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novaursa · 3 months ago

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The Blood We Choose

- Summary: Gwayne brings you to Dragonstone, to your sister. But it is Daemon who awaits you both.

- Paring: Gwanye Hightower/targ!reader/Daemon Targaryen

- Note: reader is referred to as Y/N, is younger sister of Rhaenyra and was bonded with Silverwing. These events happen right after Where Banners Fall. If you want to read parts before this one in chronological order, visit my blog. The list is pinned to the top.

- Rating: Mild 13+

- Word count: 4 356

- Tag(s): @deniixlovezelda @duck-duck-goose2 @aadu2173 @sachaa-ff

The scent of salt and brine clings to the air, sharp against the faint undertones of decay and blood—a constant reminder of the battle left behind at Rook’s Rest. You can still feel the memory of fire scorching your skin, the cries of Silverwing echoing in your ears as she fell from the sky, taking you with her.

Your body aches, every breath a laborious effort as you sit propped against the rough-hewn wall of the small cottage. The village is a quiet one, nestled by the coast, far from the eyes of any lords or soldiers. A place where neither banners nor blood oaths hold sway. Here, you can pretend, for a brief moment, that the world is not consumed by war.

But it’s a fleeting delusion. The searing pain that courses through your side is a constant reminder of how close you came to death. Silverwing’s warmth had shielded you as much as she could, but nothing could stop the might of Vhagar. You know that if it weren’t for Gwayne, you would have perished alongside your dragon, your body left among the ruins.

Gwayne Hightower. His name lingers on your tongue, filled with both bitterness and something else you dare not name. He betrayed his own for you—forsook his House, his loyalties, everything that defined him as a knight of the Greens. For you. The memory of his desperate voice calling your name as he found you below Silverwing’s wing is fresh, a rare vulnerability exposed beneath his normally composed demeanor.

“Y/N,” Gwayne’s voice, low and rough, breaks through the silence of the small room. You look up, meeting his gaze from across the dim space. He’s seated near the hearth, his own wounds not fully healed, a dark bruise blooming along his jawline and his side still tightly bound.

“What is it?” you rasp, wincing as the movement strains your ribs.

“You should eat more.” He gestures to a small bowl of fish stew beside you. The smell is unappetizing, but you know he’s right. You need strength if you’re to survive this war, if you’re to return to Dragonstone—to your family.

You give a small, reluctant nod, dipping the spoon into the lukewarm broth. The taste is bland, the texture thick in your mouth, but it’s enough to soothe the gnawing hunger in your belly.

“Daemon’s been searching,” Gwayne says after a moment, voice hesitant. “Caraxes was seen flying from Harrenhal. He’ll come for you.”

There’s a flicker of something dangerous in his tone, a tinge of possessiveness that makes your chest tighten. Daemon. Your husband. Your son’s surrogate father. You hadn’t told Gwayne about the child until that morning when pain had stripped away all pretense and left only raw confessions in the dark. It was the first time you saw something break in his eyes, something beyond duty or loyalty. Gwayne is a man forged in duty, yet in that moment, his loyalty had been to you, and only you.

The silence stretches between you both, heavy with unsaid words, unshed tears, and the tangled web of emotion that neither of you are willing to fully confront. How could you? You were always meant to be Rhaenyra’s little sister, the one whose role was to support, never to lead. Yet here you are, a thread woven into a tapestry that binds you to two men who could tear each other and you apart.

“If Daemon finds us…” Gwayne starts, his voice trailing off.

You lower the spoon, your hand trembling slightly. “You’ll run.” It’s not a question. You know what will happen if Daemon catches Gwayne with you, the traitor Hightower who saved his wife instead of leaving her to her fate. Daemon would kill him without hesitation.

His jaw clenches, eyes darkening with a mixture of anger and resolve. “And leave you alone? I think not.”

You shift, ignoring the pain lancing through your body. “This was never supposed to happen,” you murmur, mostly to yourself. You close your eyes, picturing Silverwing’s brilliant wings and the sight of Dragonstone on the horizon—your home. You ache to be back there, where the sea winds carried the scent of salt and freedom, where you could be Y/N Targaryen again instead of a broken remnant.

Gwayne’s presence is a steady warmth in the room, a contrast to the cold reality of the war raging beyond these walls. You want to hate him for making you feel something other than loyalty to Daemon all these years, but you can’t. Not after he’s saved you, cared for you, and stayed by your side despite the danger. Even now, with your heart and mind divided, you know that whatever he feels—duty, love, or perhaps something in between—it is real. And it terrifies you as much as it comforts you.

“Why did you do it?” you ask, barely above a whisper.

His gaze locks with yours, unwavering. “Because I couldn't let you die.”

Your breath catches. The simplicity of his answer is profound. No grand declarations, no lofty promises, just the brutal, honest truth.

Before you can respond, the sound of footsteps crunching on gravel outside the cottage makes you tense. Both of you are on edge, the brief sense of peace shattering like glass. Gwayne moves instinctively toward the door, hand resting on the hilt of his sword.

It’s only the fisherman, his weathered face peeking through the gap in the door. “Tomorrow,” he says quietly. “The boat’ll be ready at dawn. The tides’ll be with us.”

You nod in gratitude, relief mingled with apprehension. Dragonstone is so close now, but you know the return will be fraught with more dangers than those you’ve already faced.

As the fisherman retreats, Gwayne turns back to you. “We’ll get you home,” he promises, though there’s an edge to his voice that betrays his own uncertainty.

Home. But what awaits you there? Daemon’s wrath? Your sister’s grief? And what of your son—your son whom you’ve not seen in so long, raised by a Targaryen father who knows nothing of the man who just saved his mother’s life?

For now, you can only rest, listening to the steady rhythm of Gwayne’s breathing across the room as you both try to find sleep in this fleeting calm before the storm resumes. You close your eyes, letting yourself drift, even as a part of you dreads what dawn will bring.

The sky above Dragonstone is dark, heavy clouds gathering as if reflecting the storm brewing within the walls of the ancient castle. The great red dragon, Caraxes, lands with a furious roar, shaking the stones beneath his claws. Daemon slides from the saddle, his face twisted in rage, eyes burning like molten steel. Every step he takes towards the Great Hall is filled with barely-contained fury, the kind that simmers just below the surface and waits for the slightest spark to ignite into violence.

He bursts into the hall, his armor still stained with ash and soot from his fruitless search. Rhaenyra stands by the fire, her arms wrapped tightly around herself as though seeking warmth. She turns as Daemon strides in, but before she can say a word, his voice cuts through the silence, sharp as Valyrian steel.

“You sent her to Rook’s Rest? You sent her?” His words are laced with venom, each one a dagger aimed directly at her heart.

Rhaenyra flinches, but she holds her ground, lifting her chin defiantly. “She volunteered, Daemon! She insisted. It was her choice.”

“Her choice?” he spits back, stepping closer, his anger radiating from him like heat from a forge. “She’s no warrior, not like Rhaenys! You sent her to die, Rhaenyra! To die at the hands of Aemond and that wretched beast of his!”

Rhaenyra’s composure cracks then, her eyes shining with unshed tears. “I trusted her! She’s my sister—our blood! I thought… I thought Silverwing—”

“Silverwing is dead!” Daemon’s voice thunders through the hall, a raw, agonized sound. “She fell, trying to protect her rider from Vhagar and Sunfyre. And Y/N? She’s gone, Rhaenyra. Taken by Gwayne Hightower. A Hightower! You might as well have killed her yourself.”

At that, Rhaenyra’s tears break free, streaking down her pale cheeks. “I never wanted this! I would never—”

“Spare me your tears,” Daemon snarls, his eyes narrowing in cold fury. “You speak of choices, yet you chose war over your sister. You sent her out to face death while you remained safe in your castle, protected by your crown. Do you know what it’s like to watch the skies, knowing that the one person who never turned her back on you is likely lying dead, or worse, in the hands of our enemies?”

Rhaenyra’s sobs wrack her slender frame, but Daemon is relentless. He steps closer, so near that he could reach out and touch her, but his hands remain clenched at his sides. “You sacrificed her for a battle that did nothing but weaken us. Aegon still holds King’s Landing. Silverwing is dead, Luke is gone, and now Y/N… she was the last thread of innocence left in this gods-forsaken war, and you ripped it apart.”

Rhaenyra shakes her head desperately. “I thought—Daemon, I thought she could reach them. Convince them to surrender before more blood was spilled. She believed in it too.”

“And now she’s paying for that belief with her life,” Daemon hisses. “Do you understand? Her life, her blood. And for what? Nothing.”

The hall falls silent, the air thick with tension, with grief and fury that neither of them can fully articulate. For a moment, Rhaenyra looks utterly lost, her shoulders sagging under the weight of all the loss that surrounds her. “What am I supposed to do, Daemon? Tell me. What can I do now?”

Before he can respond, a new voice cuts into the fray, youthful but tinged with urgency. “What’s happening? Where is my mother?”

Daemon stiffens, turning slowly to face the boy who has entered the hall. He’s just shy of manhood, tall and lean with the unmistakable features of House Targaryen—silver-gold hair, sharp cheekbones, and the stubborn fire in his gaze. But his eyes, those striking eyes of clear blue, are not Targaryen at all. They are Gwayne Hightower’s, and they haunt Daemon every time he looks at the boy.

The boy’s name is Vaeron, the son raised by Daemon as his own, the boy who never knew the truth of his parentage. Vaeron looks between his father and his aunt, sensing the tension, the raw pain in the air.

“Where is she?” Vaeron’s voice trembles now, the bravado slipping. “Where is my mother?”

Daemon’s expression softens, if only by a fraction. He crosses the distance to his son, placing a hand on his shoulder, gripping it tightly. “Your mother was ambushed at Rook’s Rest,” he says, each word carefully measured, as if they’re knives he’s forcing down his throat. “Aemond and his dragons brought her down. Silverwing is dead.”

Vaeron’s eyes widen, disbelief and horror written across his face. “No,” he breathes, shaking his head as if denying the truth will somehow change it. “She can’t be dead. Mother can’t be—”

“She’s not dead, not yet,” Daemon cuts in, his voice harsh. “But she’s missing, taken by Gwayne Hightower. And I’ll find her, Vaeron. We’ll find her together.”

The boy’s gaze sharpens, anger and grief mixing with determination. “I’ll go with you,” he says, the words coming out more like a plea than a declaration.

Daemon nods, the cold steel of his resolve hardening. “You’ll mount your dragon, and we’ll take to the skies. We’ll search every inch of the realm if we have to.”

Vaeron swallows hard, the weight of what’s being asked of him sinking in. He’s still so young, yet there’s no more room for youth in this war. He nods, determination etched across his face. “For her. For my mother.”

Daemon’s grip on his son’s shoulder tightens for a moment, the only hint of the fierce protectiveness he feels beneath the layers of rage. “For her,” he agrees.

As they turn to leave, Rhaenyra reaches out, her voice breaking. “Daemon… please… I’m sorry…”

Daemon doesn’t look back. “You can’t afford to be sorry, Rhaenyra. Not now. Not ever.”

The boy’s eyes meet Rhaenyra’s for a moment before he turns away, following his father out into the cold winds of Dragonstone. They leave her behind, standing alone in the dim light of the hall, tears streaming down her face, a queen weighed down by guilt and grief.

The dragons will soon take flight again, this time driven by fury, by a father’s desperation and a son’s determination. And neither Daemon nor Vaeron will rest until they bring her back—no matter the cost, no matter the blood they must spill.

The small fishing boat creaks under the weight of the sea’s relentless pull, the salt spray clinging to your face as the wind howls around you. Each dip and rise of the vessel feels precarious, the threat of capsizing ever-present. You cling to the rough wooden edge, your body still weak and aching from your injuries, but your eyes remain fixed on the silhouette of Dragonstone on the horizon. The ancient fortress looms like a jagged tooth against the darkening sky, its towers piercing the clouds.

Gwayne stands beside you, his gaze scanning the skies as if expecting danger at any moment. His face is shadowed, exhaustion etched into the lines around his eyes, but there’s a tension there too—an unspoken fear that you both share.

The fisherman grumbles curses under his breath as he wrestles with the sails. He’s an old man, his hands gnarled from years at sea, but his sharp eyes occasionally flicker toward you, a mixture of recognition and pity in his gaze. “Prince Daemon’s got the skies set ablaze with his searching,” he mutters, his voice rough like gravel. “And now that boy of his—Merothrax near sunk me last time they flew overhead.”

As if on cue, the air vibrates with the distant sound of wings, a deep thrumming that sends shivers down your spine. You glance upward and catch sight of them—two dragons cutting through the sky like living shadows. Caraxes, with his serpentine neck and blood-red scales, moves with a terrifying grace, his roar echoing across the waves. Beside him is Merothrax, Vaeron’s dragon. Sleek and deadly, the young dragon’s scales are a deep, shimmering indigo, laced with streaks of silver that catch the light when he dives. His wings are larger than one would expect for a dragon of his age, giving him a natural agility in the air. His eyes, a piercing shade of gold, scan the sea below, hungry and watchful.

The boat rocks violently as Merothrax swoops low, his wings stirring the water into frothy waves. The fisherman shouts a stream of curses at the sky, clutching at his hat as the gust from the dragon’s wings nearly tears it from his head. “Damn Targaryens, more fire and madness in them than sense!”

Gwayne’s hand is suddenly on your arm, steadying you as the boat pitches. “They’re looking for us,” he says grimly. “Daemon won’t stop until he finds you.”

“Or finds you with me,” you say, your voice quieter than you intend. There’s a deep tension in your chest, not just from the pain but from the knowledge that each moment brings you closer to facing the storm you left behind.

Gwayne doesn’t respond immediately. His gaze is distant, lost in thoughts he hasn’t voiced since you confessed your secrets that day—secrets you had buried for too long. The memory of that confession hangs between you both, a reminder of how fragile this moment of safety is.

“You’re thinking of Vaeron,” Gwayne says softly, finally breaking the silence. “Of what happens when he sees me.”

You nod slowly, your throat tightening. “He’s never known who you really are. Daemon raised him, taught him to ride, to fight. Vaeron idolizes him… but he deserves to know the truth.”

Gwayne’s jaw tightens, and his hand drops away from your arm. “I knew of the boy. Rumors reached me—stories of the bastard prince raised by the Rogue himself. But I never… I never thought he’d…” His voice cracks at the end, and you hear the quiet grief in his words. The grief of a father who never had the chance to be a father.

You turn to him, your heart aching for what you’re about to say. “He’s yours, Gwayne. He always has been.” The admission is heavy, laden with all the years you’ve kept the truth locked away. “Daemon knew from the start. He saw it in Vaeron, even before the boy could speak. But he accepted him anyway, for my sake, and for Rhaenyra’s cause. He never let Vaeron feel unwanted, never let him know he wasn’t his own blood. But those eyes… they’re yours.”

Gwayne’s expression is unreadable, but you see the storm behind his gaze—the battle between duty, regret, and a father’s yearning. “I should have been there,” he says hoarsely. “I should have been the one to raise him, to teach him. Instead, I’ve been chasing ghosts and loyalty that never truly mattered.”

“You would have been hunted down if you claimed him,” you remind him, your voice laced with the bitterness of harsh reality. “Your House would have disowned you—or worse. You would’ve been executed for treason.”

“And now I’m here, having betrayed everything for the woman I…” Gwayne stops himself, the words strangled in his throat.

You don’t push him. The truth lingers between you like a wound too fresh to be probed. You lower your gaze to the churning sea, feeling the boat rock again as Caraxes circles back toward Dragonstone. “He’s a good boy,” you say quietly. “Stubborn, with fire in his blood. But he’s kind, too. He has your strength, even if he doesn’t know it.”

Gwayne’s hand finds yours, squeezing it gently, the roughness of his palm familiar and grounding. “I want to meet him, truly meet him. But what do I say, Y/N? That I’m the man who should have been there, but wasn’t?”

Tears sting your eyes, but you blink them away. “You tell him the truth. Vaeron deserves that much, even if it’s painful. We both know there’s no easy way to face it, but hiding it any longer would be a greater cruelty.”

The boat jerks violently as they begin their final approach to Dragonstone’s rocky shore. You see the shadow of the fortress loom closer, the narrow docks already in sight. The fisherman mutters another curse as Merothrax’s tail lashes the air overhead, nearly capsizing the boat.

Gwayne leans in close, his breath warm against your ear as he murmurs, “No matter what happens when we land, I’ll be by your side. If Daemon tries to take him from me, or if he tries to strike me down for what I’ve done, I won’t back down.”

Your heart clenches at the promise in his words, at the weight of everything that lies ahead. The shore draws near, and you steel yourself for what awaits—a reunion not just with Daemon and your son, but with all the truths that can no longer be avoided.

Above, the dragons circle, their roars echoing through the skies like thunder. The war rages on, but now it’s not just a battle for the throne. It’s a battle for the lives torn apart by secrets and the relentless march of fate. And as you prepare to step onto the stony shore of Dragonstone, you know that the hardest fight has only just begun.

The small boat bumps against the dock with a dull thud, the sound lost beneath the howling wind and the distant crash of waves against the jagged rocks. The air is thick with tension as the fisherman throws a rope to secure the vessel, muttering prayers under his breath, his eyes wide with fear as he glances toward the two dragons perched on the ridge above. Caraxes and Merothrax sit like twin sentinels, their eyes gleaming with the predatory awareness of beasts ready to strike at the slightest provocation.

You step onto the dock first, your legs trembling beneath you, both from the strain of your injuries and the weight of what’s about to happen. Gwayne follows closely, his hand hovering near his sword hilt, though you both know it would be futile if it came to a fight. The wind pulls at your hair and cloak as you move forward, each step taking you closer to the confrontation you’ve dreaded.

Ahead, you see them—Daemon and Vaeron. Daemon’s expression is cold as stone, his eyes narrowed and lips drawn into a hard line. Beside him, Vaeron stands tense, his gaze fixed on you with a mixture of worry and anticipation. He’s grown so much since you last saw him, more a young man than a boy, but the flash of relief in his eyes when he sees you tells you he’s still your son, still that child who would run to you for comfort.

But before he can take a step toward you, Daemon’s hand clamps down on his shoulder, holding him back. “Stay where you are,” Daemon orders, his voice as sharp as a blade. Vaeron’s brow furrows, confusion and frustration evident in his eyes, but he doesn’t argue. He simply watches as you and Gwayne approach, his gaze flicking warily between you and the man who saved you.

The tension in the air is palpable as you reach them. Before you can speak, a detachment of royal guards emerges from the path leading to the castle, armor clanking as they fall into formation around Daemon. The commander steps forward and bows deeply. “Prince Daemon, we stand ready.”

