#and then return of the king had the men riding to their deaths while the commander feasts

[swan2swan]

Thinking about how much more the Rankin-Bass movies focus on the aftermath of war and the joys of peace and camaraderie, what with them being made shortly after the US withdrawal from Vietnam, and the Jackson trilogy's focus on the fear of war and the grotesque horror and uncertainty of it all as the US began invading other nations....and then whatever nonsense happened in the Warner Bros. Hobbit trilogy.

[catsteeth]

Cold Steel Hot Skin

Jacaerys Velaryon x Fem Stark Reader 

+:✿ Request ✿:+ : part 2 - part 3

Request: “Jacaerys and FemStark!Reader have been betrothed during the whole war. Team Black wins the war and Rhaenyra is crowned queen. After Jace and the Reader are married, the night is filled with celebration. Reader pulls Jace away and gives him head while he's sitting on the throne. Sub!Jace with lots of praise and reassurance.”  CW: MDNI, SMUT, oral sex (m rec), afab reader, arranged marriage, NSFW themes, misogyny, mention of death, praise, sub jace, dom reader, mention of parental death.

Word Count: 5k

You were prepared to marry a high-born son, you were prepared for it all your life. You were taught how to make a man happy. Watch your tongue, speak little, and never your mind. Do whatever your husband commands of you, give no resistance. Smile and stay amenable. Only you were not your mother's idea of a perfect wife by nature. 

No, you were raised alongside your brothers. You favored horse riding to sewing, archery to singing, and hunting to practicing your courtesies. 

However as the threat of war drew closer, the need for the North’s strength grew more desperate. The house of the dragon did not know whose head ruled it. Aegon the drunken prince or Rhaenyra the king's firstborn. Both the greens and the blacks came to your brother, Cregan Stark who now ruled as warden of the north. They wanted the North's strength to earn their power. 

Cregan only bent his knee to Rhaenyra after he spoke with Prince Jacaerys. The men were similar in age and he felt the Prince would be better suited to the throne than his uncle. 

Though armies and power are not handed to anyone for free, in return for the North’s support, Cregan asked that his sisters be considered for one of the Queen's sons to wed, or perhaps one of his brothers for one of her nieces. 

You hoped desperately that you would be spared from this fate. You never had any interest in men or marriage. Your septa’s always told you to obey your husband. That if you didn’t perhaps he would hit you, or take you by force. Honestly, you feared a husband, they sounded like horrid creatures.

It took time to hear back, but soon a raven arrived. It said what you feared it might. The crowned prince himself would take the north’s eldest daughter to wed. 

You practiced holding your tongue and putting on a smile. You found it easy not to speak, speaking would do you no good anyway. But forcing a smile was a difficulty. 

You fidgeted with the beaded embellishments of the embroidery on your dress. Biting your cheek you stood by the door of your house's great hall. Listening to your brother and the prince speaking. “My prince, my sister Lady Stark.”

You looked at the prince cautiously. Though he was not as frightful as you thought he might be. He was quite handsome. But that did not mean he was kind. You curtseyed as you were taught to do hundreds of times. “I hope I do not disappoint you, my prince.” You spoke in a higher and softer tone than you did naturally. 

Jace took your hand, kissing your knuckles gently, “You could never, my Lady.”

He seemed gentle, and kind. 

Your fears did not rest, however. He was kind in front of you brother, a large and imposing man. That did not mean he would be kind when away from peering eyes. 

The ride in the carriage felt uncomfortable. You were frightened by him in honesty. You knew that you would wed a high-born man but never did you think you’d marry a prince, and never did you think you would become a queen.

You were unsure of him, unsure of what he was like. Would he hit you? Would he yell? He was to be the king, surely he could do whatever he liked. 

Your unease only worsened when your eyes fell back onto him, noticing that he was still looking at you. 

As soon as he noticed your uneasy gaze, he smiled to himself and looked down “I apologize I am staring.” he said shaking his head. 

You shrugged, “That’s alright. I am to be yours by law, you may stare at me if you wish to.” You were trained for this moment, this was your first willing submission.

Jace’s eyes looked up at you, his gaze narrowed at you in confusion, “I do not own you, my Lady.” He leaned forward towards you, “If I do something to displease you I wish to know.”

You felt surprised, not only was this man willing for you to be your own person but he encouraged it. He wanted you to be a participant in his life and this marriage. 

