that. You could still remember the blade, as cold as ice, pressed against your neck before you passed out, and you were suddenly very aware that you were alone with this stranger; a stranger with a habit of murder.

“Where am I?” You groaned, clutching your head as you found beside you a glass of water already by the table, gingerly picking it up and debating whether to drink from it. If he wanted you dead, he would’ve killed you by now, and the liquid was already being chugged, cooling and crisp down your throat.

“I’m surprised you didn’t even think twice before you stepped a foot inside these halls,” the dulcet voice sounded both bored and irritated by your mere presence. His silhouette moved like a black cat, sticking closely to the doorway. You heard his voice closer to you this time. “I can’t tell if you’re brave or a fool for coming here.”

It dawned on you finally and slowly that you were still inside Dracula’s castle—that the Vampire king himself owned it. It brought a shudder down your spine, but the curiosity in wanting to know why he was there.

“You don’t seem afraid to be here.” You questioned vigilantly.

“No, I would be if this had not been my home.” The figure finally emerged from the shadows, and you almost squinted at his appearance. The first thing you noticed was his wavy long pale blond hair, reaching past his waist, skin pale as moonglow. It was his eyes that were the most beautiful and eerie: golden as honey or the same colour of leaves that fell in the autumntime.

There was something unnatural about him: not exactly human that you could place, a sombreness that hung over him. You did not know what he had seen in his lifetime, but you could see it in his eyes.

The handsome stranger was dressed in black leather trousers and boots, a simple shirt that showed some of his chest, and a long drawn scar was visible, grotesquely large and haunting.

It was only when you saw what was floating beside him, a long, thin sword, glinting brightly with silver and ornate beauty as it stood vigilantly by his side.

He seemed to notice quickly your eyes darting between him and the weapon beside him. “Will you put that thing away?”

He did not answer you but the sword pulled back from him to stand by the door as he inched closer towards you, watching you with suspicion. “Who are you?”

The stark contrast of his words was not as soft as they had been before, and with the sword standing in the background, you chose to answer him honestly rather than risk being another body staked outside. “My name is Y/N. I come from a village not far from here—”

“You do not speak the truth.” He snarls, and something glints as he opens his mouth wide enough, but is gone within seconds. The blond’s nose scrunches in almost disgust as if the most revolting stench fell over him “It reeks of sorcery,” there’s something feral in his demeanour and the way the sword flickers to move closer to his side, “witch.”

“Yes, I am a witch,” you reply honestly, eyes darting between the sword and him again, your life dangling on the edge. “Please, I don’t have anywhere else to go—I wouldn’t be here for long if you—”

“I do not have anything for you. Leave at once.” He interrupted tersely, circling you, posture tense as if he was either ready to lunge at you or flee. “I do not welcome strangers.”

No, if the bodies were not a warning already. You gulped. “I have no choice but to leave there. I had to for—” Your words stilled on your tongue, nervously tracing your fingers along your wrist in feeble comfort. “I cannot go back there. They… I fled for my life.”

The blond man doesn’t speak for a moment, instead, he watches in hawkish contemplation, studying you, examining if you are telling the truth. It felt as if you could be set on fire by his gaze alone, and finally, he looked away, eyes taking to the hearth.

“Very well,” he says after some time, “you have one month to stay here. One month, and then you can find your way somewhere new.”

Your heart leapt from your chest, ready to almost jump into his arms with gratitude. You watch as he turns, before saying over his shoulder. “There is a bathroom on the second floor, the last room to the left. You stink.”

There is no time to speak your thanks to him, as he’s gone in a hurry, away from the room you occupy. You don’t go looking for him, following up the winding hallways as you follow his instructions, finding the room after looking for some time.

The bathroom is as splendid as the rest of Dracula’s castle: all marble and gleaming white stones and a bath! You take your time to make sure you’re alone, before finding the way to get water through. It’s utterly incredible to witness true science, how hot water comes through without ever needing to gather it from a source. You laugh to yourself, believing how undeniably insane you look in front of his man, and how you too, would be wary of your presence.

It was obvious by your state when you looked in the mirror: your hair was tangled and difficult to even run your fingers through, with the odd chicken feather poking out. Your skin was riddled in mud and bruises covered your thighs and arms. Your cheek is still sore from when Bogdan smacked you, though it is not as red when you see splatters of red across your clothing.

My God, I look mad. You pluck the feathers as you try detangling your hair with your fingers, before stripping off your clothes as the water grows to a level that is good enough for you to get in. The water almost stings from how hot it is, your skin grows pinkish from the heat as you sigh in relief, submerging your body as the water grows clear to a greyish-brown hue.

Grimacing, you occupy yourself with the shelf of many bottles by your side, picking out shampoos and conditioners as you begin the long process of washing your hair. Your curls hid many secrets, as well as the knots that take forever to untangle until they’re smooth and soft to the touch. You dip your head to lean the suds, scrubbing your entire body with the bar of soap until it's red raw.

Not wishing to get out, the water grows cooler, and you grab a towel for your body and head, wrapping your hair up securely as you gather your dirty clothes. You debate on putting them back on or awkwardly trying to find the man of the castle, opening the door to feel something wedged in front.

You inspect the neatly folded clothes, a dress as seaweed green and looking a decade or two out of fashion, a clean chemise and stockings. You dress quickly in the bathroom, finding the kirtle fits you nicely, and you can feel that the material is good quality – as if it’s not been worn before.

Questions dance in your mind – why does he have dresses? Did they belong to a previous wife?

You kept them to the back of your mind as you let your hair air dry, keeping everything as neat as possible as you wandered back to where you could hope of finding the oddly handsome man.

You checked rooms on the second and ground floor: to no avail, was he around, until you found the kitchen on the ground floor, empty, except for the beautiful smells that wafted through the room. You didn’t realise how hungry you had been, not when the food smelt as amazing as it looked.

“You found the kitchen fine then.” A voice interrupted you.

You turned to find the culprit, the blond man was carrying a basket of apples, passing you as he placed them in the middle of the table. The apples were so large they didn’t look real!

He noticed you staring, looking at you for a moment up and down. “The dress you found I see?”

“Yes,” you gathered the material, feeling its softness, “it is very beautiful. Was it your wife’s?”

You see it for yourself, his pale cheeks erupt into a brightness you’ve never seen before, and he averts his gaze from you. “No, the dress is actually my mother’s.”

“Oh.” You say, awkwardness filling the room as he continues sorting out a meal. “Is fish okay for you?” He asks to break the ice.

You nod, watching as he preps two plates, filled with vegetables you’ve never seen before, as bright as anything that could be harvested. The two of you gather your plates as you go to sit at the table, and you fill your stomach with food before it reaches your eyes. The food is rich in flavour and you almost cry from having something so filling in your life.

Neither of you speak as you eat, and though you wish to keep asking him questions, he is quick to speak. “My name is Alucard.”

You choke almost on your fish, staring wide-eyed at him. “Like The Alucard? The one who defeated Dracula?”

“I do rather not like being used that title, but yes, I defeated Vlad Dracula… my father.”

It suddenly dawns on you: his pale skin and unnatural eye colour, how he moves on a whim and as fast as the wind. There was an ethereal beauty to him that you could not place at first, and you were now certain you weren’t losing your mind when you thought you saw fangs in his mouth.

“Oh.” That is all you can say, and Alucard is quick to scrunch his eyebrows at you incredulously, with a look that reads ‘Oh? Is that all you can say?’

“I’m sorry for your loss.” You finally manage to say, and you think you’ve said the wrong thing, but the look that flashes across Alucard’s face is one that you think he’s not felt before.

“No one has ever said that to me, that they were sorry,” his words are soft, tired from a life of grief. You can understand him, yet you wish for him to warm up to you. You notice his sword is still in the room, floating in the corner like a sleeping soldier, idly waiting for orders to strike. “It feels quite relieving.” It takes you a moment to realise that he’s trying to joke from the solemness of his tone.

The tension is still there, and quickly you notice that his softness is replaced by the cold exterior once again, as he stands from his spot, cleaning the dishes. “If you’re to be staying here as a temporary guest, you should find the bedroom on the first floor to the right is free to use.”

Watching him pass from the room and disappear is enough to make your heart sink, from the loneliness of the castle, and from the pain of having to share it with a living, broken ghost.

#castlevania alucard x reader #alucard #alucard castlevania #castlevania fanfic #adrian tepes #adrian tepes x reader #castlevania netflix #witch!reader #half black! reader #reader is a witch #mixed race reader #alternate universe #itstheendofthegoddamnworld writes #castlevania #part 2

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springsylph · 10 months

Text

WITCHING HOUR [EXCERPT]— 18+

MINORS DNI! NUH UH!

fem!reader x arthur morgan

summary: most people in the area had issues with coyotes. yours wore a cowboy hat, but you let him in anyways.

a/n: putting off several papers to write out a dream i had about Arthur’s hat was NOT what i had on my bingo card. but who am i to deny the late night hornies? no hornies in this excerpt, though. but soon, very soon…

(i’m 5k in and nowhere near close to the end, plz pray that i get this done before it consumes me)

Arthur Morgan was a sly kind of handsome; the kind that mothers knowingly ushered their daughters away from, and the kind that the fathers of said daughters would brandish their guns against. But the crux of the matter was this: the mothers almost always had heated glances to spare, and even the fathers were envious of a man cunning enough to run circles around the authorities for as long as he had.

Which is exactly why, when he shows up on your front porch one late winter night, you take up the hefty mantle of digging your loaded barrel right into his sternum.

He raises his hands in mock surrender and cracks a rakish smile, bright as the moon peeking out from behind the top of his hat. There’s a rich blue winter coat that hangs open; a little odd, but people have made do with less. His black bandana is scrunched up around his neck instead of around his face this time—and you note with a squint that he looks a bit less like an outlaw, and a little more like a fumbling idiot.

Still, Morgan cut quite the figure when he wasn’t sneaking chicken eggs from your coop. You try and hold fast to the promise you’d made to yourself only a short while ago, catch him, catch him, catch him. But if the agitated shifting of the muzzle against his chest is any indication, you’d been doomed from the start.

The moonlight isn’t doing your resolve any favors either: it drapes itself over the smooth arc of his shoulders, caresses a strong jaw shrouded in long-forgotten stubble, kisses burning blue eyes that look as close to bashful as you’d ever seen them. There’s something else in there, too. Lurking deep beneath the blue and wading through the slight dilation of his pupils. It urges him closer—or is it you?—like the distance between the two of you isn’t sustained by the twitchy arms of a woman holding a rifle.

But there’s an abrupt breeze that fiddles with the cotton threads of your chemise, and you’re suddenly struck with the realization that no, your hunting rifle isn’t loaded, and you’re a tad overexposed. In your haste to get to the door of your cabin, you’d forgone the shawl and left your boots still haphazardly strewn in the doorway. But it’d do you no good to show your hand this early. So like the hiss of a rattlesnake, you keep your voice low, and you keep it lethal.

“You’ve got ten seconds to convince me not to unload this lead right into your chest, Morgan.”

#☆ now watch me wip #witching hour #ao3 #archive of our own #arthur morgan #arthur morgan x reader #arthur morgan x female reader #arthur morgan x you #rdr2 fanfic #rdr2

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cassiopeia-core · 5 months

Text

obsessed

leo valdez x daughter of hecate reader

a/n: calypso is nice in this one, reader is vv insecure (self-projecting lol), also ending was kinda rushed bc i didn't know how to finish it, also not proofread :)

song: obsessed - olivia rodrigo

(calypso is a pisces for the plot)

La-da-da-da, da-da-da, la-da-da-da-da La-da-da-da, da-da-da

when leo and calypso broke up, the entirety of camp half-blood was flabbergasted. why wouldn't they be? leo had literally sworn on the river styx for calypso, dying and resurrecting for her then rescuing from her cursed island. the perfect couple.

however, what camp half-blood didn't know was the reason behind the breakup: you. while leo did truly like calypso, deep down, he always knew that you, his best friend, had a special place in his heart.

after leo and you got together officially, rumours starting spiralling about how you'd used 'black magic' to capture leo's love and the matching sun and moon necklaces that you two always wore was cursed or something??? you'd always thought these rumours were ridiculous; you'd literally gotten him the necklace before he'd even known calypso.

Cause I know her star sign, I know her blood type I've seen every movie she's been in and, oh god, she's beautiful

but naturally, although you'd never admit it, you were insecure. calypso was smart, funny and beautiful. she was a goddess for gods sake. you tried to push those negative thoughts down, the thoughts that fed the growing monster that was jealousy inside of you. you were obsessed with her.

you literally had a star sign chart featuring her and leo's signs and their compatibility rates. they were so compatible, perfect for each other. being a daughter of hecate and all, you took these things very seriously. but you could never let leo know. what would he think of you then? you didn't want to lose him more. so everytime he would hangout with you in your cabin, you made sure to cast the Mist over your charts, disguising them or making them appear as though they were nothing.

She's talented, she's good with kids She even speaks kindly about me, ha-huh

hoping to break the good girl image everyone had of her, you always dreamed of catching her slipping up and badmouthing you.

like right now.

you'd been heading back to your cabin after dinner when you heard the voices of Calypso and her friends. you were ready to stear clear and hopefully go around them without catching attention but as you neared them, you realised they were talking about you???

you quickly shrouded yourself in the Mist and crept closer. eavesdropping probably wasn't the best idea but you were determined to prove that she wasn't the good girl everyone thought she was.

"girl, have you seen leo's new girlfriend?" you heard one of her friends snicker. your heart picked up its pace and your ears strained to hear more.

