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d1stalker · 2 months

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Embers of Connection [Logan Howlett]

Summary: You're not like him. In fact, you're not like any of them. Maybe that's why he doesn't trust you-- why he doesn't want to trust you. But, time and time again, you prove him wrong.

Warnings: none really. lowkey enemies to friends to lovers.... kind of slow burn. fem!reader/afab!reader - maybe some grammatical errors

WC: 6.3k - MASTERLIST

The mansion was quiet as the first rays of sunlight filtered through the trees, casting long shadows across the lawn. Inside, the halls of the Xavier Institute were just beginning to stir, the students slowly waking to another day of training, learning, and discovery. But in a room far removed from the rest of the school, a figure sat alone, her eyes fixed on the window, lost in memories of a past long gone.

You were not a mutant, at least not in the way the students at the school understood the term. You came from a lineage so ancient, so steeped in myth and legend, that even the oldest books could not fully capture the truth of your people—a race of beings who walked the earth with the grace and power of dragons, feared and revered in equal measure.

But that was long ago, before the rise of mutants, before the world had changed. Your people had been hunted, exterminated by those who feared the strength you carried within your veins. You had been just a child when it happened, too young to understand why your world was being torn apart. One of them, moved by pity or perhaps some deeper sense of guilt, had spared your life, hiding you away until the danger had passed.

You had wandered for years, alone and afraid, never staying in one place for too long. You learned how to conceal your wings, hide your sharp nails, and conceal your powers. The world had changed, and you had no place in it, no home to return to. It was by chance that you crossed paths with Charles Xavier, a man of immense power and wisdom, who saw in you not just a relic of a forgotten time, but a soul in need of protection and understanding. He had taken you in, offered you a place in his school, not as a student but as something else—something he himself could not fully define.

And so you stayed, a silent observer in a world that was not yours, learning from the shadows, watching as the young mutants trained and grew, honing their powers under Charles’ guidance. You were an enigma to them, a being from another time, another world. Some were curious, others wary, but none dared to challenge you.

Until Logan arrived.

You sensed his presence before you saw him, a raw, untamed energy that crackled through the air like a storm on the horizon. The students whispered about him, their voices hushed with a mixture of awe and fear. The Wolverine, they called him—a man who had seen more battles than he could count, whose past was as blood-soaked as it was mysterious.

You were in the garden when he first laid eyes on you. He was alone, his expression dark and brooding as he walked across the grounds, clearly uncomfortable in this place of peace and learning. His gaze swept over the students, then landed on you, standing apart from the others, your wings folded close to your back, your scales glinting in the morning light.

His eyes narrowed, and you could feel the weight of his scrutiny, the suspicion that curled like a shadow behind those intense, feral eyes. He approached, his movements slow and deliberate, like a predator sizing up its prey.

“You’re not a mutant,” he said, more of a statement than a question.

You met his gaze, unflinching. “No, I’m not.”

“Then what are you?” There was no warmth in his tone, only a cold curiosity.

“A survivor,” you replied steadily, though your heart beat faster at the memory of what you had survived. “My people were hunted to extinction long before you were born.”

Logan’s expression hardened, and he took a step closer, his stance challenging.

“So why are you here? What do you want?”

You tilted your head slightly, studying him with the same intensity he gave you. “I could ask you the same thing. But I’m here because Charles offered me a place, a sanctuary. He’s curious about what I am… and he believes I need protection.”

“Protection from what?” Logan’s tone was edged with skepticism, as if he didn’t believe you were a threat to anything or anyone.

“From the world,” you answered simply. “And perhaps… from myself.”

He scoffed, the sound harsh and dismissive. “You don’t know what it’s like, being a mutant. You’re just hiding here, playing along, pretending to understand.”

You bristled at his words, your wings twitching with the urge to unfurl, to show him just how much power you held within you. But you held back, staying calm.

“And you don’t know what it’s like to be the last of your kind, to watch everything you’ve ever known be destroyed. We all have our battles. Just because mine are different doesn’t mean they’re any less real.”

He stared at you for a long moment, his eyes searching yours, as if trying to find the lie in your words. But there was none to be found, and that seemed to unsettle him more than anything.

“Just stay out of my way,” he growled, turning sharply and walking away without waiting for a response.

You watched him go, a mixture of anger and sadness swirling in your chest. You had known the moment you met him that Logan would be a challenge, a force of nature that would not be easily swayed or understood. But you hadn’t expected the sting of his words, the way they cut deep into the wounds you had thought long healed.

Over the next few months, you and Logan avoided each other as much as possible. He made it clear he didn’t trust you, and you made it equally clear you didn’t care for his attitude. The students quickly picked up on the tension between you, giving you both a wide berth whenever you were in the same room.

But Charles Xavier, ever the strategist, saw something neither of you did—a potential for growth, for understanding, if only you were forced to confront each other. So, when a mission came up that required both your skills, he sent you out together, despite your protests.

The mission was simple in theory—retrieve an artifact from a group of rogue mutants who had stolen it. But from the moment you and Logan set foot in the field, it was clear that working together was not going to be easy.

Logan, used to working alone, resisted your attempts to coordinate, charging ahead without a plan and nearly jeopardizing the mission in the process. You, trained in patience and strategy, found his reckless approach infuriating, and the two of you clashed at every turn.

The mission was ultimately successful, but it came at a cost—your mutual respect for each other (well, whatever had existed of it to begin with). The animosity between you only deepened, cementing your status as strangers within the walls of the school.

---

Enveloped in the forest's ancient embrace, you walked among towering trees that stood like silent sentinels. Their gnarled branches wove together, forming a dense canopy that swallowed most of the light. Cool, damp air hung heavy with the earthy scent of moss and decaying leaves. Each step sank into the soft, spongy ground, the stillness occasionally interrupted by the rustle of leaves or the distant call of a bird.

You moved with purpose, your eyes scanning the surroundings for any sign of danger. Logan walked a few paces behind you, his expression as unreadable as ever. Charles had sent the two of you on this mission with little more than a vague explanation, and the tension between you had only grown as you ventured deeper into the wilderness.

“You sure this is the right way?” Logan’s voice broke the silence, gruff and tinged with impatience.

You didn’t bother turning to face him. “I’m sure.”

He let out a low grunt, clearly not satisfied with your answer. “I still don’t get why Xavier sent me with you. Seems like you could’ve handled this on your own.”

You bit back a retort, knowing that engaging in another argument wouldn’t get you anywhere. “Maybe he thought you could learn something.”

“Learn what?” Logan scoffed. “How to wander aimlessly in the middle of nowhere?”

You stopped abruptly, spinning around to face him. “You’re here because Charles thinks you need to understand what I’m dealing with. This isn’t just another mission, Logan. It’s personal.”

His gaze hardened, but there was a flicker of something else—something softer—beneath the surface. “And what exactly are you dealing with?”

You hesitated, unsure how much you wanted to reveal. The memories of your past were painful, buried deep for a reason. But you knew that if you were going to work together, he needed to know.

“There’s an ancient temple hidden in this forest,” you began, “It’s said to hold a clue—something that could lead me to the mutants who destroyed my people. I’ve been searching for answers for years, and this is the closest I’ve ever come.”

“And you think finding this clue will give you what you need?”

You nodded, the weight of your words pressing down on you. “I have to believe that it will. My people were wiped out—hunted down and killed because of what we were. I’m the last of my kind, and I need to know why.”

He was silent for a moment, his gaze locked on yours. When he finally spoke, his voice was deep and hoarse, almost hesitant. “I know what it’s like to lose everything. To have your whole world ripped away from you. But revenge… it doesn’t bring peace.”

“This isn’t about revenge,” you said firmly, though part of you knew it wasn’t entirely true. “It’s about closure. About understanding.”

Logan didn’t respond, but the look in his eyes told you he understood more than he was letting on. He turned away, resuming his trek through the forest, and you followed, the tension between you easing slightly.

The journey was long and arduous, the dense undergrowth making progress slow. The further you went, the darker the forest became, the ancient trees blocking out the sun entirely. It was as if the forest itself was warning you to turn back, but you pressed on, driven by the need to find the temple.

Finally, after what felt like hours, you reached a clearing. In the center stood the temple, its stone walls covered in vines and moss, its entrance a dark, gaping maw that seemed to swallow all light. The air around it was thick with an ominous energy, as if the very ground was infused with the memories of the past.

“This is it,” you whispered, more to yourself than to Logan.

He nodded, his eyes narrowing as he surveyed the temple. “You sure about this?”

“I’m sure.”

With that, you stepped forward, crossing the threshold into the temple. The air inside was cool and damp, the stone walls slick with moisture. The only light came from the narrow beams of sunlight that managed to filter through cracks in the ceiling, casting long shadows across the floor.

The deeper you went, the more the oppressive feeling grew. You could feel it in your bones, a sense of foreboding that made your skin crawl. But you didn’t stop, didn’t hesitate, even as the darkness closed in around you.

Finally, you reached the heart of the temple. In the center of the chamber stood an ancient altar, covered in strange markings that seemed to pulse with a faint, eerie aura. But what caught your attention was the object lying on the altar—a small, intricately carved stone, glowing with a soft, ethereal light. You found yourself moving towards it subconsciously, almost in a trance.

Logan hung back, his senses on high alert. “Be careful. We don’t know what we’re dealing with here.”

You nodded, reaching out to take the stone. The moment your fingers touched it, a surge of energy shot through you, and you gasped, the memories flooding back in a rush.

You saw your people, the Draconic, living in harmony with nature, their wings glinting in the sunlight, their scales shimmering like jewels. But then came them, their faces twisted with fear and hatred, their powers unleashed in a torrent of destruction. You saw the fires, heard the screams, felt the pain of loss as your world crumbled around you.

And you saw them—the creatures who led the charge, who ordered the slaughter. Their faces were burned into your memory, and now, thanks to the stone, you had the knowledge you needed to track them down.

But your moment of revelation was short-lived. As you turned to show Logan the stone, you noticed something else—a series of dark shapes lying dormant against the walls of the chamber. Your breath caught in your throat as you realized what they were.

Dozens, hundreds of them, the ones responsible. Their bodies encased in some sort of stasis, their forms twisted and unnatural. These were the ones who had destroyed your people, the ones who had brought death and destruction to your world. And now they were here, waiting.

“We need to leave. Now,” you whispered urgently, your heart pounding in your chest.

Logan’s eyes darted around the room, taking in the sleeping mutants. “Agreed. Let’s get out of here before they wake up.”

You moved quickly, retracing your steps toward the entrance. But as you passed one of the mutants, Logan accidentally brushed against it, his claws scraping against the stone. The sound echoed through the chamber, and you froze, your heart skipping a beat.

The creatures began to stir, their eyes snapping open, glowing with an unnatural light. Groans and snarls filled the air as the creatures awoke. Panic surged through you, the sight of the mutants awakening bringing up old, buried fears. You didn’t need to be told twice. You bolted for the entrance, Logan close behind, but the mutants were faster, their rage propelling them forward.

“Go!” Logan urged, grabbing your arm as the enemies began to move toward you.

But, in a effort to delay their advances, you had an idea. A surge of primal instinct took over, and you felt a transformation deep within you. Your eyes flashed, glowing with a fierce, emerald shade as they narrowed into slitted dragon-like orbs.

With a deep breath, you summoned the power of your ancestors. Flames erupted from your mouth, a torrent of blazing fire that swept across the chamber. The first wave of predators got caught in the flames, their forms writhing in the intense heat. The ancient stone walls glowed with the reflected light, casting long, flickering shadows. Now was your only opportunity for escape.

You unfurled your wings, the leathery membranes catching the air as you leaped into flight, grabbing Logan’s arm and dragging him with you. The temple walls blurred past as you flew through the corridors, the remaining mutants hot on your trail.

“Hang on!” you shouted, your voice barely audible over the rush of wind.

Logan didn’t respond, his focus entirely on the creatures chasing you. They were relentless, their fury palpable as they closed in, their powers crackling in the air around them. Logan clung to you, feeling a mix of awe and frustration. The cool wind whipped around but inside, he felt the sting of helplessness. He had always prided himself on his physical prowess, his ability to fight, to survive. Yet here he was, carried like a child by someone he had barely trusted.

Whatever these predators were, they were fast in their pursuit. However, you were faster. You burst out of the temple and into the open air, your wings propelling you forward with all the strength you could muster. They followed, but they were no match for your speed.

You swooped low, diving into the dense forest below, weaving through the trees with precision. Logan felt his his claws digging into your scales, but you barely noticed, your focus entirely on evading the threat. Watching the forest shrink beneath him, he felt a deep sense of inadequacy. He had been the one to get them into this mess, and now, instead of being the hero or the savior, he was reduced to a mere passenger. The raw power you displayed was breathtaking, but it also highlighted just how little he had known about you.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, you lost them. You landed in a small clearing, breathing heavily, your wings trembling from the exertion. Logan released his grip, dropping to the ground beside you, his chest heaving as he caught his breath.

For a long moment, neither of you spoke, the weight of what had just happened settling over you. The danger had passed, but the tension remained, a lingering reminder of how close you had come to disaster.

Logan was the first to break the silence. “You saved my ass back there.”

You glanced at him, surprised by the sincerity in his tone. “You would’ve done the same.”

He nodded, his gaze meeting yours. “Maybe. But I didn’t know you could do all that. The wings, the speed… the power. You’re a hell of a lot stronger than I thought.”

You shrugged, trying to downplay it. “I’m just trying to survive.”

“You’re more than that,” he said quietly. “You’re a fighter. And I… I respect that.”

The tension between you shifted, the animosity that had defined your relationship beginning to melt away. You saw Logan in a new light, not just as a stubborn, solitary warrior, but as someone who understood pain and loss, someone who had his own demons to face. And as he stared at you, he caught a glimpse of the fierce determination that drove you. In that look, he saw not just a fellow X-Men but a formidable warrior with her own battles and her own story. He understood now that you were more than he had given you credit for.

“Thanks,” you said softly, “For helping me. For trusting me.”

He gave a small, almost imperceptible nod. “We’re a team now, right? So let’s do this together.”

And in that moment, something shifted between you. It wasn’t quite friendship, but it was a start—an understanding, a shared sense of purpose. You smiled.

---

A few days later you and Logan find yourselves on the balcony of the mansion, taking in the peaceful surroundings. Logan leans against the wooden railing, his eyes lost in the horizon.

“Never really get used to these quiet times, do you?” Logan mutters, taking a drag from his cigar.

You sit beside him, your posture relaxed but alert. “It’s a stark change from the chaos, that’s for sure. But I guess we need these moments to recharge.”

Logan exhales a plume of smoke, glancing over at you. “Recharge, huh? I guess you really did a number back there. Flying us out, unleashing fire… It made me rethink a lot of things.”

You raise an eyebrow, curious. “Oh? What are you thinking now?”

He shifts, his expression thoughtful. “I thought you were just another oddity at the school. But seeing you in action… You’ve got a lot more going on than I realized. There’s a strength there I didn’t see before.”

A soft smile tugs at your lips. “Thanks. It means a lot to hear that from you.”

Logan shrugs, a faint grin on his face. “I guess we both have our surprises.”

You laugh lightly. “Seems like it. I’ve seen a different side of you too. You’re not just the gruff loner I thought you were.”

Logan’s eyes soften. “Yeah, well, I suppose I’ve got my own stuff to work through. You’re not the only one with a past.”

“You’re right,” you say, your tone gentle. “We all carry our burdens.”

A comfortable silence settles over the two of you, the evening’s calm settling in. Logan reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out a small, crumpled piece of paper. He unfolds it carefully, revealing a sketch of the ancient temple you explored. It captures the essence of the place—its grandeur and hidden menace.

“I drew this after our mission,” Logan says, offering it to you. “Thought you might like it.”

You accept the sketch, your fingers tracing the lines. “It’s really good. Thank you. No one’s ever taken the time to understand the significance of these places to me before.”

Logan chuckles, a hint of amusement in his eyes. “I guess we’re not so different after all. We’ve both got our own battles”

“Yeah. And we’re fighting them together now.”

Logan’s grin widens slightly. “Let’s try not to make a habit of almost getting killed, though.”