Daemon’s eyes never leave Gwayne as he gives the command. “Seize him.”

The guards move forward, hands reaching for Gwayne’s arms. He doesn’t resist, but you see his jaw clench, muscles tensing as iron manacles click shut around his wrists. Panic flares in your chest, and you step between the guards and Gwayne, your voice rising in desperation. “No! You can’t just lock him away! He saved me, Daemon—he saved my life!”

Daemon’s eyes flash with something dangerous as he looks at you, his expression hardening further. “He’s a Hightower, and a traitor to his House. His loyalty to you doesn’t absolve him of that.”

You take a step closer, your voice trembling but determined. “It does when it’s a debt of blood. He risked everything for me—for us. He’s not the enemy here, Daemon.”

But Daemon’s gaze is unyielding, his anger a simmering force barely restrained. “The enemy is anyone who serves the Greens, no matter the reason. You think I care that he chose you over his House? That only makes him more dangerous. He’s already betrayed his own; what’s to stop him from betraying you, or Vaeron, when it suits him?”

Gwayne meets Daemon’s gaze, holding it without flinching, though you see the strain in his eyes. “I gave up everything for her. I’d do it again. But I know what I am, and I don’t expect your forgiveness.”

Daemon’s lips curl into a sneer. “Good, because you’ll get none from me.” He turns to the guards, his tone cold and final. “Take him to the dungeons. I’ll decide his fate once I’ve had time to consider what to do with him.”

The guards tighten their grip on Gwayne and begin to drag him away. You move to follow, but Daemon’s hand catches your arm, stopping you in your tracks. “Enough, Y/N,” he says quietly, his voice a mix of anger and something softer—concern, perhaps, though it’s buried deep beneath his rage. “He’s done what he thought was right, but it doesn’t change what he is.”

You jerk your arm free, glaring at him with all the defiance you can muster. “You’ve lost sight of what truly matters, Daemon. Gwayne’s no longer a pawn of the Greens—he’s here because of me. Because of Vaeron.”

At the mention of Vaeron, Daemon’s eyes flicker, but he remains resolute. “And I’ll not have him jeopardize our son’s safety, not for some misplaced sense of gratitude.”

Your heart aches as you watch Gwayne being led away, the clink of his shackles echoing in the quiet that follows. He walks with his head held high, shoulders squared, but you can see the brief flicker of pain in his expression as he passes by Vaeron. The boy says nothing, but his eyes track Gwayne’s every move with a curious intensity, as if trying to understand the connection between the man being led to the dungeons and his mother’s desperate pleas.

When Gwayne disappears around the corner, swallowed by the shadows of the castle, Vaeron finally breaks the silence. “Mother… who was that man? Why did he save you?”

You swallow hard, forcing yourself to meet your son’s gaze. “He’s… someone who once served the Greens but chose to protect me instead. He’s no longer a threat, Vaeron.”

Daemon releases his hold on your arm but keeps his eyes fixed on Vaeron. “He’s not to be trusted. Remember that.”

Vaeron nods slowly, his eyes still lingering on the path Gwayne was taken down. There’s something in his expression—curiosity, perhaps, or a flicker of recognition that he doesn’t fully understand. But he doesn’t press further, sensing that there are answers he’s not yet meant to know.

Daemon turns to you, his voice softer now, but still laced with frustration. “We’ll speak more inside. You’ve been through enough, and I’ll not have this discussion out in the open.”

With that, he leads the way toward the castle, the guards following closely behind. You fall into step beside him, though your thoughts remain with Gwayne, locked away beneath the stone walls of Dragonstone. Vaeron walks beside you, his young face set in determination as he tries to piece together the events swirling around him.

And as you approach the darkened halls of the castle, you can’t shake the feeling that the truths left unspoken will tear at the fragile peace you’ve only just regained.

#house of the dragon #gwayne hightower #ser gwayne #gwayne x reader #hotd gwayne #gwayne x you #gwayne x y/n #rhaenyra targeryan #silverwing #caraxes #daemon targeryen x reader #daemon x you #daemon x y/n #hotd daemon #daemon x reader #daemon targaryen #hotd x reader #hotd

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linka-from-captain-planet · 2 months ago

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fantasy:

I load up Dragon Age: Veilguard for my first play. After creating my Rook, I progress to a simple screen. "Continuing Your Adventure?", it asks, with a quick explanation that this part of customization is optional and will have no effect on the Veilguard story, but players of previous games can enter a few key choices and find easter eggs about them while exploring.

"Don't mind if I do!" I say, and am taken to a lovely interface where I make about 10 choices by selecting beautiful tarot cards representing the major outcomes of previous games. This is a pleasant experience, because each card is accompanied by a brief summary of that choice and an intriguingly vague blurb about the consequences it had over the past decade-ish in Thedas. Fun! I read the lore, admire the art, reminisce on playthroughs of yore, and enter Veilguard excited to experience the next part of the story.

Later, I loot an "Orlesian mask", and Rook or a companion delivers a banter line referencing the leader(s) of Orlais, whom I selected in world state customization. Hark, codex updated?! I open the entry and read it, and the text delivers payoff on the intriguingly vague blurb from the tarot card.

By the end of the game, I have found similar easter eggs for all of the world state choices I selected in customization. While it would have been nice for these choices to be woven more organically into the story, I understand why this would have been impractical, and am content to see my Thedas represented in a simple, fun, and engaging way :)

#from the bottom of my heart this is all I wanted #veilguard spoilers #dragon age

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solxamber · 17 days ago

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HEHEHGIGUGI ITS ME AGAIN THE SERAPHIM AND THE CAT ONE

Can i request a witch reader with Vil, Rook, Trey, and Malleus!! (I forgot if its 4 limits or 5, whoops but only that) You can write however you like if its headcannon or how you write it!! Also can you do it on Romantic shshsh‼️‼️🫶🫶

Rook, Trey, Malleus, Vil with a Witch! Reader

hi! thank you for waiting and i hope you like it <3 (also there aren't limits for number of characters)

Rook Hunt

Rook, a true romantic and ever-curious soul, is constantly mesmerized by your craft. He adores watching you work, fascinated by every detail, and often appears just as you’re about to cast a spell, like he knows exactly when something extraordinary is about to happen.

One evening, he surprises you mid-ritual, leaning in to whisper, “Ah, the witch at work, casting beauty into the world.”

“Rook!” you laugh, a little flustered. “Aren’t you supposed to give me space to concentrate?”

“On the contrary,” he says, eyes sparkling. “Watching you brings me closer to the divine. It’s as if each spell you cast is an invitation to witness your heart.”

As he speaks, he presses a kiss to your hand, his words a spell of their own. You find yourself captivated by the unique magic only Rook can create—a blend of curiosity, charm, and unshakable devotion.

Trey Clover

Trey is both grounded and warm, and he respects your magical abilities without a hint of fear. Whenever you experiment with potion-making, he’s your quiet supporter, ready with any ingredient you need.

One evening, you’re preparing a special love potion—just for fun—and Trey chuckles as you explain the recipe.

“What, you don’t believe in love potions?” you ask, raising an eyebrow.

“Oh, I believe,” he replies, pulling a stray leaf from your hair, “but I don’t think you need one. You’ve already cast your spell on me.”

You feel your face heat up, but Trey simply smiles, his gaze gentle and warm. He reaches for your hand, his fingers intertwining with yours. "Let’s skip the potions,” he says softly. “You and I don’t need magic for this.”

Malleus Draconia

Malleus is captivated by your magic, drawn to you as if he’s known you for centuries. He’s endlessly curious about your spells, often standing nearby as you perform them, his eyes watching with reverence.

One misty evening, he finds you crafting a charm under the moonlight. As you finish, Malleus steps forward, his expression unusually soft. “Your magic… it has a warmth that even my fae spells lack.”

“You flatter me, Malleus,” you reply, smiling up at him. “I’m honored to have caught the attention of someone so powerful.”

He takes your hand, pressing a kiss to your knuckles with an old-world elegance. “Power means little to me if it cannot protect what is precious.” His gaze is intense, holding yours. “And you, my dear witch, are precious indeed.”

Under the stars, Malleus’s words hang in the air, leaving a warmth that feels like it could last an eternity.

Vil Schoenheit

Vil has always been enchanted by beauty in its many forms, but there's something about your magic that captivates him in a way he never expected. He watches you as you work, studying your movements as if each one were part of an intricate dance. One evening, he finds you under the warm glow of candlelight, carefully crafting an enchantment, your hands moving gracefully over the ingredients.

He steps closer, his voice smooth and gentle. “Do you realize the spell you’ve woven on me without even trying?” he murmurs, his eyes fixed on you.

You smile, slightly flustered but intrigued. “I could say the same about you, Vil.”

Vil reaches for your hand, brushing his thumb over your knuckles. “Then perhaps I’ve found the magic that surpasses any potion, any spell.” His gaze is intense, unwavering, as if he’s seeing right through to your soul. “Stay close to me, won’t you?” he asks softly, the hint of vulnerability in his words surprising but endearing.

With a smile, you nod, finding comfort in his presence. Vil leans in, pressing a lingering kiss to your forehead, his touch gentle and reverent. “You’re more captivating than any beauty I’ve ever known,” he whispers, his voice filled with a sincerity that leaves your heart racing.

In that quiet moment, it’s clear that he isn’t just drawn to your magic—he’s drawn to you.

Masterlist

#twst x reader #twisted wonderland x reader #twst #twisted wonderland #rook hunt x reader #rook x reader #vil schoenheit x reader #vil x reader #malleus draconia x reader #malleus x reader #trey clover x reader #trey x reader

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felassan · 3 months ago

Text

"Journal #3 Dragon Age: The Veilguard is coming October 31 Pre-orders Open Now Hello everyone, We’re excited to finally share the release date for Dragon Age: The Veilguard, which is officially October 31, 2024 worldwide! Please note, this is a simultaneous release; we will announce exact timing at a later date. We want to extend a huge shout out to the Dragon Age community for your patience and enthusiasm; we can't wait for you to jump into the role of Rook and embark on your journey to save Thedas. We know the wait has been long, but the wait will be worth it. In the meantime, we want to give you a hint at what's in store for you in Dragon Age: The Veilguard. You're leading a desperate fight for the future of Thedas with your companions, the stakes are higher than ever. So grab a seat and click on the thumbnail below to watch this brand new trailer (includes some small story spoilers). “As someone who’s been working on Dragon Age for over 15 years, I know just how much our community has been looking forward to this day, and I’m equally excited to share and celebrate that the game will officially launch on October 31,” said John Epler, Creative Director of Dragon Age: The Veilguard. “We wanted to give you the choice to really express yourself, and do that in a world full of adventure and danger. So whether you’re a Warrior, Rogue or a Mage, we can’t wait for you to gear up, gather your party, and set out for another thrilling adventure through Thedas this Halloween.” As a character-driven RPG, Dragon Age: The Veilguard offers you a crafted experience woven from the threads of rich storytelling and fantasy worldbuilding the franchise is known for. In this bold, heroic adventure, you will experience expansive and dynamic stories that navigate love, loss, and complex choices that affect relationships and the fate of each member of the Veilguard. In true Dragon Age fashion, these bonds of fellowship are the foundation upon which Rook’s journey is built, and it will be up to you to determine how their personal story unfolds. Pre-Orders Now Open Fans who pre-order* the Standard Edition of Dragon Age: The Veilguard for $69.99 USD‡ on PlayStation 5 and Xbox Series X|S, or $59.99 USD‡ on PC via Steam, EA App and Epic Games Store will receive cosmetic Blood Dragon Armor sets for Warrior, Mage and Rogue classes. EA Play Pro† members on the EA App will enjoy unlimited access to the EA Play Pro Edition* starting October 31st. Check out the full breakdown of the different editions we have available here: Digital Editions"

"- Standard Edition - Dragon Age: The Veilguard - PC: $59.99‡| Console: $69.99 USD‡"

"- Deluxe Edition - Dragon Age: The Veilguard - 3 Rook armor sets (cosmetic only) - 6 Rook weapons (cosmetic only) - 7 Companion armor sets (cosmetic only) - 7 Companion weapons (cosmetic only) - PC: $79.99 USD‡ | Console: $89.99 USD‡"

"- Pre-Order Bonus* - All Pre-Orders (Standard & Deluxe) will receive: - Blood Dragon Armor Set (Warrior, Mage, Rogue - cosmetic only)"

- “Rook’s Coffer” Edition (Does NOT include Game) - Lyrium Dagger - Thedas Map with Quiver Tube - Rook’s Deck - Potion Flask - Enchanted Die - $150 USD‡"

"- Vyrantium Pack by Scanavo (Does NOT include Game) - Exclusive SteelBook® Case (No Game) - ICONART™ Metal Print and magnet wall mount - Notebook - Collector’s rigid Outerbox Check in with your local retailer to find out about the availability of this edition in your region"

"The Art of Dragon Age: The Veilguard by Dark Horse (Does NOT include Game, Deluxe Edition shown above) - Standard Edition - 256-page art book providing a behind-the-scenes look at Dragon Age: The Veilguard - $49.99 USD‡ - Deluxe Edition - Includes extra prints - Includes exclusive slipcase - Alternate cover - $99.99 USD‡ - BioWare Gear Edition - Only available while supplies last, sold exclusively on the BioWare Gear website - Includes an exclusive print - BioWare Gear Edition alternate cover - $55.00 USD‡ What’s Coming?"

"ICYMI, we released our August Roadmap this week! Next week, we’ll have a dive into our game’s combat and more information on our PC Specs. There’s a lot more to come in September and October, too; so keep your eyes peeled on our socials. We're beyond excited to be on this adventure with you, and we can't wait for you to get your hands on the game. Chat soon. - The Dragon Age Community Team *Conditions & restrictions apply. See https://www.ea.com/games/dragon-age/dragon-age-the-veilguard/disclaimers for details. ‡Offers may vary or change. see retailer site for details. †Conditions, limitations and exclusions apply. See EA Play Terms for details."

[source]

#dragon age: the veilguard #dragon age the veilguard spoilers #dragon age: dreadwolf #dragon age 4 #the dread wolf rises #da4 #dragon age #bioware #video games #long post #longpost #solas #blood cw

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shytastemakerthing · 4 months ago

Note

HIHIHI AND THANK YOUS O MUCH FOR MAKING THE REQUEST OF ALBINO! READER WITH POMEFIORE TRIOS🥀‼️

I WOULD LIKE TO REQUEST ANOTHER ONE IF YOU DONT MIND WITH VIL,ROOK,JADE WITH ETHEREAL SIREN! READER (just imagine since it had been killing me to think of it.. And sorry as well.. Also the reason the reader is ethereal is that they are quite majestic being that is stylish with pearls and etc, not to mention they are pretty pale white on their siren form with their scales as well that shines when reflected. Also imagine what type of scenario you can imagine or put in effort since id be happy because I don’t see these types of requests to others☹️🥀 Also you can ignore this if this is too much💔)

A/N: Hello, lovely anon! I am so glad that you like our Pomefiore trio with our albino!reader! I was rather excited when I received this particular request due to rather loving the idea of such a beautiful siren and their style. I do hope that you enjoy this request!

Tw: Brief mentions of drowning and death in Jade's section

Request: Vil, Rook, and Jade with an ethereal Siren!reader

You quite literally took his breath away the first ever moment that he laid eyes upon your absolutely stunning form

You were in your natural, siren form when he first saw you, opting to take advantage of the weekend by slipping into the saltwaters of your natural environment, or rather, the closest you could be which would be in Octavinelle

He had been delivering something to Azul in regards to the last housewarden meeting when he was passing through and saw you resting on one of the rocks, tail flowing in the water, pearls adorning your hair, decorating your collarbone

Your scales shimmering in the water, making them look as if they were the purest of diamonds

Oh, but what had him, what lured him the most, was your voice

It was unlike any other he had heard before

Sure, he had heard some rather stunning singing voices, but yours?

It was as if he was in a trance and couldn't turn his gaze away from you

Feeling a pull that he had to go to you

And he almost did, had Azul not found him first, as he somehow lost track of the time watching you, and was rather quick to tell the Pomefiore housewarden just what you were

A siren? He had heard of them, but never actually encountered one before

The next time he saw you, was when you signed up for the Film Studies club

You looked just as ethereal as a human as you did in your natural form

Your clothing flowing in the soft breeze, light and airy, those same pearls still woven into your hair, only in a new pattern, he could even see the slight sheen that your skin now held, which reflected beautifully in the right lighting

He was lured in by your voice, just as beautiful as when you were singing, and you were lured in at the beauty he held, a rather perfect match if you ask anyone else

It was safe to say that anyone who saw the both of you, the spotlight would be where you both were

Which Vil certainly did not mind

Now, perhaps you would like to join him in the next VDC competition? With you on the team, they would be sure to win

Ah, the self proclaimed hunter of love himself

When he first heard the sounds of a beautiful maiden singing much closer to the docks, who was he to resist?

Not when your voice carried so beautifully through the air, as if carried by the wind itself to grace his ears

But oh, when he first gazed upon you?

By the shores of the ocean, at the ports that resided Sage's Island, there you were

Perched along the rocks, much of your tail still hidden beneath the crashing waves, it was as if he had been struck by a cupid's arrow....... several times

Your beauty was unmatched, and he must admit to it, not even Niege or Vil could compare

The way your scales shimmered like diamonds, pearls adorning your features, the way your skin seemed to glow under the light of the sun, it was all too much for him to contain

Which is what led him calling out to you, and you leaping into the water not a moment later

He had tried to search for you beneath the waves as soon as he made it down the rocks but to no avail

After that, throughout the duration of the Port Fest, he would often make his way to those rocks once more in hopes of being able to see you again

Closer to the end of the day, he found himself sitting at the docks, legs resting in the water before taking notice of someone coming to sit next to him

Was left in awe at seeing you sitting there next to him, legs replacing the tail he had seen you with, but still just as breathtaking

Even now, your skin still shimmered as if it were pure diamonds

As it turns out, you also came to see the festival, coming closer to land to see how the humans celebrated and seeing his curiosity in regards to you, you grew more curious of him

It was safe to assume that you would both be seeing much more of each other

Perhaps you would like to give him a tour of your underwater home?