"there's no way he'd rather be with a witch than you calypso, who in their right mind would do that?"

your heart plummeted when you heard calypso sigh, "guys, i've moved on, leo's moved on so there's really no point in badmouthing y/n. also, she is one of the sweetest people ive met. please don't think so lowly of her."

needless to say, you slunk ashamedly back to your cabin.

But I can't help it, I got issues, I can't help it, baby

you couldn't sleep.

couldn't stop comparing yourself to her, couldn't stop doubting why leo could possibly leave her for u.

they were perfect together, like warm flames embracing the smoldering logs in a fireplace on a cold winter's day. but you? you were nothing. you were like the useless mantelpiece above the fireplace, watching on as the flames danced to their full potential.

so you decided it would be best to break up with him

coming to a cold, hard conclusion, you swung yourself out of bed and out of your cabin, and headed towards bunker 9, where undoubtedly, your hardworking boyfriend would be slaving away at the forges.

upon hearing you arrive, leo dropped his work with a clatter and pushed his hair out of his eyes. "baby!" he sang, making his way towards you. "look what i - "

"leo," you interrupted. he looked so excited, eyes brimming with love and enthusiasm, looking at you like were the most beautiful piece of art in the world. you almost stopped yourself from saying your next words but - "leo, i want to break up"

he came to a halt before you. "w-what? did i do something wrong? i'll fix it please, please, please don't do this. just tell me what's wrong? i love you baby please."

you could feel your heart shatter at the sight before you. eyes wide with uncertainty and face full of confusion, the upset on leo's face made you want to turn back time take back your words.

"leo, im so sorry. i love you so much too but, i'm so obsessed with your ex. i feel like a fucking creep! i can't help but think that we're not meant to be and calypso is perfect for you." you managed, chest aching, desperate for something to hold onto, to cling onto. "you're wasting your time on me. i'm not worth it."

"aww baby," leo pulled his arms around you. you sobbed into his shoulder, not caring about how dirty your pajamas were going to be after this. "baby, please don't think like that. you're my forever girl. my one in a million lifetimes. and i love you for you."

you sobbed harder and leo's grip on you tightened. "mi vida, i swear on the river styx that i will try my hardest for you to never ever feel this way again. just promise me that you'll stay with me. i'll love only you, baby. promise."

and he kept it till his very last breath.

a/n pt2: ummm (idk what this is but i love leo soooo)

divider creds: @animatedglittergraphics-n-more

#leo valdez x reader #hoo x reader #pjo x reader #calypso #leo valdez #daughter of hecate

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slytherinslut0 · 1 year

Text

SEVERUS SNAPE ONESHOT- Yours, Always.

Tags: Breakup, Love Story, Fluff, Poet Severus, Heartbreak

It had been almost an entire year.

Almost one whole fucking year since you and Severus broke up--the challenges that you'd faced within your relationship were simply too big to overcome, and as a result, the wedge that formed between you two proved to be insurmountable. But despite your issues, not a day has gone by where you don't find yourself thinking about him, thinking about how much you fucking loved him, and all the reasons in which caused you to fall so hard for him in the first place.

You loved Severus for the enigmatic depth of his soul, the way his piercing intellect and hidden vulnerabilities intertwined. His profound understanding of magic and his fierce loyalty, despite his often aloof demeanor, were entirely captivating.

Beneath his stoic exterior, you'd seen glimpses of a wounded heart yearning for redemption, and you were drawn to the complexity of his character. It was his ability to love so fiercely, even if it was sometimes obscured by the shadows of his past, that made your heart ache for him, and you believed that beneath it all, he was deserving of the love and understanding you longed to offer; and you still believed that, even now, almost a year after you'd broke things off.

Leaving Severus was one of the most agonizing decisions you've ever made. It came from a place of deep pain and frustration, stemming from the insurmountable challenges you'd faced. Your love was undeniable, but it was also a source of constant turmoil and heartache. The emotional distance, the secrecy, and the external threats became overwhelming. You yearned for a love that was more stable, open, and free from the constant fear and tension that shrouded your relationship. It was a heartbreaking choice driven by a desperate need for emotional and physical safety, even though it meant letting go of a love that had once felt like the most magical and intense connection in your life.

And even though you'd had other partners, been with other men--nothing has ever compared. Not a single soul has ever come close to making you feel the way Severus did. Not a single one.

So on this chilled September evening, as the room feels like a sanctuary of solitude, heavy with the weight of time gone by, you find yourself frozen in grief. Shadows dance upon the walls, casting long, wistful silhouettes, as if the very atmosphere mourns a love lost to the sands of time as you sit and reminisce, allowing yourself to wallow in the suppressed pain for a while.

Just as you begin to feel the salty warmth of your tears gliding down your cheeks, you're snapped from your thoughts when your owl, Percy, glides in through the open window, holding a letter between her claws--her wings rustle softly, a mournful symphony that mirrors the heartache in the room. Her eyes, dark and penetrating, seem to hold secrets of the past, and her hoot, though eerie, carries a touch of empathy.

With trembling hands, you take the letter, your fingers tracing the familiar seal with the serpent emblem, Severus's signature. The very sight of his signature stamp sends a pang of longing through your fucking heart, your pulse increasing to an unfathomably quick rate--what the hell could this be? Severus solemnly ever writes you these days.

Upon opening the letter, the inked words appear to bleed with emotion, each stroke of the quill bearing the weight of a love that was, and perhaps still is, unextinguished. Tears gather in the corners of your eyes, blurring the elegant script as memories of your shared moments flood back in vivid detail.

"My Dearest Witch,

How many years must stretch their relentless fingers between us to prove that we are no longer inlove? Seasons have come and gone, the passage of time marked by the whispering winds of summer and the quiet melancholy of September. For how long must we persist to scour the earth for someone new to fill the others shoes?

Do not doubt that there have been others, for I have wandered through the corridors of time seeking solace after facing the reality of your absence; though none could replace the unique cadence of your voice, the way you lulled me with words, the way you breathed my name into the hollow of my neck.

Have you, too, found sanctuary in another's arms? Did they manage to provide the same reverence that you'd experienced from my hands? I ask, if I may, if you have experienced a touch as patient as mine, lips that tasted of desire and warmth that filled the silences between words? Has your heart risen like a crescendo, a wave crashing upon the shore, in the company of another?

Remember, as I whispered to you, 'Love is the only thing that time cannot touch.'

I have never spoken words more true. After all this time, my love for you remains an eternal flame, my guiding light, my morning star. Time itself bears witness to the enduring power of this ancient love, a love I will carry with me across the eons, through vast oceans of existence, down to the tiniest, most fragile inches of my soul, forever guiding me back to you.

If you too find that your heart still calls my name in the silence of your nights, then do write to me. It's time we end this madness, my dear love.

Yours, always,

Severus."

The room seemed to close in around you, the walls echoing with the echoes of your laughter and whispered confessions. Your owl, perched nearby, watches with unblinking eyes, as if understanding the depth of the pain embedded in every word.

As you finished reading the heartfelt letter, a profound sense of genuine happiness enveloped you like a warm embrace. In this unexpected moment, a radiant smile graced your lips, and your heart felt lighter than it had in years. The words in the letter had transported you back to a time when your love burned with an intensity that defied the world. It rekindled cherished memories of shared laughter, whispered confessions, and the depth of your connection.

It was as though the letter had unlocked a treasure trove of emotions that you had thought were lost to time. You felt a surge of joy knowing that, despite the passage of time and the trials you had faced, Severus still carried a flame for you. It was a validation of the profound bond you had once shared. The happiness you felt was not just for yourself but also for the recognition that your love had left an indelible mark on both your hearts.

This letter from Severus is a poignant reminder of a love that, despite its ending, still lingers like a haunting melody. You immediately grabbed your quill and began writing him back.

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kckt88 · 9 months

Text

Love Me Harder.

Summary:

Daera Targaryen, wife of Aemond, is thrown into turmoil when she receives an anonymous letter detailing her husband's infidelity with a mysterious witch at Harrenhal named Alys Rivers. The letter, shrouded in secrecy, raises the doubts and suspicions in Daera's mind, and as she grapples with the shocking revelation, she then has to decide how she will address the potential betrayal that threatens to unravel her relationship with Aemond.

Warning(s): Angst, Hurt, Fear, Possible Cheating, Doubt, Kissing, Schemes, Obssession, Death, Smut – Fingering, Oral Sex (M & F Receiving), P in V Sex.

Word Count: 3620.

MINORS DO NOT INTERACT!!

AEMOND x SISTER WIFE

Inspired by the song: ARIANA GRANDE & THE WEEKEND - LOVE ME HARDER.

Disclaimer: I do not own any of the House of The Dragon or Fire & Blood characters nor do I claim to own them. I do not own any of the images used.

Comments, likes, and reblogs are very much appreciated.

Taglist: @immyowndefender, @iloveallmyboys, @snh96,

With trepidation, Daera unrolled the parchment, her eyes quickly scanning the words that accused her beloved husband, Aemond, of having an affair with Alys Rivers, the alleged strong bastard witch of Harrenhal.

A mixture of emotions coursed through Daera in a single moment - betrayal, anger, and a deep-seated sorrow that threatened to consume her. The flames in the hearth flickered, casting endless shadows that seemed to dance in mockery of her shattered world.

Tears welled in her violet eyes as she clutched the parchment to her chest. The once-unbreakable bond between her and Aemond now seemed like fragile glass, ready to shatter at the slightest touch.

The weight of the unborn child within her seemed to intensify, as if sharing in their mother's anguish.

In the cold silence of the chamber, Daera found herself at a crossroads, unsure of the path that lay ahead, torn between the love she once knew and the shadows that now threatened to engulf her world.

The news of Aemond’s alleged infidelity had spread around the Red Keep like wildfire, many pointed whispers and sympathetic glances has been cast in her direction and it made Daera want to scream.

Even their own mother, she had clutched her seven pointed star necklace and wept endlessly that her favourite son was a deviant just like Aegon, and their grandsire for the briefest of moments had let his mask slip and the sour disappointment poured from him like water.

The anonymous nature of the letter had left Daera torn between confronting Aemond or seeking the truth independently, but as the whispering increased Daera was left with little choice.

Determined to unveil the truth and confront the spectre of betrayal that haunted her, Daera prepared for a journey to Harrenhal.

So, with her decision made, Daera gently cradled her swollen belly as she mounted her fierce dragon, Cannibal.

The air hummed with anticipation as the colossal creature spread his leathery black wings, casting a far reaching shadow over the Red Keep.

The rumours of Aemond's alleged infidelity with Alys Rivers, had ignited a fiery resolve within Daera—a resolve that now propelled her and her dragon towards the seat of House Strong.

Even with the war raging-Daera was determined to seek the truth, her Cannibal would protect her, and he would exact fiery vengeance upon Aemond and Alys if the rumours were proved true.

Either that or she would split Aemond from cock to throat with his own dagger, whilst Alys watched.

As Cannibal soared through the skies, Daera gripped her dragon's spikes, her long braided silver hair whipping in the wind.

The Red Keep shrinking in the distance behind her.

The chill of the high altitude was nothing compared to the ice that gripped Daera's heart at the thought of the impending confrontation with Aemond and his witch.

As Cannibal glided through the sky, Daera's mind raced with a cacophony of emotions—betrayal, anger, and a motherly instinct to protect the unborn child growing within her.

A number of hours after leaving Kings Landing behind, Harrenhal emerged in the distance, its sprawling ruined towers cutting through the horizon like rotten jagged teeth.

Cannibal circled the blackened ruins a couple of times before landing within the castle's vast courtyard, the impact reverberating through the ancient stones.

Daera carefully dismounted, her violet eyes ablaze with determination as she spotted Ser Criston slowly walking towards her, the Hand of the King weary of the Cannibal who hovered protectively behind his rider.

“Princess, you should not be here”.

“No-I should not, but I need to see my husband” replied Daera as she slowly pulled off her leather gloves.

“His Grace is-“

“-Is what? Ser Criston, sequestered away in his chambers with his bastard witch” snapped Daera.

“You know of her?”

“Everyone knows of her-closeness to my husband” said Daera.

“Perhaps in your condition Princess you should not-“

“You will direct me to my husband Ser Criston, or I will have Cannibal burn you alive-I’m not in the mood” quipped Daera.

“As you wish Princess-this way” said Criston, eyeing the Cannibal with cautious fear.

The dragon was well known for his ferocious temper and his protective nature over his rider, she was the first to ever bond with the fearsome Cannibal and he was utterly devoted to her and if he percieved anyone as a threat he would react instantly.

Daera followed Ser Criston silently, curiously watching his white cloak brushing against the dirty floor with every step he took, it was a rather odd thing to focus on given the circumstances, but it served its purpose-a distraction from what she was no doubt about to face.

“Up there Princess-first door on the right” muttered Criston lowering his head as she walked past.

With each step, Daera ascended the winding stairs, her heart pounding in sync with the rhythmic sound of her boots against the stone floor.

The air within the tower grew heavy, fraught with tension as she approached the chamber where Ser Criston said her husband would be.

After taking a deep breath, Daera reached forward and pushed open the blackened wooden door that creaked loudly on its old, rusted hinges.

Aemond, startled by her sudden entrance, quickly rose from his seat, the dark haired Alys Rivers stared at her-a smirk plastered across her face.

The room shrouded in the eerie glow emanating from the fireplace.

A tense silence filled the room, broken only by the crackling of the hearth and the distant roars of Cannibal, still looming in the courtyard below.