---

Realizing the potential he saw in you and Logan wasn’t a hoax, Charles assigned you to more missions together, hoping to strengthen the bond between you and harness your combined skills. Each mission brought its own challenges, but the respect and understanding you had developed for one another made you an unstoppable duo.

There was a palpable shift in the air during these joint ventures. Logan’s gruff exterior softened around you, and his trust in your abilities grew. You, in turn, found yourself relying on his raw strength and experience more than you ever expected. The missions, though often intense, became a testament to your growing synergy.

One day, however, Charles decided to send Logan on a mission without you. The decision came with good intentions—Logan needed to work independently to regain his confidence and show that he could handle situations on his own. He was sent to investigate a lead on a dangerous group of mutants that had surfaced. It should’ve been routine. In and out, minimal resistance, standard extraction. But nothing about your life ever goes according to plan, and this time is no exception.

The distress call came through late at night, jarring you awake from a restless sleep. The voice on the other end was strained, panicked. Logan’s voice. You had never heard him like that before.

“They got me,” he had said, the roughness in his voice edged with something you hadn’t heard from him before—fear. “Don’t know who they are, but they’re… strong. Can’t fight ’em off.”

The line went dead before you could respond, leaving you wide-eyed and breathless in the darkness.

Now, standing on the deck of a small boat cutting through choppy waters, you replay those words in your mind, over and over. The coordinates he managed to send you led to a remote island, far off any known maps—a place of whispers and legends, rumored to be inhabited by creatures of immense power and terrifying abilities. Mutants, yes, but something else too. Something different.

Cyclops-like mutants. You remember the stories from the older X-Men, of a time when creatures with a single, glowing eye roamed the earth. You had been too busy mourning the loss of your people to be aware of what else was going on around the world. They had been driven to extinction, or so everyone thought. But it seems that, just like the ones who destroyed your kind, they had simply been lying in wait.

You glance at the island now coming into view, its rocky cliffs rising sharply from the water, shrouded in mist. The hairs on the back of your neck stand on end as you sense the power emanating from the place, the dark, ancient energy that pulses like a heartbeat beneath the surface.

There’s no turning back. You tighten your grip on the wheel, the wind whipping through your hair as you steer the boat toward a small, concealed cove. It’s time to see just how far your powers can take you.

You drop anchor in the shallows, the boat rocking gently as you strip down to your tactical suit. The fabric clings to your body, designed to be lightweight and flexible, perfect for what you’re about to do. With a deep breath, you dive into the water, feeling the cool embrace of the ocean as you slip beneath the surface.

As soon as you’re fully submerged, the change begins. Your skin hardens, taking on a faint shimmer as it transforms into scales. Your fingers and toes elongate, webbing forming between them, allowing you to cut through the water with incredible speed. Your vision sharpens, the murky depths of the ocean becoming clear as day.

You swim toward the island, your movements silent and fluid, a predator in your own right. The water is your domain, and you move through it with ease, your body perfectly adapted to the environment. You can feel the power coursing through your veins, the ancient, draconic energy that makes you who you are. It’s exhilarating, but you keep it in check, focusing on the task at hand.

The cove is narrow, hidden by jagged rocks that would tear apart any normal vessel. But you slip through them effortlessly, the scales of your skin providing protection against the sharp edges. You surface silently, peering over the edge of the rocks to get a better look at the island’s interior.

It’s as eerie as you imagined, a landscape of twisted trees and dark shadows, the air thick with the scent of decay. And there, in the center of it all, is a massive stone fortress, old and crumbling, yet still formidable. It’s clear that the cyclops mutants have made this place their home, and it’s equally clear that Logan is being held inside.

Your heart clenches at the thought of him, trapped and possibly tortured, and you have to force yourself to remain calm. Logan is tough—one of the toughest people you know—but even he has his limits. You have to reach him before those limits are tested too far.

With a final deep breath, you haul yourself out of the water, your body instantly adapting to the new environment. Your skin returns to its normal state, the webbing between your fingers and toes retracting as you prepare to move on land. You move quickly, keeping to the shadows as you approach the fortress.

The entrance is heavily guarded, as you expected. Two massive cyclops mutants stand watch, their single glowing eyes scanning the area with unnerving precision. You study them for a moment, assessing their strengths and weaknesses. They’re strong, undoubtedly, but you have the advantage of surprise and agility. You crouch low, waiting for the right moment. When one of the guards shifts slightly, turning his attention away from the entrance for just a second, you make your move. In a blur of motion, you spring forward, your claws extending as you strike. The first guard doesn’t even have time to react before your claws rip through his throat, silencing him instantly.

The second guard is more alert, swinging a massive fist toward you, but you’re already moving, ducking beneath his arm and driving your claws into his chest. His eye widens in shock before the light fades, and he collapses to the ground with a heavy thud.

You don’t waste any time, slipping inside the fortress before anyone else can notice. The interior is as dark and foreboding as the exterior, with narrow, twisting corridors that seem to go on forever. You move silently, your senses on high alert as you navigate the labyrinth of stone and shadow.

You find Logan in the deepest part of the fortress, chained to a wall in a small, dimly lit cell. He looks battered but not broken, his eyes narrowing in defiance as he glares at the door, ready to fight anyone who comes through it. But when he sees you, his expression softens, a mixture of relief and concern flickering in his gaze.

“Took you long enough,” he grumbles.

“Would’ve been here sooner if you hadn’t let yourself get caught,” you retort, already working on the chains that bind him.

He snorts. “Didn’t exactly have a choice. These bastards are stronger than they look.”

You nod, your expression serious as you focus on freeing him. “I know. But we’ll figure a way out. Together.”

Logan’s chains fall to the ground with a heavy clatter, and he flexes his wrists, testing his strength. “Together? Sounds good to me.”

You help him to his feet, steadying him as he takes a moment to regain his balance. He’s clearly been through hell, but he’s still standing, still fighting. It’s one of the things you’ve always admired about him, even when you couldn’t stand his attitude.

“Let’s get the hell out of here,” he mutters, his voice low and dangerous.

You nod, but before you can move, a deep rumbling sound fills the air, the walls vibrating with the force of it. The ground beneath your feet trembles, and you realize with a sinking feeling that the cyclops mutants know you’re here.

“Time to go,” you say urgently, grabbing Logan’s arm and pulling him toward the exit.

The two of you move quickly, navigating the twisting corridors with practiced ease. But it’s not long before the mutants catch up to you, their heavy footsteps echoing through the fortress as they close in. You can hear their growls, low and menacing, and you know you’re in for a fight.

Logan doesn’t need any encouragement. He’s already on the prowl, his claws extended as he charges toward the nearest mutant. The two of you fight side by side, a lethal combination of strength and raw power. Logan’s claws tear through flesh and bone with brutal efficiency, while you use your claws and wings to strike with precision and speed.

But the cyclops mutants are relentless, their sheer size and strength making them formidable opponents. For every one you take down, two more seem to take their place. The battle is intense, the air filled with the sound of clashing steel and guttural roars.

In the midst of the chaos, one of the mutants lands a heavy blow to Logan’s side, sending him crashing into the wall with a sickening thud. Your heart lurches as you see him go down, and something inside you snaps. A fierce, draconic roar escapes your lips as your wings unfurl, their scales gleaming in the dim light. Your body shifts, your scales hardening as your claws grow longer and sharper.

You launch yourself at the mutants with a ferocity you’ve never felt before, your claws tearing through their defenses like paper. Your wings whip through the air, knocking them off balance, while your scales protect you from their attacks. It’s a dance of death, a whirlwind of power and accuracy that leaves the mutants reeling.

From his place on the ground, Logan watches as you take down the last of the cyclops mutants, your body glowing with the aftereffects of your transformation. You stand amidst the carnage, your chest heaving with exertion, but there’s a fire in your eyes that hasn’t been there before—a fire that burns with a fierce determination to protect the man you care about.

“Damn,” Logan mutters as he pushes himself to his feet, wincing slightly. “Remind me not to get on your bad side.”

You can’t help but smile, the adrenaline still coursing through your veins. “What if you already are on my bad side?” you tease, though there’s no real bite to your words.

He chuckles, the sound low and rough. “Fair enough.”

With the mutants defeated, you and Logan make your way back through the fortress, the oppressive atmosphere beginning to lift with each step you take. As you reach the outer wall, you glance up at the sky, the mist beginning to clear as dawn approaches. You can see the small boat you came in anchored in the cove, waiting to take you both to safety. Logan follows your gaze, then looks back at you, his expression unreadable.

“Ready to get out of here?” you ask, your voice low as you take a step closer to him.

He nods, his eyes softening as he looks at you. “More than ready.”

Without another word, you extend your wings, the powerful muscles flexing as they unfurl to their full span. Logan watches you with admiration and something else, something deeper that he’s not ready to voice just yet. You wrap your arms around his waist, and with a powerful beat of your wings, you lift off the ground, carrying him into the air.

The flight back to the cove is short, but it’s enough time for you to feel the tension in Logan’s body start to ease as the wind rushes past. You land gracefully on the deck of the boat, setting Logan down gently before retracting your wings. He lingers for a moment, his hands still on your shoulders, as if reluctant to let go.

“Thanks for the save… Again” he murmurs.

“Anytime,” you reply, your heart skipping a beat at the closeness between you. You pull away slightly, not wanting to dwell on the feeling too much, and move to untie the boat from the anchor.

Logan takes a seat on the bench, watching you with an intensity that makes your skin prickle. You’re aware of his gaze as you work, but you try to focus on the task at hand. The sooner you get back to the school, the sooner you can both recover from this ordeal.

The boat cuts through the water smoothly, and the silence between you is comfortable, the need for words unnecessary. Logan leans back, closing his eyes as he lets the sun warm his face. You glance at him out of the corner of your eye, taking in the lines of his face, the slight smirk playing at the edges of his lips.

You’re almost back at the mainland when Logan finally breaks the silence. “You know,” he says, his voice deep and filled with thought, “I’ve been through a lot in my life. Seen a lot, done a lot. But I’ve never met anyone quite like you.”

Your hands still on the wheel, and you turn to face him fully, your heart beating a little faster.

“What do you mean?”

He opens his eyes and looks at you, his gaze steady and unwavering. “You’re strong, tougher than anyone I’ve ever known. But it’s more than that. You… you don’t give up on people, even when they don’t deserve it. Even when they’re as messed up as me.”

“Logan,” you start, but he shakes his head, cutting you off.

“Let me finish,” he says, his tone gentle but firm. “You’re always there, always fighting, and I… I don’t think I’ve ever thanked you for that. For everything you’ve done, not just today, but since the day we met.”

You’re at a loss for words, the sincerity in his voice taking you by surprise. Logan isn’t the type to open up easily, to admit to needing anyone. But here he is, doing just that, and it makes your chest tighten with emotion.

“You don’t have to thank me,” you finally manage to say, “I did what anyone else would’ve done.”

He gives you a look, one that says he doesn’t believe that for a second. “No, you didn’t. You did what you do best. You fought for me. And I think… I think it’s time I stop fighting against this.”

“Against what?” you ask, though you have a feeling you already know.

Logan takes a deep breath, as if steeling himself for what he’s about to say. “Against what I feel for you. Against this… connection between us. I’ve been pushing it away, trying to ignore it, but I can’t do that anymore.”

Your breath catches in your throat as his words sink in. You’ve felt it too, the pull between you and Logan, the way your hearts seem to beat in sync when you’re together. But you never thought he felt the same way, never dared to hope that he could see you as more than just a teammate.

“Logan, I…” You struggle to find the right words, the ones that will convey everything you’re feeling.

“I feel it too. I have for a long time. Since the temple. But I was scared. Scared that it would ruin what we have, that it would make things complicated.”

“Things are already complicated,” he says with a wry smile, but there’s a warmth in his eyes that wasn’t there before. “But that doesn’t mean we shouldn’t try.”

You nod, your heart swelling with a mixture of hope and apprehension. The boat slowly comes to a stop upon the reaching the shore, but you don’t make a move to get out. “So… what do we do now?”

Logan reaches out, taking your hand in his, the roughness of his skin a comforting contrast to the softness of the moment. “We see where this goes. And if it gets too complicated, we deal with it together. Like we always do.”

Logan’s eyes search yours, his gaze tender and filled with unspoken promise. Slowly, he leans in, his lips brushing against yours in a soft, hesitant kiss. It’s a gentle touch, a careful exploration of the emotions that have been building between you.

You respond with equal tenderness, your hand still in his as the kiss deepens. The kiss is more than just a physical act; it’s a melding of hearts, a silent declaration of the feelings you’ve both been holding back.

When you finally pull away, both of you are breathless, a shared smile lighting up your faces, and for the first time in a long time, the future seems less daunting.

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

A/N: Thanks for reading! I've been lurking for so long and have finally decided to start writing again. I think I gotta write smut or something after this - it was sooo dramatic and for what LOL.

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psychuan · 5 months

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y'know having read them multiple times i don't understand why people say that Night Watch is the darkest City Watch book when Thud! is right there.

like, Night Watch is pretty grim when you focus on the inevitability of it, but throughout the book the whole like... THING of it is "being told something is inevitable, and fighting it anyway." it's a story about hope and inspiring it in others even when you're not sure you're going to make it through either way. right up until the final melee with Carcer, Vimes does what he can to forestall the inevitable, and for most of the book, he *wins.*

Thud! on the other hand is about fighting against the weight of deep ancient grudges, and the outcome of it SEEMS inevitable. Koom Valley Will Happen Again, and throughout the book there seems no way to stop it. the resolution comes right at the very end, although the book 100% earns the reveal. but it's one man and a small team fighting against bigotry and hatred and figureheads stoking war.

that's not even TOUCHING on the actual Events in the book, which include a hit squad armed with flamethrowers very nearly torching Sam Vimes' infant son to fucking death. then there's the whole thing with the Summoning Dark which keeps trying to push Vimes' rage to the point of murder, there's the part where it *succeeds* and drives him into an unstoppable berserker rage, there's people dying slowly in dark tunnels, and the Vurms which feasting on putrefied corpses.

it's also the first time we've seen Vimes in an actual Murderous rage. every time beforehand he's been angry but it's been "oh i'm gonna arrest the SHIT out of you. i might put the boot in for good measure but you're coming with ME, sunshine." but no, this time he's literally chasing down a hitman screaming "i'll kill you" over and over again.

Thud! is a properly dark book. and yet despite it's unrelenting horribleness... Love Still Wins. Love for your fellow "man." Love wins in all Pterry's books, you can tell, it shines off the page when you read them just how much that man loved humanity, warts 'n' all, but in this one it feels like it's the most optimistic ending. it's the one that goes "in spite of it all, the bigots and warmongers and the narrow minded Will Lose, because there are always people willing to go to the ends of the earth for Love, Love of one another."

i think that's why it's my favourite book in the series.

#discworld #sam vimes #thud!#night watch #willikins #sybil ramkin #terry pratchett #gnu terry pratchett #city watch #ankh morpork #koom valley #and if you've read this far into the tags here's a little bilingual bonus #the welsh word Cwm is pronounced Koom #with a short oo like in book #and it means valley

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novaursa · 29 days

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The Last Dragonslayer (2/2)

- Summary: The conclusion of a journey, for you, one of the many.

- Paring: female!reader/Rhaenyra Targaryen

- Note: For more of my works, visit my blog. The list is pinned to the top.

- Rating: Explicit 18+

- Word count: 7 000+

- Previous part: 1

- Bonus part: 3

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff

The council chamber is cold, the stone walls adorned with banners of House Targaryen, their crimson and black fabric swaying lightly in the draft. The weight of history presses down upon you, the ancient stones whispering secrets of kings and conquerors. You stand at the edge of the chamber, watching Rhaenyra from beneath the hood of your cloak. The lords seated around the table glance at you uneasily, their gazes lingering too long, discomfort plain in their eyes. You are a foreigner, an anomaly, a reminder of tales and nightmares they would rather forget.

Rhaenyra, the Queen, sits at the head of the table, her presence commanding even as shadows darken the skin beneath her eyes. She’s been restless since Daemon left for Harrenhal, pacing the halls of Dragonstone like a caged beast. Now, she listens as her advisors bicker, her expression tight, her gaze distant. They speak of the war, of the blood that’s already been spilled, and the blood that will flow if they do not act.