You took a breath, then dropped your doe-like expression. Replacing it with your natural stern demeanor, common in the North. “Why are you staring at me?” You asked plainly now in your natural tone. It made Jace smile. “If I do truly disappoint I have other sisters-” 

“You do not. I did not lie.” Jace interrupted you, it almost made you flinch. Perhaps you were too bold with your words. Though his eyes softened towards you, letting you relax in the warmth of his gaze. “I do not want your sisters or any other woman.” Once again he surprised you. How could he say such a thing when he did not know you? Even if he believed you to be the most beautiful woman in the world, for all he knew you could have been the most cruel woman alive. “I am staring because I am taken by you.” He finished with a soft grin.

You blushed slightly. Feeling a grin beginning to tug at the corners of your mouth, you looked away from him. “You do not know me.” You said, shaking your head.

Jace chuckled to himself, “You are skeptical. I know that now.” 

You smiled slightly at his amusement, “People should be.” you said with a raised brow. 

He smiled as he bit his lip, “And now I know you are intelligent.” he said with a nod. 

You could not hide your smile this time. You scoffed a laugh as you looked outside your carriage, noticing the large green beast in the sky flying above you. “I thought you would be on your dragon.” You said looking towards Vermax in the sky. 

“I wanted time to speak plainly with you, and Vermax is not yet big enough for two,” Jace said earnestly. You felt yourself beginning to relax in his presence. 

You looked back to Jace, “Not sure how I would fare on a dragon's back.” you said with a stifled laugh. 

“I think you’ll do fine considering you’re a skilled horse rider,” Jace said with a smirk as your eyes widened. 

Once again this prince had surprised you. You narrowed your eyes at him and leaned in forward, “You do know about me.” 

Jace smiled, stifling a laugh as he looked down, “I confess I might have read quite a bit about your family before coming here.” He looked back at you, “And then I found that I was reading quite a bit about you.” He said as if he were admitting a great secret. 

He was not lying either. When prompted with the offer of marriage, Jace was hesitant. He even suggested wedding his little brother Joffrey to one of your younger sisters. But once he began to read of your family, he found himself wanting to know more and more about you. He found himself fascinated by you, and once there was nothing left to read about you he decided he’d rather marry you. 

You felt heat dash across your cheeks as your blush revealed how much he’d flattered you. “A dull read for a Prince, I am sure.” 

He shook his head, “Far from it.” He said earnestly, his eyes looking at you as if you were a beautiful and extravagant painting. 

You and he talked the entire ride to the ship to Dragonstone. He continued to ask you questions about yourself throughout the ride. You did not ask him any in return. You did not know what to ask, what could you ever have in common with a prince? 

꒰ ୨୧ ─ ・┈ ・ ─ ・┈ ─ ・┈ ─ ・┈ ꒱꒱

Once at Dragonstone, most of your days were spent completing errands for the queen, or if you were lucky, sharing a thought or opinion at the small council. She thought it was important for you to participate as you were to be queen one day.

You also spent much of your time avoiding the prince. You caught him staring at you many times, and his gaze lingered on you as you walked through a room. 

But you hardly had a moment alone to yourself. You had nary a moment to ride a horse, practice your swordplay, or even read. So once you were able to be alone, you decided to practice your archery. Although you did not know that the prince also shared that desire. 

At The top of a tall hill, was a training field. It had tall wooden targets made specifically for practicing your arrow's aim. As you made your way up the steep path to the top, you were caught off guard by the sound of an arrow hitting a wooden target that stood mere inches from where the path ended. 

You continued up the path, peering behind the wooden target to see Jace pointing his crossbow at that same target. “My prince.” You said calmly despite his aim. 

“My Lady!” Jace said surprised, and pointing the crossbow away from you, “My apologies.”

“No need.” You shrugged, “I am not maimed.”

He stifled a laugh, “I should hope not.”

You approached the wooden target, looking at the arrow that had pierced it with clear ferocity as the wood splintered and broke from the impact, “That’s quite the shot.” You said as your fingers trailed along the arrow.

“Thank you-”

You leaned against the wooden target, “Whom did you imagine it to be?” you asked looking back toward Jace.

Jace hesitated unsure if he should say, “A green.” You could tell by his tone he was holding back the truth.

“Liar.” You said with a grin. Jace looked at you surprised, never had anyone dared question him other than his family. It was refreshing to have you challenge him, “I am sure it was a green but it was more personal than that.” You said pushing yourself off of the wooden target and walking towards Jace.

“Aemond Targaryen.” He said almost immediately. You stopped your steps, feeling somewhat guilty you forced him to divulge such a personal matter. You knew of what happened to his brother. 

You looked at him gently, “Aemond should be frightened.” You said earnestly. 

“They all should be.” He said, attempting to direct his attention towards anything else, “My mother's armies are fierce and unrelenting.” 