“ābrazȳrys, what are you doing here?” asked Aemond (Wife).

“There has been a number of rumours about you taking another woman to your bed”.

“Daera I-“

"Aemond-Is it true? Have you been bedding Alys?" asked Daera her eyes glinting with a mixture of hurt and anger.

"Daera, you mustn't believe such baseless rumours. I am your husband, and I would never betray our marriage vows."

Daera however, was not easily swayed by her husband’s words.

"The rumours have grown too loud to be dismissed as baseless," replied Daera, her hand unconsciously resting on the swell of her belly. "I received an anonymous letter detailing secret meetings and whispered confessions. Tell me the truth Aemond”.

“Issa jorrāelagon, I swear to you on our blood and the honour of House Targaryen, I have not been unfaithful. I love you, and only you” replied Aemond firmly (My love).

“Making false statements based upon the sanctity of blood is dangerous my Prince” said Alys sweetly as she rose for her chair, the black fabric of her dress sweeping behind her like a giant shadow.

“False statements? I haven’t-“ exclaimed Aemond as he turned to face Alys.

“Sweet Princess, the truth often hides behind veils woven by those who fear them. Aemond may deny our connection, but the fire between us cannot be extinguished with mere words".

“Aemond what is she talking about?” asked Daera.

“She’s talking rubbish-don’t listen to her” urged Aemond.

"Aemond and I did share more than mere words, Princess. In the depths of the night, passion ignited between us like a wildfire. He may deny it to protect his honour, but I have no reason to lie” muttered Alys her gaze unwavering.

“I swear-I have not, Daera please-” said Aemond.

"-Love is a fickle thing. Perhaps your husband sought something in me that he could not find in you. Or perhaps destiny played a hand in our union,” said Alys.

“STOP LYING. We did not have an affair, and you know it. Why are you doing this?"

"Aemond, my love, you cannot deny what transpired between us. The passion we shared; the secrets whispered in the night – they are etched in the fabric of our souls” replied Alys a provocative smirk danced across her face.

"This is madness, Alys. I am married to Daera, and our union is bound by duty and love. I would never betray her, nor our family” said Aemond angrily, his jaw clenching.

"Love, duty – noble sentiments, but they pale in comparison to the fire that burns between us. You cannot deny the truth forever, my dragon” chuckled Alys, her laugh sending shivers down Aemond’s spine.

"Enough of these lies! What do you hope to gain by tarnishing my name and sowing discord between me and my wife” snapped Aemond his patience waning.

“Aemond-“ gasped Daera.

"I will not let your lies destroy everything I hold dear. I demand the truth, Alys. Why are you doing this?" gasped Aemond his frustration boiling over as he seized Alys by her shoulders.

“You” whispered Alys, her gaze mixed with defiance and desire.

“What?” exclaimed Aemond, releasing Alys and stepping away from her.

"I want you for myself. Daera is but a hindrance, a barrier between us. Our fates are intertwined, and the rumours were the key to breaking the chains that bind you”.

“You're the one who sent the letter” said Daera, her voice sharp with accusation.

"You would tarnish my name, destroy my marriage, all for your own selfish desires?"

"Love makes warriors of us all, Aemond. I would tear down the walls that keep us apart. The whispers were my way of bringing you to me, unencumbered by the burdens of your marriage” muttered Alys now circling Aemond like a predator closing in on its prey.

“Our marriage is not a burden-“ snapped Daera, taking a step towards Alys, but Aemond shook his head, warning her away.

"I saw it in the flames. A vision of a child, a child of fire and blood, born of the union between a dragon prince and a sorceress. It is our destiny, our legacy” said Alys her green eyes glinting in the darkness.

“I already have a child on the way” said Aemond, his eye never leaving Alys.

“-It matters not, mistakes can be taken care off”.

“N-No” muttered Daera as she cradled her swollen stomach protectively.

"From the moment you arrived on the back of Vhagar, I knew. The flames spoke to me, foretelling a union that would change the course of history. I have watched you, yearned for you, and the whispers were but a means to bring us together” urged Alys.

"My duty lies with my wife and the child she carries” retorted Aemond.

"Aemond, the power we could wield, the legacy we could leave. It surpasses the bonds of marriage and duty. Our child would be a beacon, a symbol of the union between dragon and magic” said Alys rubbing her palms together.

"Your visions and desires do not absolve you of the harm you've caused. I will do what I must in order to protect my family from this madness”.

“You seemed to enjoy my madness when it brought you victory” snarked Alys.

“Not at the cost of my marriage, I have no desire to sully myself with the likes of you”.

Undeterred by his resistance, Alys approached him with an otherworldly grace.

"As I said, whispers were but a means to an end. A way to break the chains that bound you to Daera. Our union would birth a new era, a dynasty unmatched in power and glory."

"I will not let you destroy my wife and tarnish the honour of House Targaryen. Our blood is sacred, not a pawn in your twisted games” said Aemond, stepped back, his resolve unwavering.

Alys watched with wild fury, as Aemond embraced his wife, his hands cupping her face gently.

“I’m sorry, my love. I should never should have doubted you” exclaimed Daera.

“Issa prūmia, it's not your fault. Alys manipulated us all, and the rumours were a poison none of us could escape” replied Aemond pressing a kiss to his wife’s lips (My heart).

"No, Aemond. I should have trusted you, and believed in the love that has bound us. Instead, I let the shadows take hold. For that, I am truly sorry” sobbed Daera, tears rolling down her pale cheeks.

“Our love is stronger than the schemes of those who seek to tear us apart” whispered Aemond wiping away his wife’s tears.

"I was blind to the truth, but now, I see. We cannot let Alys Rivers' deceit define us. Our family and our child, deserves better” replied Daera, pressing her face into Aemonds shoulder and inhaling his familiar scent.

"We will rebuild, Daera. Stronger than before. The flame that binds us will endure”.

Alys scoffed at the declarations of love and forgiveness. This was not how it was supposed to be, Aemond belonged to her, not his silver haired bitch.

As the minutes passed Alys, grew more envious and resentful, her mind screaming at her to rid Aemond of his wife once and for all, so she drew a concealed dagger from the folds of her dark garments. The cold steel glinted ominously in the flickering torchlight as she advanced with malicious intent.

“You stole him from me. He was mine, and you took him away” hissed Alys, the venom in her words cutting through the silence.

With a feral snarl, she lunged at Daera, the dagger gleaming in the dim light.

Aemond, fuelled by a potent mixture of anger and determination, turned sharply, and withdrew his sword, clashing blades with Alys, the clang of connecting steel echoing around the chamber.

Alys rounded on Aemond her green eyes alight with fury, she let out a roar of rage and lunged forward, waving the dagger wildly in front of her.

“If I can’t have you-then no one can” screamed Alys.

In a surge of fury, he parried her frenzied attacks, his eye ablaze with a determination to end the twisted game Alys had orchestrated.

Daera watched as Aemond engaged Alys with his steel, he was skilled with the blade and could have ended her in seconds, but he seemed to be toying with her, almost deriving some sort of pleasure from allowing her to believe she had a chance.

Eventually Aemond grew bored with Alys and with a swift and precise movement, his sword found its mark, piercing through Alys's defences. The room echoed with the clang of metal, followed by a haunting silence.

Alys, her eyes widening in disbelief, crumpled to the cold stone floor, her hands pressing against the oozing wound.

"You sought to taint the honour of my house, to use my blood for your selfish desires, "I will not allow it" declared Aemond, his voice cutting through the silence.

Alys, defeated and gasping for breath, met Aemond's gaze.

“You're a manipulator, Alys, a puppeteer pulling the strings of our lives for your own whims. You've endangered my family, and the life of my child”.

"Love and power often come at a cost. But with me, you could’ve had everything” chuckled Alys, her wheezing laughter echoing through the chamber.

“I already have everything” said Aemond firmly.

Daera sat on the bed and watched the blood pooling around Alys, her crackled wheezes still emanating round the chamber.

“I-I spent nights laying in that bed, wishing to hold you were here with me”.

“I’m with you now” replied Daera.

Aemond smiled slightly as he leaned forward and pressed his lips against hers.

His heart was pounding in his chest, it had been so long since he’d experienced any form of intimacy and the mere touch of his wife’s lips upon his was enough to reignite that spark in his blood.

He wanted her, in every way possible. He wanted to sink his cock into her and bask in the feeling of her wet heat wrapped around him once again.

“W-What about?-” asked Daera cautiously as she looked over Alys’ prone bleeding body.

“-Let her hear what she could never have” growled Aemond, his voice low and raspy.

Her first thought was to refuse, it would not be proper to fuck her husband in the company of another, but her second thought was to allow Aemond to give her every ounce of pleasure that she’d sorely missed in the weeks they’d been apart, and the vindictive part of her wanted that witch to hear how Aemond would make her beg for his cock, she wanted Alys to hear every single moan, gasp and plea before she eventually succumbed to her wounds.

So, Daera shimmed out of her riding gear and laid on the bed. Her body had of course changed over the weeks they were apart and Aemond’s eye hungrily devoured the curves and comfortable roundness.

Aemond discarded his clothes double-quick and gently laid down next to her. His mouth claimed hers and his teeth pulled at her plump bottom lip.

Moving his hand down her body, he slid two long fingers into her cunny and speared them in and out of her at a slow gentle pace.

His palm bumped against her clit with each movement of his hand.

“Oh, Aemond” moaned Daera desperately.

Aemond withdrew his hand from her wet centre and manoeuvred himself down the bed, leaving a trail of wet kisses on her skin, as he reached his desired destination he hooked his hands around her thighs, and his mouth descended on her cunny.

Ravenously, he pressed into her core with his tongue. Daera clutched at his head with one hand, whilst her other hand fisted the sheet.

Aemond withdrew from her soaking wet core and lashed hard at her clitoris with his tongue, pulling on it with his lips. He was hard, fast, and brutal, alternating between her assaulted bundle of nerves and drinking deep from her cunny.

Daera ground down on Aemond, his tongue speared deeper inside her, as she felt the warm curl of her peak approach.

Yet Aemond withdrew and Daera whimpered with frustration at the denial of her peak.

“So wet for me” muttered Aemond, his voice husky.

"P-Please Aemond. I-I need you” moaned Daera.

Aemond smiled as he turned her over to her side and began suckling on her exposed neck.

"I want to feel you come all over my cock" growled Aemond.

Aemond lifted her leg and slowly slid his cock into her cunny.

Daera grabbed hold of the sheet, and closed her eyes, letting out a gratifying moan.

Reaching back, she entwined her fingers into his long silver hair and whimpered, "More, Give me more".

Once Aemond was fully sheathed, he carefully grasped hold of her waist and started to slowly thrust into her.

"Daera, my sweet wife. How I’ve missed the feeling of your tight wet cunny squeezing my cock” exclaimed Aemond, his hot breath caressing her neck.

After weeks without her delectable body to satisfy his ravenous sexual appetite, Aemond felt the need for release quickly spread across his body.

Daera was so wet that he almost lost his grip and slipped out, but he managed to remain ensconced within her as he continued to thrust into her sweet tight cunt.

The sweat off her back rubbed against his chest and her moans and muffled groans were sweet music to his ears.

Aemond snaked a hand between her legs and rubbed her clit repeatedly until the rise of heat engulfed her and toppled her right off the edge.

"Aemond, don't stop, my love" gasped Daera, her cunny clenching his cock.

“Fuck, Daera. Yes, that’s it” moaned Aemond thrusting one final time as he exploded deep inside her, rope after rope of his seed painting her inner walls.

Aemond buried his face in her shorter silver hair and breathed in her familiar scent.

As he went to pull his softened cock from her, Daera stopped him.

“Let’s just stay like this a little longer. Please”

Aemond nodded and pressed closer to his wife’s warm body.

A feeling of pure love shot through him, as he nuzzled the back of her neck with his nose.

“You have no idea how many nights I dreamt of you, wishing that you were in my arms again” whispered Aemond.

“I had those same dreams my love” replied Daera, sighing with contentment.

She was back in her husband’s arms, and she never wanted to leave.

Eventually Aemond pulled his softened cock from his wife and pressed a kiss to her shoulder.

Daera cupped her round stomach and slowly rolled onto her back.

Aemond placed his hand on her stomach and smiled as he felt the movement within, their little dragon, he couldn’t wait to hold his babe in his arms.

“D-Do you think she’s dead?”

“Hm” muttered Aemond as he slowly rose from the bed and pulled on his breeches.

Alys’ eyes stared unblinking at the ceiling, her chest no longer moving. Aemond gently nudged her with his foot, and she remained unmoved.

“She’s dead” said Aemond as he reached down and closed Alys’ eyelids.

“Mayhaps we should have her removed from here” suggested Daera.

“I will request-“ muttered Aemond as an urgent banging sound on the door interrupted him.

Aemond hesitated for a brief moment so Daera could properly cover herself with a sheet.

“Your Grace”

“Cole-“ said Aemond as he wrenched open the door.

“Apologise for interrupting but-is she dead?” asked Criston as he spotted Alys.

“Yes, never mind about her-what’s wrong?” questioned Aemond.

“A raven has arrived-Kings Landing has fallen“.

#house of the dragon #aemond targaryen #hotd aemond #aemond fanfiction #hotd fanfic #aemond x oc #aemond fic #aemond x original female character #hotd fic #aemond #aemond one eye #aemond smut #prince aemond #aemond targaryen x oc #hotd smut #hotd #alys rivers

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zeciex · 3 months

Text

A Vow of Blood - 83

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 83: The Death of a Son

AO3 - Masterlist

The halls of Dragonstone lay shrouded in silence, the stillness seeping into every crevice, deepening the shadows that clung to the ancient stone walls. Daemon moved through these dim corridors, his footsteps reverberating softly in the quiet. The weariness of a long day of training weighed heavily on him, each muscle straining under the fatigue, particularly along the curve of his spine and his right shoulder. Though aged had tempered his body, he remained strong and resilient, familiar with the depths of his endurance and how to push beyond his limits.