Alfred Broome, his voice tinged with frustration, slams his fist on the table. “We cannot continue to sit idle, Your Grace. The Greens gain more ground with each passing day! Aemond’s attack on Storm’s End—”

“—was an act of war,” interrupts Lord Celtigar, his tone measured but firm. “They have already crossed the line.”

“And yet we remain here, waiting!” Broome snaps, glaring at the others. “Waiting for what? A miracle? A sign from the gods? Aemond tried to kill Prince Lucerys, and still, we do nothing.”

You watch as Rhaenyra’s knuckles whiten, her fingers digging into the arms of her chair. Her grief is palpable, a dark cloud that has yet to lift since news of Lucerys’ narrow escape reached her. But she remains silent, her eyes flickering with a storm of emotions she refuses to let loose before these men.

It’s then that you decide to speak, your voice low, cutting through the tension like a blade. “Action without strategy is a fool’s errand, Lord Broome. Perhaps you are eager to throw away lives in a show of haste, but the Queen’s duty is to her people, not to your impatience.”

The lords turn to you, their eyes narrowing, some in suspicion, others in outright disdain. You meet their stares unflinchingly, the cold fire of your homeland reflected in your gaze. Your hand rests on the hilt of your sword—a sword older than any of them, a relic of a time when the world was shaped by fire and blood, but not by dragons alone.

Broome sneers, his lip curling. “And what would a foreigner know of our wars? Of our dragons?”

More than you could ever understand, you think, but do not say aloud. Instead, you take a step forward, the shadow of your Banshee—your mount, your companion, and your weapon—seeming to loom behind you, though it remains far from these walls. The lords shift uncomfortably as if sensing its presence. They fear it, as they should.

“I know,” you say, your voice steady, “that Aemond did more than just attack Storm’s End. He was driven away. Chased off by something he did not expect, and that something was me. You may not trust my motives, but understand this: I have chosen to stand with the Queen, to see balance preserved in Westeros. You would do well to heed her wisdom and not let your fear cloud your judgment.”

Rhaenyra’s eyes meet yours across the table, and for a moment, the storm within her clears. There is gratitude there, and something else—something that has lingered between you since the night you arrived at Dragonstone, the night you saved her son. The pull between you is undeniable, a silent promise that neither of you has yet dared to speak aloud. But in her gaze, you see it as clearly as the flames of a dragon’s breath.

Lord Celtigar clears his throat, cutting through the tension. “The Lady Y/N speaks true. We cannot act rashly. The Greens expect us to strike without thought. We must outmaneuver them, not merely meet them on the field of battle.”

The room falls silent, the lords exchanging glances. Broome’s scowl deepens, but he holds his tongue, his eyes flickering to Rhaenyra, who now seems more resolute.

Rhaenyra straightens in her seat, the weight of the crown evident on her shoulders but her voice strong. “We will act, but we will act wisely. The Greens will not find us easy prey. We will not fall into their traps, nor will we be goaded into hasty decisions. Lord Celtigar, begin preparations for the fleet. We’ll strike where they least expect it. And Lord Broome,” she adds, her gaze hardening, “you will ensure that our forces are ready when the time comes.”

Broome stiffens but nods, his anger barely concealed. “As you command, Your Grace.”

The council continues, the lords discussing strategy, but your attention drifts to Rhaenyra. The tension in her shoulders has eased slightly, but the burden she carries is still heavy. You find yourself stepping closer, a silent offering of support that she acknowledges with a slight nod, a flicker of something warm in her eyes as she turns back to the map spread out before her.

Later, when the council disperses, and the lords retreat to their chambers, you linger. The chamber is quiet now, the echo of the lords' voices fading into the stone. Rhaenyra stands by the hearth, staring into the flames, her thoughts far away. You approach her, the weight of your sword still at your side, a constant reminder of who you are and what you represent.

“You were right to keep a level head,” you say softly, your voice breaking the silence. “They do not understand the full scope of what we face.”

She turns to you, the firelight casting her features in a warm glow. For a moment, she looks younger, almost fragile, but then her eyes meet yours, and the steel within her is evident once more. “It is difficult,” she admits, her voice barely above a whisper. “To know when to strike, and when to hold back. But with Daemon gone, I must be even more cautious. I cannot afford to lose another child… or more allies.”

“You won’t,” you reply, your voice firm. “Not while I’m here.”

A small, wry smile tugs at her lips. “I am grateful for that, Y/N. More than you know.”

The air between you shifts, charged with the unspoken words that neither of you dare to voice, not here, not now. But the promise remains, woven into the fabric of your alliance, and something deeper, something personal.

You reach out, your hand brushing against hers—a fleeting touch that sends a jolt through you both. Rhaenyra doesn’t pull away, her fingers curling slightly, as if to hold onto the warmth you offer. For a brief moment, the weight of the crown, the war, the bloodshed all fades, leaving just the two of you standing by the fire, bound by something stronger than duty.

“Stay with me,” she murmurs, her voice soft, vulnerable in a way you’ve never heard before. “Just a little longer.”

You nod, your hand gently clasping hers, the two of you standing side by side as the fire crackles softly in the hearth, the flames a quiet witness to the bond growing between you.

The wind howls through the trees, rustling the leaves and sending a shiver down your spine. The forest is dense, the shadows long as dusk begins to settle over the land. You stand alone in a clearing, your cloak billowing around you like a dark shadow, the hilt of your ancient sword gleaming faintly in the dim light. The ground beneath your feet is soft, the earth freshly disturbed by the recent passage of men and horses—Ser Criston Cole’s forces, on their way to seize Duskendale for the Greens.

The quiet of the forest is broken by the distant sound of hooves, growing louder with each passing moment. You remain still, your gaze fixed on the treeline as they emerge—riders clad in armor, their banners snapping in the wind. At their head rides Ser Criston Cole himself, his face set in a stern mask, followed closely by Ser Gwayne Hightower and several dozen men-at-arms. They slow as they approach, their horses snorting and stamping as they take in your solitary figure.

The men spread out in a semicircle, surrounding you, their weapons at the ready. Ser Criston rides closer, his eyes narrowing as he takes in your appearance. The tales of your deeds have reached his ears, no doubt—whispers of a foreigner with an ancient sword, a beast that haunts the skies, and the power to make even dragons flee. But it’s clear he does not yet understand the full measure of what stands before him.

“Who are you to stand in our path?” Criston’s voice is hard, commanding, as if the answer to his question will determine whether you live or die.

You don’t flinch under his scrutiny, your voice calm as you reply, “I am Y/N. I have come to give you a chance, Ser Criston. Turn back now, and you may yet live to see another day.”

A murmur ripples through the men, some of them exchanging uneasy glances. They’ve heard the tales too, and the sight of you standing alone, unafraid, seems to unsettle them. But Criston is unmoved, his expression hardening as he spurs his horse closer, his hand resting on the pommel of his sword.

“You expect me to turn tail at the sight of a woman?” He sneers, his tone dripping with disdain. “You may have frightened Aemond, but I am no craven boy. I am the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, sworn to protect the true king. Step aside, or I will cut you down where you stand.”

His men shift in their saddles, emboldened by their commander’s bravado. Ser Gwayne smirks, drawing his sword, the blade catching the dying light of the sun. “It would be wise to heed the Commander’s words, foreigner. You are far from home and outnumbered.”

You remain still, your expression unreadable, the forest around you eerily silent. The air grows colder, the breeze carrying the scent of earth and leaves. You speak again, your voice carrying an edge of steel. “This is your final warning, Ser Criston. I am not here to play games, nor am I here to waste lives. Turn back, or face the consequences.”

Criston’s eyes narrow, his patience clearly worn thin. He raises his sword, the motion sharp and decisive. “Enough of this. Men, bring me her head.”

The order is given, and the men begin to close in around you, their horses snorting, the sound of metal clinking as they draw their weapons. You don’t move, your hand resting lightly on the hilt of your sword, the weight of it familiar and comforting.

As the first rider approaches, sword raised high, you draw your blade with a fluid motion, the ancient steel singing as it cuts through the air. The rider barely has time to react before your sword meets his, the force of the blow sending a shockwave up his arm. His eyes widen in surprise, and in that moment of hesitation, you twist your blade, disarming him with a swift, practiced movement.

He falls from his horse with a cry, his weapon clattering to the ground. The other men hesitate, clearly not expecting such a swift and effortless display. But Criston’s voice rings out, cold and commanding. “Press the attack! She’s but one woman!”

But you are not just one woman. You are Y/N, the last of the Dragonslayers. And this is not your first battle.They charge at you, swords flashing in the dim light, but you are ready. Your movements are a blur, each strike precise, each parry executed with lethal grace. One by one, the riders fall, unhorsed by the skill of your blade or the sheer power behind your strikes. The clearing becomes a battlefield, the air filled with the clash of steel and the cries of men.

In the chaos, you catch sight of Ser Gwayne, his face twisted in anger as he drives his horse towards you. You meet his charge head-on, your swords clashing with a force that reverberates through your arms. He grits his teeth, pushing against you with all his strength, but you hold firm, the ancient power of your blade surging through you.

“You should have listened,” you say, your voice low, as you twist your sword, breaking his stance and sending him reeling. He barely manages to stay in the saddle, his eyes wide with shock as he realizes just how outmatched he is.

“You’re a demon!” he spits, his voice trembling as he regains his balance, but the fear is evident in his eyes.

“No,” you reply, your voice cold, “I am justice.”

With a final, powerful strike, you knock him from his horse, sending him crashing to the ground. He groans, trying to rise, but you place the tip of your sword against his throat, pinning him in place. The other men halt, unsure whether to continue their attack or flee.

Ser Criston watches the scene unfold, his face a mask of fury and disbelief. He dismounts, striding towards you, his sword at the ready. “You think you can best me?” he snarls, raising his weapon.

You turn to face him, your blade still poised at Gwayne’s throat. “I don’t think, Ser Criston. I know.”

Criston lunges at you, his strikes fast and furious, but you are faster. Your swords clash, the sound ringing through the clearing like a bell. He fights with the ferocity of a man with everything to lose, but you match him blow for blow, your movements fluid, almost effortless. He’s strong, but strength alone is not enough.

The battle drags on, but with each passing moment, Criston’s strikes become more desperate, more reckless. He overextends on a particularly vicious swing, and you seize the opportunity. You parry his strike, stepping inside his guard and slashing across his chest. He stumbles back, blood blooming across his white cloak, staining it red.

He grits his teeth, refusing to fall, but the wound has taken its toll. You don’t give him a chance to recover, pressing the attack with a series of swift, precise strikes. He barely manages to parry, each blow pushing him further back until he’s on the defensive, his movements slowing.

Finally, with a powerful upward swing, you knock his sword from his hand, sending it flying across the clearing. He falls to his knees, clutching his bleeding chest, his face pale, eyes wide with disbelief.

You stand over him, your sword raised, its tip pointed at his throat. “I warned you,” you say softly, your voice carrying the weight of inevitability.

Criston glares up at you, defiance still burning in his eyes, but there is also fear—fear of the unknown, of the force that now stands over him. “Kill me, then,” he spits. “But know this: you will never defeat one true king, Aegon.”

You lower your sword slightly, considering him for a moment. “I do not need to defeat your king, Ser Criston. I only need to preserve the balance.”

With that, you withdraw your sword, stepping back. Criston’s eyes widen in surprise, but you give him no time to react. You whistle sharply, and from the shadows of the forest, your Banshee emerges, its massive form blotting out the last of the daylight. The men around you recoil in terror as the creature lets out a bone-chilling shriek, the sound reverberating through the clearing like the cry of a thousand tortured souls.

Criston stares up at the creature, his face drained of all color, and for the first time, you see true fear in his eyes.

“Tell your king,” you say, your voice calm but carrying an unmistakable edge, “that Duskendale is under my protection. And the next time we meet, I will not be so merciful.”

With that, you turn and mount your Banshee, the creature’s wings unfurling as it prepares to take flight. The men watch in stunned silence as you ascend into the sky, the wind whipping around you as your mount carries you away from the clearing and into the night.

Below, the soldiers of the Greens stand frozen, their leader humbled, their will to fight shattered. The tale of what happened in that clearing will spread, carried on the winds of fear, and it will be known that the last of the Dragonslayers walks the earth once more.

The great hall of Dragonstone is quiet as you enter, the flickering torchlight casting long shadows on the walls. The air is thick with the scent of salt and smoke, the sea and the dragon forges mingling to create an atmosphere that is both heavy and foreboding. Rhaenyra and her council are gathered around the massive oak table at the center of the chamber, the map of Westeros spread out before them. Their faces are drawn, tense with the weight of decisions yet to be made.

You stride forward, the sound of your boots on the stone floor echoing through the chamber. The lords and advisors turn to you, their expressions a mixture of curiosity and apprehension. You are a mystery to most of them, a shadow in the midst of their struggles, but your presence commands attention.

Rhaenyra looks up from the map, her violet eyes locking onto yours. There is a quiet strength in her gaze, tempered by the grief and burdens she carries. She nods to you, her silent signal for you to speak.

“The Greens will no longer trouble themselves with coastal points, Your Grace,” you begin, your voice steady and clear. “I intercepted Ser Criston Cole’s forces before they could reach Duskendale. They were forced to retreat, and word will spread of their defeat. They will not dare to strike at our shores again, not while I stand with you.”

Murmurs ripple through the council, some lords exchanging glances of relief, others still wary of the enigmatic figure before them. But Rhaenyra’s expression is one of satisfaction, a glimmer of approval in her eyes.

“Well done, Lady Y/N,” she says, her voice carrying the authority of a queen. “You have once again proven your value to our cause.”

You incline your head slightly, acknowledging her words. “It is my duty, Your Grace.”

The council continues for a while longer, discussions of strategy and the next moves in the war filling the chamber. But you notice that Rhaenyra’s attention drifts back to you frequently, her gaze lingering as if she has something more on her mind. Finally, as the meeting draws to a close, she dismisses her advisors with a wave of her hand.

“Lady Y/N,” she calls, her voice softer now, almost hesitant. “A word, if you will.”

You nod, following her as she leads you from the great hall. The corridors of Dragonstone are dimly lit, the stone walls cold and unyielding. Rhaenyra’s pace is slow, measured, as if she is gathering her thoughts. You walk beside her in silence, the only sound the faint echoes of your footsteps.

She leads you to her chambers, a grand room that still manages to feel intimate despite its size. The air is warm here, a stark contrast to the chill of the hallways. A bath is drawn, the steam rising gently from the water, scented with herbs and oils. It’s clear that Rhaenyra sought this moment of respite, a small comfort amidst the storm of war.

She gestures for you to sit by the fire, where a table is set with a decanter of wine and two goblets. “Please, join me,” she says, her voice soft but carrying a hint of something more—curiosity, perhaps, or even a touch of longing.

You take a seat, watching as she pours the wine, the deep red liquid catching the light of the flames. She hands you a goblet, her fingers brushing yours for the briefest of moments. The touch is fleeting, but it lingers in the air between you, unspoken.

“I wanted to speak with you, Y/N,” she begins, taking a sip of her wine as she settles into a chair opposite you. “I realize I know so little about you, despite all you’ve done for me. You’ve proven yourself a loyal ally, but there is much I would like to understand. Who are you, truly?”

You swirl the wine in your goblet, considering her question. There is so much to tell, more than could be shared in one evening, or even in a lifetime. But you see the sincerity in her eyes, the genuine desire to know you, not just as a warrior, but as a person.

“I have seen much, Your Grace,” you say slowly, your voice carrying the weight of centuries. “More than most could ever dream or fear. I have witnessed the rise and fall of empires, the death of loved ones, the shifting tides of history. From the brilliant Yo Ti Empire to the shadowed lands of Asshai, to the great wonders beyond the western seas… I have wandered this world longer than I care to remember.”

Rhaenyra listens intently, her eyes wide, a shiver running down her spine at your words. But it is not fear that grips her—it is something else, something that makes her heart quicken, her breath catch.

“How old are you?” she asks, her voice barely above a whisper, as if she is almost afraid to hear the answer.

You smile faintly, the lines of your face softening as you look into the flames. “Too old, Your Grace. Old enough to have seen the world change many times over. To be bound to a Banshee is a terrible purpose.”