He certainly had his fair knowledge of sirens, being a mer himself, though it was rather rare that he actually encountered one

Sirens weren't often seen around where he grew up within the Coral Sea and as sirens were known and seen to be far more aggressive, as they opted to lure their prey with their beautiful voices before either drowning or taking them out another way, he was one to keep his guard up

Though, when he first encountered you, he certainly could tell that you were no human

Your skin held a similar sheen that most mer students had when they appeared as human, only yours, more so

Like the brightest pearl, reflective of any light that grazes upon it

Speaking of pearls, there were a number of them that were woven into your hair in a beautiful pattern, your neck and ears graced with them

He couldn't quite tell what type of mer species you were

But that was until he had heard you speaking to another student, said student almost appearing in a trance

You were a siren

The first he had ever seen up close

The first one he had ever heard

As his parents would warn him and his brother: if you can hear the siren, it's already too late

And then, you were looking at him

Your eyes seeming to strike his very soul, he's never felt this exposed and you were only looking at him

The next encounter happened when he was actually out on one of his hikes, being the one and only member of the Mountain Lovers Club

As it turns out, you share his affinity for the nature that was on land

You had been kneeling down in the dirt, a pair of gloves on your hands, singing while you seemed to be foraging

Oh, by the sevens your voice, the way that you sang, he could already feel the natural pull that a siren held when they were ensnaring their victims, and here he was, falling into that same snare

He only managed to snap out of it when you called to him, having taken notice of his presence, a gentle smile on your face, looking far more ethereal up close

Jade didn't even realize just how quickly his heart was beating as he managed to display that practiced, kind smile

What was that? You would like to join his club?

Well, perhaps mother and father wouldn't mind this siren.......

I can't begin to tell you how much I loved writing this one, anon! As someone who lives close to the ocean and has always loved the lore that surrounds these creatures, this was possibly one of my more favorite writings, I hope that you enjoy it as much as I do!

Have a wonderful day/night!

#twisted wonderland #twisted wonderland x reader #twst #twst x reader #disney twisted wonderland #romantic #twst imagines #twst vil schoenheit #twst vil x reader #twst rook hunt #twst rook x reader #twst jade leech #twst jade x reader #siren!reader #shy writes #shy answers #requests open #matchups closed

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twistmusings · 4 months ago

Text

Character Analysis of the Twisted Wonderland Dorm Rooms - Savanaclaw

Thanks so much for your input on the first post everyone! Honestly a lot of you have much sharper eyes that I do, so I'm making it a habit to add addendums when people spot things that I don't.

At any rate, here is the examination of the rooms for Savanaclaw!

Dorm Room Character Analysis Series

Leona Kingscholar

To start with the obvious, Leona is probably the most disorganized dorm that we've seen so far. He's noticeably left his clothes lying around the room. It's of note that he's got an empty hangar in his closet, which could mean that some of these clothes are clean and he cba to hang them up.

Leona has a chess set with three pieces displayed - what appears to be a Knight, a Rook, and a Pawn. I believe this may be a reference to the story arc of book 2, considering that Rooks are a powerful piece in chess. If we consider in terms of chess, if I had to guess, I would say the Knight is Leona (known for it's unique movement which can be used to strategize and take tactical advantage of board placement), the Rook would be Ruggie (known as one of the most powerful pieces in chess because it can move any distance in a single line so long as it doesn't jump another piece, thank you anon for correcting me on this!) because of his unique magic being the lynch pin of Leona's plan during book two, and Jack, or more generally, the rest of his dormmates, being the pawns, that are used to set a strategic defense.

Also of note, Leona has a plant in his room. Of course, it could be fake, but if it is real, it shows a nurturing aspect to Leona that is interesting given his characterization that we know of. Minor Spoiler Warning for Book 6 that has definitely been pointed out by other people, but we know that he lets Riddle rest on his lap during the book when he's knocked unconscious, so he does, indeed, seem to have aspects of a nurturer in his characterization that he tends to hide by being prickly. If I had to read further into this, I would say it's another aspect of his motif overall - Leona has the capacity to care a great deal about everything, but he doesn't because he isn't given the same opportunities as Falena, and so you see those parts of him come out in other places.

This may be a bit of a stretch, but I believe this pillow in Leona's room is intended to be a call-back to Lions and their manes. When Leona lays his head down on the pillow, the pattern would be splayed out around his head like one.

Leona, of course, has textiles in his room, which is mentioned to be important for his homeland in the Tamashina Mina/Cloudcalling event as they are handmade and the primary source of income for Sunset Savanna. This is of note because Leona is not the only one in Savanaclaw to display tapestries like this, but these tapestries are notably similar to those shown in the Tamashina Mina.

So this is going to be a very long and not particularly important sections, so feel free to skip if you CBA to read it, but I wish there was a little bit more information about the inspiration drawn for Leona's homeland because it could be particularly informative of the actual symbolism in the textiles. If we are considering what we know about his homeland, Leona mentions a few things that give us some hints as to the location.

Generally speaking, the Lion King is considered to be set in Tanzania, and this is in line with the Hibiscus and the Baobab that Leona mentions in the Cloudcalling event, however from my most definitely not expert research, a lot of textiles produced in Tanzania are wax dyed. (Mind, I am far from an expert in African Textiles.) This becomes important when Leona mentions that the tapestries and clothing in the Sunset Savanna are woven. While it's not always a rule, typically woven clothing and tapestries are dyed before they are woven, and weaving is what produces the pattern. With wax dyeing, the textiles are produced first, and then waxes are used to create layers of dye that are arranged in patterns. (This also gets called batik dyeing).

The left, above, is a Tanzinian Batik Kitenge Fabric from east Africa, while the right is a Ghanaian Woven Kente Cloth from West Africa next to Leona's Tapestry to show more of what I mean, which throws a wrench into examining this further because we are talking about two different cultures across the continent from one another.

The gist of this being, it does seem that Leona's tapestry and blankets would seem to be more in line with woven fabric as opposed to batik dyed fabric. If anyone has more information who is more versed in this subject, I would love to know more! Basically, this is the long way of me saying I can't exactly identify whether or not any of the tapestries or blankets in his room hold any particular meaning in their patterns or colors because I wouldn't know what culture it would be drawing inspiration from! To be quite honest, it is entirely possible this is a case of Twist mixing several cultures together to paint a more general picture of African culture.

To change the subject back to the room - Leona has a notable lack of study materials in his room. In fact, I don't see a single book in his room. If Riddle is the one who is the king of the little readers club, Leona was the kid who filled in all the stamps on the summer reading list to get the prizes without reading anything.

While it's not as prevalent as Cater or Trey, Leona's room features a lot of darker yellows and reds. It's possible that Leona favors these warmer colors, which is funny considering his rather gloomy outlook on a lot of things, as these colors are generally associated with happiness and passion.

The hidden mickey in his room is just below his overhead lamp.

Jack Howl

Jack, as we know, has a little cactus garden in his room. it is of note, his cacti are flowering, which is a sign that his little cacti are as happy as could be.

This might be a bit morbid, but if I had to guess, I would guess that Jack's rug is a synthetic wolf-skin rug given the jagged design on the edges. This is only a guess of course, as the bedrooms and backgrounds in twist tend to have a slightly flatter style than the rest of the game, so it's hard to tell if it's actually fur or not. Regardless, we see see a lot of the members of Savanaclaw's animals represented in small touches in their room.

Jack is pretty organized in comparison to the other freshmen! All of his books are put away, and even his weights and resistance bands are tucked away as much as they can be.

Jack seems to have soy protein, a protein shake container, and a stick of deodorant ready-to-go! Jack might be a bit extra with his workout routine, but at least he seems to be responsible about it by making sure he's getting the nutritional support he needs to build muscle and taking care not to smell rank.

Jack also has a textile on his wall. Given the Shaftlands seems to be generally inspired by Europe, I would guess that the tapestry is most similar to Nordic knitted and woven fabrics. The motif of the tapestry seems to be floral designs or snowflakes and pine trees. This seems to be a cute callback to how Jack likes to snowboard and how he comes from a snowy place.

Like the other first years, Jack doesn't seem to have decorated his bedsheets much. He does have a bedrunner in a flamestitch sort of pattern. Though the flamestitch pattern isn't commonly attributed to any one country, it is generally considered to be of European origin, adding to the European inspiration of the shaftlands.

The hidden Mickey in Jack's room is next to his tapestry.

Ruggie Bucchi

Mr. Pig. More seriously, Ruggie found it abandoned on the street and took it home. There's a meerkat version as well that Ruggie has mentioned getting in his Birthday Boy Vignette. He also mentions that it sings or lets out a happy squeal when you put coins into it.

Also, Ruggie has a framed photo on his desk, similar to Deuce. I would guess this is a photo of him and his grandmother.

Ruggie actually seems to read quite a bit! He has books in his bookshelf, as well as stacked next to his bed within easy reach to read there if he would like to. These don't seem to be textbooks, so it's an easy conclusion that Ruggie probably reads in his free time. My guess for the textbooks is that Ruggie likely downloads them online from a library resource. Or illegally. To be quite honest, good for him, textbooks are expensive for no damn reason.

Ruggie is also quite well organized - he doesn't have a lot of personal items in his room, but the ones that he does have are put away.

Following on that last point, Ruggie's lack of decorations aside from a handful of things likely lends to him being raised in poverty.

Interesting note, but Ruggie has roommates. In fact, a lot of the Twisted Wonderland cast do, but you can actually see snippets of Ruggie and Jack's roommates space in their cards. The freshmen are mentioned to have four to a room, so though I didn't include this in the first post, Ace and Deuce have two other roommates.

While it might be easy to assume that Ruggie's comforter is giraffe print at first glance, the coloration and spacing of the pattern actually leads me to believe this is meant to be the pattern of a spotted Hyena.

Ruggie's hidden mickey is on the wall next to his closet.

#not writing;;#twisted wonderland #twst #mod azul #leona kingscholar #jack howl #ruggie bucchi #You have no idea how hard I have to try to not refer to the hidden Mickeys as 'hidden michaels' every time.#because I refer to Mickey Mouse as Michael Mouse almost exclusively.#character analysis;;

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your-local-simp-writers · 7 months ago

Note

Can you write a sfw of Rook where he has been admiring us from a distance and somehow is always there when we conveniently need something

Apologies for the radio silence; we’ve been swamped with academic commitments and personal matters, leaving us little time to update you all. But we’re back now! If you haven't gotten to know who we are don't be shy here is our "༺☆༻ Introduction ༺☆༻"

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Secret Admirer

Word Count: 946

Warnings: None

Rook Hunt x Fem! Reader ︶꒦꒷♡꒷꒦︶︶꒦꒷♡꒷꒦︶︶꒦꒷♡꒷꒦︶︶꒦꒷♡꒷꒦︶

I always sensed him before I saw him—Rook Hunt, the enigmatic archer whose presence was like a whisper in the wind. He had a way of appearing just when I needed him, as if he could read my thoughts from afar. It was both unsettling and comforting, this silent dance we shared within the halls of Night Raven College.

I remember the first time I truly noticed him. It was during a downpour, the kind that seemed to drench the world in shades of gray. I was caught without an umbrella, cursing my luck, when he materialized beside me, his own umbrella suddenly sheltering us both.

“Why do you always show up like this?” I asked, my voice barely audible over the rain.

Rook simply smiled, his eyes gleaming with a mischief that belied his gentlemanly demeanor. “Perhaps it is fate, or perhaps it is simply my desire to be near you,” he replied, his French accent wrapping around each word like a caress.

From that day on, Rook became a constant figure in my life. He was there when I dropped my books, his hands quick to catch them before they hit the ground. He was there when I struggled with a particularly tricky spell, his guidance subtle but invaluable. And he was there when I felt alone, his presence a silent promise of companionship.

It was strange, this new intimacy that bloomed between us. I had always been fiercely independent, never one to seek out touch or comfort. But with Rook, it was different. His touch didn’t feel like an intrusion; it felt like coming home.

“Being touch-starved and needy was really starting to mess with my reputation as a tough gall,” I joked one evening as we sat in the gardens, the stars above us twinkling like diamonds.

Rook chuckled, his hand finding mine in the darkness. “You are strong, mon amour, but even the strongest warriors need rest,” he said, his thumb tracing circles on the back of my hand.

Our relationship was a series of stolen moments and lingering glances. We were like two pieces of a puzzle, fitting together in a world that often felt too chaotic to comprehend. His touch was a balm to the coldness that had settled in my bones, a warmth that seeped into my very soul.

“They wanted to be touched, to be missed, to be loved. Was that too much to ask for?” I whispered one night as we lay on the grass, the earth solid beneath us.

Rook turned to me, his face serious for once. “You are touched, you are missed, and you are loved—by me,” he said, and I knew he meant every word.

In Rook Hunt, I found an unexpected ally, a confidant, and a source of strength. Our connection was a delicate thread woven through the tapestry of our daily lives, growing stronger with each shared smile and every gentle touch.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------

As the semester at Night Raven College progressed, Rook’s subtle presence became a constant in my life. His appearances were no longer surprising; they were expected, anticipated even. He was always there, a step behind me, ready to catch me if I stumbled, both literally and metaphorically.

One afternoon, as I was poring over ancient texts in the library, I felt the familiar gaze on my back. Without looking up, I knew it was Rook, his silent watch a comforting pressure. “You don’t have to hide, Rook,” I called out softly, “I know you’re there.”

There was a rustle of fabric, and then he was beside me, his hand brushing mine as he placed a forgotten quill back on the table. “Mademoiselle, I do not hide,” he said, his voice a gentle chide, “I merely ensure that you are not in want of anything.”

His concern was touching, and I found myself smiling at his words. “And what if what I want is your company?” I asked, challenging him with a playful tilt of my head.

Rook’s eyes sparkled with delight, and he pulled up a chair, sitting close enough that our arms touched. “Then you shall have it, for as long as you desire,” he replied, and we spent the rest of the afternoon lost in conversation, the texts forgotten.

It wasn’t just his timely interventions that drew me to him; it was the way he listened, truly listened. When I spoke, he gave me his undivided attention, his eyes never straying, his responses always thoughtful. He had a way of making me feel seen, understood, and valued.

Our relationship was a slow burn, a gradual build-up of trust and affection. We shared secrets and dreams, our hopes for the future intertwining like the vines that climbed the walls of the college. With Rook, I could be myself, unguarded and true.

The touch-starved feeling that had once plagued me began to fade, replaced by the warmth of Rook’s nearness. His touch was a balm to my soul, a gentle reminder that I was not alone in this vast, twisted world.

One evening, as we walked through the moonlit gardens, Rook stopped suddenly, turning to face me. “You have become my most cherished companion,” he confessed, his voice earnest, “In your presence, I find a peace I have known nowhere else.”

I reached out, my hand finding his, our fingers intertwining naturally. “And you have become mine,” I admitted, the truth of my words ringing clear in the night air.

We stood there, under the silver glow of the moon, our hands clasped, our hearts beating in unison. It was a moment of perfect harmony, a silent vow that whatever the future held, we would face it together.

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yuurei20 · 11 months ago

Note

When Sebek enters a battle, he says, "I'll swallow you whole." What does that mean? Where does it come from?

This is specific to the EN translation seen in the text box.

Hello hello!! Thank you for this question! 🐊

Lilia explains that Sebek is "known throughout Briar Valley for his gargantuan appetite," and we receive several reminders throughout the game about how much he eats:

Sebek talks about having "only three extra servings at lunchtime" and both Silver and Deuce comment on him being a big eater (Silver calls him a bottomless pit).

He also has lines about needing "something with meat" and, to the prefect, he says that he is always hungry no matter how much he eats: "You and Grim are starting to look pretty appetizing, you know..."

As for why Sebek has this character train, he explains that his mother, "has some of the most potent occlusal force in our family--ah, that is, biting strength. It's a Zigvolt trademark."

While his father is a human, Sebek's mother is "a creature of the night--that is, a nocturnal fae," but there might be more to his lineage.

Floyd, Rook and Leona all refer to Sebek as a crocodile. This may be hinting that his family is a crocodile-based sort of nocturnal fae, much in the same way that Lilia seems to be based upon bats?

And crocodiles can't chew, they can only swallow food whole.

And all of this may have something to do with why he says "I'll swallow you whole" before battles! It is a literal translation of his original line :>

Bonus: Amazing artist Egophiliac has a delightful comic about Sebek's human dentist father meeting his nocturnal fae mother, which ends in a drawing of a crocodile and one of those little birds that clean crocodile teeth, which is 1) adorable, and 2) a great theory for why Sebek's father was made into a dentist.

Colloquially known as "crocodile birds," they are also called "Egyptian plover" birds.

And "Sebek" (also called Sobek or Sobki) is an ancient Egyptian deity depicted with a crocodile head who was said to have eaten at least part of Osiris.

So it seems that ancient Egypt, crocodiles and eating people are all being woven into Sebek's character, culminating in Sebek using "I'll swallow you whole" as a battle cry :>

#twstask #Sebek Zigvolt

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neve-rook-datv · 14 days ago

Text

The Trouble Within - Neve Gallus’ Personal Notes - Part 4

Contains spoilers

From the very first moments I spent with Rook, I knew she was unlike anyone I’d ever met. Watching her throw herself into danger without a second thought, risking everything to save Varric and to stop Solas… There’s a fire in her, something fierce and unyielding—a determination that’s almost reckless, a courage that never wavers. She doesn’t falter every choice she makes feels as natural as breathing, as inevitable as the rise of dawn.

I could see why Varric had chosen her; he must have seen the same spark, that raw resilience that defines her. Rook gives herself fully, a woman who seems to burn from within, her will unyielding. She doesn’t just lead us; she inspires something in all of us, something I didn’t know was there until I saw it reflected in her. She doesn’t hold anything back—not for the mission, not for the cause, and somehow, I know, not even for me.

And that, perhaps, is what makes her different, what sets her apart from anyone I’ve ever known. She’s given everything, not only to this team but to each of us, and somehow, in the quiet moments I can admit, to me. Rook is more than just a leader. She’s something I’ve found myself needing, a presence that fills spaces in my heart I didn’t realize were empty.

And now, I don’t know if I’ve lost her. Rook is somewhere in the Fade, trapped in that endless, treacherous place, and the not knowing gnaws at me, a hollow ache that echoes through my every thought. Here in the Lighthouse, I feel myself unraveling, pacing its halls like a ghost, unable to shake the fear that I may never see her again. My composure slips further with each step, each turn of the corridor, until I can’t bear it any longer.

I find myself in her quarters, a place that holds the imprint of her, her presence woven into every corner. I sit down, her scent faint but familiar in the air, and in the silence, memories overwhelm me, unbidden and sharp.

I remember that first kiss—how I finally let myself give in, how I let my fears fall away just long enough to feel the warmth of her against me, to let go of every wall I’d kept between us. I can still feel the softness of her lips, the way she held me, steady and sure, as though she knew all along that I was worth the risk.

It was as if the world itself had quieted, every fear, every worry melting away the moment her lips met mine. There was a warmth in her, a steady, grounding presence that reached through my doubts and settled something deep within me. Her touch was gentle yet unwavering, and as I leaned into her, I felt a sense of relief, a release I hadn’t even realized I needed.