He had hoped the rigorous training would quell the restlessness that churned within him—a simmering irritation and agitation that coiled like a serpent beneath his skin, driving his need for action. The physical exertion, however, had done little to alleviate the restlessness prickling at his fingertips, refusing to dissipate.

“My prince!” A voice called out, halting Daemon in his march towards the Chamber of the Painted Table—where he’d lend his voice to the efforts of war.

Daemon turned to see Maester Gerardys approaching, his face carved with shadows that accentuated a deep, solemn sadness. The maester’s chains clinked softly with each step, swaying from his neck to below his belly, draped over the plain gray robes characteristic of his order.

Gerardys moved with a noticeable heaviness, his brows lifted in an expression that blended sympathy with a touch of fear. Daemon’s gaze sharpened, his spine straightening in anticipation of the news the Maester bore.

“A raven has flown in from Storm’s End…” Maester Gerardys began, his voice trailing off as Daemon turned fully towards him, a steely resolve hardening his features.

Daemon’s immediate thought was that Storm’s End had refused to heed Rhaenyra’s call—cowards and lickspittles, every one of them. If House Baratheon had declared to the usurpers, they had chosen the losing side, and he would ensure they faced the consequences, as would all who stood against them.

“It is the prince…” Maester Gerardys continued, hesitating and looking down at the small note in his hand. “He’s… he’s been slain—”

Daemon snatched the note from Maester Gerardys, unfurling it with a swift motion. His heart hammered wildly in his chest, dread and rage spilling into his stomach. As his eyes scanned the scribbled words of the parchment, the weight of the news settled heavily upon him, his heart sinking into the pit of his stomach.

It grieves me to inform you that Prince Lucerys Velaryon is dead. House Baratheon welcomed the prince, and he delivered his missive. Discussions arose, and Prince Lucerys made to leave when Prince Aemond demanded that a debt be paid, insisting that Prince Lucerys put out his eye as payment for his own. Prince Lucerys refused and left. No blood was spilled beneath my roof, I assure you. What transpired occurred in the skies above Shipbreaker Bay.

I have sent my men to scour the coast of the Bay for the remains of the boy, if there is anything left for them to find. House Baratheon condemns Prince Aemond’s actions against the Princess’s son. No blood was spilled within our halls, and guest rights were upheld. I offer my condolences, and those of my house, for what happened to the young prince.

Borros Baratheon, Lord of Storm’s End

The words confirmed his worst fears, each sentence like a blow, draining the color from his face. The scribbled note detailed the death of Lucerys, and the grim truth of what had happened once he arrived at Storm’s End.

An ache formed at the back of Daemon’s throat, his chest tightening as he read over the words again, as though needing to reaffirm them. He gritted his teeth, swallowing his emotions, allowing them to cut down his throat and fester in his stomach, steeling himself against the tide of grief and rage threatening to consume him.

Daemon rolled the parchment tightly in his hand, his grip like a vice. He blinked against the prickle of tears that burned at the back of his eyes and turned on his heels, forcing himself to move forward, leaving Maester Gerardys behind. A dismissal wasn’t necessary; Daemon knew it was his responsibility to deliver his news to his wife personally. It should come from him.

As Daemon strode through the dimly lit halls, his footsteps echoed with a somber resonance, each step heavy with the weight of the news he carried. The burden felt like a tangible cloak upon his shoulders, pressing down relentlessly. Dread coiled and writhed in his stomach, a restless serpent, as he anticipated the impact his news would have on his wife. A twist of fear slipped between his ribs and lodged itself in his heart at the thought that this news might break her, might shatter her so completely that she could not put herself back together again—loss compounded, wave after wave of it; Viserys, her throne, Daenera, Visenya, and now, Lucerys. It was a fresh wound cutting through her already bleeding heart. His fist curled tighter around the letter, the parchment bruning against his palm as his skin tightened over his knuckles.

No, it would not break her completely—it could not. Rhaenyra was strong, she was fierce, she was a dragon.

The weight of his grief and anger settled deep within his bones, a cold heaviness that seemed to anchor him, slowing his movements as he advanced through the castle. He pushed his own grief down, forcing his emotions into the back of his mind, letting it linger like a shadow trailing after him.

Reaching the Chamber of the Painted Table, Daemon halted just outside, poised at the threshold, hidden from view. The archway loomed before him, a daunting barrier between him and the devastation he was about to impart. He closed his eyes and drew in a deep breath, the tightness in his chest persisting, the cold weight settling more firmly upon him. He steeled his expression, and then, pushed forth.

Daemon entered the room, shoulders taut and head low. A low murmur of conversation hung in the air as strategies and plans were deliberated, though to him it was nothing more than a distant buzz. His wife stood at the head of it all, framed by the crackling hearth behind her and the long, intricately carved table before her, candles burning and sputtering among the markers for allies and foes.

He moved through the bustling scene like a blade cleaving through flesh, his presence commanding. He felt her eyes on him, could almost sense the erratic beat of her heart as she watched him approach, a silent understanding–and anticipation of—the ill tidings he brought.

Their eyes met, hers searching and inquisitive, a light furrow on her brow as she seemed to note the solemnity in his expression. Daemon reached for her, gesturing for them to step away from the Painted Table, seeking a moment of privacy to deliver the news of her son’s passing. The room, filled with advisors and lords, seemed to blur into the background as they moved towards the hearth.

His hand found hers, her skin warm and soft against his own calloused and weary fingers. There was a heartbeat of hesitation, the weight of the moment pressing heavily upon them. The low murmur of discussions had faded into a tense silence only filled by the knitting fire and the wind howling outside.

Finally, the words managed to find his lips, laden with sorrow, “Your son, Lucerys… He and his dragon have been slain by Aemond Targaryen.”

The revelation seemed to strike her like a blade, twisting cruelly into her stomach and arching upwards towards her heart. She drew in a sharp breath, swallowing whatever cry that might have emerged. Her brows furrowed together, and her eyes searched his desperately for any sign that it wasn’t true. Daemon could offer nothing but the cold bite of reality—her son was gone.

Daemon watched as the impact of his words washed over her, her face a canvas of raw, unfiltered pain. He wished he could shield her from this agony, but the truth was an unyielding force. “I’m so sorry, Rhaenyra…”

He squeezed her hand, a steely resolve hardening his voice. “I swear to you, my love, we shall avenge your son.”

Rhaenyra’s hand slipped from his grasp, the warmth of her touch leaving a burning ache on his skin. He longed to reach out to her again, to hold her close, but he stepped back, offering her the space she needed. He watched as she struggled to reconcile with the devastating news, her breath hitching and her eyes brimming with unshed tears.

Daemon stood silently, his heart aching, but his face set in a mask of determination. He understood that she needed this moment to herself, to process the loss and grief that threatened to overwhelm her.

“Rhaenyra…” Daemon’s voice was barely a whisper as he watched the devastation rip through her. A broken inhale shuddered through her body, her hands clawing at her stomach, grasping at anything as though she could claw out the pain. Her body folded in on itself, her face contorted with raw grief and agony. A strangled cry tore from her throat, a sound broken and harrowing, cut short as she swallowed the sob—the sound more horrifying than the ones she had released during the agonizing labor of their child just days ago.

The cry seemed to claw its way into existence, echoing off the stone walls and reverberating through Daemon’s body. He felt it as though it broke his chest apart, the force of her anguish snapping his bones and rendering his heart to nothing but torn flesh.

In the midst of that terrible, awful tearing, an ember of rage ignited within him. It smoldered, feeding off the pain and growing into a fierce, burning resolve. Daemon clenched his fists, the fire in his chest growing stronger, fueled by the sight of his wife’s suffering.

As she teetered on the brink of collapse, Daemon moved towards her. Her knees wobbled, but she steadied herself before he could reach her, inhaling sharply and muffling her sob as she regained some composure. A palpable change enveloped her—a chilling, ghastly transformation—as if the air itself ignited in flames around her. With a vengeful expression, she spun to face the map of Westeros, her skin illuminated by the orange glow that seemed to consume her. Her eyes blazed with a fierce intensity.

Her gaze swept across the room, locking briefly with each set of eyes that dared meet hers. Her brows furrowed, deeping with each pass, as another surge of sorrow seemed to wash over her. The fire in her eyes flickered and waned, doused by the waves of grief, stealing her away from the flames of rage and dragging her out into the sea of sorrow.

It was an awful thing to watch her choke on it.

Her desperate eyes seemed to search each face surrounding her, seeking a glimpse of the son she lost, before her gaze finally settled on Daemon.

Daemon shared a silent exchange with her–a moment of a silent question and quiet answer. He reached for her, but she held up her hand, the moment stretching as a visible shudder passed through her, and she inhaled deeply, seemingly knitting herself together to maintain some semblance of composure. Her gaze then shifted towards Lord Bartimos Celtigar and her councilors.

“I must recuse myself, my lords,” she managed to say, her voice thick with sorrow and trembling with barely contained emotion. Without waiting for their response or even a nod of acknowledgement, she turned away.

Rhaenyra moved through the hushed room, each step measured and fraught with visible effort. The tension in her movements suggested that simply walking took great strength, each step laborious and pained.

The only sound that filled the heavy air was the mournful howl of the wind outside. Daemon’s gaze followed her as she walked away, tracing her descent down the few steps to the archway where she vanished from sight. He could feel the collective eyes of the room on him, sensing a growing restlessness as his fingers twitched at his sides. Then, a heart-wrenching cry echoed through the hall–a sound raw and primal, like that of a wounded animal, embodying the despair of a mother bereft of her child.

A stunned silence thrummed throughout the room, with everyone seemingly holding their breath in shock and confusion–and a palpable dread that seemed to ring out in the space between her sobs. As Daemon made his way towards the archway, he felt the intensity of their stares prickling against his skin like needles. Their unspoken questions and the weight of their scrutiny felt almost tangible in the air, though none dared to give voice to their questions.

“Father,” Baela’s voice pierced the heavy silence, halting Daemon as she stepped down the stairs. He paused, turning to finally face the gathered lords and ladies who had answered their summons and bent the knee to their queen. His gaze shifted to his daughters–one whose face was wrought with worry, brow in a flat line and the corner’s of her lips downturned, and the other with tears pooling in her eyes.

“Stay,” Daemon instructed firmly, then swept his eyes over the assembly, silently commanding them to remain while he saw to his wife. He pivoted sharply, descending the last steps before passing into the hallway, following her haunting cries.

Daemon didn’t hesitate as he found her collapsed on the cold stone floor, her nails clawing desperately as her body was wracked by sobs, quickly kneeling by her side. When she turned to him, tears streamed down her face, eyes burning with grief. Each tearful gasp echoed off the stone walls, amplifying the agony of her grief as her fingers clenched his doublet, pulling herself into his chest as she sobbed uncontrollably. His arms encircled her, holding her close with a firm yet gentle embrace. Leaning close, he whispered into the top of her head, “We need to get you out the hall.”

Rhaenyra nodded.

Daemon carefully positioned her arms around his neck, her fingers gripping him tightly. With a firm arm scooped beneath her knees and the one securing her against his chest, he lifted her from the cold stone floor. Despite the strain it put on his body, and the protesting ache in his muscles, he managed to lift her, drawing in a deep breath as he did so.

He carried her through the hall, each step deliberate as he ascended the stairs to their bedchamber. As they passed, he issued a gruff command to Lady Elinda Massey without breaking his stride.

“Fetch the Maester,” he ordered, his voice a low rumble filled with urgency. His focus remained steadfast on Rhaenyra, ensuring her comfort despite the physical demands of carrying her had on his body.

As the lady-in-waiting hurried out the room, her footsteps fading down the corridor, Daemon gently lowered Rhaenyra on their bed and settled himself on the edge. His hand moved soothingly across her back, murmuring soft, comforting words against her temple as her body trembled under his touch, her cries of sorrow enveloping him like a cold tide.

He whispered a solemn vow in her ear, his voice a steady, quiet force amid her storm of grief. “Tolvie qūvy bona ropagon hen aōha laesi, kesi addemmagon zirȳ arlī ampa jēdi toliot.”

For every tear that falls from your eyes, we will pay them back tenfold.

He would deliver each of their treacherous heads on a silver platter for Syrax to devour if she so desired–all she needed to do was command it, and he would obey. And he would start with taking that one-eyed cunt’s head.

Daemon tenderly stroked her back, his touch meant as a quiet solace amidst the storm of her grief. Rhaenyra clung to him, her grip on his doublet desperate and unyielding, as if he were the sole tether keeping her afloat in a tumultuous sea of despair. Her fingers pressed into his flesh, her fear palpable–that he might slip away and leave her adrift.

“It can’t be,” Rhaenyra sobbed, her voice hearse and laden with fatigue, her words nearly lost in her tears. She leaned back to look into his eyes, her own red and swollen, eyelashes matted together with tears. The rails glistening on her cheeks reflected in the dim candlelight, her head slightly as if to deny the truth before her. Her brows arched in a plea for reassurance. “It can’t be–tell me it isn’t true, Daemon. He–he can’t–” She struggled for breath, her voice breaking, “he can’t be dead. He was just an envoy, not a warrior… I–I assured him it was safe, that he would be welcomed!”