Rhaenyra sits back in her chair, the goblet forgotten in her hand as she takes in the enormity of your words. For a moment, the weight of your age and experience presses down upon her, making her feel small and fleeting in comparison. But then, she realizes something—despite all you have seen, all you have endured, you are here, by her side, choosing to stand with her in this tumultuous time.

She reaches out, her hand resting lightly on yours, her touch warm, grounding. “And yet you have chosen to fight for me, for Westeros. Why?”

You look at her, truly look at her, and see not just a queen burdened by war, but a woman who has suffered, who has loved and lost, and who is determined to protect what remains. “Because, Your Grace, you fight for balance. For the hope that the world might find peace, that the fire of the dragons might warm rather than burn. That is something worth fighting for.”

Rhaenyra’s eyes soften, her heart touched by your words. She gives your hand a gentle squeeze, her gaze never leaving yours. “Thank you, Y/N. For your honesty, and for your loyalty. It means more to me than I can express.”

The room seems warmer now, the tension of the day melting away as the two of you continue to talk. You share stories of your past, tales of lands and people she can only imagine, and she in turn shares her own hopes and fears, her dreams for her children, for her realm.

As the night deepens, the conversation grows more intimate, the barriers between you falling away. The flickering fire casts a soft glow on Rhaenyra’s face, highlighting the beauty and strength that have drawn you to her from the beginning. And though the specter of war still looms over you both, for this moment, in this room, there is only warmth, only connection.

The wine flows, the stories continue, and as the night wears on, the bond between you and the Black Queen deepens, becoming something more than mere alliance, more than duty.

The night deepens as you and Rhaenyra continue to talk, the warmth between you growing with each passing moment. The wine in your goblets has long since dwindled, but neither of you seems to notice, too absorbed in the quiet intimacy of your conversation. The fire crackles softly, casting flickering shadows across the room, but it is the light in Rhaenyra’s eyes that holds your attention.

As the conversation naturally lulls, a silence falls between you—not an awkward one, but rather filled with unspoken words and lingering glances. You notice how Rhaenyra’s gaze occasionally drifts to your lips, how her breath catches slightly when your hands brush. It is a delicate tension, a quiet yearning that neither of you has fully acknowledged until now.

Finally, Rhaenyra breaks the silence, her voice hushed, almost tentative. “Y/N… there is something I have been wanting to do for some time now.”

You raise an eyebrow, intrigued by the shift in her tone. “And what might that be, Your Grace?”

She doesn’t answer immediately, instead leaning in closer, her eyes locked onto yours. The distance between you shrinks until you can feel the warmth of her breath against your skin, your hearts beating in tandem. Then, without another word, she closes the remaining distance, her lips meeting yours in a kiss that is soft yet filled with a deep, unspoken desire.

The kiss is tentative at first, testing, but as you respond, it deepens, becoming more urgent, more passionate. Rhaenyra’s hand finds its way to the back of your neck, pulling you closer, while your own hand rests on her waist, feeling the warmth of her body through the fabric of her dress. The world outside the room fades away, leaving only the two of you, bound together in this moment.

When you finally pull apart, both of you are breathless, your foreheads resting against each other’s as you take in the reality of what just happened. Rhaenyra’s eyes are dark with desire, her voice a mere whisper as she speaks. “Join me… in the bath.”

There is no hesitation in your response, only a quiet nod of agreement. You both rise from your seats, the space between you charged with anticipation. Rhaenyra’s hand slips into yours, leading you toward the bath that still steams softly in the corner of the room. The heat from the water fills the space, creating a cocoon of warmth and intimacy.

Standing beside the bath, you turn to face each other, the moment heavy with significance. Slowly, reverently, you begin to undress one another, your hands moving with a gentle purpose. Rhaenyra’s fingers trace the edges of your cloak, slipping it from your shoulders, while your own hands find the laces of her dress, loosening them with deliberate care. Each piece of clothing falls to the floor with a whisper, leaving you both bared to each other, not just in body, but in soul.

Rhaenyra’s gaze sweeps over you, appreciation and desire evident in her eyes. She reaches out, her hand trembling slightly as she brushes a lock of hair from your face, her touch tender, almost reverent. “You are… beautiful,” she murmurs, her voice thick with emotion.

You smile softly, your own hand coming up to cup her cheek, your thumb brushing against her skin. “As are you, Rhaenyra. You are radiant.”

There is no more need for words as you step into the bath together, the water embracing you both in its warmth. You sink into the water, Rhaenyra following, her body pressing against yours as you both settle into the comfort of the bath. The heat of the water contrasts with the cool air of the room, heightening every sensation.

You share another kiss, this one slower, more languid, as if savoring each moment. Your hands begin to explore one another’s bodies, tracing the curves and lines with a tenderness that belies the passion simmering beneath the surface. You feel the strength in her arms, the softness of her skin, and the way her body trembles under your touch.

Rhaenyra’s breath hitches as your hand moves lower, finding the heat of her womanhood. She mirrors your movement, her fingers slipping between your thighs with a surety that makes you shudder. The contact is electric, sending ripples of pleasure through both of you. The world narrows to the sensation of her touch, the way her breath mingles with yours, the warmth of the water lapping at your bodies.

There is a rhythm to your movements, a dance of desire and affection that grows more intense with each passing second. Rhaenyra’s moans mix with your own, her voice breathy and desperate as she clings to you, her hips moving in time with your hand. The water sloshes gently around you, the only witness to this intimate exchange.

As the pressure builds within you both, the touches grow more urgent, the kisses more fervent. Rhaenyra’s hand tightens on your shoulder, her eyes squeezing shut as she reaches the edge. You follow her soon after, your bodies trembling together as the waves of pleasure crash over you, leaving you both breathless, your hearts pounding in the aftermath.

For a moment, there is only the sound of your breathing, the gentle lap of the water, and the warmth of Rhaenyra’s body pressed against yours. Slowly, the intensity of the moment ebbs away, leaving behind a deep, abiding connection.

Rhaenyra leans her head against your shoulder, her breath warm against your neck. “That was… incredible,” she whispers, her voice still tinged with the aftershocks of pleasure.

You smile, your hand gently stroking her back as you hold her close. “It was,” you agree softly, feeling a profound sense of contentment.

The two of you remain like that for some time, simply holding each other, basking in the warmth of the water and the closeness of your bodies. There is a gentle, unspoken understanding between you now, a bond forged not just by passion but by mutual respect and deepening affection.

As the water begins to cool, Rhaenyra lifts her head, looking into your eyes with a soft smile. “Let’s dry off and rest,” she suggests, her voice gentle. “There is much we still need to talk about… but for now, I just want to be close to you.”

You nod, helping her out of the bath and wrapping yourselves in the towels that were left nearby. As you dry each other off, the touches are more tender, more affectionate, than before. There is no rush, no urgency—only the simple pleasure of being together.

Once dry, you both slip into the bed, the sheets cool against your heated skin. Rhaenyra curls up beside you, her head resting on your chest, her hand lightly tracing patterns on your skin. You hold her close, your own hand gently stroking her hair, the intimacy of the moment filling you both with a deep sense of peace.

“Tell me more about your journeys,” Rhaenyra murmurs, her voice drowsy as sleep begins to tug at her.

“Of course,” you reply softly, your voice soothing as you begin to share more tales of distant lands and ancient times. Rhaenyra listens, her breathing slowing as she drifts off, content in your embrace.

As she falls asleep, you continue to hold her, your own eyes growing heavy with exhaustion. But before you succumb to sleep, you take a moment to appreciate the warmth of her body against yours, the comfort of her presence.

Together, in the quiet of the night, you both find rest, the bond between you stronger than ever before.

The dawn is just breaking over Dragonstone, casting a pale golden light across the harbor. The sea is calm, the waters reflecting the first light of day like molten glass. The ships are ready, their sails furled and waiting for the wind to carry them across the Narrow Sea. Rhaenyra stands on the dock, her expression stern, though her heart is heavy. The decision to send her children away, to safety in Pentos, has not come easily. Aegon and Viserys cling to her skirts, their young faces filled with confusion and fear, while Lucerys stands beside her, trying to put on a brave face for his younger brothers.

Jacaerys, their eldest, stands a short distance away, his jaw set in determination, though there is a flicker of uncertainty in his eyes. He is prepared to escort his brothers, to protect them as best he can, but the weight of responsibility is a heavy burden on such young shoulders.

Rhaenyra kneels to embrace her children, whispering words of comfort and love, even as her heart aches with the knowledge that she may not see them again for a long time—if ever. As she stands and turns to Jace, a shadow passes over the group. She looks up, expecting to see a cloud or a bird, but instead, it is you, descending from the sky on your Banshee, the creature’s leathery wings creating a powerful downdraft as it lands gracefully on the docks.

You dismount with practiced ease, your cloak billowing around you as you stride toward the group. The lords and soldiers present step back instinctively, the stories of your deeds still fresh in their minds. Jacaerys stiffens as you approach, sensing that something is about to change.

“Y/N,” Rhaenyra greets you, her voice laced with surprise but also a trace of relief. “You’ve come to see them off?”

You nod, but your gaze is focused on Jacaerys, who meets your eyes with a mixture of respect and defiance. “No, Your Grace,” you say calmly, “I’ve come to take Prince's place.”

Rhaenyra’s brow furrows in confusion, and Jace steps forward, his voice firm but uncertain. “But Mother has tasked me with escorting my brothers. I can’t leave them to face this journey alone.”

“You won’t be leaving them alone, Jace,” you reply, your tone gentle but unyielding. “But your place is here, by your mother’s side. She needs you now more than ever.”

Jace opens his mouth to protest, but you raise a hand, silencing him. “You won’t make it past the Gullet,” you continue, your eyes narrowing slightly as you speak. “On my last flight, I saw ships from the Free Cities approaching fast, likely in league with the Greens. They will be waiting for you, and you will not have the strength to fight them off. But I can.”

The gravity of your words sinks in, and Rhaenyra’s hand instinctively tightens on Jace’s arm. The boy hesitates, torn between his duty to his brothers and the growing realization that you speak the truth.

Rhaenyra’s gaze shifts from her son to you, her eyes searching yours. There is a deep understanding between you, born of the time you have spent together, the shared battles, and the nights spent in quiet conversation. She knows you too well, and she can sense what you are not saying.

“Y/N,” Rhaenyra begins, her voice low and laden with concern. “You intend to go alone, don’t you?”

You nod slowly, the sadness in your eyes betraying what you cannot bring yourself to say outright. “This is something I must do, Rhaenyra. It is time for me to fulfill my calling, to see this through to the end.”

“No,” Rhaenyra says firmly, shaking her head as she steps closer to you. “You are not just an ally, Y/N. You are more than that. You have become… indispensable to me, to us. I cannot let you go, not like this.”

You offer her a sad smile, one that speaks of centuries of experience, of knowing when a path must be walked alone. “I have only ever obeyed one master, Rhaenyra,” you say softly, reaching out to gently cup her cheek. “And that is my calling. This is something I must do, for myself, and for those who have gone before me. My time here is coming to an end, and it is time for me to go home.”

Rhaenyra’s eyes glisten with unshed tears, but she blinks them away, her voice breaking as she speaks. “Will I ever see you again?”

You take a deep breath, your gaze lifting to the sky, where the first stars of evening are beginning to twinkle faintly, though the sun has barely risen. “I will be watching over you every night, Rhaenyra,” you reply, your voice tender and filled with an unspoken promise. “Whenever you look up at the stars, know that I am there, looking at you.”

For a moment, there is only silence between you, the weight of the world hanging in the air. Rhaenyra reaches up, placing her hand over yours where it rests against her cheek, holding on to the warmth of your touch as if she could somehow keep you with her.

“Then promise me,” she whispers, her voice trembling. “Promise me you’ll come back.”

You lean in, pressing a soft kiss to her forehead, your lips lingering there for a heartbeat longer than necessary. “I promise I will do everything in my power to return,” you say, your voice filled with the sincerity of your oath. But there is something unspoken in your words, a truth that both of you know but do not want to acknowledge—that sometimes, not all promises can be kept.

Rhaenyra steps back reluctantly, releasing your hand, her eyes never leaving yours. She nods, accepting your words even as her heart rebels against them. “Go, then,” she says, her voice filled with the strength of a queen but the sorrow of a woman who knows she may be losing someone dear. “But remember that you have a place here, with us, with me. And if you can… come back to it.”

You bow your head slightly in acknowledgment, your expression one of quiet resolve. “Take care of your family, Rhaenyra,” you say, turning to the children, your eyes lingering on Jacaerys for a moment. “And remember what I’ve taught you.”

With that, you mount your Banshee, the creature’s wings stretching out in preparation for flight. You glance back at Rhaenyra one last time, committing her face to memory—the strength in her eyes, the sadness in her smile—before turning your gaze forward, to the horizon where your destiny awaits.

The Banshee’s powerful wings beat the air as you take off, soaring into the sky above Dragonstone. Below, you see Rhaenyra and her children watching, growing smaller and smaller as you climb higher into the sky. The wind rushes past you, carrying with it the scent of the sea and the distant promise of what is to come.

As the island fades into the distance, you feel a sense of peace settle over you. You have made your choice, and it is the right one.

And somewhere below, on the shores of Dragonstone, a queen stands alone, her gaze lifted to the heavens, searching the skies for a glimpse of the one she has come to care for more than she ever thought possible. As the stars begin to emerge, she knows that, wherever you are, you are looking at them too, and perhaps, just perhaps, you will find your way back to her, to the home you have both made together.

But for now, all she can do is wait, and hope, and hold on to the memory of your final kiss, a promise that will echo in her heart for as long as she lives.

Years have passed, and the Red Keep stands tall against the night sky, its ancient stones bathed in the soft glow of moonlight. The castle, once a symbol of unyielding strength, now bears the weight of countless battles, of loss and victory, of the bloodshed that shaped the Seven Kingdoms. Yet, despite the passage of time, one constant remains: the stars, ever-present, watching over the realm with a silent, timeless gaze.

Rhaenyra Targaryen, now older and wearier, stands alone on the balcony of her chambers. The years have etched lines of sorrow and wisdom onto her face, and her once fiery spirit has been tempered by the trials she has endured. Her long silver hair, once a brilliant cascade, now carries strands of white, a testament to the time that has passed and the burdens she has carried. She wraps her cloak tightly around her shoulders, shielding herself from the cool night breeze that whispers through the Red Keep.

Her gaze is fixed on the sky, on the stars that glitter like diamonds against the velvety darkness. The constellations are familiar to her, their patterns etched into her memory from countless nights spent searching them for solace, for answers, for a glimpse of the past. The night is clear, the sky vast and endless, and yet Rhaenyra feels a deep, aching loneliness that even the stars cannot fill.

She lifts her chin slightly, her eyes tracing the paths of the stars as they twinkle serenely above. It has become a ritual of sorts, this nightly vigil, a way to connect with something greater than herself, to find comfort in the constancy of the heavens when everything else has changed.

But tonight, the stars seem more distant than ever.

She remembers those who have been lost to the ravages of time and war—her children, her loved ones, and the countless souls who once stood beside her. She remembers the faces of those who are no longer here, their voices now echoes in her memory. And among those memories, one stands out more vividly than the rest.

It has been years since you left her, years since you took flight from Dragonstone, vowing to protect her children, to do what needed to be done. You had promised to look after them, to see them safely to the other side of the Narrow Sea. And you had promised, in your own way, to return—to find your way back to her, to the place you both shared.

But you never did.

Rhaenyra’s heart tightens at the thought, a pang of sorrow so deep it threatens to overwhelm her. She has long since stopped searching the skies for your return, knowing deep down that you had fulfilled your destiny, whatever it may have been, and that she would never see you again. And yet, on nights like this, when the stars are particularly bright, she can’t help but wonder if somewhere, in some distant part of the world, you are still watching over her, as you had promised.

She leans against the cold stone of the balcony, her hands resting on the worn edges, her gaze unfaltering. The years have taken so much from her, but the memory of you remains, as vivid as the night you shared on Dragonstone, as real as the last kiss you gave her before you took to the skies. It is a memory she holds close, a fragment of warmth in a world that has grown increasingly colder.

The wind picks up slightly, rustling the leaves of the trees far below, carrying with it the faintest scent of the sea. It is a reminder of a time long past, of a love that was as fleeting as it was profound. Rhaenyra closes her eyes for a moment, letting the wind brush against her face, imagining it is your touch, soft and comforting, as it once was.