In that moment, everything felt right. My heart hammered in my chest, a mix of excitement and calm, an intensity that was somehow both thrilling and soothing. For the first time, I felt myself truly let go, surrendering to the safety of her arms, the warmth of her embrace.

I felt a kind of comfort I’d longed for but never dared to believe in, a reassurance that I wasn’t alone, that she saw me—all of me—and chose to stay. And in that moment, I let myself believe in something more, in the hope that maybe, just maybe, we could have something beyond the danger, beyond the loss.

But even then, I couldn’t bring myself to say the words. I’d told her that I couldn’t see a future, that it wasn’t possible… that I was afraid of losing her. And now, I am left with the weight of all the things I should have said, the words I held back because of fear, words that sit heavy in my chest like stones. I regret it now, bitterly, achingly, that I never told her I love you. I should have told her then, when I had the chance, when she looked at me with that unwavering certainty that I’d only ever dreamed of feeling.

Now, as I sit here in the quiet of her room, with nothing but the shadows and the ache of her absence, I feel the enormity of it, this loss I can’t yet name. If she never returns, I’ll carry these words like a scar, a reminder of what I was too afraid to say.

#dragon age #dragon age the veilguard #fanfic #neve gallus #rook and neve #datv neve #datv romance #datv fanfic #datv rook #datv #datv spoilers #rook x neve #dragon age rook #neve gallus romance

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defira85 · 22 days ago

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With the proviso that I have not finished the game and I in a really shitty mood about my Rook's body type breaking in the romance cut scene specifically, I have thoughts-

I saw a post that said that Veilguard is so fundamentally determined to say nothing that sometimes it comes out as incredibly offensive with just how aggressively noncommittal it is

and that's really it, isn't it

Shadow Dragon Rook got into trouble for saving slaves, and the Viper is a vigilante saving slaves, but we never SEE any slavery. We see poverty and abuse, but there's no talk about the rigid castes within Tevinter. Maybe the Venatori were drawn primarily from the lower classes of mages, those without family seats in the Magisterium, who were drawn to the promise that they could accumulate power instead of being trapped in a system that dooms them to failure and looks down its nose at them for being born not important enough

Tevinter's whole thing across the series has been slavery!!! And we get one or two codex entries about how Dorian gave such a nice speech about "slavery bad :c" and that's it

The Crows are so utterly toothless. Just an aggressively white-washed cool vigilante group, no hint of their child abuse or slavery practices, where's the acknowledgement that they make a lot of their money from slavery?

Lucanis' year in solitary confinement and torture is just window dressing. Again, haven't finished the game, but no examination of it at all 45 hours in. There's so much literature about what solitary confinement does to a person, how it's a form of torture, and just thinking about how much of Zevran's past abuses were woven into his characterisation so carefully... it's like chalk and cheese

Davrin once again filling the role of Bioware's obligatory "elf who hates being an elf and aggressively denies all elven heritage" companion

And like... every mini villain is just someone who was too ambitious and that made them eeeeevil. All the companions' rivals get dropped on Rook without any build-up, no casual conversations to say "oh I had this ex-friend/rival/foe who shaped me". Maybe I've been spoiled by Baldur's Gate 3 and how carefully all of the companions' abusers were woven into who they were as a character and how it shaped them and their story. Gortash didn't just come out of nowhere, Karlach was mentioning him in chapter 1! There were codex entries about him to be found weeks before you met him! But who the fuck is Johanna Hezenberouasertrousers or whatever the fuck her name is. She was ambitious, TOO ambitious, so she's evil and Emmrich's mirror. Cyrian joined the Forgotten Ones, and sure the Evanuris turned out to be super evil abusers that all the myths and religion was super wrong about but this is WORSE CYRIAN HOW COULD YOU

Don't get me started on whatever the fuck the game is trying to say about religion and about faith. Gods, it's so mid 2000s atheist edgelord memeing "unfortunately for you.... I have reason and logic on my side....... checkmate religion..." There's no nuance at all!!!!! Just "religion is a lie so faith dies now" no acknowledgement of faith as a cultural force!!! Of CULTURE being shaped by faith!!!! Okay I said don't get me started, I'll stop now

Whatever the fuck they're doing with the Qunari. They really just have gone back to their incredibly racist roots of "islamic borg" as David Gaider called it but they've made it even more offensive by making them all so... I don't know what word I'm looking for is, but it's about the sex appeal. How they've got their entire chiselled asses out. They look like they're trying to take part in Mister Bodybuilder Treviso, not a vaguely regimented army that was incredibly carefully structured up until about 5 minutes ago

This was more than what I intended to write lmfao. It's a fun game! I'm enjoying myself, as a fun action RPG. But after Baldur's Gate 3, it's just so utterly spineless. It has nothing to say. Evil people are evil, good people are good. It doesn't take a stand about anything. It is so determined not to be offensive to anyone at all that I find it gross

I'll finish it, and then I'll go back to BG3

#defira rambles #Defira plays Dragon Age #Dragon Age spoilers #Dragon age critical

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nerdanel01 · 5 months ago

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Death

Emmrich Volkarin/F!Rook 1.5k+ wc | SFW Possibly as a result of the massive breach in the Veil to the south, the Necropolis is more dangerous than ever. When Agnes is wounded while on patrol, Emmrich is forced to take drastic measures to protect her. EXCERPT: Impossible not to feel it, then. Emmrich’s magic, coursing through her body. Emmrich’s hands, firm on her chest, pushing her spirit back into her flesh before it got too far away—pushing air into her lungs, pushing life back into her veins.

Agnes tried to speak, but her throat was so dry she had to swallow and try again. “Was I dead?”

9:42 Dragon

High heat of summer in the west, the rashvine-in-snow just beginning to bloom—ladybugs and fireflies seeking refuge from the sun in the cool pockets of the flower’s petals. Agnes, plenty cool herself, her skirt soaked through with mud to her waist, sang an invented song under her breath, her tiny hands sculpting the mud around her into taller and taller spires. Maman towering above her, driving into the fertile earth the wooden stakes she had sharpened herself, gently girding the dahlias against them for support. Young, loved, and protected. Still wrapped in the romantic fiction mother had woven to shield her from an uglier truth: that her father had loved her mother; that he was a kind and gentle man, employed in the stable of a neighboring estate.

“Ma chère,” her mother called her. Agnes looked up. But the noontide sun was directly overhead, silhouetting her mother’s sunhat, obscuring her face in shadow. “You are being called.”

Agnes only felt it when her mother called attention to it: a strange nagging, an unwelcome plucking feeling in the center of her chest.

“Agnes! Agnes Gallatus!”

Who was shouting after her so rudely, when she was having such fun with her Maman? A childish, resentful pucker on her face, she cast her eyes downwards in the direction of the voice. The mud beneath her had vanished, and Agnes found she was hovering above a narrow, vaulted chamber, flanked on either side by high columns of quartz, carved in the image of skeletons holding the roof aloft. A figure was hunched over on the stone tile below her, a tempest of powerful magic crackling in the air around them.

‘Emmrich…?’

The moment Agnes recognized him, the plucking feeling in her chest swelled and snapped.

Someone’s hands pressed too firm against her chest.

Violent gasp of breath.

Agnes wrenched herself upright, heaving, fighting the oxygen-starved ache in her muscles. Blinking the darkness from her vision, her eyes rolled wildly around the room as she fought for air. When her heart began to beat anew, pounding madly, the last ebb of adrenaline washed over and through her. Something was terribly, terribly wrong—

“Agnes, thank the Maker! No, dear, don’t fight it, relax, lie back down…”

Emmrich’s hand was firm on her shoulder, supporting her as she lowered herself back onto the cold Necropolis floor. His other hand bunched his leather overcoat behind her head, a makeshift cushion to pillow it against the tile.

But Agnes could not relax. Pain wracked every inch of her body, and she could not shake an overwhelming sense of impending danger and doom. Emmrich’s words were reassuring, but his tone was anything but—she was not sure she had ever heard him sound so uncertain, or so frightened. He looked absolutely wretched, perspiration dripping down his face, his expression lined with grief and determination in equal measure. A phosphorescent flame was fading fast from his eyes, but Agnes caught it, nevertheless.

‘Oh.’

Impossible not to feel it, then. Emmrich’s magic, coursing through her body. Emmrich’s hands, firm on her chest, pushing her spirit back into her flesh before it got too far away—pushing air into her lungs, pushing life back into her veins.

Agnes tried to speak, but her throat was so dry she had to swallow and try again. “Was I dead?” The words came out as a hoarse, thin rattle. An almost spiritual look of relief washed over Emmrich’s face when he heard her voice.

“You are alive now. That is all that matters. Keep breathing, you should begin to feel better in just a few minutes…”

Alive now. Implying quite strongly there had been a period—Agnes could not say how long—that she had not been alive. She struggled through the fog of pain to recall what exactly had happened.

The ride down into the Necropolis in the morning… she remembered that. That was how every day started, now, after all. No more weeks-long research expeditions among the crypts and tombs. Ever since the Breach had opened in the south months ago, the disturbances within the Necropolis had grown too frequent and too great for such a risk. All of the Watchers were now deployed in shifts, with the express and sole purpose of policing the halls. There had always been a risk of encountering demons in the Necropolis, but lately, the peril had multiplied.

And then, it all came back to her in flashes: the pride demon they had found prowling among the tableaus of the dead, and the fight that ensued. The demon’s lightning that had shattered her barrier and struck her square in the chest, stopping her heart. The world growing dark, the demon’s fist raised to strike her down for good. Emmrich’s shout, the glow of his eyes, the crackle of magic tingling in the air as he seized possession of his thrall.

The forceful push of Alfred’s bony hands, flinging her down and out of the way of the pride demon’s strike.

‘Oh, no.’

“Emmrich… I’m so, so sorry.”

Emmrich looked at her quizzically. “You have nothing to be sorry for, Agnes.”

“But Alfred…”

She turned her eyes pointedly to the pile of splintered bone and dust just a few feet away: all that remained of the thrall after the pride demon had struck it down, his pitiful, characteristic wailing silenced forever.

“...you had been working on him for years. Emmrich, you must be devastated.”

Emmrich’s face tightened, eyes narrowing, brows knitting together. The muscle in the corner of his jaw gave a little jump. “You cannot be serious,” he said, shaking his head. His gaze had never left her face; he had not so much as glanced at Alfred’s paltry, decimated remains. In fact he looked concerned, as though he was suddenly doubting how thoroughly he had reanimated her, for her to think such an absurd thought. “Agnes, Alfred was a project. A beloved project, to be sure, but a project nonetheless. I can begin again. Begin better, this time.”

Then Emmrich leaned over her, lifting his hands to frame her face. His palms were so warm against her skin, his thumb so gentle as it traced the plains of her cheekbones… his gaze so impossibly tender and wounded.

“But you… if I lose you, I cannot get you back.”

There was a terrible crack in his voice, as though he was close to tears. Agnes did not know if she wanted more to embrace him, or to sink through the floor and disappear entirely. She was so moved at how deeply he cared. She was so mortified at how her incompetence (she should have seen the lightning coming, should have reinforced her barrier before it hit) had caused him such pain and fear.

An unsteady exhale shook him. The glow had left Emmrich’s eyes entirely, now, and they were wholly brown, wholly warm, wholly honest with her.

“You are more precious to me than any experiment.” He spoke in a low whisper, as if he was afraid that if he spoke at a greater volume, he would not be able to hold himself together. “I would not trade you for one hundred, one thousand Alfreds.”

And then, Agnes saw it: how much it had taken out of him to restore her; the way it had aged him. For in all the time she had known him, Emmrich’s hair had always been dark: now, it was streaked through with white and grey—not entirely salt and pepper, yet, but markedly lighter than it had been.

He must have noticed she was staring at him. “What is it?”

‘You nearly killed yourself trying to save me.’ “You’ve lost a bit of color.”

“Oh,” Emmrich said, indifferently, reaching up to run a hand through his hair. “Have I?”

“It looks good,” Agnes told him, forcing a thin smile. “Elegant. Distinguished.”

Emmrich laughed low in disbelief. “You flatter me. I look more like an old man than ever, now, I am sure.” He lifted his other hand from her face and stretched, joints cracking as he did so; Agnes repressed the urge to catch it, to hold it fast against her face. “I certainly feel like an old man after that effort. Agnes, I dearly want to get you back to the other Watchers as soon as possible—you should visit the infirmary, just to be safe—but, forgive me, I need to rest first, just for a moment.”

Slowly, wincing as he did so, Emmrich lowered himself to the filthy floor next to her, a little cloud of dust kicking up when the back of his head came to rest at last on the tile. Emmrich was not quite as draconian in his need for order as Agnes, but he liked to keep things clean; he must have been truly exhausted, then, if he felt the need to lie down in the dirt to recover his strength. His eyes slipped closed, and his breathing slowed. Agnes thought he might drift off to sleep.

“Thank you,” she said, interrupting him before he could. “For saving my life.”

Emmrich’s upper lip gave a small twitch, then his bottom lip began to tremble. Even with his eyes closed, he looked so terribly upset. Without opening them to look at her, his hand quested across the dusty tile floor until it found her own, and closed tightly around it.

“For a moment,” he confessed, “you were entirely beyond my grasp, beyond my ability to reach. I was not sure I would be able to bring you back to me. You have no idea…” his voice trailed off and he squeezed her hand. “How good it feels, now. How reassuring. To feel you, to hear you, warm and breathing next to me.”

At that, Agnes was thankful Emmrich’s eyes were closed. She could not control the emotions raging across her face; could not imagine how deeply they betrayed her, with all Emmrich’s words pirouetting through her head. How he had called her precious, held her face, was still holding her hand. This sweetness, this intimacy–she had always longed for it. Still longed for it. But each breath she took still felt like knives cutting into her lungs; a reminder with each inhale of how close they had come to losing one another for good.

How lucky she was! To have Emmrich’s love in any capacity. For if there had been any lingering doubt in her mind that he did, indeed, love her, it was now banished. That he did not, perhaps, love her in the way that she truly desired, did not make her cherish that love any less.

And all she wanted to do, more than hold his hand or touch his face in return, was reassure him. To remain warm, alive, and breathing beside him, for as long as she possibly could.

“It’s alright now, Emmrich,” Agnes said, and squeezed his hand back. “Rest as long as you need. I’ll keep watch until you’re ready."

#Emmrich Volkarin #Dragon Age Emmrich #Emmrich the Necromancer #dragon age fanfic #cw near death experience

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cassandraclare · 2 years ago

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Q&A Chain of Thorns — continues!

starlightblackstairs asked: I was wondering; why did no one ever free rupert if they knew ....

of him being trapped at chiswick? 🥹 it seemed like jesse knew that tatiana trapped his father there during that whole showdown scene but no one ever went back to help free rupert until julian and emma centuries later.

Because none of them did know he was trapped at Chiswick. Reread the scene — Chiswick is never mentioned.

What Lucie learned when she summoned Rupert was that he was not in the ordinary place ghosts go—

…she was all that was holding Rupert Blackthorn here on this earth. She could feel the starry void trying to pull him back, trying to fling him out of this world and into the other. It was taking every bit of her will to hang on… What had happened to Rupert? What binding was there on him, that was not present with other ghosts? Was it that binding that now tried to pull him away from the courtyard?

And this was confirmed by Tatiana herself— “You have been bound, bound for so long, bound in the shadows where even the other dead cannot see you. Belial promised that as long as he kept you there, he could bring you back.”

Rupert was also aware that he was in an unusual situation, we see this in his conversation with Jesse—

“If you’re a spirit—how was I a ghost for so many years and I never saw you?”

Rupert raised a hand as if he could touch his son’s face. “Your mother made sure of that,” he said. “But Jesse—we have little time.” He was right, Lucie knew. He was slipping away from her, already growing more indistinct around the edges. His fingers were turning pale, translucent, the edges like smoke. “I was asleep,” Rupert said, “and have been awakened, but only for this moment. I died before you were ever born, my child. Yet after death, I have seen you.”

“My mother said—you were bound in the shadows—” Jesse said haltingly.

“I could not return as a ghost on this earth,” said Rupert gently.

He was fading faster now. Lucie could see entirely through him, see the stones of the Institute, see Jesse’s stricken face. “Yet I dreamed of you, even in my endless sleep…”

Rupert knew he had a resting place of sorts (he says to Tatiana— “I was drawn from my resting place by the cry of a Shadowhunter in battle. One who needed my help.”) But Rupert did not understand—or was unable to express—that he was specifically bound to Chiswick House. In fact, he says he is not a ghost on this earth at all.

Lucie and Jesse’s understanding was that Tatiana—with Belial—had done something strange to keep Rupert from fully passing over into death. In the Shadowhunter world, typically the death of a magic user would cause all their charms and spells to unravel as a natural process. (We saw this happen when Malcolm was killed in TDA, and Johnny Rook, too.) If it had been just Tatiana binding Rupert, they might have thought that would have happened, but Belial was named, too. However, once both Belial and Tatiana had been killed, there was no reason for Lucie or Jesse to think that any spell would remain to bind Rupert. They would assume that Rupert was freed by the destruction of those who had bound him. They certainly didn’t know that his binding was woven in with Benedict’s complicated and equally unique house-protection spell—that was a special case, and highly unusual—so unusual that it evaded detection for decades even when the house was searched multiple times.

Sadly, once Lucie lost her special ability to command ghosts, they lost the one remaining avenue they would have had to reach Rupert, who could not appear as a ghost voluntarily until many years later, when the binding spell was beginning to deteriorate. And remember, Lucie, Jesse and James can all see ghosts, they've all been to Chiswick, and they've never seen Rupert. They've no reason to believe that even if he was a ghost, he'd be there.

It is indeed tragic that they were not able to help Rupert sooner. They just didn’t have all the information they would have needed to make that happen.

#rupert blackthorn #chain of thorns #the last hours

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zeciex · 4 months ago

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A Vow of Blood - 89

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 89: Byka Ābrazȳrys

AO3 - Masterlist

Aemond lingered at the edge of the Council Chamber, enveloped in the dim light that barely touched the far corners of the room. He stood over a broad side table where various maps were spread out, his focus drawn to one depicting the turbulent waters between Dragonstone and Driftmark. With a thoughtful expression, his fingers carefully followed the marked line representing the blockade stretching from the mainland after Rook’s Rest to Driftmark and from then on to Sharp Point. He scrutinized the strategic points along the coast, his gaze intense as he contemplated naval positions and their potential impact on the ongoing Blockade.