“As are you.” You said softly as you continued to walk closer toward him, “Grief is a powerful thing, the want for vengeance even more so.”

Jace felt emotion getting the better of him. But seeing as he was to marry you, he might as well feel able to confide in you, “I miss him.” Jace said weakly.

You were silent for a moment. Unsure of how you could comfort him. But soon you spoke, “I lost mine own sister.” Jace looked at you, “She too was younger than I.” You said with a nod stepping towards him, “I am sure you read about it. It was the cold that took her. The cold wind brings sickness. It makes us northerners stronger, we suffer each sickness so that we never suffer them again.” You stopped speaking for a moment, unsure of how you could continue your story, “But for those who are too weak, too small, too fragile… The cold wind kills them.” You looked at Jace with understanding, another name for love, “I spent years angry at any gust of cold air I felt. I cannot imagine how you feel. To have a face and a name to place that anger.” Jace only looked at you, he never had someone who could understand him so well. He didn’t have the words. But you didn’t need them. You approached him, getting close to his side as you adjusted his grip on his crossbow. “You should hold the stock closer to your shoulder.” you said pushing it to the correct position for him. 

Jace looked over his shoulder to you, “I think I am in love with you.” He spoke earnestly, and softly. 

You looked back at him, “I know you are.” you spoke as earnestly as he did. 

Jace dropped his crossbow. He put your face into his hands, cupping your jaw gently. He looked at you for just a moment. He was going to ask for your permission to kiss you but you pressed your lips to his before he could. “I don’t know how I was ever frightened by you.” You smiled as he stifled a laugh and kissed you again.

You and he from that moment forth, were nearly inseparable. 

꒰ ୨୧ ─ ・┈ ・ ─ ・┈ ─ ・┈ ─ ・┈ ꒱꒱

After the war was fought and over, the Blacks were victorious in their goal to retake Rhaeynra’s rightful throne. Blood was shed of course, but now that it was done with it was time for celebration. And what better way to celebrate than for a royal wedding? 

Your gown was heavy, and although you had little regard for fashions even you could appreciate how beautiful it was. 

You never thought you’d feel so proud to wear another man's cloak, adorned with the symbol and colors of his house. But you wore the black and red three-headed dragon on your shoulders with great pride and honor. 

Your pride did not subside the whole evening. After your vows and kiss were performed, you and your now husband danced in the great hall as the rest of the guests ate, sang, and danced about the room.

Jace held you closely as you danced slowly. Your eyes locked onto his, and both of you were simply dazed with happiness and love. “My husband, the dragon.” You said sweetly with your forehead pressed against his. 

Jace’s hand ran over your hair gently, careful not to disturb your intricately braided hair, “My wife, the wolf.” He said with a proud and love-drunk smile. 

Your eyes roamed the room, you could see each high-born girl looking at you with jealous eyes. It made you grin, “I think I have made every girl in the seven kingdoms green with envy.” you said leaning into Jace, your eyes still scanning the room. 

“And I have driven every man to a jealous rage.” He said with an amused smile as his eyes roamed the room as well.

“Because you’ll be king over them all.” You said gently as you closed your eyes, laying your head against his shoulder. 

He leaned in closer to your ear, “Because I’ve married the most beautiful, intelligent, and fierce woman in the known world.” He said sweetly. 

You raised your head from his shoulder, looking into his eyes. You could see the love he had for you just by his look. You did not care if it would be considered polite or not, your lips pressed against his own. He did not care either. His hand held you at the nape of your neck. 

“Daughter,” A voice called out, it startled you slightly. Daughter was a title you had not been called in years now with your parent’s cold in the crypt. You looked over to see the Queen herself. Rhaenyra looked towards her son, still holding tightly onto you. “Might I have a moment, Jace?” Jace nodded and gave you a small kiss on your temple before leaving you and your mother to speak. 

Rhaenyra took you by the arm, walking around the ballroom. “Well, I know your mother could not be here today and I suppose I wanted to give you a word of motherly advice. Political marriage can be a difficult thing to adjust to.” She said with a sigh, “Though it seems my son has had no difficulty in that regard, nor you.” She finished as she looked at you with a warm smile.

You smile back at her, though feeling somewhat embarrassed, “Your son is an honorable man, and I am honored to be his wife.” You said with a nod.

She rubbed your arm gently with her hand, “I have no doubts you will serve our house well.”

“I can only hope so. Your house has been most gracious-”

“Your house.” She corrected you, “It is your house now, my dear.” 

You did not know what to say, you’d not felt a motherly touch in so long. “Thank you, your grace.” You said with a smile and respectful nod.