But when she opens her eyes, the night remains as it was, unchanged, the stars twinkling impassively above. She takes a deep breath, the weight of the years pressing down on her, and yet, there is a certain peace that comes with it. She knows that you are out there, somewhere beyond the reach of mortal hands, and that perhaps, in your own way, you are still watching over her.

Rhaenyra lifts her hand, as if to touch the stars, her fingers stretching out toward the endless sky. It is a futile gesture, and she knows it, but it brings her a small measure of comfort nonetheless. She lets her hand fall back to her side, her gaze lingering on the stars for a moment longer before she turns away, retreating into the warmth of her chambers.

As she closes the balcony doors behind her, shutting out the chill of the night, Rhaenyra takes one last look at the sky. The stars continue to shine, distant and unwavering, and she knows that they will be there long after she is gone, just as they were before she was born. They are a reminder of the constancy of the universe, of the passage of time, and of the fleeting nature of life.

And as she steps back into the familiar confines of her room, she carries with her the memory of you—of the love that once was, of the promises made beneath the stars, and of the bittersweet knowledge that some things are not meant to last forever.

But even in that knowledge, there is a certain beauty, a quiet acceptance. For Rhaenyra knows that, in the end, it is not the length of time that matters, but the depth of the moments shared. And though you are gone, the memory of those moments remains, a light in the darkness, a star in the sky, guiding her even now.

And so, she closes her eyes, allowing herself to rest, knowing that, wherever you are, a part of you is still with her, in the stars above, in the memories you left behind, and in the love that will never fade, no matter how many years pass.

#house of the dragon #hotd #hotd x female reader #hotd rhaenyra #rhaenyra x y/n #rhaenyra x reader #rhaenyra targaryen #rhaenyra x you #hotd x y/n #hotd x reader #hotd x you

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faeriekit · 3 months

Text

A brief snippet of Time/DimensionTravel!Tim (which I found as a draft in my docs)

There was a bell at the door.

Alfred Pennyworth did nothing as dramatic as to jolt straight upwards in alarm, but he did find himself pausing. After all, there were no deliveries scheduled, and a ring at the door meant that someone had bypassed several of Wayne Manor’s many security measures.

There was no Mister Wayne present on the premises to make decisions. There was only Alfred, in custody of the home, and the ghost of Waynes long since gone from the home itself.

There was nothing for it. Alfred quietly retrieved a revolver from its place underneath the wood paneling in the hall and gathered himself for the long walk to the door.

The closer he drew to the front entrance, the more factors of the situation made themselves known. There was a pounding on the roof, and on exposed windows. It was raining. The night found outside ancient window frames was black, and opaque, and determinably wet.

Something thumped. Alfred was not entirely sure it was thunder. The revolver in his coat dragged his consciousness back to its weighted body over and over again.

Finally Alfred made it to the front door. There was a peephole, but Alfred didn’t risk his eye to use it; if there was someone on the other side, it would become obvious that there was an observer if they had elected to peer in as well. No. Instead he reached for a mirror— and, passed on from the mirrored ornaments hung in a nearby window, Alfred could see a single body on the other side of the front door.

Well. There was one way to determine the man’s motives. Would it were that Alfred wasn’t alone in Wayne Manor at the moment.

The four locks came undone, a bar, a chain, and two cylinders. It took considerable strength to pry open the doors— a deterrent against possible invaders— but Alfred knew to never look as though one was struggling. The image of strength was often just as important as the ability to achieve in itself.

Alfred pulled open the door.

On the other side was a…teenager. Alfred would be hard-pressed to consider the figure “an adult.”

The boy was practically swimming in the rain, with nothing but a thin, black, long-sleeve shirt and soft pants to defend himself with. He was shoeless. He was soaked to the bone.

Despite that, he was past every security measure around Wayne Manor with no evidence as to how.

“Good evening,” Alfred greeted the lad, despite the odd hour of eleven forty-five at night. “I am afraid the master of the house isn’t home, despite your trek. I am afraid I will have to ask you to depart.”

“Alf—” the boy started. And then his teeth clicked shut. Unusual. It was common practice to use knowledge as a weapon against one’s enemies, but rarely did that knowledge include the name of the waitstaff. “My apologies. I didn’t…mean to call on you so late. But I came here to meet with you, Alfred Pennyworth. I come with a proposal.”

…Alfred had no appropriate response to that. One white-flecked eyebrow rose above the other.

The boy, recognizing Alfred’s disinterest, carefully bowed. His hands came together. His back bent. Depending on what this visitor knew, he may have understood that Alfred was perfectly capable of erasing problems that might arrive with the Manor’s owner’s absence.

“Information about your,” the boy paused. “...Former ward, in exchange for sanctuary.”

Alfred did nothing so dramatic as to gasp, but still, his breath hitched in surprise. If the boy noticed, he did not respond; his eyes stayed low, his posture exposing his neck and back.

No one, not even Alfred, had heard from Master Bruce since his…unwelcome departure from medical school. If this boy knew where the not-quite-so-young Master had vanished…

Alfred’s grip on the door tightened. “I imagine, then, that I ought to ask you inside.”

Shivering, and subservient, the boy rose from his bow to follow him indoors.

The boy looked no larger in a swathe of towels than he had in the rain outside.

Damp, with wet black hair smeared over his face and clothes clinging to his person, the boy looked no more restored in a wrap of two fluffy guest towels than he had in soaked clothes alone.

He did not act as though he was an urchin, used to disrespect, happy to be helped. He acted as though he was a serpent in a maze: clinging to walls and wary of windows, and still, ultimately, royal.

The boy took a swallow of Alfred’s second-best black tea. If there were no witnesses, Alfred would put money towards the prospect that the boy would have chugged the cup down instead. The mug was carefully lowered to the table.

“...As of three weeks ago, the date was set for Talia al Ghul to marry Bruce Wayne in the custom of her people,” the boy begins.

Alfred’s mug nearly slipped from his fingers. He said nothing. There was nothing to say. Alfred was no longer his legal guardian— still, if there was to be a marriage, he should have expected to see some sort of notice at least—

“He doesn’t know,” the boy continued, his lips bloodless and cold, “Because no one has told him. The marriage is not legally binding without paperwork, but she will consider it so, and expect him to continue with their union as spouses. Spousal consent is not traditionally considered to be necessary for their union.”

Alfred’s lips narrowed. “I…see.” His boy had always wanted something more akin to adventure than domestic responsibility. It appeared as though he had found it.

“He will leave,” the boy said, blue eyes pointed to the ground, “And depending on how she responds, his would-be-wife will either attempt to follow him before she ultimately returns, or she will attempt to keep him there. One will result in a fight, and the other will not, but either way, I would expect him to return to Gotham in, perhaps…anywhere between one to three months from today.”

The aging butler resisted the urge to sigh into his mug. Would it be that his boy had come into possession of better taste in his gallivant overseas. Considering his proclivities, however, he should have expected some form of complicated drama. “How did you come by this information?”

The boy blinked. “Oh,” he said. “I was being trained as his servant. I believe I was meant to be a wedding gift.”

Alfred’s mug paused midair. “Trained,” he repeated. The boy was…young. Too young to be legitimately employed as a servant. And considering his ill-fated arrival… “In what manner were you trained?”

The boy fidgeted carefully. Most men might not have noticed. His hand jerked the cup, although not enough for it to spill; he raised one knee over the other, mouth twisting. He did not want to reveal this piece of information; or, he feared the repercussions of doing so.

“Oh, you know,” the boy deflects, eyes cutting across the room. “In the usual arts. Accounting. Organization. Personnel Management. First aide. Anatomy, physiology. Hacking. Infiltration. Firearms. Poisons. Lethal and nonlethal weaponry. Sabotage.”

Alfred stared.

The boy’s expression turned sheepish. “...To be fair, Talia really, really thinks she can convince him to join her father’s ninja cult. It won’t work, of course,” he quickly tried to reassure. “But. Um. She is rather convinced she can take his bloodline into her own and indoctrinate him into becoming assassin royalty. And have assassin babies with him.”

…The mug was set down with a little more force than Alfred might have preferred.

#dc #teehee #Tim immediately snitching on Bruce to Alfred is a joy and a blessing #Tim immediately treating this as a job interview is a second #time travel #dimension travel #one of many things I have not finished #faer fic

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thecharacterchronicler · 3 months

Text

Please (Part 2) || Ominis Gaunt x Reader || Smut

Outline: After your arranged marriage and wedding night with Ominis, you found yourselves alone in the Gaunt house for a few days.

Word count: 2’840

Warnings: Explicit smut, pregnancy (mentions).

(May contain a few mistakes as English isn’t my first language.)

(( Part 1 - Bloodline )) - (( Part 3 - Heirloom )) - (( Masterlist ))

Ominis’ didn’t have much time after your engagement was announced to come up with a plan but he knew that the most important thing would be to keep you as far away as possible from his family after the wedding. He had thought about asking to settle with you in the Gaunts’ apartment in London or maybe in his family’s cottage by the beach but, as it turned out, it was his family that had decided to take their distances, probably because they wanted to facilitate the procreation of a heir.

His parents had left the manor for London only one day after your wedding, leaving you very little time to take the full measure of the Gaunt’s cruelty and darkness. As for Marvolo, he stayed elusive about where he was going to spend the next few days but what was important was that he was gone, far away from you.

With only you in the manor that he used to dread, Ominis slowly started thinking that it wasn’t so bad after all. The heavy atmosphere that usually weighted on his shoulders seemed a lot lighter now that you were around. Even his perpetual darkness had became somewhat lighter since you had been there with him, filling the house with piano melodies and laughters.

As per usual, he found you in the music room, your fingers practicing a tune that he knew by heart by now. He stood on the threshold for a moment, enjoying the melody and your presence. Even if he couldn’t see, the way the room radiated with warmth and light because you were in it made his heart swell.

For once in his life, Ominis was happy. Truly happy. Because you were there, shining a new light on everything he used to hate. Starting with that piano that his mother always forced him to play until his fingers hurt… Now everything he wanted was to sit next to you and play a duet along with you.

“Oh, I didn’t see you there.” Your voice said, as you stopped playing.

“Don’t mind me, I was just enjoying the music.”

He heard the air that left your lips every time you smiled so he smiled back at you, waiting for you to resume your tune but you didn’t, nervously fidgeting with your music sheet instead.

Ominis felt a pinch in his chest. He felt it a lot lately. It usually happened whenever he wondered if you were happy too. Because he was, and his only wish was that you felt it too. If you weren’t, then it meant you were feeling as trapped in this marriage than what you would have been if Marvolo had been your husband instead. Of course, Ominis would treat you better. He was your friend after all, your best friend. But he still couldn’t help but wonder sometimes who you would have chose to marry if you had had the freedom to decide for yourself. Sebastian ? Garreth ? Amit ? Even if the idea of you with another man made him sick with jealousy, he wouldn’t blame you if that was what you wanted. He sincerely wished you could have avoided a lifetime trapped with a Gaunt, even if it was him.

“I have a present for you.” He said, since you didn’t seem to want to play the piano anymore. He walked in your direction, stopping precisely close to the bench you were sitting on. His hand disappeared in the pocket of his vest, retrieving a small black box from it.

“You shouldn’t have.” You started, but your breath caught in your throat when he opened the box to reveal a beautiful gold ring, with a stone as black as a starless night on it. You traced a finger on the symbols engraved on the gem, feeling a powerful energy buzzing from it.

“It’s a family heirloom.” Ominis explained, as you were about to ask. “With a pretty ancient coat of arms engraved on it. I’ve been told my ancestor got it made for the woman he loved… It always gave me hope that maybe, some Gaunts are capable of love after all.”

“It’s truly beautiful.”

“It’s yours.” He took the ring out of the box, outstretching a hand in your direction. You placed your hand in his and he slowly slided the jewel on your ring finger. It fitted you perfectly, as if it had been made for you.

“I’m honored, thank you.” He heard you stand up from your seat, feeling you suddenly very close to him. Then, your soft lips pressed a kiss on his cheek, sending a wave of adrenaline through his body. “We haven’t really talked since our wedding night… Maybe we should.”

“What would you like to talk about ?”

“Our… marital duties ?” You said, a blush creeping up to your cheeks.

“Ah. That.” Ominis breathed, equally turning crimson.

“Your mother told me that I must birth an heir by the end of the year… But I wanted to know what you want.” You explained, your tone nervous.

“I want this bloodline to die with me.” He said, with no hesitation. Then, he realized that maybe, it wasn’t what you wanted to hear. “I apologize if you were hoping to have children but I do not wish to bring another Gaunt into the world.”

“I understand…” You said, softly, but he could tell something was bothering you. “I suppose I’m better off having no children than being forced by my husband to birth more babies than what my body could endure.”

Ominis took a deep breath. In other circumstances, maybe he would have wanted this. Especially with you. But he swore to himself a long time ago that he would never provide another child for his family to torture until they could turn him or her into a monster like them.

“If you wish to see Sebastian, or another man, I won’t stop you but I need you to be careful to not accidentally get pregnant.” He said it as stoically as he could, wanting to seem impassible so that you wouldn’t know how it consumed him with jealousy to imagine you with someone else. But he would survive it if it might make you happy.

“What ? You think I want to be with Sebastian ?” You asked him, incredulous. “Do you want to be with someone else ?”

“I don’t think so.” He replied. “I don’t really care for such things…”

“Oh. I see.” You said, and maybe he should have been clearer to avoid hearing such disappointment in your tone. He didn’t really care for such things because all he cared about was you. Since 5th year, the only person he ever imagined being intimate with was you. And if he couldn’t have you, then he wouldn’t have anyone else. “I’m sorry if last time was terrible, it was my first time. Maybe with some practice I could get better at it.”

“You… Want to practice ?” He repeated, unsure of what you meant.

“Yes ? Maybe you could tell me exactly what to do to please you.” You suggested, causing very inappropriate ideas to flash in his mind. You couldn’t be serious. “I’m eager to learn if you are willing to teach me.”

In the few days you had spent alone in the manor, after your wedding, you had talked to him as you always did, like a friend. Not once did it sound like you regretted what you had done on your wedding night but you also didn’t seem to plan on doing it again. You were back at being friends and, with his family away from the manor, Ominis had decided to respect this by sleeping in the living room instead of sharing a bed with you.

So hearing that you were, in fact, not opposed to consume your wedding again left him slightly dumbstruck for a moment. Were you doing this because his mother had instructed you to ? Because his parents - or yours - had threatened to hurt you if you didn’t produce an heir quickly ? Or could it be possible that you just wanted him ?

“Please, Ominis.” You begged, quietly. You stepped closer and planted a wet kiss in the crook of his neck, causing him to take a sharp inhale of air.

There you were, asking him again so nicely and politely for something that he was dying to give you. He knew by now that he didn’t have the willpower to ever refuse you anything at all, whatever you wanted, he would give you. No questioning, no hesitation, all you had to do was say please in that agonizingly desirable tone of yours and he would grant you everything you asked for.

His arms closed around your waist, pulling you against him into a feverish kiss. You left out a breath of relief against his lips, making him kiss you even harder in return. For the past few nights, he had laid awake on the couch, thinking about the curves and dips of your body, the way he had traced them and memorized them, forming the most detailed idea of what your body looked like in his mind, after all these years during which he barely dared touch you.

He put so much strength into his kisses that the pressure of his body against yours forced you to take a few steps back. He followed each one, until you could no longer retreat, your back pressed against the imposing piano behind you.

“Sit down.” He instructed you, but he left you no time to do it, lifting you up and sitting you on the keyboard, unpleasant notes played all together resounding in the room under your weight.

He fell to his knees in front of you, his hands reaching to your legs and slowly moving upwards, scrunching up the fabric of your skirt in the process until it was all the way up to your hips. He tugged on your underwear and you moved to help him remove them, once again causing a few notes of music to fill the air between you.

“What should I do ?” You asked him, the uncertainty in your voice making him grin.

“Nothing at all.” He replied, leaning forward to bury his face between your thighs. You gasped as soon as you felt his tongue between your folds, tasting you in a way you didn’t think possible.

“But…” You started, but interrupted yourself to catch your breath, your head swimming from the pleasure his tongue swirling around your sensitive clit provoked inside your body. “I want to learn how to please you.”