Daemon attempted to offer comfort, reaching up to gently brush back her hair, his hand cradling the side of her face to anchor her as she spiraled deeper into despair. “Rhaenrya…”

“He can’t be dead,” Rhaenyra interrupted abruptly, her grip tightening on his wrist. Her nails dug into his skin–a sting that was almost comforting in its realness–as he choked down his own sorrow to steady her. “Please, Daemon. It can’t be true–”

“It is true,” Daemon whispered back softly, the gentle timbre of his voice was meant to soften the blow, yet the truth still cut deep.

“No,” she croaked in delian, her voice barely above a whisper. “It can’t be true–it can’t be… what happened?” Her eyes searched his for an explanation, desperate for something, anything, that might undo the grim news he had confirmed. “What happened? W–what happened?”

Daemon’s voice was heavy with the weight of the truth as he spoke, his eyes firmly on her. “Aemond Targaryen was at Storm’s End for the same reasons Lucerys was,” he explained, his tone deliberate and measured. “Lucerys had delivered his message for his Queen and made to leave when Aemond demanded he put out his eye for payment for his…”

Rhaenyra’s face contorted with raw anguish, her eyes wide and filled with disbelief as she searched Daemon’s face for some glimmer of hope. “And he took my son’s life for it?”

Daemon lowered his head, the fortification of his heart momentarily giving way to a flicker of grief of his own, and the sharp stab of anger. “Lucerys refused Aemond’s demand for retribution, and attempted to leave… Luke… Luke and Aemond clashed in the skies above Shipbreaker Bay,” he recounted solemnly, his voice thick with the gravity of the event.

“It must be a mistake. He could–”Rhaenyra started, her brows knitting together as she desperately clung to any other choice than the grim truth–that her son had met his end at the hands of Aemond Targaryen. “He could still be alive, right? He might have fallen into the sea…”

“Rhaenyra–” Daemon tried to interject, his voice laden with empathy.

“Or perhaps they’ve taken him hostage, like they did Daenera…” she continued, her voice pleading, gripping him with a desperate strength, her face etched with torment and hope.

“If they had taken him hostage, we would have received a raven from the Hightowers with their demands–”

“So we are to trust the words that tell us my son is dead?!”

The letter he had tucked away seemed to scorch the fabric of his trousers, its weight oppressive in the pocket where he had hastily stashed it to free up his hands. Now, Daemon carefully withdrew the damning parchment and placed it on the side table beside them. It lay there, a simple roll of parchment, yet its mere existence was a curse.

Rhaenyra’s gaze fixed on the rolled parchment, her eyes wide with dread–the terror of a mother bracing herself to confront the devastating words it contained. She drew a ragged, shuddering breath, tearing her eyes away from the note that delivered such heartbreaking news. Her gaze drifted aimlessly, unfocused as her face contorted with pain. The muscles twitched involuntarily as something seemed to dawn on her. Her voice was a whisper of horror, a mother’s guilt flooding through her in a crushing wave. “Did I send him to his death? Oh, gods, did I send him to his death?”

“No,” Daemon counted firmly, his touch intensifying with his insistence. “The blame lies solely with Aemond Targaryen and those usurper cunts who stole your birthright.”

“I can’t–I can’t do this,” she gasped, her face contouring with unbearable anguish as she clawed at him. “I can’t bear it–”

Daemon’s hands tightened reassuringly around her, cradling her face and bringing her forehead to his. His voice was resolute, yet tender as he murmured, “You can and you will.”

Her nails pressed into his wrists, the sting barely registering to him as he remained wholly focused on her. As he slightly withdrew, he noticed Maester Gerardys and Lady Elinda poised at the threshold of their bedchamber, ready to assist.

Turning his attention back on his wife, Daemon’s tone softened to a gentle whisper, “Let the Maester see to you.”

Daemon kissed her forehead gently, a soft gesture meant to reassure. As he drew back, he felt her grip on him loosen. Rising from the bed, he noted the deep frown etching her features, a look of utter desolation that mirrored the expression she had worn no more than days ago as they mourned the loss of their daughter–a visage marked by profound loss and emptiness, an echo of a woman. He turned away, his heart heavy, as he began to move towards the doors.

As he did, Maester Gerardys entered, their paths crossing in a silent exchange of roles. Daemon found himself at the threshold when her voice, fragile yet piercing, stopped him.

“You’re leaving me…” And though she didn’t continue the indictment, it was still there; again. When I need you.

The words hit Daemon like a physical blow, and he turned to face her again. Her eyes held a desolate scorn that seemed to almost burn, the glow of an ember in the fading light. He frowned, his response firm, “I’ll see to the council and come back.”

Rhaenyra’s gaze shifted away from him, a silent acquiescence to his necessary departure. With a heavy heart, Daemon left the room, the cho of her despair lingering in the air as he stepped out.

Daemon moved with purpose through the halls towards the Chamber of the Painted Table, his expression set in a deep frown, his thoughts consumed by the daunting steps ahead. His heart pounded heavily in his chest, the restless energy tingling at his fingertips as he quickened his pace. Each of his footfalls echoed off the stone walls, a low thrum of urgency that permeated the corridors.

As he ascended the steps into the chamber, a low murmur of conversations filled the air, but his arrival swiftly cut through the noise, commanding immediate silence. The room’s attention snapped to him, a palpable and solemn tension hanging in the air.

Daemon’s gaze swept over the assembled lords and ladies, each one shifting uneasily under his intense scrutiny. Their faces were etched with apprehension and worry, waiting for him to speak, to explain what had happened with their queen and the course of action they were to take. His eyes lingered briefly on each face, measuring their resolve and their fear, before he prepared to address the council.

His gaze drifted across the Chamber of the Painted Table to the hearth at the far end, where it burned brightly–where his wife had once stood at the head of the table. A twitch of his fingers betrayed his unease. He led his ground, choosing instead to remain at the opposite end, near the steps.

From this position, he commanded the room just as effectively. Daemon drew in a deep, controlled breath before his voice cut through the silence, firm and clear: “Lucerys Velaryon is dead.” He paused, then continued. “He has been slain by Aemond Targaryen.”

A palpable stir swept through the assembly, the room descending into a heavy solemnity. Corlys Velaryon, seemingly overcome by the news, stepped back from the Painted Table, the tap of his cane piercing the quiet as he sank into a chair. His hands gripped the cane tightly, head bowed in a silent shroud of grief. Beside him, Rhaenys placed a comforting hand on his shoulder, her presence a silent pillar of support.

Nearby, Rhaena turned and sought solace in her sister’s embrace, burying her face in the crook of her neck, seeking a refuge from the storm of emotions unleashed by the news.

Daemon continued, his stance firm and voice resolute, fingers twitching at his sides. “The Queen needs her rest.” His tone left no room for debate. “The council meeting will resume on the morrow.”

Rhaenys, her resolve evident despite the tremble in her voice, declared her own intentions, “I will take Meleys and return to patrolling the Gullet.”

Daemon nodded decisively, signaling his intention to conclude the council for the night and return to Rhaenyra’s side. However, as he turned to leave, his gaze fell on his daughters–Rhaena, her head bowed in sorrow, her hand pressed against her mouth to stifle her sobs, and Baela, gently rubbing her sister’s back, her own tears barely held back.

As the council began to disperse, the chamber filled with shocked murmurs and was heavy with apprehension. The shuffle of feet across the smooth floor created a low, continuous thrum. In this solemnity, Daemon approached his daughters. He placed a comforting hand on each of their shoulders, giving them a reassuring squeeze, a simple gesture.

He drew them close, enveloping them in a firm embrace–and though it was mostly to soothe their grief, Daemon found a semblance of comfort in holding them close. He had held them the same way once before, when their mother had died.

As they eventually stepped back, they moved only as far as his reach allowed, keeping his hands on their shoulders as he met their teary gazes. “You must be strong now. Rhaenyra will need you in the days ahead…”

Wiping away a tear and summoning a look of determined courage, Baela stood tall as she spoke, “We should take Caraxes, Meleys, Syrax, and Moondancer and fly to King’s Landing.”

Daemon responded with equal firmness, “You are needed here to look after and care for your younger siblings as their mother gathers herself.”

As much as Daemon wanted to mount Caraxes and fly to King’s Landing to lay waste to the usurper cunts, he knew that the city would undoubtedly be on high alert, with defenses primed for such an assault. They’d be expecting them and that put them at a disadvantage. He understood that confronting Aemond Targaryen would necessitate at least the strength of Meleys to stand any chance against Vhagar in aerial combat.

Yet, despite his readiness to seek vengeance, Daemon knew he could not act on his impulse without Rhaenyra’s explicit command–and perhaps, more importantly, she needed him here.

“The Greens would have prepared for an attack,” Daemon said, when Rhaena wiped the tears from her eyes with the back of her hand, adding, “And they still have Daenera…”

Daemon nodded, “If we attack now, we risk her life…”

“If we do not bring the fight to them, at least let me fly to the Eyrie and inform Jace of his brother’s death,” Baela argued, her resolve hardening as she pressed her point.

A surge of solemn pride swelled in Daemon’s chest as he observed his daughter’s readiness to act, her resolve reflecting the strength of her lineage. Despite the turmoil within him, a faint smile curved his lips as he gently but firmly refused her proposal. “I will have a raven sent in the morning.”

“But–” Baela started to protest, seeking to push her argument further.

“You are needed here,” Daemon interrupted, shaking his head to reinforce his point. “Moondancer is needed here to protect Dragonstone.”

Accepting her father’s decision, Baela took a deep breath, lifting her head high, and nodded firmly in acknowledgement. Daemon gave his daughters a final squeeze, releasing his hold on them. Then, turning on his heels, descended the steps and began the long, solemn walk back to the chambers he shared with his wife. Each step echoed through the halls, the night alive with the news of the prince’s death.

Daemon’s steps quickened as he approached the bedchambers he shared with Rhaenyra, his heart laden with the dread of finding her inconsolable. Upon entering, his eyes immediately sought the familiar comfort of their bed, but it was empty–a stark, unsettling void instead of the presence of the person he loved the most. He halted, a grown creasing his brow as he stared at the desolate bed, feeling his heart drop.

“Rhaenyra?” He called out, his voice encoding slightly in the spacious room.

Only silence greeted him, accompanied by the mournful howl of the wind sweeping over the ancient stones of the castle, as if lamenting in chorus with his own unease. The fire in the hearth crackled, the only other sound in the tense quiet. A shiver of apprehension ran down his spine, his fingers twitching nervously at his sides.

With a sense of urgency, Daemon turned and hastily exited the room, the doors closing behind him with a definitive thud. His footsteps thundered against the stone floor, each echo resonating through the darkened halls like a determined march, as he searched the castle for any sign of his missing wife.

As soon as Daemon spotted Ser Erryk and Ser Lorent standing outside the Chamber of the Painted Table, deep in conversation, he approached them briskly, biting out, “Have you seen Rhaenyra?”

The two Queensguard members bowed quickly, their expressions growing concerned. “No, my prince.”

Without pausing for further discussion, Daemon issued a crisp command, “Find her.”

He moved swiftly past them, his presence commanding immediate action. Behind him, he could hear the rustle of their armor as they sprang into motion, Ser Erryk falling in step behind him while Ser Lorent headed in the opposite direction, likely to alert the guards.

Continuing his relentless search, Daemon descended the serpentine steps and walked through another hall. There, he found Maester Gerardys in conversation with Lord Bartimos Celtigar. Both men stopped and greeted him with the same deference as the Queensguard had. Without breaking stride, Daemon turned his intense gaze upon Maester Gerardys, his voice sharp as he addressed Maester Gerardys, “Where’s the Queen?”

“My prince?” Maester Gerardys responded, looking momentarily taken aback, his eyebrows knitting together in both surprise and confusion, then continuing uncertainty, “She’s in your chambers…”

“She is not,” Daemon retorted quickly, his tone terse. His agitation was palpable, each word punctuating by a rising beat of apprehension in his chest.

The maester shifted uncomfortably, a look of concern crossing his features. “I made Her Grace a draught to ease her nerves and help her sleep,” he explained, his voice steady despite the growing tension. “She thanked me and dismissed me afterward–”

Daemon did not linger to hear more from Maester Gerardys; instead, he quickly pushed past, his strides hurried as he made his way down another flight of stairs towards the lower levels of the castle, descending into its bowels. The halls were dimly lit by flickering torches and glowing braziers, casting long, dancing shadows against the stone walls.

Accompanied by Ser Erryk, Daemon passed through the Library, a grand space with shelves reach up to the high, roughly hewn ceiling. It was a place where he had often found Rhaenyra lost in a book, bathed in the soft light streaming through the sparse windows. Tonight, however, the library stood silent, haunted by the echoes of their lineages storied past. The air was thick with dust moats and below the scent of aged parchment and the fire of the braziers, the scent of dragon reached them.

Apprehension pricked his skin, his heart pounding with increasing dread as they moved deeper into the castle. The familiar scent of dragon intensified, and a cold draft whispered through the corridors, adding a chill to the already tense atmosphere. In the distance, the low rush of waves against the cliffs at the foot of Dragonstone could be heard, accompanied by the mournful howl of the wind through the openings in the rock face of the Dragonmont.

As Daemon and Ser Erryk’s urgent footsteps resonated along the corridors, they penetrated deep into the cavernous expanse beneath the dragonmont, passing through an archway that led to the dragon landing. The cavern around them expanded massively, its edges swallowed by the enveloping darkness. Here, the thick smell of sulfur and dragon intensified–there was a usual comfort to be found in these familiar scents. Now, however, there was no comfort to be found–only a growing sense of urgency and dread.