The Council had convened in the early hours after dawn, though the King was notably absent. The previous night, after indulging excessively in wine at the grand feast, he had ventured off to one of the more opulent establishments on the Street of Silk, a troupe of lickspittles in tow, spurring him on. Aemond, obliged to follow at the king’s command, had watched as Aegon lavishly purchased rounds of the finest wine with the crown’s coin, swiftly diverting his attention away from his presence. Once the king had immersed himself in the revelry, Aemond had slipped away, returning to the Keep shrouded in a haze of pungent perfumes that clung to his clothes, a cloying scent that lingered unpleasantly in his throat.

Had he been on better terms with Daenera, Aemond might have sought solace in her company. He would have slipped into bed with her, burying his face in the crook of her neck to inhale the delicate floral scent that clung to her skin, and that scent that was specifically hers. His arm would have encircled her, his hand resting gently on her lower abdomen, drawing her closer against him.

But there was no such comfort to be found. Aemond had returned to the cold solitude of his own chambers, burdened by a profound heaviness in his chest–heart like a stone. The scar that split across his face had throbbed painfully, sending sharp, splitting aches through his head as if trying to cleave it in two. To dull the pain and chase sleep, he had poured himself a glass of wine, into which he mixed a dose of milk-of-the-poppy, hoping it would ease the discomfort and bring him some much-needed rest. It hardly did.

Ser Arryk Cargyll, it seemed, had later been tasked with escorting the king back. Using a litter in the predawn hours to move the inebriated monarch through the streets, he had presumably left Aegon to sleep off the night’s excesses. With the king indisposed, the weight of the Council’s decisions had fallen onto the Lord Hand, who had presided over the morning’s proceedings in Aegon’s stead.

The Council’s discussions had primarily centered on the blockade and its burgeoning impact on the city. The squeeze on resources had made food prices rise, with the affluent hoarding supplies, leaving the less fortunate to scramble for the meager remnants.

While Aemond cared little and less of the smallfolk and their lot in life, he had nevertheless urged for action. He had once again suggested taking Vhagar and destroying the blockade, a move that would swiftly resolve the issue at hand. However, both his mother and the Hand had swiftly rejected this idea, maintaining that Vhagar was essential for defending the city against any potential retaliation for Storm’s End.

Aemond thought it foolish to limit Vhagar to defense only. She was their most formidable weapon, a dragon that had seen a hundred battles and survived, ridden by Visenya herself. While her presence might prevent the Blacks from retaliating against the city, it did nothing to deter their broader war efforts, such as maintaining the blockade.

This enforced passivity left Aemond feeling stifled and restless. He itched for a role that allowed him to demonstrate his capabilities–to prove himself. As he engaged in the discussions of war, his proposals for proactive measures were met with calls for ‘patience.’ This recurring admonition did nothing to quell his growing frustrations.

Additionally, the Council addressed the matter of the Scorpions. The city’s myths were diligently constructing these massive defensive weapons, and it sounded as though they would soon be installed on the turrets of the Red Keep. This progress, at least, was a tangible step towards strengthening the city’s defenses, a development that Aemond followed with keen interest.

That interest waned as the council’s discussions shifted to the burdensome matters of financial matters–though he had still listened intently. Ser Tyland had raised alarm about the extravagant spending on the recent feast and the impending wedding, especially given the escalating expenses of war. It seemed strange for a Lannister to fret over expenses, yet here was Ser Tyland, voicing his apprehensions of such lavish celebrations during wartime.

The only moment that had truly recaptured Aemond’s attention was when the conversation touched upon Rhaenyra’s continued search for her dead son, days after his demise–an endeavor Aemond viewed as fruitless. There was nothing for her to find. The mention of it had made him grit his teeth as he thought back to Daenera’s pained expression when Aegon had taunted her about her loss and her mother’s futile search.

As the council meeting progressed, the agenda shifted to administrative concerns that were crucial yet less dramatic. The discussions grew particularly intense when the topic shifted to appointing a new Commander of the City watch. This became necessary after Ser Gregor Selter had been stripped of his role as Lord Commander and imprisoned in the dungeons for refusing to swear fealty to the King–proclaiming Rhaenyra Targaryen the Rightful Queen of the Seven Kingdoms. There were still many within the ranks of the City Watch that remained loyal to Daemon Targaryen–even those who had sworn to Aegon as their King.

After much debate and consideration, the council reached a consensus. They decided to promote Ser Luthor Largent to the position of Lord Commander. Additionally, Ser Gwayne Hightower was chosen as his second in command, a move that reinforced the Hightowers influence within the city’s defenses and ensured a strategic alignment with the crown’s interests.

At the heel of this discussion, the issue of vacancies within the Kingsguard was brought up–positions needed to be filled after the loss of Ser Erryk Cargyll, Ser Steffon Darklyn, Ser Lorent Marbrand and the position which Ser Criston Cole had previously filled.

The council meeting eventually wound down without a resolution on that particular issue–the selection of new members for the Kingsguard. This matter was tabled for future discussions, with instructions given to Lord Commander Criston Cole to identify and vet competent candidates worthy of consideration.

Aemond had stood up from his seat then as the room began to empty, moving to the splayed maps at the periphery of the room. The clamor of departing council members slowly subsided, leaving the space increasingly silent. Only a few figures remained: the Lord Hand was methodically gathering his scattered parchments, and the Queen Mother stood by the balcony, her gaze lost in the sprawling view of the city.

As Aemond stood at the periphery of the room, his mind was entrenched in thoughts of strategy and unresolved matters of war, and in the silence of the Council Chamber, the sound of hurried footsteps echoed distinctly across the stone floor. Abruptly, a resolute voice cut through the quiet. “I wish to speak with the Council.”

“This Council meeting has adjourned,” Otto replied curtly, his tone definitive, suggesting that further discussion was unwelcome.

“I wish to discuss my betrothal,” Daenera asserted, her gaze unwavering as she fixed her eyes on the Lord Hand, challenging the dismissal and pressing her issue with determined clarity.

A heavy weight settled on Aemond’s heart as he turned his head slightly, catching her movement at the edge of his vision. From his position at the room’s edge, he observed her quietly, a frown etching his features. His gaze, discreet but intense, remained on her as she stood at the threshold of the Council Chambers. The determination etched on her face was unmistakable, reflecting the sharp blue of her eyes and the firm line of her lips. His attention drifted down the column of her neck to the green fabric that clung to her form. This green, vibrant yet somber, stood in stark contrast to the red dress she had donned the day before–a dress as red as blood, an act of rebellion as much as it was an indictment.

“What is there to discuss? Your betrothal has been decided. The wedding is set,” Otto stated, his drawl weary with exasperation. He stood poised between his seat and the council table, clearly interrupted in his intent to depart by her sudden entrance.

“Perhaps, but my compliance is not.” Daenera stepped across the threshold and rose up the steps to the Council Chambers. She positioned herself firmly above the steps, her stance defiant, challenging the finality of Otto’s words with her presence and reply.

As Aemond turned fully towards Daenera, the maps and plans he had been studying forgotten in her presence, his mother spoke up decisively, “You’re in no position to negotiate.”

He moved from the dim periphery of the room, weaving between the shadow-cast columns towards the table at the center of the room. Pausing just shy of the columns, he tilted his head, observing her with increasing restlessness itching beneath his skin. His expression hardened into a fierce glower, irritation kindling within his chest at Daenera’s resistance to the marriage–as though they haven’t already tied their souls together.

Daenera turned her gaze firmly towards his mother, pointedly ignoring his presence–the deliberate dismissal only fueled the irritation burning within him, his agitation prickling at his fingertips.

“You said it yourself, Lord Hand–the entirety of Maegor’s Holdfast, the realm, knows of my grief,” Daenera spoke with a calm but piercing clarity, her eyes locked on the Lord Hand. “Your standing with the realm is already precarious–the act of kinslaying is unlikely to endear the lords of the realm, or inspire them to rally to your cause. After all, there’s none so accursed as the kinslayer.”

As Daenera’s words resonated in the air around him, a chilling sensation seemed to grip his heart. He clenched his teeth, struggling against the surge of emotion that threatened to break through his composure–that mask of steel and ice he had created for himself, it always seemed to chafe in her presence, making him want to grip it all the tighter. The word ‘kinslayer,’ as it fell from Daenera's lips, was like an arrowhead embedding itself in his flesh, lodged in a place he could not reach to extract. It seemed to burrow deeper with every word, exacerbated by her refusal to acknowledge him, which only intensified the grievance of the wound she inflicted. The wound seemed to fester with a mix of guilt and resentment. As he watched her speak, the accusation echoed in his mind, amplifying the discomfort and anger beneath his composure.

He kept his gaze fixed on her, noting the subtle shift in her stance under his scrutiny. Even this slight recognition of his presence did little to alleviate the sting of being ignored. Daenera clasped her hands in front of her, both wrapped in pale silken bandages. The rough edges of scrapes and cuts were just visible, hinting at the deeper wounds concealed beneath the fabric–wounds that mirrored his own.

She pressed on, “Moreover, the realm would find the celebration of a kinslayer in poor taste–grossly so. Worse yet, to have the grieving sister of the boy that was murdered attend such a celebration, to have her sit beside her brother’s murderer and endure the king’s taunts.”

Daenera’s head tilted slightly, her gaze sharpening with a deliberate intensity as she concluded in a tone of measured softness, “The realm will think you cruel.”

“You are fortunate we did not imprison you alongside your men for the spectacle you made yesterday,” his mother retorted sharply, her footsteps echoing against the stone as she moved away from the balcony.

“You cannot. It wouldn’t suit the narrative you’re attempting to weave,” Daenera responded, her eyebrows arching slightly, her demeanor unperturbed by the threat. Her gaze was defiant, challenging them to call in the guards and have her dragged–presumedly kicking and screaming–to the dungeons. It was a challenge she knew would go unanswered. The slight curl to her lips betrayed her confidence.

“What do you want?” Otto finally asked. He exhaled deeply as he sank into his chair, the wood creaking slightly at his weight, clearly annoyed by the day’s proceedings and the unexpected turn it had taken.

“You cannot seriously be considering this,” Alicent cut in sharply, her tone thick with exasperation. Her footsteps echoed more pronouncedly as she moved away from the balcony, the folds of her skirts rustling softly over the smooth stone of the floor. Aemond listened to the rhythm of her steps; they halted abruptly, likely at the end of the table near the king’s chair.

Despite this his gaze did not waver from Daenera. He scrutinized her with the intensity of a sharpened blade, his gaze cutting as if it could slice through her composure to expose the threads of her intentions and thoughts beneath. He desired to undo her, to understand the depths of her resolve and the strategies she harbored beneath her poised appearance–he wanted to unravel her in every way, wanted to find the thread that might lead him back to her heart.

“I wish for the remainder of my men to be released from the dungeons and seen safely out of the city,” Daenera declared, her request clear and firm. The request revealed a thread for Aemond to tug at, only to discover it led to a knot with no discernible end–spawning further questions. Who among her men were so important to her that she would bargain her own compliance for their freedom? And to what end?

Aemond’s jaw clenched, his lips twisting into a frown as he forcibly tore his gaze from her for the first time since she entered. Her steadfast opposition to the marriage–a union he had fought to maintain, knowing it would secure her safety at his side–frustrated him to no end. Yet, had that frustration not burned so fiercely within his chest, he might have found pride in the bold gamble she made.

“Releasing your men would only embolden you to defy us further. The very reason we hold them is to ensure your compliance.” His mother scoffed, voice laced with incredulous disbelief.

“If you do not release my men and continue to threaten their lives, I might as well consider them dead already,” Daenera declared, her voice steady and challenging. Her face remained as impassive as porcelain, giving no hint of the emotions brewing beneath–the emotions he knew were there when it came to her men.

The cold decisiveness of her statement took Aemond by surprise, a pang of disquiet stabbing between his ribs as his gaze narrowed slightly. Yet, beneath he disquiet, a spark of excitement flickered–a recognition of the darkness he knew to be lurking within her. It was a ruthless streak he had seen before: the same bloodlust she had shown after killing her attacker, the same mercilessness that had led her to poison her husband from the very start of their marriage–and had later led to his murder. This darkness mirrored his own, a similarity that was both unsettling and exhilarating.

“If you desire for me to agree to this mockery of a wedding, then you will release my men,” Daenera continued, her gaze deliberately avoiding Aemond as he searched her face, noting the subtle changes in her demeanor–the tightening grip on her hands, the way she held her head a bit higher, as if steeling herself against the weight of his gaze. The graceful curve of her neck stretched, revealing the faint, healing scar from the blade she had pressed against her own skin–a reminder of agony he had brought upon her.

As Aemond stepped into the light, his movements seemed to shake her resolve, as if their souls were connected by an invisible thread. Each step he took sent ripples along this tether, subtly disturbing her composure and stirring the air between them. Her eyes stayed decisively fixed on the Lord Hand, deliberately ignoring Aemond, and yet her very act of avoidance served as its own form of acknowledgement. Yet, it was not the acknowledgement he longed for. He wanted her to look directly at him, to meet his gaze–even if her eyes held contempt, even if they were brimming with tears. He wanted her eyes, that cornflower blue that was to be found nowhere else.

Positioning himself by the table, Aemond rested his hand on the back of the chair, fingers twitching as he watched her. The mask of composure he wore seemed to sharpen around the edges, his emotions kerning tumultuously beneath the surface. His heart pounded a wild, angry rhythm against his ribs, the agitation under his skin growing into something far more volatile.

“Should you decide not to release my men,” Daenera said, voice softly measured as she threatened them. “Then I swear to you, I will show you a true spectacle–one that will not be forgotten. Force me to the altar and know that I will resist every step, every inch; you will have to drag me, kicking and screaming. And I will ensure that every lord, lady, and commoner in the realm knows that this marriage is without my consent.”

A cruel, humorless laugh almost broke free from Aemond’s throat, but he swallowed it back, stifling the harsh sound before it could spill into the world. Daenera’s words only served to aggravate the wounds she had already inflicted, each one jolting the arrowheads she had embedded earlier deeper, intensifying his agony and fueling his rage. Inside him, the beast of his darker instincts thrashed and clawed, straining against the confines of his self-control, eager to break free and unleash its fury.

Her refusal might have been almost laughable if it hadn’t stung so deeply. Under different circumstances, Aemond might have found humor in her defiance, but he had no such grace to offer her now.

She was his wife. She had willingly cut her palm, traced glyphs in her own blood upon his brow, and spoke the vows. They had tied their souls together, one flesh, one heart, one soul. And they had consummated the marriage–more than once. They were husband and wife. And yet now, she resisted the very notion of their union being recognized, of bringing their secret marriage into the unforgiving light of day.

His fists clenched so tightly that the healing skin threatened to tear open once again, but he scarcely noticed the sting of it; his focus was on her. He wanted her so desperately, so pathetically–so monstrously. The yearning for the love they once shared felt like a path towards destruction, and yet he would have embraced even death if it meant being in her arms. But he knew that she would withhold herself from him–it only intensified the urge to grasp her tighter, to ensure she could not slip between his fingers like wisps of smoke. The cruel, primal instinct within him yearned to sink its claws into her, to hold her close against all reason.

He knew what she saw when she looked at him–a monster, a kinslayer. Had he been a better man, he might have found the strength to let her go. But he wasn’t a better man. He was a monster, and he loved her monstrously–she was his, and he couldn’t bear the thought of letting her go.

“Ñuha ābrazȳrys iksā,” he muttered, softly, like a possessive prayer.

If only he had been a better man, he would have let her go–if only he had been more of a monster, he might have been able to eradicate the weakness she inspired in him.

“I’ve had your consent,” Aemond murmured softly. Her gaze finally met his–the act of betrayal bringing him the acknowledgement he so desired. The intimacy of the moment struck him deeply; only love could betray with such devastating impact. She already hated him, and like a sinner seeking absolution, he willingly exposed himself to her scorn, knowing it would never cleanse the stain on his soul. It wouldn’t change a thing–he would always be a sinner, and here he was, sinning against her once more. “You’ve already given your consent when we wed in the tradition of our house.”

Aemond drew in a measured breath, his gaze fixed intently on Daenera as her expression shifted to one of incredulity. Her brows furrowed, the corners of her lips twitching as a slight tremor ran through the plump flesh. A flush of red crept up her neck and into her cheeks, her breath growing shallow as a sheen of tears gleamed at the edge of her eyes, threatening to spill over. She looked achingly beautiful, even as she stared at him with such a profound sense of betrayal.

For a moment, it felt as though they were the only two people in the room, bound by an invisible tether that trembled under the weight of his revelation. The connection between them was palpable, a mix of pain, anger, and undeniable intimacy.

“You are my wife,” Aemond stated, indifferent to the chaos his confession might unleash. He could feel his mother’s shocked and disbelieving gaze on him, and Otto’s cold, glowering stare, but their thoughts and reactions were inconsequential. All that mattered was Daenera’s gaze, fixed intently on him.

Her lips curled into a sneer, teeth bared as if she were a beast ready to tear out his throat. Yet, she was not a beast–she was just a woman, and the woman he loved would prefer a blade at his neck instead of her teeth.

“It is your word against mine, Kinslayer,” Daenera sneered, voice dripping with venom.

Another sharp arrowhead seemed to embed itself within Aemond’s flesh as Daenera’s denial twisted it deeper still. The word ‘kinslayer’ rang in his ears, echoing incessantly.

Spitefulness burned in her gaze as she sought to deny him again, to drive the arrowhead deeper and deeper, aiming to embed it so profoundly that it would graze his heart with every beat–as though their love hadn’t already done that to his heart. “There was no Maester or priest to bless the ceremony, no witnesses to attest to its validity. In the eyes of the Faith and the court, the union lacks recognition.”

Her head tilted slightly as she delivered the final blow, seeking to drive the arrowhead straight into his heart. “It is as though it never really happened.”

Any restraint Aemond had left snapped as he surged forward, prowling towards her and seizing her wrist before she could think to move away. Her skin burned against his as he raised her hand between them, his grip tight but not bruising–he still retained that much control. His sudden touch seemed to startle her, her breath catching in her throat as she jerked back slightly, eyes widening in surprise.

A sneer twisted his lips. “Do we not bear the same scars, ābrazȳrys? Do we not bear the evidence upon our palms?”

Aemond's memories of that night were as vivid as the day he lost his eye—the tentative expression on her face as she indulged him, the cautious yet curious gaze she held as he retrieved the dragonglass arrowhead. He could still see her, marked by the glyph upon her brow and the line of blood on her lips, the taste of it hauntingly vivid. He remembered the vows they exchanged—one flesh, one heart, one soul. Now and forever. He recalled how the flames had played across her skin, the sensation as he pressed into her again, tasting the salt of her skin and the copper of her lips, the feel of her body against his as they consummated their vows.

And now, she was denying it all–denying that it ever really happened.

His voice lowered, seeking her acknowledgement, “Did we not seal our vows in blood?”