“This is pleasing me.” He assured you, because it really did. He had always wondered what you tasted like, and what sounds would come out of your mouth if he licked you down there. He was indulging into one of his wildest fantasies about you and nothing could have pleased him more at that very moment.

“Ominis…” You breathed, wanting to argue but moaning instead. With his hands gripping each of your thighs to ensure they were as far apart as they could be to grant him access and his tongue unrelenting in the way it explored the walls of your pussy, you couldn’t help but give in, closing your eyes and pressing your back against the piano, biting your lip to silence another moan.

When he pushed his tongue passed your entrance, your hand fell by your side, pressing a few keys in the process which made you jump but didn’t seem to phase him the least, maybe because your thighs were muffling every sound in his ears, apart from your delicious cries of pleasure. You put your hand on his head, fingers messing up his neat hairstyle to pull him even closer, wanting him deeper. So much deeper.

“I need you.” You managed to tell him, even though your body was trembling in bliss. “Please.”

He groaned against your folds, eyes closed. He needed you too, his cock was swollen in his pants, wanting nothing more than to be freed and shoved inside you for relief.

Maybe if he was very careful…

His mouth left your core and he wiped his lips with the back of his hand as you kept panting, perched on the piano. He knew it must be a lovely sight to see, you flushed from the pleasure he had given you and your legs spread open for him, your folds coated in his saliva and your own deliciously sweet arousal.

He stood up, opening his pants to free the erection so desperate to be inside you again. He heard how you quietly gasped as he pulled his hard length out, shuddering with excitement. He leaned down to kiss you, wondering if you could taste yourself on his lips and, as you attempted to catch your breath, he flipped you over, bringing your feet back to the ground and your hands slamming the piano keys in a abrupt melody once again.

He had to pull your skirt up to your hips again, exposing your round ass to him. He traced the contour of that part of you he had yet to discover, his fingers digging in the tender flesh a few times as if wanting to take the full measure of what it looked like. And, once his curiosity satisfied and the feeling stored in his memory, he aligned his cock with your entrance and pushed it in, slowly.

He had expected to find a resistance there, as he had last time, but his cock gently slided all the way inside you without you making a single sound of pain or discomfort. He left out a breath, loving how warm and tight you felt around him. He enjoyed it all the more knowing that he was welcome there, your wetness making it easy for him to bury himself inside you all the way until his hips were squeezed against your ass.

You felt incredible.

So good in fact that he struggled to control himself, wanting to thrust in and out of you so hard until he could be satisfied but he was determined to be a gentleman. Instead of the rough shoves he craved, he rocked himself back and forth painfully slowly, earning some lovely sounding moans and whimpers out of you as a reward for behaving.

It felt as if you were getting tighter the more you were crying out in pleasure and he knew he wouldn’t be able to take it much longer. He had came inside you last time, because it was your first time and he wanted to do things the traditional way. He took your virginity which you were willing to give him now that he was your husband. And he gave you his too, even though it felt a lot more insignificant in comparison. He had spilled his release inside you, to mark you as his, to forever be the first one to ever do it. But he wouldn’t do it again, the risk was too great to take.

He had to be cautious.

He pushed himself forward with more strength than what he had meant to use, making the piano sound again under your shifting weight. You bounced back against him, making him hit so deep inside that you loudly moaned, body tensing as violently as your pussy tightened around his cock, momentarily trapping him inside you and violently pulsating all around him, trying to get him to fill you up as he naturally should. And he almost did. It felt so good, way too good to resist…

He managed to pull out just in time for his release to splash out of him, warm drops landing on your ass and thighs. He breathed loudly, cock twitching in his hand as he emptied all of his pant up desire for you that he had fought against in the past few days. The quantity only rivaling the intensity of the pleasure he felt.

He didn’t notice you move, too busy enjoying his climax so he jumped slightly when he felt your lips around the tip of his still hard cock, your tongue licking the pink flesh with delight.

“Wh-What are you doing ?” He asked, breathing ragged. He had to lean forward and rest his hands on the piano to keep his balance, the sensitivity of his cock heightened after the strong orgasm he had.

“I wanted a taste too.” You admitted, licking each side of his shaft with care. He closed his eyes, a groan escaping from his lips as your tongue collected the salty wetness that coated his length.

He cursed and another load of his release filled your mouth, his body trembling and his head swimming in bliss. You sucked every drop out of him and swallowed it all, as he sat down on the piano chair with a dizzy expression on his face, struggling to catch his breath.

You allowed him a few minutes before you rose up from your knees to kiss him, gently pressing your hand against his racing heart. He kissed you back, tenderly, as his fingers caressed yours, contouring the new ring on your finger.

(( Masterlist ))

Previously in this series;

Next in this series;

#smut #ominis gaunt x you #ominis gaunt smut #ominis gaunt #ominis x you #ominis smut #ominis gaunt x mc #ominis imagine #ominis x y/n #hogwarts legacy ominis #ominis x reader #ominis x mc #Ominis #hogwarts legacy smut #hogwarts smut

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misswynters · 2 months

Text

Journey Begins — Chapter One

Dragon Twins Series

Aegon Targaryen x Dayne!fem!reader x Aerion Targaryen

[synopsis: You finally arrived at the capital, the land of in which aegon the conqueror came through. You are from the illustrious House Dayne from Dorne. You catch the eyes of the targaryen twin princes, aegon and aerion. You are betrothed to the heir apparent, Aegon Targaryen. Your new spouse is not very keen towards you, only his brother, Aerion shows slight interest.

[warnings: none

[work count: 3.3k

[a/n: i haven’t written in so long so bare with me. it’s proofread but i couldve missed something.

[note | it would greatly appreciated if you would not only just like, but also reblog & give me feedback. thank you!

| next chapter | masterlist |

The sun was setting as you made your way to King’s Landing. The banners of House Dayne which beared the white sword and falling star, fluttered against the warm breeze. You sat there, with your head held high as your eyes peaked through the small windows of the carriage. The only think you saw was the streets of the capital buzzing with people at the market and kids playing. The Red Keep loomed ahead, its imposing silhouette casting long shadows over the ancient city. As they approached, you could feel the weight of your family’s expectations that are now resting on your shoulders.

House Dayne, renowned for its ancient history and the legendary sword of Dawn, had always maintained an influential presence in the realm. Therefore your arrival in kings landing was not just a matter of formality; it was a declaration of the dayne influence and a future entailment of your role at the kings court. As the procession entered the castle gates, You were greeted by the sight of the Targaryen standard flying high above the ramparts. The dragon sigil seemed to shimmer in the fading light, a reminder of the power and legacy of the house you would soon be entangled with. You dismounted gracefully, your hair cascading over your shoulders, and adjusted your violet cloak, a gift from your family marking your status as a noble of Dorne.

Inside the red keep, the atmosphere was charged with anticipation. Nobles and the servants whispered amongst themselves as their eyes followed your presence. You were escorted to the grand hall where there was a feast being prepared in your honor. The hall was a marvel of architecture, with high ceilings adorned with intricate tapestries depicting the history of House Targaryen. The long tables were laden with an array of dishes, from roasted meats to exotic fruits, and the air was thick with the mingling scents of rich spices and sweet wines.

At the head of the hall, seated upon the dais, were the twin princes of the realm: Aegon and Aerion Targaryen. Aegon, the elder by mere minutes and the heir apparent, had an air of composed authority. His silver-gold hair was neatly trimmed, and his piercing violet eyes exuded a sense of calm determination. By contrast, Aerion's dark auburn hair fell in wild waves around his shoulders, and his eyes sparkled with mischief and restless energy. They were a striking pair, embodying the duality of fire and ice that defined their lineage.

You approached the dais with measured steps, your heart beating a little faster with each step. You bowed gracefully, acknowledging the princes with the respect due their station. "Your Highnesses," you greeted them, your voice steady and clear.

"Lady ___ Dayne," Aegon replied, his voice smooth and commanding. "Welcome to King’s Landing. Your presence here honors us."

Aerion leaned forward, a playful smile tugging at his lips. "Indeed, it is not often we are graced with such beauty and distinction from the South. I trust your journey was pleasant?"

Your eyes met Aerion's gaze, twinkling with amusement. "It was long but not without its charms, your grace. The roads of Westeros are always full of surprises."

Aegon’s expression softened slightly, a hint of a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "We are pleased you have arrived safely. There is much to discuss in the days to come, matters of great importance to both our houses."

As the day continued, the atmosphere in the Red Keep grew increasingly tense. You found yourself caught in the middle of a growing rift between Aegon and Aerion.

Aegon's cold demeanor persisted, though he made more of an effort to be present. You appreciated the attempts, but the connection you guys longed for remained elusive. Aerion, on the other hand, continued to be a source of comfort and companionship, his presence a balm to your weary soul.

࣪⠀⊹ ˑ ִ ֗ ִ ۫

The next evening, a ceremony was held to formally announce your betrothal to Aegon. The Great Hall was filled with nobles, lords, and ladies, all dressed in their finest attire. The air was thick with the scent of flowers and the sound of music, creating an atmosphere of celebration that belied the undercurrents of tension.

You stood beside Aegon, your hand resting on his arm as they greeted the guests. Aerion was nearby, his eyes never straying far from his brother and the person who would soon be his sister-in-law. As the ceremony began, You felt a growing sense of unease, a feeling that intensified with each passing moment.

The High Septon performed the ritual, binding their hands with a length of silk and speaking the ancient words that would unite them in the eyes of the Seven. You glanced at Aegon, hoping to find some hint of warmth or affection, but his expression remained stoic, his eyes fixed on the Septon.

As the ceremony concluded, the guests applauded, you and Aegon were led to the high table for the ceremonial feast. The hall was filled with laughter and conversation, but you couldn't shake the feeling of being on display, a pawn in a game of power.

Aerion joined you guys at the high table, his presence a welcome distraction from the tension that lingered between you and Aegon. As the feast progressed, you found yourself drawn into conversation with Aerion, his wit and charm a stark contrast to Aegon's brooding silence.

"Aegon, you must try the Dornish red," Aerion said, pouring a goblet of wine and passing it to his brother. "It's truly exceptional."

Aegon accepted the goblet with a curt nod, his eyes flicking briefly to you before returning to his food. "Thank you, Aerion," he said, his tone neutral.

You sighed inwardly, turning your attention back to Aerion. "Have you ever visited Dorne, Aerion?" you asked, hoping to steer the conversation to safer ground.

Aerion's eyes lit up. "Once, a few years ago. The landscape is breathtaking, and the people are as warm as the sun. You must show me around someday."

"I would love that," you replied, a genuine smile tugging at their lips. "There are so many places I could show you."

Aegon looked up, his expression darkening. "Is this appropriate?" he asked, his voice cold. "Discussing travel plans when we are in the middle of our betrothal feast?"

Your smile faltered, a flush of embarrassment coloring their cheeks. "I was just trying to make conversation," you said quietly.

Aerion's gaze hardened. "Aegon, there's no harm in a little light conversation. Surely you can see that."

Aegon's eyes flashed with anger. "I am your brother, Aerion, she is my betrothed. I expect you to respect that."

You felt a surge of frustration. "Aegon, this is our celebration. Can't we enjoy it without arguing, please?"

Aegon set his goblet down with a thud, his eyes boring into you. "I am trying to enjoy it, but it is difficult when you spend more time talking to my brother than to me."

You met his gaze evenly, you’re voice was steady. "I am trying to bridge the gap between us, Aegon. But respect goes both ways. You cannot demand it if you do not give it."

The hall fell silent, the guests watching the exchange with wide eyes. Aerion placed a calming hand on your shoulder. "Let's not ruin this evening," he said softly. "We are family, and we should act like it."

Aegon's expression softened slightly, though the tension in his eyes remained. "Very well," he said, his tone grudging. "Let us enjoy the feast."

The rest of the evening passed in a strained silence, the earlier warmth and camaraderie replaced by a palpable unease. You did your best to engage with the guests, but their thoughts kept returning to the confrontation with Aegon and the growing tension between him and Aerion.

As the feast drew to a close, you excused yourself and retired to your chambers, exhaustion weighing heavily on your shoulders. You changed into your nightclothes and climbed into bed, your mind was racing with the events of the evening.

࣪⠀⊹ ˑ ִ ֗ ִ ۫

The next morning, you were awakened by a gentle knock on the door. The handmaidens entered, bringing fresh clothes and preparing a bath. As you got dressed, your thoughts turned to the day ahead and the many challenges that awaited you. Hoping that Aegon would soon find you more interesting and give you the attention as your husband.

After getting ready, you made your way to the dining hall, hoping for a quiet meal and a chance to unwind. To your surprise, Aerion was already there, seated at a small table near the window. He looked up as you entered, a welcoming smile on his face.

"Good morning, ___," he greeted, gesturing to the empty seat across from him. "Join me?"

You returned the smile and took a seat. "Good morning, your grace. I would love to."

You guys ordered a simple meal, the kind that reminded you of home, and settled into an easy conversation. The food was delicious, and the company even more so. Aerion's presence was a balm to your weary soul, and you found yourself laughing and talking late into the morning.

As the conversation flowed, you both continued to talked about your hopes and dreams, fears and uncertainties. Surprisingly, you found yourself opening up to him in a way you had never been able to with Aegon, the bond between you growing stronger with each passing moment.

"I never expected to find a friend here," you admitted with a soft voice. "But you have been a true friend to me, Aerion. Thank you."

Aerion smiled, a warmth in his eyes that made your heart flutter. "You are welcome, ___. I am glad to have found a friend in you as well."

Their laughter and easy banter were interrupted by the arrival of Aegon. His expression was stern, and his eyes flashed with irritation as he took in the scene before him. "What is going on here?" he demanded, his voice cold.

You and Aerion looked up, the warmth of your conversation dissipating in an instant. Aerion remained seated, his expression calm but his eyes defiant. "We were just having breakfast, brother."

Aegon's gaze shifted to you, a frown marring his handsome features. "This again…why are you speaking with him?"

Your met his gaze evenly, your heart pounding in your chest. "Aerion was kind enough to join me for breakfast. We were just talking."

Aegon's frown deepened. "Just talking? You are my wife. You should be spending time with me, not him."

Aerion stood up, his chair scraping against the floor. "Aegon, if you were around more often, perhaps ___ wouldn't feel the need to seek company elsewhere."

Aegon's face flushed with anger. "Stay out of this, Aerion. This is between me and my wife."

You stood as well, your voice firm. "Aegon, he has been nothing but kind to me. Ever since the ceremony, you have ignored me and treated me with indifference. I am trying to make the best of this situation, but you make it incredibly difficult."

Aegon's eyes flashed with a mixture of anger and something else—guilt, perhaps. "I am your husband, and you will respect that."

You felt a surge of frustration. "I am trying to respect our union, but respect goes both ways. You cannot demand it if you do not give it."

The room fell silent, the tension palpable. Aerion watched the exchange with a thoughtful expression, his earlier amusement replaced by concern.

Finally, Aegon sighed, his shoulders slumping slightly. "I...I will try to do better," he said, though his tone lacked conviction. He turned and left the hall, leaving you and Aerion standing in the aftermath of the confrontation.

Aerion placed a comforting hand on your shoulder. "You did well. Aegon can be difficult, but he will come around."

“Though he does get drunk often as you’ve noticed these past few days, so be weary about that” he continued.

You nodded, feeling a mix of emotions—relief, frustration, and a lingering sense of uncertainty. "Thank you, your grace. I appreciate your support."

He smiled gently. "Anytime,” as he looked into your eyes “And call me by my name from now on. We are family now, after all." The young man left the dining hall, letting you all by your self and the servants worked the room.

࣪⠀⊹ ˑ ִ ֗ ִ ۫

As the days passed, you tried to settle into your new life in the Red Keep. You attended council meetings, participated in court functions, and did your best to navigate the complex web of alliances and rivalries that defined the royal court.

Aegon remained distant, though he made an effort to be more present. He would sit with you during meals, engage in polite conversation, and accompany you to various events. However, the warmth and connection you had hoped for were still elusive. Aerion, on the other hand, continued to be a constant source of support and companionship.

One evening, after a particularly grueling day of court politics, you found yourself in the library, seeking solace among the dusty tomes and ancient scrolls. Aerion joined you, as he often did, settling into a quiet corner, a bottle of wine and two goblets between you.