“Seven blessings to you, my dear.” She said smiling, before leaving you. 

Afterward, you tried your best to reunite with your new husband, only he was nowhere to be found. As you walked around the great hall you were approached by many guests, all high-born lords and ladies who never paid you any mind before today. They all congratulated you with great respect and spoke oh so highly of you and your family. No doubt attempting to gain favor in the eyes of their future queen. Between this sudden overbearing attention, you now could not help but notice how grand this wedding was. It was far more extravagant than any wedding in the north had ever been. 

You drowned your nerves with wine. But you wouldn’t feel any better until you found Jace again. 

꒰ ୨୧ ─

Once the party was dying out like an exhausted candle, you were determined to find Jace once again.

Somewhat angry and somewhat concerned you attempted to hunt down the prince without causing concern. Soon you were pushing open the large heavy doors to the throne room.

Pushing the door open just enough to look in, you signed as you saw your husband standing in the room staring at the throne.

“I thought you ran away.” You said pushing the doors to the Throne room open. 

Jace looked over his shoulder at you and held out his hand towards you, “From the festivities. Not from you.” 

You grabbed hold of his hand, “I was quite miserable without you.” You said in annoyance with a pout as he pulled you into his side. 

His hand trailed up and down over your back soothingly, “I am sorry. I shouldn’t have left you, I won’t again, I swear it to you.” He said as his hand then snaked around your waist holding you even closer.

You nodded in agreement, “The celebration was generous, far more generous than I am used to.” You said trying not to sound ungrateful. Your fingers trailed over the lavish embroidery of dragons and fire on Jace’s overcoat. “I was happy to hear there would be no bedding ceremony,” you said casually just to tease him, your eyes still following your finger as it traced the intricate stitching of his coat.

Jace’s eyes narrowed and his brows furrowed, “You think that I would allow that?” He said with a slightly aggressive tone as he held you by your chin forcing you to look at him, “Allowing men to paw at you?” 

You couldn’t keep up your facade and your grin gave away your intentions. Jace let your chin go as you wrapped your arms around his neck. “Such a protective husband you are proving to be.” You said as you kissed the corner of his mouth, “Still even if there is no ceremony-” You kissed the sensitive bit between his jawline and his neck, making him hiss, “I was rather excited for what comes after the wedding.” you said with a luscious gaze.

Jace couldn’t help but widely grin as he stifled a chuckle, “No one is more eager than I am.” He said caressing your cheek, “I just,” He sighed, “I find myself overwhelmed.”

“The war is over, and won.” You said softly, “You should be happy.” 

“I am happy.” He said assertively, not wanting you to think otherwise. Then he sighed as he looked towards the throne, “The burden is a heavy one.”

You looked towards the throne as well, “The crown was never meant to be light.” Your eyes then went back to Jace, “Those who are best fit for it proceed it in caution, not enthusiasm.” You already spoke with the wisdom of a queen.

“Are you so comfortable to assume the position of queen?” Jace asked defensively, he did not always like being proven wrong.

You were not upset by his question, “No. Quite the opposite.” You said with a shake of your head, “I always valued my privacy. Never liked having eyes on me, never liked people talking about me.” 

“Perhaps you would have been happier to marry a different man.” He sulked.

You narrowed your brows, “Is that how you feel?” You questioned him assertively, sick of his self-pity. 

His demeanor changed, becoming softer, “No.” He said holding your jaw gently, “I do not want anyone else.” 

You placed a hand on his that held your face, “I know this marriage was arranged but I am happier for it. You are an honorable man, who will make a great king.” You spoke gently.

Jace shook his head, “I have no doubt you will be a beloved queen. You are wise and caring. Born of a noble house.” He said looking at you with admiration.

“As are you.“ You said, wanting him to see himself worthy of his inheritance. 

Jace shook his head and looked down as if he were ashamed, “You know what I am.”

You rolled your eyes, “I care not for such trivial matters. You are the son of the rightful queen.” 

“And a bastard.” He said frustrated  

“And I thank the gods for it.” You said stoically, “I have a taste for men with dark hair.” Your hand combed through his dark curls.

“Funny.” He said without amusement, “But what will people think of a bastard as their king? What will they think of our children-”

“When you take the throne you will no longer be a Velaryon. You will be a Targaryen. That is not a lie. Our children will be Targaryens, that is not a lie.” You interrupted him, already defensive over your future children, “You are a dragon rider, a brave and… handsome man.” You said, trailing off in the end as your eyes admired his features, “I think you just need to get adjusted to the role is all.” You said as you took Jace’s hand, pulling him towards the Throne. “Sit.” You commanded, and be obeyed, 

Jace sat on the throne, and you were overcome with desire. He looked so powerful, and he fit in it so perfectly. There was no one else better suited to it. 