Daenera wrenched her wrist from his grip, her eyes burning with incredulity and her lips trembling slightly as she retorted, “What is one scar from another? That is no evidence.”

He stepped back, regarding her with cool detachment. The scar on the palm of his hand burned with the memory of the dragonglass arrowhead, burned with the memory of her skin against his. He felt an overwhelming urge to grab her, to drag her to his room and prove just how much she belonged to him, but he restrained himself. He couldn’t–wouldn’t–force her.

Averting his gaze, Aemond forcibly tore his eye away from her and recomposed himself, sliding his cold, impassive mask back into place–he refused to yield more than he already had. Despite her denials, she was his wife; they both knew the truth of their union, and soon, the realm would recognize it too. He took another step back, feeling his heart pounding heavily within his chest.

“Aemond… Tell me this isn’t true,” his mother’s voice broke through, rising in urgency as she approached from behind. She gripped his arms, her fingers digging into the muscle of his forearm as she forced him to look at her. “Tell me it isn’t true. Tell me you aren’t this–this foolish!”

Aemond glowered at his mother, his silence laden with admission. He recognized his folly–had been a fool, terribly and irrevocably, a fool who had fallen in love. If possible, he would extricate this weakness from his being, but she was so deeply intertwined within him that extracting her seemed impossible. What else did he truly possess? She was the one good thing that remained to him.

Alicent’s grip on his arms tightened further as her voice escalated, “Tell me it isn’t true! Tell me you didn’t marry that cursed girl!”

Her words struck him like a slap to an already raw wound–the same scorn he had endured since his return from Storm’s End now intensified, crushing him with the weight of her disappointment. It had never been the same between them since then.

“Alicent,” Otto interjected, his tone reproachful.

“Do you grasp the gravity of your actions–whom you’ve bound yourself to?” Alicent hissed at Aemond, her dark eyes ablaze with a mix of fury and fear. Her lips curled downward, her head shaking in exasperation as she spoke as though she possessed knowledge about Daenera that Aemond did not. “She will see you cursed–she will see you suffer for what you did to her brother! She will doom us all–”

“Mother, enough!” Aemond answered, his voice sharp as he shrugged off her grasp. Her nails grazed the sleeves of his doublet as he forcefully removed her hands from him, freeing himself from her clutches, her face twisting in hurt and ire. He was acutely aware of what Daenera was–a poisoner on whose poison he had become dependent.

If bearing her resentment meant keeping her safe and close to him, he was prepared to endure it, despite the self-disgust he felt at the enormity of his desire for her, how it reduced him, yet he remained helpless against it. “It is done–”

“It is not,” Alicent countered sharply, her lips tight, her gaze fixed on him with incredulity. “There’s still a chance to undo this. As she herself declared, it’s merely your word against hers. No witnesses, no priest, nothing to consecrate the vows. The gods do not recognize it.”

It would be futile to deny it. Nothing could reverse the act–just as nothing could erase the blood that stained his hands. And he would not deny it.

“Compose yourself, daughter,” Otto commanded, his voice firm and imbued with reproach. His piercing gaze was enough to still Alicent as she glared back at him with her own reproach. His fingers tapped irritably against the aged leather of his ledger, assessing the scene. After a moment of weary resignation, he declared, “What’s done is done. It is of no consequence now.”

“‘Of no consequence?’” Alicent repeated, her lips twisting into a frown of displeasure, her earring swaying as she shook her head and turned towards her fater.

“The legitimacy of their union matters little at this juncture,” Otto stated, his gaze shifting reproachfully towards Aemond. “ Our priority is the forthcoming wedding–” he continued, emphasizing his next words, “one that aligns with our faith and is witnessed by the eyes of the court.”

Aemond responded with a measured–challenging–smirk, unapologetic about the Valyrian ceremony they had held. It was the tradition of their forebears after all, and Aemond found the ritual far more significant and interesting than those of the Faith. Although it lacked witnesses or a priest to consecrate their vows, it had bound them as surely as any formal vows could, as real as the cars on their palms. The forthcoming ceremony, in his view, was nothing more than a formality.

“You’re condemning him with this marriage,” Alicent accused, her voice laden with emotion as she advanced towards the table to confront her father, gripping the back of a chair as though to steady herself.

“The wedding is set,” Otto declared flatly, brushing aside her concerns with a dismissive wave. His cold, calculating gaze shifted to Aemond. “How long have you kept this from us?”

Aemond caught her gaze, his eye locking with hers. Her eyes, large and brimming with angry tears, seemed to burn into him. How long had it been since their entanglement began?

Had it started when she first saw his scar and did not turn away? When she invited him into her chambers that night–the chamber where her husband slept? Or during those quiet nights, when she sought his touch to erase the memory of her husband? Perhaps it was when he took her to the Isle of Faces and laid with her before the Old Gods, or the day she had summoned him after she had been hurt, and together, had taken her husband’s life–was that the beginning?

Or had it started even earlier? That day, a year or so ago, when she had knelt before him with those scornful eyes and a warm mouth, or that moment he had traced his hand up her leg in the water, watching her reaction? Maybe it was after the tourney, when she had come to his chambers and boldly pressed a knife to his throat? That night when she had given her maidenhead to him?

Or perhaps, the fall began the day she returned to King’s Landing.

Aemond knew she would have preferred that night to remain shrouded in the darkness of night–a secret cloaked in the protective shadows of denial and silence–where she could deny it. He refused to let her forget it.

“Four months.”

“Four months? Since her husband’s death?” His mother’s voice carried a note of disbelief as she echoed his answer, her body turned to face him again. Her arms crossed protectively over her chest, her fingers nervously tracing her lips–a gesture he knew all too well. It was an anxious habit that surfaced whenever she was deeply troubled, one he once would have sought to soothe, but he didn’t-

“We married soon after,” Aemond answered, his voice steady, giving her the partial truth. It was a delicate omission, one that avoided the grim details of that day.

Otto settled back into his chair, his gaze methodically shifting between Aemond and Daenera as he contemplated the situation. “This may be to our advantage.”

““How can this possibly serve our interests?!” Alicent cut in sharply, her voice laden with incredulity and concern. ““Lord Borros Baratheon will surely sever ties with us once he discovers his brother’s widow has remarried so swiftly after his death. He will suspect Aemond of having a hand in his brother’s demise and he will demand justice.”

“Lord Borros is a prideful man and has already pledged his loyalty to us. It would tarnish his honor to withdraw now. He wants for a royal alliance and the power of a dragon at his command. He won’t risk losing that,” Otto reasoned, his voice steady and assured. “However, we must censure that the nature of Boris Baratheons accident remains beyond reproach… We announce that their union was sealed a few weeks ago, perhaps a month, in a small ceremony, meant to keep her mother’s wrath at bay.” He continued, “We’ll weave the narrative of forbidden love, and the coming nuptials will be a formal ceremony that aligns with both the Faith and tradition, presenting the union to the court.”

“That is if I comply…” Daenera interjected, her tone defiant as she advanced towards the table, her gaze moving past him to meet his mother’s eyes. “I have an inherent obstinance, Your Grace…” Her focus then shifted back to Otto, effectively dismissing Aemond’s presence with her pointed gaze. She continued, her voice resolute, “You may weave your narrative, Lord Hand, but if I resist, your schemes will unravel. You have shown your cruelty by having me attend the celebration of my brother’s death–how will your plans fare when I am to be dragged down the aisle, tears running down my face, resisting every step?”

The image of Daenera being forcibly led down the aisle, her struggle against the guard’s grip, her hair disheveled and tears streaking down her face, flashed through his mind–it twisted cruelly within him, his heart bludgeoning itself against his ribs.

Her eyes briefly met Aemond’s, capturing the intensity of his frustration, before she quickly looked away, continuing her argument, “How do you think the realm will respond to you forcing me to marry my brother’s murderer? How do you think my mother would react? And Daemon?”

Aemond scoffed, his gaze drifting upwards towards the ceiling, a dismissive gesture that belied his contempt for the opinions of others. He was indifferent to the realm’s view of his marriage, even less concerned about her mother’s reaction. As for Daemon, Aemond was unafraid; he was ready to face him, ready to spill as much blood as necessary for Daenera. His voice was sharp, edged with defiance as he retorted, “And how will she respond when she learns you married me willingly? Daemon had his suspicions of our relationship–how do you think he would react? Would he see it as a betrayal?”

““Do you think they’ll believe the tale that we married weeks ago, when I am dragged, crying, to the altar?” Daenera snapped back, her blue eyes narrowing in anger.

Aemond stared at her intently for a moment, his frustration burning within his chest and making its way into his response, the venom of his words palpable as he shot back, “Do you think they won’t?”

Her expression fell under the weight of his words, visibly shaken by the brutal implication. Aemond could see the poison of doubt seeping into her confidence. He knew that her mother and Daemon’s suspicion about their relationship was likely the reason behind her summons to return home to Dragonstone–that it was the reason for her leaving him. The revelation of their prior marriage, especially before the usurpation, would undoubtedly be seen by Daemon as a betrayal.

She abruptly tore her gaze away from him, a clear dismissal that stung him more than he expected. Retreating to the shadows, Aemond returned to standing by the column, his eye fixed on her as his frustration and anger burned within his chest.

“If we release your men, you will consent to the marriage,” Orro declared, his voice resonating with the authority of expectation rather than posing a question.

“Yes.”

“From this day forward, you will embody the perfect bride–beautiful, radiant–and subsequently, the role of a devoted and loving wife,” Otto continued, laying out the expectations clearly.

With a voice tight with scorn, Alicent interjected, “You surely cannot be considering her terms?”

Otto quietly dismissed his daughter, disregarding her concerns as he remained focused on Daenera. “We cannot release both of your men. You must choose between the Sworn Shield and the boy. Once you fulfill your part of the arrangement, we will release the one you have chosen.”

“The Sworn Shield. Fenrick,” Daenera responded without hesitation, stepping forward and gripping the back of a chair, her resolve clear. She pointedly avoided meeting Aemond’s gaze, even as he watched her intently, even as he knew she felt his gaze on her. He gritted his teeth in annoyance.

Alicent’s brows shot up in both surprise and reproach, before her expression settled into something more judgmental. “You choose not to save the boy? How heartless of you to leave him languishing in captivity.”

Amidst the swirl of anger and frustration that tormented him, a spark of dark curiosity flickered within him. His fingers twitched restlessly as he noticed the subtle shift in Daenera’s demeanor–a cold, dark ruthlessness that demanded his attention. Her decision to leave the boy in captivity, facing a likely grim fate, resonated with something deep within him. Aemond didn’t see her as heartless; rather, her choice was pragmatic. Still, her prioritization of her sworn shield over the boy twisted something inside of him.

“Release Fenrick.”

Otto straightened in his seat and responded with a measured nod. “Upon your marriage to Aemond, your man will be released. The boy, however, will stay with us as insurance.”

Relief flickered in Daenera's eyes as she visibly relaxed, a slight ease returning to her breath—an expression that only served to agitate Aemond further. With a clear and measured voice, she asked, "When is the wedding to be held?"

"Seven days from now," Otto declared firmly, standing up to signal the conclusion of their discussion. His decisive stance left no room for further debate, marking the immediate future with an inevitability that hung heavily in the air.

The Council Chambers descended into silence as the Hand of the King meticulously collected the last pieces of his parchments from the table, stacking them atop the closed folder before scooping them up in a deliberate motion. With an expression of weary annoyance, Otto quietly issued a warning to his daughter. Their eyes met briefly, and Alicent, seeming to absorb the admonition, turned away to gaze out the windows, distancing herself from the conversation. Otto then lifted his gaze to Aemond, extending the same cautionary note–a warning to not further endanger their already fragile position.

Aemond, however, dismissed his grandfather’s warning with a nonchalant curve of his lips, unswayed by the counsel. He wasn’t concerned with their position. His gaze returned to Daenera, watching how she shifted under his scrutiny, her head held high in defiance as she deliberately avoided meeting his gaze. He wanted to grasp her wrist, to lead her away to a secluded spot where they could speak freely, away from the formalities and pretenses. But he was keenly aware that such a gesture would not be welcomed.

Before he could act on his impulse, his mother stepped in, positioning herself between them. She reached out to Daenera, her fingers brushing against Daenera’s hand. Before she could retract her hand, Alicent grasped it firmly.

“I will be going to the Sept. Join me,” she stated, making it more a directive than a suggestion, enduring that Daenera had little room to decline as she stole her away from Aemond and his intentions.

As Aemond moved towards them, his mother sharply dismissed him with a pointed gesture. His jaw clenched tightly, and he gritted his teeth, feeling the agitation spread like wildfire from his chest through his body, creating an almost unbearable itch beneath his skin. He sought Daenera’s gaze, but she turned her face away, denying him even a brief connection.

A low hum of frustration rumbled up from his chest to the back of his throat. Drawing in a measured breath, his gaze hardened. He walked out the room, his hands clenched tightly at his sides, each step echoing his growing turmoil. The dismissal–and deeper still, the rejection–twisted inside of him. He felt the surge of that wretched beast within, baring its teeth, as the need to unleash his pent-up frustration prickled relentlessly at his fingertips.

Usually when he felt like this, Aemond sought solace in the tiltyard, pushing his body to its limits through grueling training sessions. He would continue until exhaustion claimed him, until his hands numbed from the impact of blows, his muscles quivered with fatigue, and his mind cleared of all distractions. At other times, he would escape to the skies on Vhagar, finding freedom above the clouds, far from the troubles that tethered him to the earth.

This time, however, he chose neither of these releases. Instead, driven by a darker impulse, Aemond made his way to the dungeons beneath the Red Keep. He descended the stone steps into the underbelly of the fortress.

As Aemond entered the dungeon, the guards stationed at the doors quickly rose to their feet, abruptly abandoning their dice game. In their haste to assume a more formal posture, one guard's sword clanged loudly against a chair while the other's knee knocked against the makeshift table, almost knocking it over and spilling the dice and coins onto the floor. The guards shifted uneasily, faces paling slightly under Aemond's stern gaze. Without offering any explanation, Aemond strode past them, delving deeper into the dungeon's shadows. Behind him, the sound of the guards muttering to each other filled the air, accompanied by hurried footsteps and the jingling of keys as they scrambled to follow protocol.

The dungeons were enveloped in deep shadows, with only slivers of natural light managing to seep through the narrow windows set close to the ground–set at the very top of each cell wall–capturing mere glimpses of passing boots. These meager shafts of light did little to dispel the pervasive gloom. Along the walls, torches flickered erratically, their sputtering flames casting dancing shadows that played across the damp stone surface.

The air in the dungeons was thick and oppressive, clinging unpleasantly to the back of the throat. The pungent smell of urine and excrement permeated the damp air, making each breath an assault on the senses. Intermittently, the rustle of chains or an echoed cough broke through the silence, and below that, rats squeaked in the dark corners.

His footsteps echoed crisply against the stone as he bypassed the imposing, empty cage that dominated the center of the main room, his attention drawn instead to the smaller, more austere cells lining the walls. Behind him, the guard followed, the flickering torch in his hand casting only feeble light that were hardly able to light their way. The jiggle of keys accompanied each of his steps.

Aemond paused in front of one of the cells, his gaze moving past the iron bars to survey its occupants.

Inside, a small boy lay curled on a cot, tightly wrapped in a moth-eaten blanket as he slept. At the child’s feet sat a figure shrouded in shadows, his presence revealed only by a pair of narrowed eyes that glinted in the dim torchlight, fixed on Aemond.

Fenrick’s voice broke the silence, low and cautious as if to avoid waking the boy, “Are you here to personally see to my execution?”

Aemond lingered, observing Fenrick’s worn features which the scant light of the dungeons seemed to prey upon, casting deep shadows that accentuated the gauntness etched into the man’s face. He looked older, almost fragile, and Aemond found himself wondering the value of this man’s life. What was so important about this pathetic old man that she would trade her compliance for the sake of his freedom?

“Hmm,” Aemond hummed noncommittally, then took a measured breath before issuing a command, “Bring him.”

He turned sharply on his heels as he strode away, not sparing another glance in Fenrick’s direction. His steps were purposeful as he headed towards one of the interrogation cells. Behind him, the jangle of keys rang out, followed by the guard’s gruff voice ordering Fenrick to present his hands. The sound of metal clinking together briefly filled the air, punctuated by the grating creak of the cell door as it swung open.

Aemond positioned himself against the wall of the interrogation room, leaning against the cold stone beneath the barred window from which light filtered, casting sharp rays across the sparse interior. In the center of the room stood a plain table flanked by two chairs–one of which was stained with dried blood.

The door creaked open again as the guard ushered Fenrick inside, nudging him towards one of the chairs. Fenrick was forcefully seated, his shackled hands–marred with grime and dried blood–rested heavily on top of the table. Once Fenrick was in place, the guard looked up at Aemond expectantly. Aemond dismissed him with a slight turn of his head, and the guard withdrew to quietly stand outside the room, providing them a semblance of privacy, though it was clear that Aemond needed no protection against a feeble old man in chains. His knife rested at his hip, a silent promise that if Fenrick dared to make a move, he was more than ready to end it swiftly.

Silence hung heavily in the air as Aemond took in the full extent of Fenrick injuries. Dark bruises pooled beneath his eyes, mirroring the shadows of the dungeons that seemed imprinted onto his very skin. A jagged cut marred the crook of his nose, healing crookedly–a testament to recent violence. It appeared there was still some fight left in the old man.

Fenrick’s face was set in a grimace of simmering animosity, his eyes flickering with disdain as he met and held Aemond’s gaze.

“You should be thankful we didn’t confine you to the black cells,” Aemond remarked, his voice taking on a conversational tone that belied the grim nature of his words. “I’m told there are rats down there as large as cats, with a particular taste for human flesh.”

“You didn’t bring me here to discuss my accommodations,” Fenrick retorted dryly, his voice stripped of any expectation of comfort or mercy, cutting through the superficiality of Aemond’s comment with weary resignation.

Aemond looked at Fenrick with cold detachment, his gaze icy. “Perhaps you haven’t been informed here, in your cozy accommodations, but I am soon to wed Daenera. I suppose I should be grateful you’re such a poor sworn shield, otherwise you might have succeeded in stealing Daenera away.”

Genrick scoffed crudely, a sound of disbelief mingled with contempt. He shook his head slightly, his eyes locked onto Aemond with scorn. “You make it sound as though it wasn’t her choice to leave King’s Landing–to escape your clutches and the fate that awaited her should she remain. I suppose you wouldn’t see it that way, Kinslayer.”

The word ‘kinslayer’ was spat out with a sneer of palpable contempt, its echo bouncing off the stone walls of the dungeon cell. It was an indictment from which he would never escape, whispered among his allies and hurled at him by his enemies–a moniker that seeped through the cracks of the Red Keep, tainting the groundwater and poisoning the realm’s perception of him.