"I heard you had a difficult day," Aerion said, pouring them each a generous measure of wine.

You sighed, taking the offered goblet. "It seems there is no end to the intrigue and scheming at court. I feel like I am constantly walking a tightrope."

Aerion raised his goblet in a toast. "To surviving another day in the snake pit."

Clinking your goblets together and drinking the wine, you felt a sense of ease with him. Talking late into the night, your conversations ranging from the mundane life to beyond. Aerion's wit and insight were a constant source of comfort, and you felt a deep sense of gratitude for his presence in your new life.

As the candles burned low, you leaned back in their chair, a contented smile on their lips. "Thank you, Aerion. I don't know what I would do without you."

He smiled, a warmth in his eyes that made your heart flutter. "You are stronger than you realize, ___. You will find your way."

You both parted ways reluctantly, each returning to your respective chambers. As always Aegon is nowhere to be found. He probably ran off somewhere in the capital to get drunk with his friends. If he meant what he said that morning when you met with aerion at the dining hall, he would be spending more time with you. Especially when it comes to sharing your chambers. From what aerion told you about aegon, he would go spend time with whores and get wasted. Though he is the heir apparent, he sure doesn’t act like it sometimes.

As you slipped into bed, the memory of Aerion's reassuring words lingering in your mind. Closing your eyes, you felt a sense of peace washing over them as you drifted off to sleep. At the back of your mind, thinking that the same things would happen continuously, everyday. Aegon ignoring you every time he sees you alone, yet causing an argument when you are with his twin.

࣪⠀⊹ ˑ ִ ֗ ִ ۫

The next morning, Aegon woke you with a sharp knock on the door. The sound echoed through the room, pulling you from a fitful sleep. You blinked against the early morning light, your mind still foggy from the remnants of your dreams.

"Wake up," Aegon called through the door, his voice stern. "We have a council meeting."

You sighed, rubbing your eyes as you sat up. "I'm coming," you replied, trying to shake off the lingering weariness. The servants got you dressed quickly, donning the elegant attire befitting your noble status, and made your way to the council chamber.

The atmosphere in the room was tense when you entered, with Aegon by your side. The small council members were already seated, their expressions ranging from curious to disapproving. You recognized some of them: Lord Hand Otto Hightower, the Master of Coin, and the Master of Ships. Each of their gazes bore into you, a mixture of skepticism and intrigue.

Aegon led you to a seat near the head of the table, introducing you to the council with a formal tone. "This is Lady ___, my betrothed. She will be joining us from now on."

There were murmurs of acknowledgment, but you could feel the underlying tension. You glanced around the table, noticing the reluctant expressions and the way some of the members exchanged knowing glances. It was clear that the rumors about you and Aerion had reached their ears. As if on cue, Aerion entered the chamber, his presence commanding immediate attention. He took his seat with a nod to you and aegon, his expression composed.

The meeting began with the usual discussions of state affairs, taxes, and military matters. You listened attentively, trying to absorb the complex web of politics and alliances. You felt the weight of scrutiny on you, the council members' eyes frequently drifting your way.

After some time, Aegon addressed you directly. "Lady ___, what are your thoughts on the current state of the northern defenses?"

The question caught you off guard. You hesitated, searching for the right words. "I believe that the northern defenses are crucial for the security of the realm," you began, choosing your words carefully. "We must ensure they are well-manned and adequately supplied to withstand any potential threats."

Aegon raised an eyebrow, his expression skeptical. "And how do you propose we achieve that?"

You took a deep breath, feeling the weight of the council's eyes on you. "By allocating more resources to the northern regions, increasing recruitment efforts, and ensuring that the commanders are experienced and well-equipped."

Aegon smirked, a mocking glint in his eyes. "Is that so? And where do you suggest we find these resources? Shall we simply conjure them out of thin air?"

A few of the council members chuckled, and you could feel a flush of embarrassment creeping up your neck. You clenched your fists against your dress, struggling to maintain your composure. "No, of course not," you said, your voice trembling slightly. "We can reallocate funds from less critical areas, and seek additional support from our allies."

Aegon leaned back in his chair, his smirk widening. "Reallocate funds? Seek additional support? It seems you have all the answers, Lady ___. Perhaps you should be sitting in my seat."

The laughter around the table grew louder, and you felt a surge of anger and humiliation. You reached for your goblet, your hand trembling with rage, as you hurled it across the table. The goblet flew past Aegon's head, narrowly missing him, and crashed against the wall, spilling wine everywhere.

The room fell into stunned silence, the council members staring at you in shock. Aegon's expression darkened with fury, but before he could speak, you stood up, your eyes blazing with defiance.

"I will not be humiliated like this," you said, your voice shaking with emotion. "I am trying to do my best, but you make it impossible."

With that, you turned on your heel and stormed out of the room, leaving a trail of shocked silence in your wake. As you walked down the corridors of the Red Keep, tears of frustration and anger welled up in your eyes. You had tried so hard to bridge the gap between yourself and Aegon, but it seemed that every step you took only widened the chasm.

You retreated to your chambers, slamming the door behind her. You sank onto your soft bed, burying your face in your hands. The weight of your new life, the constant scrutiny, and the growing tension with Aegon were all becoming too much to bear.

A soft knock on the door interrupted your solemn thoughts. You wiped your tears stained eyes and took a deep breath before opening the door. To your surprise, it was Aerion.

"Are you alright?" he asked, his voice filled with genuine concern.

You nodded, though your voice betrayed you. "I'm fine. Just... overwhelmed."

Aerion stepped into the room, closing the door behind him. "I saw what happened. Aegon can be cruel, but you did well to stand up to him."

You looked up at him, grateful for his support. "Thank you, Aerion. I don't know how much more of this I can take."

Aerion sat beside you, his presence comforting. "Aegon will come around, eventually. But in the meantime, you have me."

You managed a small smile, the tension in your chest easing slightly. "Thank you. I don't know what I would do without you."

Aerion's eyes softened, and he reached out to gently squeeze your hand. "We'll get through this together."

| next chapter | masterlist |

taglist: @sab-falco @spn-obession @tomgcsmrs @sturnioloarchive @arquiiva @malfoycassimalfoy @klutzylaena

#house targaryen #house of the dragon #aegon targaryen x reader #aegon ii targaryen #aegon smut #hotd aegon #aegon ii fanfic #aerion targaryen #hotd imagine #jacaerys velaryon #alicent hightower #rhaenyra targaryen #halaena targaryen #hotd fanfic #hotd daeron #hotd x reader #hotd smut

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elancholia · 4 months

Text

You know how all the A-tier ancient conquerors have a little remark in their bio about how they "standardized weights and measures"? I'm gonna be like that but for clothing sizes. I will crush the assembled armies of the world beneath my sandalled feet, which will be measured using a single internationally uniform and unisex standard based directly on ordinary units of measure.

#ephemera tag

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arthistoryanimalia · 2 years

Text

More for #WorldFrogDay:

Frog weight Mesopotamia, Old Babylonian period, c.2000–1600BCE Stone (diorite or andesite) 12.3 x 21.8 cm, 4.7 kg inscription: "a frog [weighing] 10 minas, a legitimate weight of the god Shamash, belonging to Iddin-Nergal, son of Arkat-ili-damqa." Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York

With two bonus hematite babies!

Weights in the shape of frogs Mesopotamia, Iran, or Cyprus, early 2nd millennium BCE Hematite 1.12 x 1.5 x 2.62 cm & 1.4 × 0.9 × 0.8 cm Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York [1] [2]

Photographed on display at the Met in NYC.

#frog #frogs #amphibians #Babylonian art #Mesopotamian art #ancient art #weight #weights and measures #sculpture #stone sculpture #hematite #Metropolitan Museum of Art New York #animal holiday #World Frog Day #museum visit #animals in art

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zapreportsblog · 1 year

Note

hi!! can you do volturi x secretary!reader (platonic) who's just TOO GOOD AT HER JOB. she spells carlisle correctly, she doesn't interrupt, and she's like really professional. ALSO YOU FOLLOWED ME BACK LIKE I WAS SO SURRPISRD THANK YOU HAVE A GOOD DAYYAYAYYA

❝she’s just too damn good❞

✭ pairing : volturi x reader

✭ fandom : twilight

✭ summary : (Y/n) is the best damn secretary the volturi could ask for

✭ authors note : aww of course I’d follow you back :)

✭ twilight masterlist

The grand entrance hall of Volterra, Italy, echoed with the weight of centuries-old secrets and power. It was within these ancient stone walls that the Volturi, the ruling vampire coven, held their dominion. Aro, Caius, and Marcus, the three elder vampires who led the coven, sat upon their thrones, their crimson eyes filled with an ageless wisdom.

Their previous secretary had met an unfortunate end, her fate sealed by a single, costly mistake. Now, it was time to find a new secretary, one who could handle the delicate matters that crossed the Volturi's path.

(Y/n), a human with a reputation for competence and diligence, stood before the Volturi leaders. She pushed her glasses up on her face, the light catching the lenses and reflecting an intense determination in her gaze. She had no intention of failing in this prestigious role.

Aro, the most talkative of the trio, addressed her with a smile that didn't reach his eyes. "I trust you won't follow in our previous secretary's footsteps. Her errors cost her dearly."

(Y/n) met Aro's gaze with unwavering confidence. "No need for the warning, sir. I take my work very seriously. I'm here to ensure that every detail is meticulously attended to."

Caius observed her with a critical eye, his expression stern. "You are aware that our affairs are highly confidential, and discretion is of the utmost importance?"

(Y/n) nodded, her resolve unshaken. "Absolutely, sir. My lips are sealed, and I understand the consequences of breaching that trust."

Marcus, the most reserved of the three, merely regarded her with a measured gaze. "We shall see if your actions align with your words."

(Y/n) straightened her posture, ready to take on her new responsibilities. "You won't be disappointed, gentlemen."

With that, she accepted the role of secretary for the Volturi, stepping into a world of secrecy, power, and ancient vampires. As she walked away, she knew that she had taken on a role unlike any other, one that demanded her utmost dedication and discretion. The reflection of her determination in those glasses was a symbol of the resolve she brought to her new position, one that she intended to uphold at all costs.

(Y/n) settled into her new role as the secretary for the Volturi with a fierce dedication. Her efficiency and attention to detail quickly became apparent to the coven's leaders. Aro, always one to appreciate those who could fulfill his demands promptly, decided to put her to the test.

One afternoon, he strolled into her office, his graceful presence demanding attention. (Y/n) looked up from her desk, her fingers flying across the keyboard of her computer as she organized files and scheduled appointments.

"Ah, (Y/n)," Aro greeted her with his customary smile. "I have a task for you."

(Y/n) nodded, ready to take on any request from her employer. "Of course, master Aro. What do you need?"

Aro explained, "I need you to post an aid about a tour for fifty people for tomorrows feeding, a rather impromptu event. I would like you to schedule it for me.”

(Y/n) didn't miss a beat. She continued typing on her computer, her eyes darting across the screen as she worked her magic with scheduling software. "Consider it done, master Aro."

Aro was taken aback by her speed and efficiency. He had expected this task to take some time, but within mere minutes, (Y/n) turned her screen toward him, displaying a perfectly organized tour for fifty attendees, complete with dates, times, and an itinerary.

His crimson eyes widened with a mixture of surprise and admiration. "You work remarkably fast, (Y/n)."

(Y/n) looked up with a confident smile. "I pride myself on being efficient, master aro. Is there anything else you need?"

Aro chuckled, clearly impressed. "Not at the moment, my dear. Carry on with your excellent work."

As he left her office, (Y/n) couldn't help but feel a sense of satisfaction. She had proven her worth to the Volturi leader, and her efficiency would undoubtedly serve her well in this world of secrecy and power.

In the serene garden of the Volturi castle, Marcus often found solace among the flowers that his late mate had once lovingly tended to. He wandered the garden, lost in his own thoughts, the weight of his immortal life bearing down on him.

One day, as he strolled along the carefully manicured paths, Marcus noticed something extraordinary. The flowers that had once withered away had begun to regrow, vibrant and beautiful as if brought back to life by some unseen force. He couldn't help but be struck by the sight, the memories of his mate's love for these flowers flooding his mind.

Marcus approached a lower guard who was on duty nearby, his curiosity piqued. "Who has been taking care of the garden? These flowers, they are flourishing once more."

The lower guard, a vampire who had served the Volturi for centuries, nodded respectfully to Marcus. "It is the human, my lord."

"The human?" Marcus asked, intrigued. "What is their name?"

The guard, who knew the human by the name the Volturi called her, replied, "The secretary (Y/n), my lord."

Marcus considered this revelation, the name sparking a distant memory. He had heard the name (Y/n) mentioned in passing, but he had paid little attention. Now, it seemed this human was not only tending to the garden but also reviving the memories of his lost mate.

With a nod of appreciation, Marcus continued to admire the blooming flowers, a silent acknowledgment of the human named (Y/n) for her care and dedication. In the garden, among the resurrected blooms, he felt a connection to his past and a glimmer of hope for the future, all thanks to the efforts of this mysterious human.

In the dimly lit halls of the Volturi castle, Caius, one of the coven's leaders, was growing increasingly frustrated. He had been searching for his favorite cloak, a luxurious garment of deep crimson, for what felt like an eternity. His irritation had escalated to the point where his voice echoed through the corridors as he yelled at everyone in his path.

"Where is it? Who has taken my cloak?" he bellowed, his tone venomous.

Vampires scurried to avoid his wrath, their wide-eyed expressions betraying their fear of their temperamental leader.

In the midst of the chaos, a soft and calm voice cut through the tension. "(Y/n)," Caius snapped, his crimson eyes narrowing as he turned to face the human secretary, "(Y/n), have you seen my cloak? I cannot find it anywhere."

(Y/n) stepped forward, holding Caius's missing cloak draped carefully over her arm. Her voice was composed, unruffled by his outburst. "Master Caius, you left this in your office. I've noticed it had specks of dried blood on it, so I've had it dried clean."

Caius was momentarily taken aback, his anger dissipating as he processed her words. He couldn't believe it. The usually distant and indifferent human secretary had not only found his cloak but had taken it upon herself to ensure it was cleaned.

"(Y/n)," Caius said, his voice softer now, "you did this for me?"

(Y/n) nodded, her gaze steady as she met his crimson eyes. "Of course, Master Caius. It's my duty to assist in any way I can."

Caius, still in disbelief, reached out to take the cloak from her arm. His fingers brushed against hers, and he felt a strange, unfamiliar sensation stir within him. He couldn't deny that her thoughtfulness had left a mark on him, one that he couldn't easily dismiss.

As (Y/n) excused herself and left the hallway, Caius watched her retreating figure with a newfound appreciation. It was a small gesture, but one that had touched him deeply, and he couldn't help but wonder if there was more to this human secretary than met the eye.

The grand trial room within the Volturi castle was filled with a weighty silence as the three kings, Aro, Caius, and Marcus, gathered for a discussion. The subject of their conversation was none other than their human secretary, (Y/n).

"She's good at her job, almost too damn good," Aro commented, his eyes gleaming with intrigue. "I can't seem to find a simple mistake in her work."

Caius nodded in agreement. "She's quick, and her work is effective. It seems we'll be keeping her around long-term."

Marcus, who often remained silent, offered his approval with a subtle nod.

The kings reached a unanimous decision. They would offer (Y/n) a gift, one that would bind her to the Volturi for eternity. They sent their most trusted enforcers, the twins Alec and Jane, to fetch her.

Alec and Jane, swift and efficient as always, found (Y/n) in her office. They approached her with the precision of a well-practiced routine.

"(Y/n)," Alec began, his tone even, "the masters request your presence in the trial room."

(Y/n) blinked in surprise but complied, following the twins to the room where the three kings awaited.

Once inside, (Y/n) stood before the Volturi leaders, her heart pounding with anticipation. Aro spoke first, his voice dripping with charm.

"(Y/n), in the short months you have been with us, your dedication and efficiency have impressed us greatly," Aro said, his crimson eyes locked onto hers. "We value your contributions, and we would like to offer you a gift."

(Y/n) couldn't hide her surprise. "A gift, masters?"