Jace however did not share your feelings, “This is foolish-” He began about to push himself out of the throne.

“Wait,” You said, placing a hand on his chest, pushing him back onto the throne. You smirked at him as you stepped closer towards him, now standing between his legs, “I quite like the look of you in this chair.” You said as you ran your hand through his hair somewhat roughly, making him look up to you. 

Jace grinned, “I quite like the look of you in this gown.” He said as his eyes trailed over your body in the ivory gown.

“Do you like it like this?” You asked as your fingers pulled at the laces of your gown, making it loosen around your shoulders, “Or like this?” You asked as your bare shoulders became exposed and you hiked up your skirts and straddled Jace’s lap.

Overcome by desire, Jace’s hands roamed your body with an untamable want, and his lips found yours with a deep hunger. Since your time in the training yard, you and Jace had kissed many, many, many times. But this was desperate, this was longing. His tongue found your own, and you never knew the warmth that would come with it. This kind of kiss was new. 

You moved your mouth to his neck, kissing down until you were unbuttoning his shirt desperate for more skin to kiss. 

He could not help but lean into your affections. His hands grasped harder onto your sides, his lips found your exposed skin. The pleasure sent a chill through your spine. You felt a candle light between your legs. Desperate for more, you began to grind your clothed cunt against his mounting excitement.

You smirked as you heard Jace gasp at your bold movements, “We can’t, not in here-” He said breathlessly.

“Why not? You’re the king.” You said softly with a gentle kiss to his neck, “My king.” You smirked at him as you opened his overcoat and blouse, admiring his body that was new to you. “You’ve kissed me before have you not? You are to fuck me tonight are you not? Why can I not sample you?” You asked sweetly, but darkly as you kissed down his chest, over his stomach, until you were kneeling in front of him between his knees as he sat on the throne. 

As your hand gently grazed over his thighs, he cupped your cheek gently. “You make me weak. I can’t contain my urges.” He said with a weak smile, too love-drunk to think.

You shook your head, “I don’t want them contained.” You said as you kissed the bulge his throbbing cock was creating beneath his constricting trousers. 

Jace tried but failed to conceal his moan of pleasure, “I’ll do whatever my queen commands of me.” he spoke breathlessly, his eyes already begging to roll back in ecstasy though he tried to maintain his composure. 

You rested your head against his thigh, teasingly close to his cock. Your eyes were that of a siren of the sea as you looked up at him, “I only wish to serve…” Your hand began to trail over toward the silk laces of his trousers, “My king.” you said as you began to free him from the confines of his clothing.

He gasped again as he watched you, “Gods be good.” 

You pulled the expensive fabric of his wedding attire down and his cock eagerly sprung out. You smirked as you looked at it, “Fit for a king.” You said with a smirk, reaching for his length, but stopping just inches before you could touch him, “Can I?” You wanted to be certain before you did it, and he eagerly and desperately nodded. As you took him in your hand he groaned in pleasure. You stroked it slowly, almost painfully slow. With each stroke, you were fixated on the noises you were drawing out of him. Desperate for more, You licked up his shaft before taking him in your mouth, or as much of him as you could take. Sucking slowly and gently, his moans and the lewd sounds from your mouth echoed throughout the empty throne room. As you released him from your mouth desperate for air, you continued to stroke him, “You taste so good.” You said breathlessly. 

Jace mewled, and took a deep breath, trying his best not to finish right then and there, “You feel so good, your mouth feels so so good.” He whined beautifully, throwing his head back against the cold steel of the throne.

You began to kiss the tip of his cock, savoring the taste of his precum as it leaked from him, “You like it?” You asked teasingly innocent. 

“Y-yes.” He stammered as he groaned

You suddenly stopped your movements, ceasing all attention you were giving him, it was enough to drive him mad as he groaned in agony, “Have you ever had a woman touch you like this?” You asked leaning your head against his thigh, as if you were completely unaware of the torture you were putting him through. 

He shook his head eagerly, “N-no, only you.”

You smirked as you took him back in your hand, “You truly are an honorable man.” You gave his cock a final kiss before you turned your attention towards his balls, taking one in your mouth. You were unfamiliar with what you were doing but somehow it came naturally. Your desire drove you in the right direction. Sucking on him as you stroked his cock.

This sensation was all too new for Jace, he threw his head back and moaned erratically, “F-f-f” he stammered

You released him, followed by a lewd noise, “You can curse.” You told him, knowing what he wanted to do. 