A whistled roar suddenly split the air, echoing off the cavern walls and reverberating through the tunnels within the Dragonmont. The sound filled the vast empty space, twisting through the shadows and vibrating powerfully within Daemon’s chest–a clear expression of apprehension and frustration that echoed his own.

As they progressed, dragonkeepers emerged to meet them, carrying long staffs that towered above their heads. One of these keepers stopped directly in front of Daemon, bowing his head. The gesture, though respectful, did little to alleviate the palpable tension as Daemon prepared to engage with thim, his mind focused on the pressing need to find his wife. His fingers twitched at his sides, a visible sign of his growing frustration and agitation as he confronted the dragonkeeper, “Ñuha ābrazȳrys, skoriot iksis ziry?”

My wife, where is she?

The dragonkeeper responded with a solemn expression, the gravity of the situation reflected in his eyes. “Mazēdas Syraks.”

She left on Syrax.

Daemon’s frustration boiled over, his demand sharp and clipped. “Skorkydoso bōsa?”

How long?

“Daor bōsa, yn kesā daor māzigon zirȳla.” The keeper answered, the words heavy with a weight that seemed to echo in the vast cavern. His words hung in the air, suggesting a chase that might already be too late to begin. Not long, but you will not reach her.

Daemon exhaled deeply, lifting his gaze to the cavern’s ceiling, where the darkness stretched so thick and complete it seemed to swallow all light. His heart twisted with turmoil, and a vibration of frustration ran through him. He momentarily closed his eyes, attempting to ease the strain from his tense muscles, his agitation coiling within his chest like a serpent poised to strike.

How could she abandon her duties? How could she fly off to the gods know where without protection, without him?

“Skoriot?” Where?

“Naejuragon zirȳla eikon.” To face her loss.

A heavy weight seemed to drop into Daemon’s chest as he stared into the weathered eyes of the dragonkeeper. He was painfully aware of where Rhaenyra had gone and what she intended to do, yet a part of him had clung to the hope that perhaps he was wrong. Storm’s End offered her nothing; if any trace of her son remained, it would have been claimed by the sea. Worse still, the Stormlands had pledged their allegiance to the Greens–the enemy. Her decision to venture into enemy territory alone and undefeated was not just reckless, it was perilous.

With a sneer tinged with frustration and concern, Daemon bit out, “Se ao ivestragī zirȳla jikagon?”

And you let her go?

“Konīr iksin daor keligon zirȳla.” There was no stopping her.

Daemon pinched the bridge of his nose as he felt the onset of a headache. His chest tightened, the sensation almost like a physical constriction around his lungs. “Issa iā mittys naejot jikagon mērī.”

She was a fool to go alone.

With a deep breath, Daemon steeled himself and issued a command. “Osaishad Karaksys.”

Summon Caraxes.

The dragonkeeper’s response was measured, his expression somber with the knowledge he intoned, “Kessa daor āmāzinon, Ñuha dārilaros.”

She will not return.

Daemon’s hands balled into tight fists, the skin over his knuckles stretched taut as he clenched his jaw in frustration. The restless energy prickled beneath his skin, coiling tightly within his chest as he fixed a hardened gaze on the dragonkeeper. The keeper nodded in understanding of Daemon’s earlier command, then turned to signal the other dragonkeepers, who turned back around to call Caraxes forth and prepare the dragon for flight.

With a swift turn on his heels, Daemon headed back along the path he had come, Ser Erryk following closely behind. “Alert the guards that the Queen has left, and have them keep an eye out for her return. And inform Rhaenys.”

“Yes, my prince,” Ser Erryk replied, his tone respectful yet tinged with concern. After a brief pause, he ventured, “might I ask what you’re going to do?”

Daemon’s stride did not falter as he answered tersely, his voice echoing slightly as they moved through the library, their steps echoing off the stone walls as they wound their way back from the depths of the Dragonmont. “I’m going to find my wife.”

“And leave Dragonstone undefended?”

“Do you believe yourself incapable of protecting the royal family while I am away?” Daemon retorted sharply, his gaze piercing as he spun around to face Ser Erryk, who stopped abruptly. The white cloak of the Queensguard fluttered around him as he halted. Although Ser Erryk stood taller, Daemon’s intense glower seemed to diminish the knight slightly.

“No, my prince,” Ser Erryk responded, his voice steady. “But with the Princess Rhaenys patrolling the Gullet and you gone, you leave us without the defense of a dragon.”

“My daughter will be here to defend Dragonstone,” Daemon answered, turning to ascend the stairs, dismissing the knight's concerns. He could feel his patience waning, tethering on the terrible edge of a blade.

“Forgive me, my prince, but your daughter and her dragon are untested in battle,” Ser Erryk called out, holding his ground as Daemon paused and turned back, now standing higher on the steps and looking down at the Queensguard. “They are young–”

“You would have me abandon your Queen to fend for herself?” Daemon interjected sharply, his irritation flaring as he felt his patience snap. “Here I thought the Queensguard would wish to protect and defend their Queen…” He descended the steps to confront Ser Erryk more directly, his tone biting. “But I suppose you take your duty lightly, otherwise you wouldn’t have stood by and watched as the Hightowers usurped the throne. You and your traitorous twin.”

Daemon turned to walk away, granting Ser Erryk the opportunity to let the matter rest. However, Ser Erryk followed him, each of his footsteps echoing in the hall and push Daemon closer to the edge of his patience.

“No, my prince, Ser Erryk said, his voice firm, and his hand resting unthreatingly on the pummel of his sword. He stood tall, his expression solemn and serious. “I am ashamed by it. That is why I abandoned the Kingsguard, and my brother, and came here. I take my duty and honor–”

Daemon’s patience finally frayed completely, his voice snapping with unrestrained anger, stripping away any remaining pretense of civility. “I don’t care,” he retorted sharply, the frustration clearly sharpening his tone as he stepped closer to Ser Erryk, his face set in a sneer. “Aegon was in your grasp. You could have killed him yourself.”

“Arryk and I were named to the Kingsguard at just eight and ten,” Erryk responded, his voice firm with conviction as his expression hardened, his eyebrows knitting together as he stood his ground. “And we swore the same oath: to defend the whole of the royal family.” He paused, head shaking slightly with sad exasperation. “So what are we to do when they turn against one another?”

Fixing Ser Erryk with a long, asserting stare, Daemon’s eyes bore into the knight as he contemplated the cascading consequences of past decisions. If Ser Erryk had seized the opportunity to eliminate Aegon, the current strife might have been avoided–Lucerys would still be alive, and his wife would never be swallowed by her grief. The Hightowers would have found it a challenge to consolidate power behind a child or to crown that one-eyed cunt. The path to the throne for Rhaenyra would have been smoother if Erryk had set aside his notions of honor to take decisive action that truly protected his Queen’s claim.

His gaze intensified, laden with judgment. “The very least you could have done was protect your Queen’s daughter.”

The accusation struck a nerve. Ser Erryk’s gaze dropped, a visible flicker of shame crossing his features. “And it shames me that I could not,” he admitted quietly, his voice reflecting the depths of his regret over his failures. The Hightowers kept her tightly locked up after her attempted escapes. There were guards posted at her doors, and she was never alone. I regret that I couldn’t help her escape, but it was impossible. Had I attempted, I wouldn't have succeeded–I would be dead. I did what I could. I released Rhaenys and took the crown, and then I came here.”

Daemon absorbed the explanation, his frustration simmering beneath a stoic exterior. Finally, he responded, his voice cold and final. “That’s not enough.”

With those parting words, Daemon turned sharply on his heels and left.

Rhaenys methodically adjusted the last buckle on her armor, ensuring the armguard confirmed perfectly to the curve of her arm. She could feel the firmness of the cool metal through the thick tunic she wore beneath it as she reached for her riding gloves, crafted from supple leather. A heavy sorrow lingered in her chest, a constant and familiar companion once again making its presence known after receiving the news of Lucerys’s death. It eased only slightly when Corlys’s strong arms encircled her, pulling her into a comforting embrace. She melted into the warmth of his hold, her eyes fluttering shut for a moment. The anguish of losing Lucerys had settled deeply on her husband, robbing him not only of an heir and a grandson but also taking something else from him–something Rhaenys had already lost.

“Be careful,” Corlys murmured, his voice a soft, low hum that vibrated against her temple. His lips grazed her skin gently, each word infused with a tender urgency. His touch conveyed depths of unspoken fears and desperate hope, sending a clear, heartfelt message without words: I cannot lose you too.

Rhaenys responded with a gentle assurance, “I always am.”

She turned within his embrace to face her husband, her hands racing up to cradle his face tenderly. “We’ve endured losses before. We’ll get through this one too.”

Corlys leaned into her caress, his eyes revealing the unasked question that haunted him: Am I cursed to lose every heir I make? Rhaenys understood the depth of hope he had invested in Lucerys, the profound love he held for his grandson, bound not by blood but by another deep bond–a choice. He had been preparing Lucerys to succeed him as Lord of the Tides and Commander of the Velaryon fleet, placing upon him the same expectations and dreams once reserved for Laenor. Lucerys had been his legacy, his pride. The loss was another profound blow to his heart.

Corlys responded to her comforting words with a soft, reassuring kiss, their lips meeting in a moment of shared sorrow and support. After a brief, tender connection, he drew back, his dark eyes conveying both gratitude and resignation as he gently released her, nodding for her to fulfill her duties.

“I’m not sure when I’ll set feet upon solid ground again,” Rhaenys remarked, adjusting her boot where it pinched her leg uncomfortably, steadying herself with a hand on Corlys for balance. “There’s a council tomorrow, and Daemon will be restless, as usual–”

Her words were abruptly interrupted by a knock at the door.

“Enter,” Corlys called out authoritatively.

Ser Erryk Cargyll stepped into the room, bowing his bread respectfully. “Princess Rhaenys, Lord Corlys.”

“Ser Erryk,” Rhaenys greeted him, noting the solemn expression on his face and she felt a tightening of apprehension in the pit of her stomach. “What news do you bring?”

“The prince sent me to inform you that the Queen has departed from Dragonstone,” Ser Erryk announced, his hand resting on the pommel of his sword, his brow furrowed with concern, drawing a line between them.

Rhaenys’s gaze met her husbands, who voiced their shared concern first, “The Queen has left?”

“Yes, my lord.”

Rhaenys furrowed her brow, her voice laden with concern as she asked, “And what of Daemon?”

“The prince is… understandably worried that the Queen may be heading into danger,” Ser Erryk responded, his tone cautious.

A scoff escaped Rhaenys as she glanced down, fidgeting with the straps of her armguards.

“Of course, he is. We all should be, Corlys interjected with a measured tone, giving Rhaenys a significant look. Rhaenys returned the look with a lifted brow, challenging him to disprove her concern for her younger cousin.

Rhaenys shook her head slightly, a knowing expression crossing her features. “If I know my cousin well, he’d wish to go after her.”

Daemon, ever the impulsive one, had earned the moniker ‘The Rogue Prince’ for good reason, though under current circumstances, she found it hard to fault his urge to act. However, she understood that even if Daemon pursued Rhaenyra, she would not return until she had achieved what she sought–until she was ready to return. Rhaenys suspected that, deep down, Daemon recognized this truth as well, and she could only hope it would temper him.

“He cannot leave,” Corlys asserted firmly, his tone leaving no room for argument. “With the Queen absent, the council will need him to assume her duties.”

At this, Ser Erryk shifted, the sound of his armor rustling softly and his white cloak swaying behind him. “He intended to leave, but it seems he has reconsidered and called it off…”

“At least he regains some sense,” Rhaenys muttered under her breath, her words barely a whisper.

“Thank you, Ser Erryk,” Corlys said, effectively dismissing the knight. Ser Erryk bowed respectfully to both of them before exiting the room. Corlys then turned to Rhaenys, his dark eyes meeting hers with an expression that hovered between a shrug and exasperation. “The council meeting will be interesting.”

“I have a feeling that will be an understatement,” Rhaenys remarked, her tone laden with foreboding. “Temper him if you can, he shouldn’t be making rash decisions in place of the Queen.”

“Daemon may be reckless and impulsive, but age has tempered him,” Corlys replied, trying to reassure her. Despite his words, Rhaenys couldn’t help but scoff in disbelief. Undeterred, Corlys moved closer, placing his hands on her arms gently. “He understands his duty and will do anything to protect Rhaenyra’s claim.”

“That is what I fear,” Rhaenys answered apprehensively.

Corlys expression softened slightly at her words. He pressed another tender kiss to her brow, a gesture of support and affection. Rhaenys squeezed his hand in gratitude and acknowledgement, then walked past him and out the door.

With a heavy heart but a resolved demeanor, Rhaenys departed their chambers to make her way to the caves beneath the castle. Her footsteps echoed softly against the stone as she moved through the corridors of Dragonstone. A slight frown creased her brow, her thoughts with Rhaenyra and the profound grief that she must be enduring–a grief all too familiar to her own.

“Wait!” A familiar voice suddenly pierced the air, “Stop, Joffrey!”

Rhaenys halted, her foot poised to step into the flickering light of a new corridor. Her gaze followed the voice down the hallway where she saw her granddaughter, Rhaena, in a flurry of motion. Rhaena scrambled after a small, determined Joffrey, managing to thrust herself in front of him, effectively blocking his path. Rhaenys remained concealed in the shadows, observing the scene unfold as Joffre, bristling with frustration, tried to push past Rhaena. Despite his efforts, Rhaena’s hands clasped firmly around him, holding him in place even as he resisted.