Aemond bore this indictment with an expression of indifference, even as it gnawed at him like a splinter burrowing beneath his skin, a constant, nagging reminder of his actions and the blood that stained his hands. He felt that splinter fester within him each time he was called ‘kinslayer.’

“You’ve damned yourself,” Fenrick condemned with a harsh tone, his eyes hardening. “There’s no man so accursed as the one who slays his own kin. The gods will forsake you for this–”

“The gods abandoned me long before this. Your opinions of me are of no consequence,” Aemond answered flatly, his arms folded tightly across his chest. He had never cared for this man’s judgment–this man who had never seen him as anything but the enemy. Why should the opinions of such a man carry any weight?

“No,” Fenrick agreed, shiftling slightly in his seat, “It’s her opinion you’re really concerned about…”

Gritting his teeth, Aemond momentarily averted his gaze, feeling the sting as Fenrick prodded at that tender spot within him–the bruise that was his love for Daenera. Among the few opinions that mattered to him, hers were the most important. The extent to which she had managed to get under his skin continued to surprise him–continued to twist something inside of him.

As Fenrick shifted to face Aemond more directly, the sound of his shackles scraping over the table hung in the air, punctuating the tense atmosphere. His brows were drawn together in an angry furrow as he challenged Aemond, “If you have any shred of mercy in you–if you truly care for her, you wouldn’t condemn her with this marriage.”

The sharpness of Fenrick's words seemed to wedge beneath the mask of cold indifference that Aemond wore. His remarks were crafted not merely to injure Aemond's pride but to provoke a sense of guilt—a sentiment Aemond adamantly refused to entertain. While the death of Lucerys had not been his intention, Aemond felt no sorrow or remorse for the incident. Any flicker of guilt that might have surfaced was swiftly disregarded, as he willfully turned a blind eye to such feelings.

Aemond’s heart pounded in the inferno of anger that burned within his chest, its pulse echoing not only in the cavity of it but also behind the sapphire that had replaced his eye. He could feel the contours of the gem pressing against his socket, a ceaseless that had remained with him since the death of Lucerys–a relentless reminder. With each word of condemnation, the throbbing intensified until he gritted his teeth in pain.

“I am doing this to protect her,” Aemond stated, his voice as cold as he justified himself. “I’m doing this to keep her safe–”

“And how are you keeping her safe?” Fenrick countered sharply, his scowl deepening as he let out a scoff of exasperation. “Even as your wife, she still remains a hostage–merely a pawn in the Lord Hand’s machinations, a life to leverage against her mother. How will you protect her from the judgment and condemnation of being married to a kinslayer? How will you shield her from your own family–how will you protect her from your brother?”

Fenrick leaned forward slightly on the table, his dark eyes filled with judgment. “And when she no longer serves a purpose, what will become of her then? By forcing this marriage, you are condemning her to a life with the man who murdered her brother and seek to destroy the rest of her family.”

“What would you have me do?” Aemond sneered, pushing from the wall and striding towards Fenrick. He towered over him, asserting his presence as he continued, “Should I leave her to remain merely a hostage?” At least as his wife, she would be offered some semblance of security and comfort. “As my wife, I can protect her.”

“And if Aegon turns his eye on her?”

Aemond stared back at Fenrick, the weight of implication sinking into him. “Aegon will not–”

“Your brother has never been one to restrain his desires,” Fenrick interrupted sharply–scornfully. “Aegon is a king now. What makes you think you could stop him if he decided he wanted Daenera for himself.”

Aemond closed the distance between himself and Fenrick, looming over him with a sneer on his lips. “I will stop him,” he growled, his voice low and threatening. “Aegon is many things, but he isn’t entirely stupid. He knows I control his greatest weapon, and he wouldn’t be foolish enough to risk it. I will protect her–I am protecting her.”

“And if it’s you she needs protection from? If you truly want to protect her, you’d get her out of the city–out of your brother’s reach.”

“You know I can’t do that.”

“You could.”

Aemond straightened to his full height, his lips curling into something more menacing than a smirk–a predator baring its teeth in anger. He circled the table to firmly grip the back of the chair opposite Fenrick. His reluctance to release her was not solely driven by his desire for her. His obligation to his family precluded any possibility of releasing her. Releasing her would mean sending her back to Dragonstone, potentially motivating her mother to launch an attack. Such a risk was unacceptable to him; he simply could not allow it.

There was no refuge on Dragonstone, only the promise of a slow death as the war continued to grow. In such circumstances, she would be deemed the enemy. And Aemond was convinced that her mother and Daemon would use her to secure an marriage alliance; she was destined to be married regardless of the circumstances. They would be pulled further and further away from each other, until either she or he perished in the war. Only one side would prevail, and Aemond was resolute in ensuring it was his. He was determined to save her from the grim fate that awaited her family–and if that meant marrying her against her will, then so be it.

At his side, Aemond believed he could offer her protection against his own family. Although Aegon was drunken fool who enjoyed making his life miserable, he knew the boundaries and would not cross them at the risk of losing his greatest asset. He would not lay a hand upon Daenera, Aemond was determined to ensure that–she would be safe and comfortable as his wife.

Aemond’s lips twisted into a sneer as he retorted, “And have you protected her? Where were you when her husband laid his hands on her?”

Fenrick appeared momentarily taken aback, a shadow of shame flickering across his face before it settled back into a hardened scowl. “You’re the one who sealed her fate the moment you took her maidenhead–”

Aemond’s voice was dangerously calm, his fury simmering beneath the surface as he said,“You were the one who told Daemon about us.”

He had been the reason Daenera had been forced to marry Boris Baratheon. Had Fenrick refrained from disclosing their secret dalliance to Daemon and Rhaenyra, Daenera might have avoided the marriage. Had he not told them, she wouldn’t have had to suffer through the humiliation of her husband’s whoring and sireing of a bastard. She wouldn’t have had to suffer through the marriage bed. She wouldn’t have had to suffer through his temper and beatings.

Aemond recalled the moment his heart had plummeted upon seeing her in such a state–the way she had clutched her robe, desperately trying to conceal the extent of her injuries that he would only come to fully understand later. The memory of how her hair clung to her bloodied skin and how she trembled under his touch, her eyes wide and filled with tears came back to him. The reminders of that day were still evident on her: a cleft in her ear where it had been split, and faint scars across her back, a legacy of the leather belt that had been used on her.

Aemond’s gaze hardened.

“I did it to protect her from you.”

A humorless laugh escaped Aemond, his smile cold and sharp as a blade, slicing through the tension. “It seems you don’t know her as well as you think.”

“Oh, I know her far better than you ever will,” Fenrick answered, his tone laced with disdain. He licked his chapped lips, then continued, “I’ve watched her grow from a child into a woman. I know where her heart truly lies–where it will always lie, and it isn’t with you. Daenera would never forsake her family for you. Even if she once felt some affection for you, she would never have betrayed her family for you.”

Aemond released his grip on the back of the chair and prowled towards the table, where he placed both palms flat on its worn surface. Leaning forward, his voice dropped into a low, menacing drawl, "I didn’t take her maidenhead by force. She offered it willingly. She sought me out—she has always been the one to seek me out."

Across the table, Fenrick’s face tightened, the muscle of his jaw working as he gritted his teeth. His eyes, narrowed to slits, bore into Aemond with an intensity that was almost palpable. His body tensed as if he were on the brink of lunging across the table to seize Aemond by the throat, and it only made Aemond more determined to rectify any misconceptions Fenrick held about his and Daenera’s relationship–to sow the seed of doubt in his mind.

This confrontation was not just incidental; Aemond was here with a purpose–to ensure that Fenrick understood the truth.

Aemond’s tone was sharp and calculated as he pressed on, “She turned to me when her husband left her wanting… It was she who initiated our affair, not I.” A flicker of amusement stirred within Aemond as he watched Fenrick avert his gaze, his fists tightening on the table, the shackles clinging together at the movement. “You knew of her husband’s temper, how could you not? You, who stood as her protector, her sworn shield, knew of her mistreatment, and yet you turned a blind eye to it simply because he was her husband.”

His accusation hit its mark as Fenrick’s jaw clenched tightly. The man’s eyebrows drew together, shadowed by guilt as he locked eyes with Aemond. With a scornful sneer, he retorted, “You would know about turning a blind eye, wouldn’t you, Kinslayer?”

A taunting smirk played across Aemond’s lips as he recognized the insult for what it was–a desperate jape at his vulnerability, coming from a man ensnared in his own shame, trying to claw back some semblance of control. Aemond was not inclined to grant him any reprieve.

“She came to me,” Aemond declared, his voice a smooth drawl. “She sought solace in my arms–sought to remove her husband's touch with mine. It was her choice, and I willingly obliged her.”

Fenrick’s expression darkened further as Aemond leaned in closer, the intensity of his gaze forcing Fenrick to look away. A flush of anger rose to his cheeks, face reddening as he struggled to contain the anger at Aemond’s words. The air between them was thick with tension, as palpable as the stench of rat droppings.

“And then her husband bound her to their bed,” Aemond continued, drawing Fenrick’s attention back with a jolt, his eyes darkening with shock, shame, and guilt. Good. He should feel ashamed. He should feel guilty. And from the extent of his shock, Aemond came to understand that he had never fully known what transpired that day–which meant that she had sought to shield him from the brutal truth, sparing him the burden of guilt. Aemond, however, held no intention of offering such leniency. “Where he beat her with his belt so violently that she was bleeding. And it was me that she turned to–it was me who protected her.”

Aemond paused, letting the gravity of his words sink in before delivering the final blow with cold precision, “You did not protect her.”

His voice was cool and measured as he straightened from his lean against the table, rising to his full height again, bathed in the light pouring in from the window. “You presume to know her heart?” His head shook, tilting slightly as he hummed. “It is I who truly knows it. And deep down, you know my words to be true.”

His heart thrummed with a blend of amusement and gratification as he meticulously unravel Fenrick’s understanding of their relationship. Each word he spoke was calculated, aimed to thoroughly dismantle his perception of her.

Fenrick thought he knew her heart but what did he truly know but what he wished to see?

While he thought her a princess in need of protection, a daughter yearning for a father’s care, Aemond recognized her true nature; She was the embodiment of fire–capable of both nurture and destruction. At times, she was a tender flame, offering warmth and solace, her presence a gentle, comforting embrace. She possessed a kindness that nourished those around her, her nurturing touch as soothing as the hearth’s glow. Yet within the same breath, she could be an inferno. Her fierceness was unyielding, and she reveled in the blood she had on her hands, felt the power in it. She could be as merciless as the fire consuming wood. She was formidable–she was a dragon.

And Aemond accepted this, embracing even the scorn she showed him. Fenrick presumed to know her heart, but what he really knew of it was blinded by what he thought her to be–a little girl. “You see her as a gentle-hearted girl in need of protection but you forget that she is of fire and blood. It was she who sought to rid herself of her husband. Her poison runs deep, you see, and I was merely the tool with which she sought to end him.”

Aemond’s tone shifted as he leaned in, his head tilting slightly, a smirk softening into an unsettling smile. “Daenera and I are wed.”

Across from him, Fenrick’s face contorted with shock, gradually turning into a look of sheer incredulity. His head began to shake, almost imperceptibly at first, as if trying to dismiss the very words he heard. “No, that can’t be right–I refused to believe it. She would never–”

“She did,” Aemond said, his eye locked with Fenrick. “The blood of Old Valyria runs through her veins, it seemed only appropriate we first wed in the tradition of our house. We cut out palms, we shared our blood, and we recited the vows; one flesh, one heart, one soul. Now and forever.” He hummed, pursing his lips slightly.“And we consummate the marriage of course.” He paused, letting the words settle before continuing. “It was a simple, private ceremony. This coming one in the Sept is just a formality”

Fenrick’s expression twisted into a sneer. “Do you really expect me to believe that Daenera would marry you willingly and without a blessing?”

“She was wary of Daemon’s reproach,” Aemond answered, his voice carrying an eerie smoothness. He extended his hand to reveal his palm. The skin bore healing cuts, nestled alongside a scar still blushing pink, gradually fading into a pale whisper of its former self. “She bears the same scar.”

Fenrick’s dark eyes traced the display, following the movement of his hand as he closed it and laid it back to rest on the back of the chair. His gaze seemed to linger a beat longer–a spark of recognition flickering across his features, brows inching down in apprehension, and then, he lifted his gaze to meet Aemond’s. His expression hardened. "Daenera was on her way back to Dragonstone—she chose her family, and she always will. She may have held some affection for you, perhaps even entertained the thought of persuading her mother to approve your marriage... but those days are past,"

“We don’t need her mother’s permission to marry–and we didn’t then, either. She is my wife.”

“Her marrying you doesn’t change the fact that she would still choose her mother over you,” Fenrick said, his dark eyes narrowed. “You sealed that choice when you killed Lucerys. She will never choose you.”

A chill seemed to encase Aemond’s heart, creeping into his veins as he regarded Fenrick with an icy gaze. Though Daenera had sought to leave King’s Landing, it did not alter the truth; that she was his wife–bound to him not only by choice but by blood. Yet, she had sought to leave. She had chosen them over him. He should not fault her for it, but he did–the thought that she’d leave him twisted inside of him like some terrible blade. Had it not been for the death of Viserys and the subsequent usurpation, she would have left.

And she would have taken his heart with her.

“Is this why you clutch her so tight? Because you know she’d leave if she had the choice,” Fenrick continued. The chains rattled as he leaned forward, resting heavily on his arms, eyes burning with disdain. “And after all you’ve done, do you think she could ever look upon you and not see the monster you are–not see her brother’s murderer? Do you think she could ever forgive you for the blood that stains your soul?”

“I do not seek her forgiveness,” Aemond growled.

Fenrick’s eyebrows furrowed, his tone sharpening as he countered, “Don’t you? Isn’t that why you are here? You want me to confirm what you already know to be true–that she’ll never forgive you, that she can never love you.”

Aemond’s hand tightened into a fist, the ring on his finger constricting, almost burning against his skin. “I brought you here so that you may know the truth, and so that if, by some miracle, you escape the city and reach Dragonstone, you may inform Daemon of it.”

“I won’t sow the seeds of doubt for you.”

“You will,” Aemond hummed flatly. “That is, if you make it there alive.”

Aemond was well aware that the seeds of doubt had already been sown. Should Fenrick manage to make his way to Dragonstone, the information he carried would serve to nurture those growing uncertainties. The news of Daenera’s seemingly joyous wedding would raise questions about her loyalties–the statement she made with her entrance at the feast would be misconstrued as an act of support rather than the act of defiance it truly was.

Furthermore, the revelation that Daenera had willingly married him in the tradition of their house, prior to the upheavals of the usurpation, was bound to stir unrest on Dragonstone. Such news, delivered under these circumstances, would undoubtedly sow discord among the Blacks.

Drawing in a measured breath, Aemond clasped his hands behind his back and stepped out of the dim light pouring in from the window, circling the table as he made to leave. His part was played; his words had been delivered and had had the intended impact. He had achieved what he desired.

Pausing just short of Fenrick, Aemond delivered one last piece of information. “You should know, you’ll be released the day after the wedding. The boy will remain.”

Aemond walked towards the door then, when Fenrick called out after him, his voice weary and pleading, “Don’t do this to her. If you ever held any love for her, spare her the curse of being married to a kinslayer.”

Pausing at the threshold of the cell, Aemond murmured, “I do this because I love her.”

“That is not love.”

What else could it be? What wretched thing could it be, if not love?

“She will resent you for it,” Fenrick pressed on, voice like gravel beneath a heel. “You must see that.”

Without turning, Aemond let out a soft hum, “I will bear her resentment, as long as she is safe.”

“If this war ends with her family dead, what’s to prevent her from throwing herself from the cliffs into the bay? Or from slitting her wrists? Starving herself? Poison? What is to prevent her from killing your brother and condemning herself to death? She will never be safe with you, Kinslayer…”

Aemond paused and turned to face Fenrick, his frown deepening as a heavy, discordant beat thudded in his chest–an awful dread gnawing at his stomach. His fingers twitched at his sides before curling into fists. He could almost feel the blade again in his hand, the searing pain as its hilt pressed into the open wounds of his palm, embedding the glass deeper into his flesh, and Daenera’s fingers as they wrapped tightly around his, ensuring his grip remained firm as she guided the blade to her neck where the cold steel bit into her skin. The chilling recollection sent a shiver of ice through his veins. <

With those words echoing hauntingly in the air, Aemond pushed open the door and departed, their weight lingering long after he had left the room. The visit to the dungeons had failed to relieve the frustration that had driven him there; instead, he departed with a growing sense of apprehension that gnawed at him from within. As he moved through the bowels of the dungeons, a restless itch prickled beneath his skin.

Climbing the steep, narrow steps, Aemond felt an urgent need to grasp his sword. Each step upward seemed to compound this desire for the familiar weight of the blade in his hand, a craving for some semblance of control amidst the turmoil churning inside of him.

And, in spite of himself, all he truly wanted was to lay his head in Daenera’s lap and close his eye.

I wanna know what YOU think of his thoughts in these scenes and why you think he went to Fenrick.

And a minor update; I've managed to go 4 years without getting covid despite working at a high risk job for 3 of those 4 years, and surviving sharing a home with someone who had covid. I had a 4 year streak and now it's ruined because my mom decided to bring covid home with her again. So yes, I have covid. It's not too bad, but it has affected my ability to write a bit, but I hope I'll manage to have enough to post Friday. What is worse yet, I think, is that covid AND my allergies has decided to collaborate and is kicking my ass.

#aemond targaryen #a vow of blood #house of the dragon #hotd fanfic #prince aemond #aemond one eye #aemond x reader #aemond x oc #aemond targaryen x oc

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secret-smut-sideblog · 23 days ago

Text

House Of Self-Undoing

Lucanis x F! Rook

(part 2 of Please Be Rude)

18+ early story spoliers, relationships forming, discussions of death and loss of family, antisocial behavior, depersonalization, suppression of grief, misunderstanding, sex as a favor, dry humping, praise kink, handjob (m!), oral (m!), deepthroat, porn w/ plot

After they came to an agreement to be bound to one another, Lucanis invites his deadly charge out for coffee...

Prev Chapter, Masterlist

"Hungry?"

Rassou looked up from her arm, wiping ink away. Eyeing the apple slice he offered out.

"Can't right now. Sterile environment." Her eyes returned to the dark wind of her tattoo.

He nearly rolled his eyes. They had been hit by battle after battle all day. And the way she fought, she had to be hungry...

That first fight, he had shouted to stay behind him, rushing forward. The whip of her hair flew past before he had even finished his command. Sprinting. She was sprinting.