“Fuck…” He said as if he had resurfaced after being drowned, He looked down at you longingly, “Can I touch you?” He asked desperately. 

You couldn’t help but smile at his sweetness, “Of course, my king.” you said with a nod, taking him back in your mouth again.

His hands went to your head, petting your hair sweetly, being sure to keep your hair out of your face. His moaning only got louder, “Awh, thank you- thank you.” He whined, “You’re so beautiful.” He said as he watched you lovingly stroke and suck on his throbbing length. You squeezed him in a particular way that made his muscles twitch, “Awh! I love you-” He said, his mind empty, but meaning every word. 

You released him for just a moment to breathe, “Say it again.” you commanded before taking in your mouth again. 

You could feel his grip on your hair tightening, “I love-” He nodded, and you began to stroke fast, suck harder, “Awh!” he moaned out in pleasure as your moments picked up, “I love you, with everything I have.” He spoke breathlessly, “My wife, my queen.” 

You could feel his body tensing underneath your touch, you could feel his cock throbbing when harder, his breath and moans more erratic. You knew what was coming, so you did what he hoped to all the Gods that you wouldn’t do, and you stopped. You released him from your mouth and your touch. “Uh-uh.” You said standing up, and pulling your gown back up around your shoulders.

Jace looked at you with narrowed eyes and furrowed brows, “You tease me?” he asked desperately, attempting to catch his breath. 

You smirked at the sight in front of you, he sprawled out on the throne nearly fully exposed, “I want you to spill inside me. How else am I to give you children?” You said in a teasing tone. 

Jace huffed but smirked, knowing his release was going to be something he earned. He pushed himself back into his trousers and stood. 

He smirked at you as he began to rush you out of the throne room, no doubt towards your now shared chambers. Stopping for a moment to push you against the throne room doors to kiss you, tasting himself on your tongue. 

As your kiss was released you smiled at him, “I love you, you know?” you spoke gently.

He stifled a laugh and nodded, “I know you do.” he said before kissing you once more before pushing you out of the room and chasing you toward your chambers. 

[controld3vil]

𝐫𝐨𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐧 𝐫𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐭𝐨 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐜𝐨𝐫𝐞

pairing(s): young!rhaenyra targaryen x velaryon!reader (can be read either as romantic/platonic) synopsis: Rhaenyra always seemed to like her position as the only dragon rider in King's Landing. Besides her uncle who rarely visits, she flys with Syrax whenever she can as proof of her imperial lineage. When word comes that you claimed Vermithor, the Bronze Fury, Rhaenyra becomes strangely jealous of your newfound attention.

notes: this takes place closely timeline-wise to the first season. cw: reader experiences a near-death incident, slight angst

Rhaenyra always felt at ease after riding with her dragon, Syrax. She had a distinctive bond with Syrax that no one could replicate. No one could discourage the truth. Her ancestors rode dragons and conquered the Seven Kingdoms. And rightfully so, as she acknowledges its power on the world. They were fierce beasts, little in number, but ferocious and praised as Gods to the people. The Princess of Dragonstone understood that well when she climbed off of Syrax’s saddle. Her golden scales glisten gloriously from the sunshine. 

She gleams brighter than before. Switching into a rich blonde gown, Rhaenyra rushes to the Court Council. Hoping none of the Councilmen would be bothered by her disturbed presence, the princess fixates on flattening down her silvery hair with her fingers. Combining through her tangled locks, the princess enters, drawing attention to haste and bewildered looks. 

“I was visiting Mother,” The Realm’s Delight she was named, smiled at her father, the King when asked about her whereabouts. She knew he would be displeased by the fact that she was dragon riding incredibly early. But she told the truth wholly. Rhaenyra did visit her mother. 

“On dragonback?” Viserys asked after catching a whiff of his daughter’s distinctive scent. It smelled of smoke and sea, resembling the dragon’s nature and their fiery breath. His daughter returns with a cheeky smile when she goes about to collect the pitcher, full of wine. There was much pride in the princess of her ancestral lineage. It was clear as histories can be able to tell of Old Valyria. A dragon was considered a rare delicacy despite having an abundance around the world. King’s Landing, Dragonstone, and Driftmark. Yet people did not consider them to be flesh and blood. Surprisingly, most were wild and had never been bonded with a dragon rider.

“Haven’t you heard? There was a sighting of the wild dragon, Vermithor along the coastlines of The High Tide,” Coryls Velaryon spouts, in cautiousness and weary. His clenched fist was unmistakable to Rhaenyra as he leaned forward with agitation. “My men are terrified, Your Grace. Surely we can think of a way to return the dragon’s course to Dragonstone.”