Caius stepped forward, his gaze unwavering. "We offer you immortality, (Y/n). A chance to join our coven as one of us."

The offer hung in the air, a life-altering decision that (Y/n) had never expected. She considered her options carefully, her thoughts racing. The weight of eternity was a heavy burden to bear, but the allure of becoming part of the Volturi coven was undeniable.

After a moment of reflection, (Y/n) finally spoke. "I'm not sure what to say, masters, but thank you for the offer."

With her acceptance, the kings nodded in approval. The twins, Alec and Jane, moved closer, their hands lightly touching her body. “Alec -“ aro calls out and in second Alec has (y/n) wrapped in his dark smoke, her senses numbing within seconds. “Don’t worry dear, it’ll be over in no time.”

Over the course of three days, (Y/n) underwent the agonizing process of the vampire transformation. She endured the fire of change, sometimes which were numbed by Alec per the kings request and now she was emerging from the ordeal as a newborn vampire, her senses heightened and her existence forever entwined with the Volturi.

As her eyes fluttered open in her new immortal life, (Y/n) realized that she had become a permanent part of the Volturi coven, her loyalty and dedication recognized in the most profound way possible.

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br0kenangel · 24 days

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lady lannister especial shot: a look at Aegon's future and his relationship with his father.

The throne room was empty, save for the towering figure seated on the Iron Throne and the young man who strode purposefully down the long aisle, his boots echoing off the cold stone floor. The braziers lining the walls flickered weakly, casting long shadows that danced eerily around the room, giving the ancient seat of power an even more foreboding presence.

King Viserys, looked diminished atop the Iron Throne. His once-silver hair had been gone, and his flesh had taken on a sickly pallor. He coughed into a handkerchief, the sound wet and rattling, before he managed to lift his weary gaze to his eldest son.

“Aegon,” Viserys greeted, his voice strained. “You wished to speak with me?”

Aegon was a young man, but there was nothing soft about him. His face was a mask of cold calculation, his eyes sharp and unforgiving, as if he was already measuring the weight of the crown that would soon be his. His golden hair, streaked with the faintest hints of silver, fell neatly over his shoulders, and he wore his Targaryen heritage with pride, the black and red of his house draped elegantly over his strong frame.

“Yes, Father,” Aegon said, his voice steady, controlled. He approached the throne but did not kneel. Instead, he stood tall, his gaze never wavering from his father’s. “We need to discuss the succession.”

Viserys sighed, a deep and weary sound, as though the very mention of the word drained the life from him. “Aegon, we have spoken of this before. Rhaenyra is my heir. The realm has accepted it, and she is—”

“The realm,” Aegon interrupted, his tone sharp but respectful, “has accepted it because you command them to. But command is not the same as loyalty, Father. And loyalty is fleeting when the crown sits on a head they do not respect.”

Viserys’s eyes narrowed, a flicker of the old king’s fire kindling in their depths. “You speak of your sister, your future queen, your blood.”

Aegon’s lips curled into a thin smile, but it was devoid of warmth. “I speak of the future of our house, of the Targaryen legacy. Rhaenyra is… a fool, a disgrace. She is ruled by her emotions, not by her mind. And she is surrounded by weak men who whisper in her ear, feeding her delusions of grandeur.”

Viserys shifted on the throne, discomfort evident in his aging features. “Daemon is no weak man. He is her husband and a seasoned warrior. He would protect her claim.”

“Daemon is a loose sword,” Aegon countered swiftly, stepping closer to the throne. “Unpredictable. Dangerous. And too proud to bend the knee to anyone—even his own wife. He would rather see the realm burn than bow to a throne he believes should be his.”

Viserys opened his mouth to argue, but the words caught in his throat as another fit of coughing wracked his body. Aegon waited, impassive, watching his father’s struggle with an almost clinical detachment.

When Viserys finally regained control, his breath came in shallow gasps. “Rhaenyra… is my chosen heir. She has always been.”

“And yet, many in the realm do not see it that way,” Aegon replied coolly. “They see her sons—bastards born of Harwin Strong, and they question her virtue. They question her sons’ legitimacy. They question your judgment, Father.”

The words hung heavy in the air, and for a moment, silence reigned between them. Viserys’s grip on the arms of the Iron Throne tightened, the sharp edges of the swords that made up the chair biting into his flesh, drawing thin lines of blood.

Aegon’s eyes flickered to the blood, and his expression hardened. “The realm needs strength. It needs a king who commands respect, not through decrees and titles, but through action, through fear if necessary. A king who will not hesitate to do what must be done to secure the future of our house and family.”

Viserys studied his son, the stern lines of his face revealing nothing. “And you believe you are that king?”

“I know I am,” Aegon said without hesitation. “Rhaenyra’s rule would only lead to division, to bloodshed. The realm would tear itself apart, and House Targaryen would fall. But under my rule… the realm will be united. They will follow me because they know there is no other choice.”

The silence that followed was suffocating, the weight of the conversation pressing down on both men. Viserys closed his eyes, as if trying to summon the strength to stand against the tide that was his son. But he was old, and the years had worn him down. His once-clear vision of the future now seemed clouded, uncertain.

“Aegon…” Viserys’s voice was softer now, tinged with the sadness of a man who had lived long enough to see the end of his dreams. “I have always sought peace for this realm. I wanted to leave behind a legacy of unity, not of division.”

“Peace is the dream of the weak,” Aegon said, his tone almost pitying. “Peace is a lie that men tell themselves when they are too afraid to do what must be done. We are dragons, Father. We are not meant for peace. We are meant to rule.”

Viserys’s eyes opened, and for a moment, the king who had sat the Iron Throne with the might of his house behind him, seemed to return. He looked at Aegon with a mixture of sorrow and resignation.

“It is not for you to decide. It is for me, as your king, to command.”

“And what happens when you are no longer here to command?”

Part 1 ♡ Part 2 ♡ Part 3 ♡ Part 4 ♡ Part 6

@ 𝒃𝒓𝒐𝒌𝒆𝒏𝒂𝒏𝒈𝒆𝒍 𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟒. 𝒅��𝒏'𝒕 𝒄𝒐𝒑𝒚, 𝒓𝒆𝒑𝒐𝒔𝒕 𝒐𝒓 𝒕𝒓𝒂𝒏𝒔𝒍𝒂𝒕𝒆 𝒂𝒏𝒚 𝒐𝒇 𝒎𝒚 𝒘𝒐𝒓𝒌𝒔 𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒆 𝒐𝒓 𝒂𝒏𝒚 𝒐𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒓 𝒘𝒆𝒃𝒔𝒊𝒕𝒆𝒔.

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insipid-drivel · 5 months

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Warhorses: Which horses are actually good candidates, anyway?

This post is in honor of @warrioreowynofrohan, who asked the question in the comments under my guide, "Horses: Since There Seems To Be A Knowledge Gap". Their question, "Given what you said about too much weight breaking a horse’s spine, how did that work with knights in plate armour?" is one I'm going to try to answer here, since the answer can be very nuanced depending on where and when you're talking about.

Also, while I was a stable hand for years as well as a rider, I never had the opportunity to directly learn more ancient styles of tacking, horse training, and combat, so I don't have any direct experience to draw from with regard to horses used for military purposes. I'm still gonna do my best here with what I know, and research what I don't.

As I've covered in the past, large horses (draft horses) make less-than-ideal warhorses, and so do carriage horses like the elegant and dramatic Friesians.

Let's begin by addressing this from the perspective of creative writing. For you writers and content creators out there, an essential part to the continuity of any historically-themed work you do involving horses will be depicting breeds of horses that didn't exist before a certain time in history. I'm going to approach this question from the stance of, "Medieval-type era warhorses". Horses were used in warfare as late was World War II, but actual horses you ride into battle with knights and archers and bannermen? We actually have to drop the subject of specific modern breeds altogether aside from using them for comparisons.

When discussing warhorses, various cultures have approached them differently. Some cultures will value a specific type of horse above all others, such as the Mongolian Steppe Horse or the American Mustang. Other cultures, which may be from biomes and territories where multiple types of horses are needed for different forms of warfare and tactics, value whichever horses can get their jobs done without their riders getting killed.

Carrying vs. Pulling:

Horses have been used in warfare since as far back as 4000 BC, but their first applications were more as chariot horses. Humans have been riding and working with horses since before we even had stirrups to more easily ride them with! As archaeologists and anthropologists make more discoveries, the more we learn that we humans have been working closely with horses since before we had specialized tools to ride them with. The very first warhorses pulled chariots or carts, which is much easier for a horse's anatomy to handle compared to carrying a heavy weight like an armored rider on their backs, which puts stress directly on their spines where they have very little supporting muscle for supporting a lot of heavy downward weight.

Warhorse Size Categories:

Really, any breed of horse can apply to a niche in warfare if it's needed enough. Even very small, delicate horses have had their place in the history of human combat! Before I continue, it's important to know that there's a unique unit of measuring a horse's height. Rather than measuring a horse's height in centimeters or inches, they're measured in units called "hands". A single "hand" = ~4 inches/10.16cm, and a horse's height is measured based upon the distance between the bottom of their hoof to the tallest part of their shoulders, just at the base of the back of their necks. We don't actually include neck length/head height in a horse's measurements with traditional measuring.

Another rule of thumb: The average horse cannot safely carry anything heavier than about 30% of their total body weight. This is a serious factor to take into mind when deciding on a type of or breed of horse for a mounted warrior of any kind: You need to factor in the OC's starting body weight, and then add on the weight of armor, weapons, and any armor the horse itself may wear along with the weight of its tack.

Light-Weight Horses:

A few examples of lightweight horse breeds whose ancestors have historically been used in combat are Arabians, Barber Horses, and the magnificent Akhal-Teke. Lightweight and delicately-boned horses like those are best applied for military maneuvers that require precision, speed, and endurance, and the rider themselves should specialize in some form of combat or reconnaissance that doesn't require them to wear heavy metal or laminated armors. Archers are good candidates for riding smaller horses, or lightly-armored swordsmen like an Ottoman Janissary.

Central-Asian and North African horses also benefit from having a higher tolerance for hot climates. They can absolutely suffer from heatstroke and cardiac arrest from being forced to run and work in extreme temperatures and should always be provided with the same protective measures in a heatwave as any other horse, but they have a little bit of an edge over horses descended from freezing and temperate climates.

Medium-Weight Horses:

Medium-weight horses started showing up in the archaeological record around about the Iron Age, where chariot warfare was becoming an increasingly utilized form of mobile combat, and people needed bigger, stronger horses capable of pulling heavier loads - such as a chariot with two passengers rather than just one. As cultures began to develop heavier-duty armors made of metals and laminated materials, it also became important to breed horses that were tall and stocky (muscular and with relatively short spines compared to their height), and therefore more capable of carrying riders in increasingly heavy armor. Medium-weight horses were also essential at the dawn of the gunpowder age when the cannon came into use in siege warfare for pulling the heavy, iron cannons into position.

Medium-weight horses are really where we see the beginnings of knights and other warrior classes on horseback come into the forefront of warfare. When you have a horse that's big and strong enough to carry heavier armor and heavier weapons along with a rider wielding them, you have a much deadlier force at your disposal. Strikes from a sword or spear from the back of a galloping horse basically results in a sword capable of cutting through enemy soldiers like a hot knife through butter.

Important Note: Traditionally, cavalrymen wield blunt swords when attacking from a charging horse's back. When a horse is charging at full speed, the sharpness of a blade becomes less important than the blade's ability to stay in one piece when it impacts hard armor and bone. A blunted edge basically turns a cavalryman's sword into a thin club that's better at holding up against smashing through multiple layers of armor and bone compared to a thinner, more delicate sharpened edge that can shatter from a high-speed impact.

Heavy-Weight Horses:

The direct ancestors of modern draft horses, such as the Shire Horse, only began to appear around about the beginning of the European Medieval Era, and were far and away not even close to the enormous sizes of the draft horses we have today. Any horse counts as a "Heavy-weight" classed horse if its weight exceeds 1500lbs/680kgs.

Heavy-weight horses were really more bred for pulling enormous weights rather than carrying knights. While yeah, there is some evidence that suggests that heavy-weight horses were used by heavily-armored knights, historians argue a lot about whether it was a rule or an exception (such as with Henry VIII, who continued to ride well after he had begun to weigh more than 350lbs/158kgs, and even went to war in France in his final years on horseback). Generally speaking, medium-weight horses tend to be the right balance of agile and strong for carrying someone that's going to actively be fighting. Heavy-weight horses were bred to be a lot more tolerant to the chaos and frightening stimulation of the sounds of battle, but medium-weighted horses generally tended to be more suited to moving efficiently through dense packs of soldiers and weaving around other horses.

Ponies:

While actually being the smallest class of warhorse, ponies were essential when it came to carrying cargo and working as pack-horses. In certain forms of terrain, such as mountains, large horses pulling big carts full of supplies or soldiers could often be extremely impractical. In situations where an army needed to move on foot and form a narrow line in order to travel, ponies were able to traverse much narrower and rougher terrain while carrying smaller loads to their destination, when heavier horses would struggle more under their own weight and dexterity.

Europe-Specific Terminologies:

If you're a writer reading this and writing a piece set in the European Medieval age, there are specific terms used for the different classes I listed of warhorses above that I'm gonna list:

Destriers: The Destrier was a universal term for the iconic knight-carrying, jousting horse. They were also sometimes referred to as "Great Horses" due to their reputations in combat settings. Destriers could have just about any appearance, but were rarely taller than 15.2 hands, or 62inches/157cm. They were capable of carrying heavily-armored knights (although knights in full plate mail rarely rode into battle and stayed on the horse the entire time - they tended to specialize at grouping up and killing a lot of footsoldiers swarming them at once and preventing breaks in defenses from being overwhelmed by an oncoming army; in the case of Edward the Black Prince, we have substantial evidence in the form of his surviving brigandine that a mounted soldier or knight was more likely to wear chainmail and brigandine with a tabard on their body with their arms, feet, and heads the most heavily armored in plate when they intended to fight on horseback, making them a little lighter and more maneuverable, but I may be waaay off base there because I'm thinking of more of Italian soldiers who used full plate and how they applied it in battle more than any other example) and wearing armor themselves.

Interestingly, the sex of a destrier was often chosen strategically. Stallions (horses that haven't been neutered) are more aggressive, and could both act as combatants on their own if their knight was dismounted or killed, but could give away an army's location if they were attempting to move stealthily. Stallions whinny and shriek a lot when they're horny or arguing with each other, which is most of the time.

Mares were often chosen by Muslim armies for being much less vocal, and therefore much more capable of stealth. Geldings (neutered males) were the preferred mounts of the Teutonic Knights, a Catholic military group, since they couldn't be stolen and used to breed more horses for the enemy army.

Coursers:

Coursers were the most common Medieval European warhorse. It's important to remember that in Medieval Europe, most armies were almost entirely comprised of common men - serfs subject to the will of their landlords, not far removed from slaves in many ways - who couldn't afford the highly-prized and expensive Destriers. Coursers were usually a bit lighter than Destriers, but were still strong enough to carry someone wearing armor. Coursers were also a little more utilitarian, because they were also sometimes used in hunting as well as warfare, so they had a valuable use outside of warfare that the owner could benefit from.

Rouncey:

A rouncey was an all-purpose horse that could be used for leisure and travel-riding as well as be trained for war. They were a lot more likely to be found on the farm of a serf or independent farmer of some kind, as they could fill a lot of different roles depending on what they were needed for. Their sizes weren't really important as much as their ability to get the job done.

It's also critical to remember that, when talking about warhorses, we're usually talking about eras long past. In general, thanks to resource availability and incredible advances in medicine, modern humans are significantly taller, and therefore heavier, than people from the European Medieval era and prior. While fatness was valued in many cultures for its suggestion of wealth, most working-class and serf-class people worked intensely physically-demanding daily lives just to maintain their own homes. They were a few inches shorter on average than we are today, had greater fluctuations in body fat distribution depending on how harsh or bountiful the harvest season had been and the season in which a war was taking place (the average person's weight would swing by 30lbs or more on average every year prior to the industrial era), and cavalry were usually chosen based upon skill in the saddle as well as physical size when considering the application of medium or heavy armor being placed on the horse's back and body.

#long post #horses #horseback riding #warhorses #writing #writing resources

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