“Where are you going?” Rhaena demanded, her brow furrowed with concern as she gripped him tightly, refusing to let go.

“I’m going to find my mother!” Joffrey retorted, his small fingers struggling to pry hers away. “And we’re going to find Luke and bring him back!”

Hearing Joffrey’s words, Rhaenys felt a pang of grief stab between her ribs, the loss of Luke piercing her heart anew. Her fingers clenched tightly around her riding gloves, a surge of sorrow gripping her. Meanwhile, Rhaena gently lowered herself to Joffrey’s level, her grip softening slightly yet remaining secure. Her voice shook as she tried to explain, “Luke is gone, Joff–”

“No he is not!” Joffrey’s scream echoed through the hallway, his defiance clear. “Mother will find him and bring him back, and I will help her–I will protect her and bring them back home!”

“And how are you going to do that?” Rhaena’s voice was gentle, her eyes glistening with unshed tears as she posed the question.

“I will mount Tyraxes and we’ll protect them together,” Joffrey declared resolutely, struggling to free himself from her grip.

“Tyraxes is too young to carry you,” Rhaena corrected him, her tone firm yet tender, not yet letting him slip away. “He can’t fly you all the way to Storm’s End–”

“I don’t care!” Joffrey shouted, then continued, “Then I will ride Caraxes or Moondancer; they’re big enough to make the journey!”

Rhaenys watched as her granddaughter fought to keep her composure, blinking rapidly to ward off the tears. A slight tremor tugged at the corner of Rhaena’s lips, her gaze softening and her head tilting slightly as she inhaled deeply. Her hands, previously firm around Joffrey, now gently rubbed up and down his arms, maintaining a comforting yet restraining touch.

“You cannot mount another rider’s dragon,” she gently informed the boy.

“Why not?”

“A dragon can only have one rider at the time,” Rhaena explained, her voice carrying a hint of sadness, even as she strived to remain composed. “You cannot mount another rider’s dragon; it won’t recognize you. If you try, it will throw you off or worse.”

“I don’t care, if Tyraxes is too small to fly to Storm’s End, I have to try! I have to take another dragon!” Joffrey protested, undeterred by the consequences such actions could have. His voice trembled then, thick with tears as he insisted, “I have to protect mother and find Luke.”

“I know you want to protect your mother, but I promise you, she will be fine–”

“You can’t promise that!”

Rhaena softened her approach, racing out to gently touch his shoulder. “Your mother is strong and fierce. She has Syrax with her to protect her. You know she won’t let anything happen to your mother,” she reassured him, hoping to ease his fears about his mother’s safety. “Rhaenyra will return to you soon.”

“And Luke?” Joffrey’s voice was a whisper now, a mix of hope and dread lingering in his question.

As Rhaena tried to maintain her composure, her expression faltered momentarily and she swallowed thickly, her distress evident even as Rhaenys observed her heartache from a distance. Finally, with a voice barely steady, she managed to say, “Luke is gone. He won’t come back.”

The words shattered the fragile calm around Joffrey, triggering his tears as he vehemently insisted on finding his brother and bringing him back and protecting his mother. Struggling free from Rhaena’s grasp, he pushed away from her, angrily wiping his eyes with the sleeves of his doublet as he shouted. “It’s not true! He is not gone! If you had a dragon, you could go and bring them back!”

Overwhelmed, he spun on his heels and dashed back to his room, slamming the door with such force that it echoed through the hall. Rhaenys stepped fully into the corridor then, her own heart heavy. She watched as Rhaena lingered crouched for a moment longer, then rose and wiped away her tears upon noticing Rhaenys approaching.

“Do not take his words to heart,” Rhaenys advised softly. “He is grieving and lashing out. He did not mean anything of it. It will take some time for him to understand.”

“He is not wrong, though,” Rhaena admitted, her voice breaking as the pain she felt was etched clearly on her face. “If I had a dragon, I could have gone with him–I could have protected him…” Her head shook and she looked down at her hands. “Maybe if I had been quicker, I could have claimed Vhagar,” she continued, her voice trembling as a sob broke through. Her eyebrows lifted in despair, tears welling in her eyes once more, “If I had claimed Vhagar, none of this would have happened–Luke would still be alive.”

Rhaenys felt the sting of tears in her own eyes as she reached out to her granddaughter, gently brushing a long lock of pale hair over her shoulder. She then firmly gripped her, meeting Rhaena’s grief-stricken gaze with her own steady one. “None of this is on you. The fault lies solely with Aemond,” she affirmed, her tone both soothing and firm, seeking to assuage the heavy burden of guilt Rhaena seemed to have taken on. “You are not to blame for his actions.”

“But Vhagar was my mother’s dragon,” Rhaena choked out, her voice faltering as she blinked back a relentless tide of sorrow, tears streaming down her cheeks. “If I had claimed Vhagar before Aemond–”

“A dragon chooses its rider,” Rhaenys interjected firmly, her voice steady. “I don’t know what Vhagar saw in Aemond, but she chose him as her rider.” Her hand gently slid to lift Rhaena’s chin, ensuring their eyes met again. “Regrets of the past do nothing for the present. You cannot torment yourself with ‘what ifs’–believe me, it will only haunt you. Vhagar made her choice, and we cannot say there would have been another outcome.

As much as Rhaenys wished to believe that Vhagar might have accepted Rhaena, had she attempted to claim her, she knew there was no certainty in the perilous ritual of dragon claiming. Vhagar made her choice; she had accepted Aemond as her rider, and nothing could alter that now.

“I feel useless,” Rhaena confessed, her large, dark eyes–so reminiscent of her mother’s–reflecing a depths of despair. “Baela is patrolling Dragonstone, and Jace is at the Eyrie. If I had a dragon, I could help, I could… I could be useful.”

Her voice trailed off, seeming to choke on the weight of her unfulfilled potential and the feeling of being sidelined at a time when every action could tip the scales. Rhaenys listened intently, her heart aching for her granddaughter’s feeling of helplessness in the face of such family responsibility and danger.

“There’s still time,” Rhaenys reassured gently, her eyes locking with Rhaena’s in a moment of comfort. “You are your mother’s daughter. I see so much of her in you.” Seeming to feel the weight of Rhaenys’s words, Rhaena leaned into her embrace, resting her cheek against Rhaenys’s armored collarbone, her arms wrapping tightly around her.

“You are Laena’s daughter, never forget that. And your mother was more than just a dragon rider; she was a force in her own right. So are you.” Rhaenys’s voice was firm and encouraging, emphasizing the strengths that lay within Rhaena beyond the legacy of dragon riding.

In the bedchamber, the fire crackled and sputtered within the hearth, casting a warm glow that fought against the creeping chill of the darkness. Daemon sat slumped in his chair, his gaze locked on the dancing flames, one leg bouncing with restless energy. A cup of spiced wine stood on the table beside the chair, the flagon at its side half-empty. Night dominated the chamber, its dark, heavy silence broken only by the occasional pop and hiss from the fire. Shadows flickered at the edges of his vision as he watched the flames twist and writhe.

He had dismissed the dragonkeepers earlier, sending Caraxes back to the hidden recesses of the Dragonmont. With Rhaenyra gon, the weight of the crown rested squarely on his shoulders, yet her absence left him feeling powerless, confined to waiting and watching.

The longing to follow Rhaenyra tugged relentlessly at Daemon’s heart, yet he remained in place. He harbored a deep desire to mount his dragon, fly to Storm’s End, and bring her safely back to Dragonstone. However, he knew all too well that she would never consent to such an action. Equally, while his instinct was to stand by her side as she grieved, he recognized that they could not both forsake their duties. The responsibility to defend her claim to the throne, especially in her absence, anchored him firmly to Dragonstone, compelling him to set aside his personal desires in favor of the greater need at the moment.

Irritation simmered beneath Daemon’s skin, his frustration mounting with each passing hour. He understood Rhaenyra’s need to mourn her son, yet he also knew the realm couldn’t afford for its Queen to linger long in her grief. Responsibilities to the crown couldn't be so easily set aside–not like his brother had done so often. His mind echoed with troubling questions: How long would she be consumed by her sorrow before she could return to rule? How long before the alliances of the great houses and their men began to waver in her absence? How much time could pass before their support crumbled completely?

As he gritted his teeth, a more haunting question emerged–would she ever return? The possibility that she might not twisted inside him like a knife, stroking the dark embers of fear and doubt that threatened to overwhelm his resolve. These uncertainties echoed ominously, feeding the shadows that flickered in the corners of the room, mirroring the turmoil within him.

Rhaenyra was queen now to a throne that had been usurped. She had to be a queen before a mother. The longer she remained absent, the weaker her claim became and the weaker their alliances grew. It pained him deeply that they had lost Luke, yet he recognized the necessity for them to remain steadfast. More was at stake than their personal grief–there were the futures and lives of their children, and the legacy of their house to consider.

Had they taken decisive action earlier as he had pressed for, their circumstances would be different. They would have been able to lay siege around King’s Landing by now, with the Hightowers facing justice, displayed on spies as a grim testament to their treachery, and Rhaenyra would be seated on her rightful throne. But they hadn’t heeded him. Instead, they had engaged in a drawn-out war of diplomacy and ravens.

Daemon pinched the bridge of his nose, feeling the persistent throb of tension behind his eyes. With a weary sigh, he reached for the cup of wine on the table beside him, quickly draining the remnants of its contents. The wine, rich with spices, briefly masked the sour taste that had settled in his mouth. Setting the empty cup aside, he leaned forward in his seat, elbows resting on his knees. He rubbed at the tension behind his eyes with the heels of his hands, pressing just enough to send a swirl of colors dancing behind his closed eyelids.

Lucerys had been like a son to Daemon–in truth, he was a son to him. Daemon had raised him since the boy was eight, witnessing his growth from a child into a young man. He had presented Lucerys with his first saddle for Arrax on his tenths birthday, and had proudly watched as he had mounted his dragon for the first time. He was there, too, when Lucerys had dismounted, albeit shakinly, losing his footing and hitting his head against the saddle before falling to his ass on the beach, his teeth leaving a permanent impression in the leather.

Daemon had overseen Jace and Lukes training with swords, joining the boys in mock battles and regaling them with tales of their father, Laenor, and his own battles in the Stepstones–and had at times mentioned Ser Harwin’s service under him as the Commander of the City Watch.

He had loved Lucerys, and yet, like so much else that was theirs, the Hightowers had cruelly ripped him away.

Part of Daemon felt a deep, gnawing responsibility for Luke's death. He replayed the events in his mind, knowing he should have been present at the council meeting when the decision was made. Instead, he had been patrolling with Caraxes, driven by his frustration. He should have advised Rhaenyra to send Rhaenys to Storm’s End—Rhaenys, with Baratheon blood in her veins, would have secured the allegiance of the blustering stag.

If Rhaenyra insisted on sending Luke, Daemon should have accompanied him. He should have done something—anything—to protect the boy. Now, the guilt weighed heavily on him, mingling with the cold fury that simmered just beneath the surface.

The relentless itch for action tingled at Daemon’s fingertips, a deep-seated need for decisive moves. Vhagar, the oldest and most formidable dragon alive, had witnessed the conquest of Westeros by Aegon and his sisters, Rhaenys and Visenya. She had survived a hundred battles and was part of the Targaryen legacy. He loathed to see such a historic creature destroyed, yet Daemon recognized the necessity of the act.

Eliminating Vhagar and her rider, that one-eyed cunt, would critically wound the Greens. With Vhagar gone, their most potent weapon against Rhaenyra would be lost, leaving them undefended. The only other battle-ready dragon they possessed was Sunfyre–a young, untested dragon ridden by their usurper king, whom Otto Hightower would hardly risk in open battle. Without Vhagar the Greens’ defenses and position would be severely weakened, diminishing their ability to maintain power.

Given Vhagar’s immense size and formidable battle prowess, Daemon know that facing her alone was tantamount to suicide. But Vhagar, for all her might and experience, had grown old and slow–this was to their advantage. Still, victory against such a behemoth would require more than just bravery; it necessitated more than one dragon. With the help of Meleys, he was sure they could take on that gaudy old bitch. Her agility and speed, coupled with Caraxes’ own strengths, would provide crucial advantage.

Daemon’s plan was to set a trap: he needed to draw Aemond and Vhagar away from the safety of King’s Landing and into an ambush where Meleys and Caraxes could engage them. By leveraging the combined might of the two dragons against the aging Vhagar, they could hope to overcome her defenses swiftly and with minimal casualties.

By successfully eliminating Vhagar and Aemond, Daemon could not only avenge Lucerys but strategically cripple the Greens. The loss of their strongest dragon and its rider would leave King’s Landing vulnerable and ripe for siege, especially with the Velaryon fleet starving the city of its recourse.

With King’s Landing surrounded, Daemon’s forces could press the city hard, leveraging their newfound advantage to compel the Greens into making concessions–most crucially, the release of Daenera.

Exhausted and infuriated, Daemon rubbed his brow, exhaling deeply. Just then, a soft knock at the door broke the silence of the room. There was no response from him, and yet the door slowly creaked open, allowing a frail stream of light to slice through the darkness, mingling with the flickering glow from the hearth. Daemon’s gaze shifted wearily to the figure hesitating at the threshold of his chambers, who, after a moment’s pause, gathered the courage to step inside.