The silvery-haired girl looks to her father, King Viserys who beams with fazed delight. He thinks in light of the Master of Ship’s concerns. A dragon flies as it pleases. It did not flee far from Dragonstone as her familial home was a mile away from Driftmark itself. Eventually, Vermithor would have to return to rest. “And I’m sure he will return to Dragonstone when he deems it appropriate.” 

The lighthearted remark sparked some casual laughter from the table. A few lords shamelessly coughed between their coats while Hand to the King, Otto Hightower could only contemplate silently how to move the conversation to something more time-consuming. Rhaenyra has witnessed enough Council meetings to know that her father is restless. He never wanted to stay in the room for far too long before becoming disinterested in every political matter. What a dull position, she thought, to be the King of the Seven Kingdoms, you must abide by everyone's opinion and request. 

Rhaenyra traces her thumb around the handle of the pitcher. It’s glass and gold melded together. Its purity reflects wonderfully when she’s shown it to the light. As she strides around every seat of the table, the princess notices the little nuances each lord has. The old and cold pin of the Hand on Otto’s chest. The chainmail rings around Maester Mellos. And the rustic bronze rings Lord Corlys carried on his right hand. She recognizes why they are so distinctive now. 

“Nyra!”

It was like a bell went off in her mind when the Princess of Dragonstone blinked again. Now the Council meeting was left in their final moments. The doors that connected the room to the passive hallways opened, and flooded with the lords, one by one exiting. Well-mannered and poised was she when Rhaenyra placed the pitcher back onto the tabletop. Greeted by her father with a brief smile, she heard the sound of sweet nectar. Did you expect she did not hear you?

“Princess,” Rhaenyra laughs, coming down the stairs. You appeared eager to be near her, as you wrapped your arms tightly around her waist. A warm ache grows in her chest as Dragonstone’s darling caresses your shoulders, pushing you aback to see your face. “My you are eager this morrow.”

Your cheeks were plastered in rosy plums. Pink and delicate. As you burst into unfathomable joy at her proximity, you couldn’t contain your giddy blubbering. “I missed you! Is it so wrong to miss you?” She’d imagined your energy and heart beating simultaneously in the rhythm of a hummingbird. You were such a lively spirit, it complimented well with her own. Can she say that? 

She peers at you, fondly. As you were the most precious being one could ask for. If she could, Rhaenyra would shield you from every inconvenience and proposal your way. Even when you would become of age and pursued by your parents, she still would protect you from anyone who deemed you accessible. She brought both of her hands around your small one. They were adorned with rose-colored jewelry. Each is a colored gemstone to match your House colors. Rhaenyra slowly traces the flesh of your palm, “Of course not, Princess! It’s- I haven‘t seen you in so long,”

Your name is hollered and echoed against the looming halls you both stood in. She was sure for a moment, you two would be alone. A pang of discomfort flourishes in her throat when Rhaenyra becomes mute to the person to grab your attention. You, however, were deemed unbothered by it all, and held onto her grip tighter, and firmly, radiating heat and sweat. 

“There you are,” Your father, Lord Corlys groans in relief. It was evitable to find you lost around the castle, King’s Landing was a vast place. However, for how long you have visited, Rhaenyra depicts you knew the structure of it all and simply faked being clueless around. She saw it once. When you vaguely asked a guard where the library was to distract him, knowing you would be off avoiding your lessons with the Septa. She wishes she could chuckle out loud for that memory. “Do not get yourself carried away with the Princess, we have important matters to discuss with the King.” Your father seemed adamant about separating you from Rhaenyra, she recognizes. Which offends her greatly. You were a good friend and cousin. But more importantly, you were the only person to enjoy her company and mischief. 

For the longest time, the eldest daughter of King Viserys was lonely, not having anyone to relate to with her ancestral blood. The ladies in waiting were shy and polite. They were not her forte, Rhaenyra disliked how courtship worked. The daughter of the Hand, Alicent Hightower was a pleasant fresh air and surprise. When she had arrived at King's Landing years ago, Rhaenyra was rather avoidant of her. Now, they were good friends, only ever to be in each other's presence. Daemon, her uncle, is rarely seen nowadays. His position to the City Watch had in truth bothered and encouraged him to wreak more havoc with the townsfolk. She dismisses everyone clearly, anyone closest to her Targaryen bloodline is old or distant. 