She fought like one runs from a burning house. Lightning released from her in frantic bursts, blade a whirlwind. Running in a chaotic rhythm, a broken beat that wrenched her forward. It was no wonder Varric saught her out; between the damage she wrought on droves of their foes and the terrifying presence she carried, she made an excellent body guard.

"Your arm is bleeding." He sighed, watching the bandage on her bicep leak.

She gave it a glance and wiped the blood trail away with the ink. Focus barely broken.

Spite, naturally, had reached her before he had and was wrapped around the curve of her back. Staring at Lucanis with a possessive glare and a sharp smile. Rassou gave him small whispers, and the demon would rub his face into her like a needy housecat, eyes never leaving Lucanis.

"Mage berserker..." He shook his head, ignoring him. "I've never heard of one like you before."

"They don't live long."

"No, they wouldn't." He chuckled. "Mages are sponges for damage. You're no different."

"I'm quicker. I'm alive." She stated simply. "Fast and mean keeps you standing."

"The way you fight..." He couldn't keep the reverence from his voice. Not sure if he wanted to. "I can't predict you. It's incredible."

She leaned back, flexing her hand. Forearm tight under the shifting of muscle. Spite gave a grimace to the adjustment but didn't release.

"Did the Mortalisi train you to move like that?"

A sharp laugh left her.

"Can you train a thunderstorm?"

He fell quiet, shame in his belly.

"I didn't mean to-"

"I'm not insulted. If you upset me, I'll tell you." She stated, smoothing her arm in ointment.

"Thank you." He sighed, relief lifted the stone in his belly.

"Direct is the only way I know."

She paused her movements, head bowing slightly. Her jaw clenched, then released.

"I have been meaning to thank you." She hushed.

"For?" His eyes lifted in confusion.

"The peace of mind." She leaned her hands on the fold of her legs. "Knowing there's someone who can put me down. You might be the only one that could do it. It's..."

She sighed, softly shaking her head. "There are so few like me because they weren't fast enough, but also because they didn't have a tether."

"Tether?"

"I guess noose is a better analogy." She laughed under her breath. "I like tether more. You're my kill switch, and that... that takes a huge weight off my shoulders."

A strange poisoned pride filled his chest. Woven with emotions he wasn't going to stare too close at.

"I hadn't realized it was that dire."

An incantation uttered under her breath, palm hovered over the fresh ink. The tattoo thrummed to life, some binding settled into skin.

She shook her head.

"None of you know me."

Spite smiled wide.

"But understand me." Her eyes held on his. "I do not fear death. Do not falter. Let your blade be swift."

Wrapping her forearm in gauze with practiced movements, her eyes fell from him again.

"You're very intense. And you need to eat. How can I kill you if you starve to death?"

The side of her mouth lifted in a smile. She leaned toward him and held her mouth open, hands still busy.

He placed the apple gently into her mouth. The warm of her breath stained his fingers.

She chewed, clearly thinking nothing of this exchange while his heart fluttered. He pushed through the foolish adolescent sensation.

"Illario has a lead. He wants to meet at a café tonight."

"Give him my regards." She stood, rolling her wrist. Flexing the stiff from her fingers. Spite whined and followed.

It was remarkable. She not only kept his demon busy but tamed him slightly. The discharge of lightning into him left the hateful spirit a little more hazy. Still set on torment, but quieter in her presence.

"I was offering for you to come with." He smiled, standing to pause her stride away.

"Why?" She stared lost at him.

Why?

A multitude of reasons rose to the forefront.

"Why not?"

Her arms folded.

"General social perception, for one. These eyes don't make friends."

He laughed.

"You think my demonic aura endears people to me?"

Spite giggled gleefully.

'Aw, little Lucanis. So lonely...'

"Fair enough." She mused.

"I rather like your eyes, actually. They're very striking."

She tilted her head at him.

"You know I'm tied to you, not the other way around."

"I want you to come with."

She was quiet for a moment, peering at him.

'Careful little Lucanis, you might get attached.' Spite wrapped his arms around her waist, smiling at him from behind her shoulder.

She pressed a hand to her waist, feeling him there. Her eyes softened on Lucanis after a moment.

"When do we leave?"

Rassou's black rimmed eyes followed the tall spires on the horizon, the calm lapping of distant water. The quiet bustle of the night market soothed like cricket song. Rugs softened footsteps, and low lanterns hung as warm beacons.

Her hand rose to her chest. Taking in the unexpected serenity within the sea air.

"You alright?" He paused his comfortable stride.

"I'm fine." She hardened herself again, taking up his momentum. "So... we're grocery shopping?"

"Just a few things." He smiled ruefully. "It's a miracle all of you haven't starved yet."

He popped into stalls, speaking low to the vendors in familiarity as he shopped. They warily eyed her over his shoulder, a natural reaction.

She stood back from these exchanges. If anything, she understood her place. Better as a threat than a person. She barely registered herself as a person regardless.

He kept introducing her to the vendors, glancing over his shoulder, trying to coaxe her forward. She stared back blankly, giving an affirmative nod to his associates.

After the second stop, he counted his haul. All items to fill the needs of their companions, a sweet endeavor. Muttering to himself.

"Fruit... What did Neve need again...?"

"Peaches."

He looked up.

"Her favorite fruit are peaches. They pair well with fried fish." She offered.

He smiled brilliantly at her. Her chest clenched.

"And what does your favorite fruit pair well with?"

"I see the fruit stall." She strode forward beyond him. His gaze tingled on her neck. "We should pick something up for Bellara too."

"Any suggestions?" He took up her stride with a smile in his voice.

"Kiwi." She offered after thinking for a moment.

The vendor seemed especially spooked by her, so she melted into shadow while he caught up with them. Pulling her hood over her head, she wove through the crowd. The people passing held their eyes down and shuffled quicker.

The clank of metal and smell of heat brought her up to a small smithy stall. Those in the line of work tended to be less skittish around her.

"Daggers?" The vendor eyed her appreciatively, the rough of his hands and grit of his voice reassuring her.

She gave an affirmative grunt, and he brought out a few options. Her eyes caught on a wyvern tooth blade.

She tested the weight, balancing it on her palm.

"Hard earned, that one." The vendor chuckled, settled back on his stool, wiping oil into steel. "Hard to take them down, harder to get their teeth from their great thick skulls."

Rassou smiled, flipping it in her fingers. The fluidity speaking for the craft, an extension of her will.

She slid half the coin across the table.

"You got any weapons that need some more bite?" An arc of electricity left her wrist.

"Hey, there you are!" Lucanis met her as she descended the stairs. "Sneaking off so easy, you should've been a Crow." He praised.

"You got your goods?" She eyed his full bag.

"Just about." He hitched his head toward the water. "I'd like to pick up something for Illario, but I'd never hear the end of it."

She slipped his gift into the bag behind his shoulder and took up shadow behind him again. "He seems willful."

"That's one way to put it." He sighed. "He's as stubborn as a mule, and as charming as a viper."

The accusing affection in his voice was foreign to her. Speaking of family was something that only ached hollow inside her.

"He'll like you, though." He offered as if to affirm her. "You're interesting. 'Nothing worse than being a bore'... the trouble that mindset has got us in." He let out a deep breath.

"The café is just ahead." He nodded at a far building as they entered a large garden.

A cat perked its head up from a curl on a rug in their stead. Blinking slow at her.

She kneeled down and offered her fingers to its tiny nose. It purred after a few hearty sniffs and pushed its little apple head into her palm.

"Hello, little one." She hushed in Navarran as her fingers worked into the fur behind its ears. The purring picked up speed.

"You like cats." He remarked softly.

"Cats like me." She clarified. "I think it's the eyes."

"I can never tell if you're joking."

"Good. Keep guessing." She stood, giving him a mock glare over her shoulder.

He smiled with narrowed eyes. "Don't challenge me, travieso."

"Why?" She stalked closer, a sharp smile split her face. Taking the crest of his chin under her fingers. "Are you a viper, too?"

His breath stilled.

"Your cousin is waiting." She tapped his cheek twice, walking past him.

She leaned against the balcony as they entered, taking in the full horizon. Breath quieted in its beauty. The stretch of dark sea moon ribboned, spires rose to the heavens, sailboats lazily drifting through. Spellbound despite herself.

"You're so lucky." Her voice caught.

"Hm?" He glanced at her as he came to the banister.

She swallowed the wonder in her tone. "Your home is beautiful."

"It is." He smiled, leaning his hip against the railing. "I'd like to see yours someday."

Her hand tightened on the railing, white in her knuckles. Memory stabbed into her side.

"I'm not from Nevarra originally. Necropilis isn't my home."

Not anymore.

He got quiet, seeing the tight in her.

"But I can show you around." She relented, releasing her grip. Stretching out the ache in her fingers. "How do you feel about dark dank crypts?"

He smiled gently. "I've always preferred the dark."

He led her to the table. His cousin eyed her from a lean on his chair, a cocky smile a feature of his face.

"You haven't properly introduced us." Illario purred, looking her up and down. "Now where did he find you?" He mused.

She leaned her palms on the table, bringing her gaze down level to his. Widening her eyes to their full capacity in a stare under her brow.

His breath paused. She smiled, her favorite trick as effective as always. Sitting down with her own lean.

"At the bottom of the ocean." Lucanis preened, giving their exchange room to breathe in petty triumph.

Their banter picked up and held the bite that spoke of people who had known each other far too long. Throwing volleys back and forth in practiced blows.

Rassou listened, watching their exchange in silence. Content to stay outside of their warmth.

Their conversation came to a disagreement, which seemed to be a natural trajectory for them.

"Your lead is no good."

"You have better information?" Illario challenged.

"We're compromised. There's no other way Zara could even touch Caterina."

Their argument came to a quiet head, frustration simmering under hushed words. Lucanis insisted they focus inwards, Illario determined to push out.

"If it'll make you feel better, I'll clean house, alright?" Illario huffed, rising from the table. "Leave this to me."

He strode away with tight shoulders. Rassou stood on instinct and watched him go, carving his way through the crowd until he disappeared.

"He's gone." She affirmed, crossing her arms.

"Of course he is." Lucanis sighed, tapping the table, indicating her to sit again. "Illario always caves under pressure."

She folded her ankle over her thigh as she sat, curious to why they were staying.

"What do you want to drink?" He proposed. "They make excellent coffee here."

"Bitter. Hazelnut."

He smiled wide, calling over a waiter with the curl of his raised fingers. Speaking in the language of cuisine as he gave their order.

"Your cousin has very selective hearing." She gave a tight nod to the retreating waiter's wary glance.

"Is that the diplomatic way of saying he's thick-skulled?" Lucanis' eyes twinkled in jest.

"I could be meaner, if you'd prefer." She offered.

"He's always been this way." He shook his head, tossing his eyes in a good-natured roll. "As prickly to anyone challenging him as he is sure of himself. No matter their intentions."

"But enough about my precarious familial ties." He waved his hand affably. "Do you have any siblings? Or the equivalent of them?"

Her hand tightened under the table, and the ache bit at her again.

"Sorry." He sighed, seeing her discomfort. "Family can be a wound."

"It's alright." She hushed. "I'm..."

Stop talking.

"I was orphaned. I was born with a family. Was with them long enough for them to name me."

"I thought your name sounded elvhen." He offered softly.

"They left a note. On my wrist. That's how the necromancer who found me knew."

"Did it say why...?"

Its mother named it Rassou. As soon as it opened its eyes we knew we could not abide such a curse. If you find it before the cold does, know that it will bring a storm down upon you. - First to the Keeper of Clan Lavellan

"No."

The waiter brought their drinks, setting them down and hurrying away.

"I always thought I..."

Stop. Talking.

"I was going to go back. Get answers. Prove myself."

Tears spiked the corner of her eyes. Clouds formed above them, threatening and heavy.

She took deep breaths from her diaphragm.

"They're gone. Ten years now." She took her cup, eyes on the table. "A Duke hired mercenaries to wipe them out. Thought they would bring plague to the human encampments."

The undoing of everything. You can never go back.

"I'm so sorry." He hushed.

She waved her hand dismissively, smoothing the lump in her throat.

"It was a long time ago. Don't dwell on it. I did have companions in Necropilis, Audric and Myrna. Audric taught me how to discharge my storm." She smiled softly. "He always enjoyed the sensation, said it was invigorating."

"Audric is a demon?"

"Spirit, he died during a funeral. Curiosity drives him. We spent a lot of time together in the library."

"I'd like to meet them both." He swirled his cup under his nose, smiling serenely. Taking a reverent sip, a satisfied breath exhaled from deep in his belly. "Bitter and sweet. Like a kiss goodbye."

She drank from her own cup, the rich of the bitter cut through with light hazelnut brought her eyes up into her skull.

"Fuck, that's good... a kiss goodbye." She agreed. "I excel at those."

"Do you?" He laughed.

"Usually a first kiss is the last. What about you, what would a first kiss be?"

"Honey and lavender cream." He mused. "Sweet, intriguing..."

"Really?" She smiled, leaning back in her seat. Cup held over her sternum. "You didn't strike me as a romantic."

"What did I strike you as?" He leaned forward, resting a forearm on the table.

She settled into her own thoughts, closing her eyes. His gaze stayed steady on her.

"Sharp. Heavy with something. Tired around the eyes. Intelligent. Knows a threat when its standing in front of him." Her eyes opened, meeting his stare. "You struck me as a survivor."

He swallowed, eyes fallen to the table.

She maintained his quiet, letting him gather his thoughts as she drank from her cup.

"Should I be sorry for how I reacted?" He finally looked up at her again.

"No. You were right. Don't doubt that." The memory of his blade against her throat was barely noteworthy. "You did the right thing."

His hand tightened on his cup, eyes flitting along the table. "I..."

"Are you ready to go back?" She glanced up at the position of the moon in the sky.

He took a steadying breath out, shaking his head slightly. Bringing his cup to his lips slowly.

"Not yet."

Rassou's hands threaded over her belly, staring up at the water rippled ceiling. Strange in her designated quarters. But...

She could afford to settle into the divot cut out for her now. Now that she knew she wasn't going to kill them. Slowly unfurling herself, working out her dynamic that suited each of their personalities. Sweet and encouraging with Harding, inquisitive and funny with Bellara, driven and snarky with Neve. And with him...

Her hands tightened over her belly.

She wore no pretense around him. Coming to him as cold and haunting as she had been born. No role to play.

She sat up. Tying the long tempest of her hair back with fast hands. Pulling a robe around her as she descended down the stairs, grabbing chewing peppermint from her bedside.

The walk across the courtyard was invigorating in its cold. Heat low in her belly, mint in her mouth, chill on her cheeks.

She would give him something in return. An exchange she had fulfilled many times.

Men wanted her like a hand itches for the mouth of a wolf. Danger was a powerful aphrodisiac. And if handled with the fleeting it commanded, could be incredibly satisfying.

He was smart enough to see her for what she was since day one. Lust burned in her belly. Yes, this could be very satisfying.

She edged into the pantry, closing the door softly behind her. He looked up from his book, rising onto an elbow.

"Rook?" The way her title rolled over his tongue sent shivers up her back. "You forgot your dagger in my bag."

"That was a gift." She spoke softly as she drew forward.

His face filled with surprise. "Oh...!"

He made to sit up. She put her hand on his chest.

"Would you like another?"

His gaze held on her hand, then rose to her eyes. Wide with dawning understanding.

"Rassou..." He swallowed, pupils blown wide.

"Say no, and I'll leave." She promised in a whisper. Sliding on knees over him, straddled high over his waist.

His heart pounded under her palm, trying to escape his chest to reach her. She waited, watching his body heave with want under hers.

He finally nodded, looking up at her with eyes dark with need.

She smiled, and dropped her robe behind her.

His breath took at the full of her, only clad in underclothes and long socks. She descended down to him, kissing rough into his throat.

He groaned from his chest, his hands traveling the dip of her back frantically. Grinding his hips up into her center.

She smiled wickedly into his throat. Glad she was right about him. A man with animal hunger simmering beneath the surface.

She pressed her thigh between his legs, and he took up the mount with huffed breath. Grinding the growing hard of him deep into the muscle. Breathing through gasps as she rose to his ear. Sliding her tongue flat up the curve, she panted wanton into the well.

He moaned a curse as she nibbled and sucked at the lobe. His cock throbbing hard against her thigh. Hands digging into the fat of her ass to pull her in a rhythm against him.

She followed his speed, driving her hips in thrusts against him. His hands fell away, twitching at his sides. Neck craned up, moaning with abandon, eyes risen into skull. Fully lost to the drive inside him.

"Good boy." She purred. He jolted against her at her praise. "Let me give to you."

She snaked her hand between them and undid his trousers. His cock greeted her hard as stone and leaking. She wrapped her palm around the pillar.

He groaned hard, chest twisting under her. Her mouth descended back to his throat as the fingers on her opposite hand pushed under his shirt. Finding his nipple standing at attention already, dragging the pads of her fingers across the needy bundle as her hand around his cock gathered the wet and rocked in a tight stroke.

His body writhed beneath her as she worked him with both hands and the bite of her mouth. His cut moans helpless to her, hips fucking up into her fist. Licking at his throat, tweaking his nipple, bringing him closer to the edge. Her own arousal soaked between her legs.

His hand gripped into her bicep with sudden urgency, breath caught in his throat. A tell she had seen before.

She descended quickly down his body, taking the head of his cock into her mouth. Sliding all the way back into her throat.

His hands scrambled along the cot, hips bucking. Head craned all the way back.

She only gave two full bobs of her head and he was gone. Biting into his forearm above her to muffle his cry, hips stuttering as he filled her throat. Cock jolting deeper into the tight muscle as she swallowed around him. Body twisting in release, his knees rose around her shoulders, squeezing her.

He fell back boneless and panting to the heavens, eyes lost under fluttered lids.

She rose back onto knees, wiping her mouth. Pulling her robe back onto her shoulders, tying it at the waist. Tucking him back into his trousers with sure hands.

"This doesn't mean anything." She assured with a clear voice. "Nothing has changed."

She stood, drawing away from him. "Get some rest. We have a lead to follow in the morning."

A hand snapped down on her wrist as she strode away.

Her eyes fell on his hand sharply.

Breath still lost, his eyes were heavy with intensity.

She leveled the full threat of her gaze into him.

He released her wrist.

Turning from him, her back bristled with unneeded coil and a tight jaw. It had been a long time since a human had been foolish enough to lay a hand on her.

She silently slipped back out of the door.

Next Chapter

#we knew i wasnt going to have the self control to not make this a series #due to patterns of behavior #lucanis x rook #rook x lucanis #lucanis smut #dragon age smut #dragon age fic #lyrics from: oxytocin - billie eilish

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