Rhaena moved gracefully through the dimly lit room, her form draped in a loose dress covered by a robe. Her hair was neatly tied back, secured with silk–a trick she had picked up on from her mother. The firelight softened her delicate features, casting gentle shadows that accentuated a slight furrow in her brows as she looked at him. Her presence brought a quiet tension to the air as Daemon withdrew his gaze.

With a gruff exhale, Daemon leaned back in his chair, wearily pinching the bridge of his nose. “I’m in no mind to offer good company right now.”

“I know,” Rhaena replied softly, hesitating on the fringe of the hearth’s light before gathering her resolve once more and moving to sit in the chair opposite him. “But I don’t think you should be alone.” There was a moment of silence before she continued, “Joffrey tried to mount Tyraxes and fly off…”

Daemon let out a humorless, sardonic laugh, the sound tinged with disbelief. He shook his head slightly, turning his attention back to the flames in the hearth.

“He doesn’t understand that Luke isn’t…” Rhaena’s voice wavered, her emotions barely contained. “He doesn’t understand that Luke isn’t coming back. He wants to find his brother.”

Daemon poured himself another cup of wine then, with a gesture of subdued generosity, filled another cup halfway and slid it across the table towards Rhaena. She acknowledged the gesture with a gentle smile but left the wine untouched. Settling the flagon aside, Daemon took up his own cup, cradling it in his hands. He absentmindedly toyed with the foot of the cup, his blunt nails tracing the grooves etched into its surface.

They sat together in silence, the only sound the crackling of the flames, each lost in their own thoughts. The quiet stretched between them, a comfortable yet heavy blanket, until Rhaena finally spoke, her voice soft but carrying a sharp edge of pain. “If mother had been alive, Luke would be too…”

Dameon let out a breath, his voice laden with weary warning, “Rhaena…”

He closed his eyes briefly, signaling his exhaustion. Comforting words and reminiscing were beyond him at the moment; solitude with his thoughts were what he craved, and more than anything, he yearned to hold his wife close again.

But Rhaena did not heed his warning, her voice quivering with emotion, tears threatening to break through her composure. “Vhagar was mother’s dragon,” she said, the pain evident in her trembling words. “I can’t–she was mother’s dragon… If I had been quicker, if I had claimed Vhagar then–”

The volatile, restless energy that had been simmering within Daemon reached a boiling point. Abruptly, he slammed the cup of wine down on the table, the sound echoing like a thunderclap through the dimly lit room. Wine splaced from the cup, staining his hand and spilling over the table onto the floor. He fixed his daughter with a long, stern look, wrestling with the urge to lash out as frustration and grief mingled within him.

Rhaena, with her eyes wide and filled with unshed tears, stared at a spot on the floor, deliberately avoiding his gaze.

Daemon understood the pain behind her words–he knew that she was grappling with knowing that the dragon, who had once belonged to her fierce and gentle mother, Laena, had killed someone she loved. They had once chosen each other. Rhaena struggled to reconcile that her mother’s dragon could be part of the violence they now face. Daemon, however, was painfully aware of the harsh truth–that the bond between dragon and rider had perished with Laena, leaving Vhagar a different creature altogether, driven by new allegiances and the brutal instincts of its rider.

Claiming a dragon was more than an act of dominion; it was the forging of a deep and profound bond, almost as if their souls were intertwined. A dragon was not a pet but an extension of the baser instincts that reside within all beings, a tangible connection to a primal force dwelling within each person. A dragon was a weapon with a mind of its own, the greatest force of nature that existed and it was to be respected, revered and feared. When Aemond claimed Vhagar, their souls became intertwined, uniting rider and beast, man and his purest, most unguarded instincts. In response, Vhagar had become an instrument of Aemond’s will, embodying his desires and ambitions as only a dragon could.

Regret gnawed at Daemon’s stomach as he processed Rhaena’s expression. Reaching out, he took his daughter's hand in his own, enveloping it warmly as he offered the only comfort he could muster–a gentle squeeze. “A dragon is not a pet to be inherited. Vhagar chose Aemond as much as he chose her. There was nothing you could have done to prevent that. Aemond wanted Luke dead, and Vhagar acted on that desire. It was Aemond who killed Luke–his will, his desire. The bond between a dragon and its rider is profound.”

Rhaena’s voice was soft as she met Daemon’s eyes, her hand gently squeezing his. “Is it like that for all dragonriders?”

“It should be,” Daemon responded, a slight furrow on his brow. His thoughts briefly touched upon his own connection with Caraxes. To Daemon, Caraxes was more than just a dragon; he was an extension of himself, much like Dark Sister was. Riding Caraxes allowed him to embody his truest form: a fusion of immense power and potential for destruction, yet also a profound source of unconditional love and support. This bond was not merely about the might Caraxes brought to battle but also the deep, unwavering companionship he offered–he was a mirror of Daemon’s nature. “A dragon is both an extension of the rider’s will and a creature with its own nature. It is to be respected.”

Rhaena grew quiet.

Together, they remained seated in silence, each lost in their own thoughts.

After a while, Rhaena broke the quiet, bidding him goodnight with a soft voice. She then quietly withdrew, leaving Daemon alone with his contemplations. The room felt emptier without her presence, and the weight of his desired solitude pressed heavily on him as he sat back, left to wrestle with his thoughts in the flickering light of the dying fire.

As the first light of dawn filtered through the tall, narrow windows, the council convened with an air thick with solemnity. The Chamber of the Painted Table was tense as Daemon entered, the members of Rhaenyra’s council seated apprehensively around the table. Daemon moved with purposeful strides, his hands resting on the pommel of his sword, drawing a sense of comfort from its familiar weight on his hip as he assumed the position as the head of the table–a position rightfully belonging to his wife.

Lord Bartimos Celtigar adjusted in his seat, a frown creasing his features as he spoke warily, “The Queen?”

“Is indisposed,” Daemon replied curtly, his tone as sharp as the edge of his blade. His expression darkened as he continued, “The death of Lucerys has taken a toll on her, and she needs time to properly mourn her son.”

The night had dragged on slowly for Daemon, who had spent the hours gazing into the flickering flames of the hearth, lost in the solitude of his contemplation. His thoughts turned over their next strategic moves and how best to avenge his stepson’s death. Despite the growing unease in his heart, he had held onto a sliver of hope, waiting for Rhaenyra’s return. Against his better judgment, he had hoped she would walk through the door and take up her responsibilities once more. But as dawn crept in and the shadows receded, it became clear she would not return–not until she had found whatever she needed outthere. She had left him alone, burdened with the weight of continuing in her stead, steering their course forward without her.

Lord Simon Staunton shifted uneasily, the black wings upon a white fess emblazoned across his doublet standing out against the black and gray checkered background. He nervously fiddled with a ring on his fingers, clearly unsettled by Daemon’s intense glare. “Is it true that the Queen has left Dragonstone?

“She has gone to Storm’s End.”Lord Corlys Velaryon responded when Daemon remained silent, informing them of where their Queen had gone.

“Alone?” Lord Gormn Massey interjected sharply, his voice laden with exasperation. The idea that their Queen venturing out alone, without any protection, seemed not only foolhardy but utterly preposterous to him. His disbelief was evident, echoing the concerns of many in the room about the implications of such a decision.

Lord Corlys Velaryon attempted to calm the nerves of his fellow council members with a measured tone, his fingers tapping gently on the head of his cane. “The Queen has her dragon–”

“She is heading into enemy territory!” Lord Gormon Massey interrupted, his voice rising in alarm. “She could be walking into an ambush! The Hightowers have shown no qualms with spilling blood, and House Baratheon has declared for them, have they not?”

Corlys responded with a firmness that matched his calm, “House Baratheon might have declared for the Greens, but they are not likely to strike down a grieving mother and spill the blood of a Queen.” He paused, allowing his words to resonate before adding, “They know that should they harm her, Storm’s End would become a second Harrenhal.”

The room fell into a tense silence as the gravity of the situation settled over the council. Rhaena moved through the tense atmosphere, acting as the intermediary in the strained silence. She approached Lord Simon Staunton first, deftly pouring wine into his cup before turning to her grandfather to offer him wine as well. Corlys, however, gently placed his hand over his cup, signaling his refusal. He offered Rhaena a gentle smile, appreciating her efforts despite his decision to abstain. Acknowledging his gesture with a nod, Rhaena continued her duties, moving down the line to Lord Bar Emmon. He sat quietly, his eyes set on the table, seemingly lost in thought.

In the absence of Rhaenyra’s heir, Jace, and her sister Baela, she took up this responsibility as a cup-bearer.

Completing her service to Lord Bar Emmon, Rhaena crossed to the other side of the room to pour wine into Lord Staunton’s cup. It was then that he turned to Daemon, seeking reassurance. “When will she return?”

Daemon responded to the pressing question with a stern, silent gaze that swept across the faces of the council before he replied curtly, “When she is ready.”

Lord Bartimos Celtigar carefully chose his next words, aware of the tension thickening in the room. “We all mourn the loss of the young prince,” he began, his eyes slowly scanning the council members, who all nodded in agreement. His hand rested on the Painted Table, a gesture indicating the gravity of his next statement. He then lifted his gaze to meet Daemon’s, continuing, “But we cannot hold off–”

“I agree, Lord Bartimos,” Daemon interrupted, his voice firm, cutting through any further elaboration. “Which is why I stand in her place.”

His statement was clear, signaling his temporary assumption of Rhaenyra’s duties and authority.

Lord Bartimos, seeming to recognize the finality in Daemon’s tone, averted his gaze in a gesture of deference. He seemed to sense Daemon’s rising agitation–as did the rest of the council–and chose not to challenge him further. Daemon was not in the mood for prolonged discussions or objections. He was familiar with the tension building within him, a craving for the clear-cut simplicity of the battlefield, rather than the complexities of court politics, and while he’d wage war in Rhaenyra’s name, there was little he could do without her final decision.

Just then, Lord Gunthor Darklyn interjected with a new concern, shifting the focus of the conversation. “Has Prince Jacaerys been informed of his brother’s passing?”

With a swift, almost exasperated gesture, Daemon produced two rolled parchments from his pocket. Each was neatly sealed with red wax, embossed with the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen. He set the letters down on the table, clearly intended for dispatch.

“Have these letters sent to both the Eyrie and Winterfell,” he instructed crisply.

“Yes, my prince,” Maester Gerardys responded, his voice a calm contrast to Daemon’s terse command. He rose from his seat, his movements measured as he rounded the table. The maester’s chain clinked softly with each step. And while picking up the two letters, said, “I will send them immediately.”

“No need,” Daemon answered, dismissing the need to make haste of it.

Maester Gerardys returned to his seat, laying aside the letters that would be sent after the conclusion of the council meeting.

Daemon had contemplated how to break the news to Jace, and had finally settled on being direct:

It grieves me to inform you, but your brother, Lucerys, is dead. He was slain by Aemond Targaryen after leaving Storm’s End. Your mother has left Dragonstone in her grief, and her return is uncertain. I will send a raven once she returns, but until then, you must ensure that our alliances are solidified. Your mother will need the support of the North and the Vale in this war. Lay aside your grief and fulfill her duty as her heir.

Daemon recognized that no further words could change the necessity of their situation. The support of the Vale and the North, as a whole, was crucial, and he trusted that Jace would understand the gravity and respond accordingly.

Lord Bartimos Celitgar, showing visible signs of agitation, seemingly couldn’t contain his frustration any longer and let out a heavy huff, shaking his head in disbelief. “The murder of Prince Lucerys will shock the realm,” he asserted, voice tinged with both anger and conviction. “We must inform the great houses of the nature of this treachery. If they have not declared for us, they will now. Kinslaying will not win the usurpers any supporters…” He continued to shake his head, the disgust palpable in his expression. “None are so accursed as the kinslayer, and Aemond Targaryen has doomed himself with this wretched act.”

Corlys Velaryon’s voice carried a mix of concern and urgency as he turned to Maester Gerardys. “Is there any news from King’s Landing?”

“Nothing yet, my lord,” the maester responded with a measured tone, shifting slightly in his seat. “If there is any information to come out of the Red Keep, we should receive it shortly–within a matter of hours, maybe days.”

Daemon addressed the council, stating firmly. “While the Queen is away, we will continue our efforts. How does the Velaryon fleet stand?”

Corlys Velaryon straightened in his seat, his presence commanding as he turned his attention from Daemon to the rest of the council. “The fleet is slowly moving into position, my prince. The shipwrights are tirelessly working day and night to repair the ships that took damage in the Stepstones. Within the fortnight, we expect at least seven of those ships to be seaworthy enough to join the rest of the fleet as they position near the Gullet. Once all of the ships have been repaired and are ready to set sail, we’ll be able to completely seal the Gullet.” He paused, assessing the impact of his words before continuing. “Currently, Rhaenys manages to prevent most ships from entering or exiting Blackwater Bay, though not all. However, King’s Landing will soon start to feel the effects of our blockade, if they haven’t already.”

Corlys then turned his gaze back to Daemon, his expression serious. “If you will permit, I would like to return to Driftmark to personally oversee the repairs. I will keep you well informed of our progress.”

Daemon responded with a measured nod, signaling his approval. He stood, his movements signaling a shift towards the conclusion of the council’s discussion. “When the Queen returns, we shall inform her of our progress. I want to be kept informed about everything happening in King’s Landing as well as the Stormlands.”

He paused, his gaze sweeping over the council members to ensure he had their full attention. “Send raves–inform the realm of the usurpers and their act of kinslaying.”

Then, pausing for a moment to let the weight of his words sink in, he concluded with a declaration that reverberated off the ancient stone walls, “And prepare for a war fought with steel.”

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