But you, and your siblings, Laenor and Laena were much needed in the capitol. Your brother and sister visit rarely, they listen to your father and mother. On the other hand, you weren’t as uptight. As the youngest member of the Velaryon family, you had fewer expected duties compared to her and Alicent. Rhaenyra envied it truly, forever longing for your freedom. 

“Yes father,” You mope, an obvious frown on your lips when you depart from Rhaenyra’s side to your father. He stares at you with amused eyes, much contrast when he turns to her direction with a cold glare. It brings a chill down her spine as she quickly bows her head at the Master of Ships. She meant no offense. You did not notice the demeaning tension between your father and cousin. Because childishly, you excitedly tugged on Rhaenyra’s golden sleeves. “We’ll meet again soon, alright?” 

God, she can only smile at you. You were so sweet, endearing, and innocent. All traits she could find in any other lady. But you were much lively, more genuine than the girls she watched by the courtyard. They were pretentious and fickle. Alicent was also sweet and innocent. Innocent in the ways of adventure and courage. She was attached to duty and for that, Rhaenyra could not blame her. But for how much it mattered to her, she believed it to be an outrage. Out of everyone, you were just right.

The next time you met Rhaenyra was unconventional. Somehow you managed to convince your father to journey beside him to King’s Landing once more to meet the King’s family. Corlys hardly shrugged, putting little effort to stop you from climbing aboard the Sea Snake. Under unfathomable moments, you were condemned to sail to the capitol to tell the Princess of the Seven Kingdoms the great news. The last islanders left behind were your mother, Rhaenys, and sister, Laena who waved at you, earnestly, honing her fond smile as your figure grew smaller and smaller. Your mother, the Queen who Never Was, stood warmly with her arms crossed, with a look of pride on her face. 

Yes, your mother was ecstatic about what you had accomplished. No other dragon rider besides The Old King, Jaehaerys could claim the beast, the Bronze Fury. Many attempted, and many failed. However, because of your efforts, create a sense of joy and relief in your mother’s eyes. Never would she imagine her youngest child to claim one of the largest dragons alive. Vermithor was an untamable beast with a feisty personality. Perhaps it takes likeness to your spirit and simply bonded. She would have to ask you again to recall how you did it. 

The walls of the grand castle were empty and welcoming. You felt adrenaline scorch through your veins when you climbed up the stairs of the grand hall. The exterior was glorious. You could holler and scream and it would echo throughout all the corridors like a never-ending chamber. You held a skittish smile, as you made your way up, placing one hand on the rails for support. You could hear your father’s voice echo behind. Careful, you mustn’t fall, my love!

Even if you dropped to the ground, you would immediately pull yourself up and climb the stairs again. It was how desperate you were to meet Rhaenyra. You desperately wanted to tell her! 

Across the royal chambers, Rhaenyra was lounging outside notably. She sat under the Weirwood tree at leisure with Alicent beside her with a book in hand. She read aloud one of its stories, a romantic tale of a Dornish princess. But the dragon princess barely paid mind to what the Hand’s daughter was reading, she was more in tune with the moving sky. The baby blue ocean from above and the fluffy clouds that looked like soft cushions. The Realm’s Delight longed to ride with Syrax, despite only returning from her morning ride. If she could live in the sky forever, Rhaenyra would want to. 

She spotted a few of the Kingsguards that patrolled stop in front of someone. It looked as though they were permitting passage but seconds later, she saw them nod in unison simultaneously. They cleared the path and there you were. Striding in happy and irregular steps with your flowy dress of blue seashells and gemstones. She is reminded each time of your wealth and beauty. Cool-toned colors were your style as there was no other pigment you dressed in confidently and proudly, Sometimes she wonders how you would look in crimson red and black. 

“Princess!” Alicent was the first to speak on your behavior. It was not every day to see you all of a sudden in King's Landing. After Lord Corlys’s many disagreements with the Council. he chose to be absent from court. This irritated King Viserys and the rest of the Council, knowing without their Master of Ships, their collaboration would be deemed incomplete. Nevertheless, your appearance would confirm that your father had once again returned to the capitol. “I didn’t expect to see you here!” The brown-haired princess gleams, shutting the book entirely, and rising to meet you in a short embrace. 

Your giddiness is affectionate. It makes Rhaenyra feel light and blissful of your unannounced arrival. “It is good to see you, my Lady!” You’re teasing, tightly wrapping your arms around Alicent before releasing with sweet laughter. Alicent snickers, as the highlights of her dimples flush in soft pales of the color rose. 

“I told you, Alicent is fine!” 

“I know!” The two of you seemed to be in your world whenever your visits happened. You would appear, and Alicent bursts excitement and jitteriness. Rhaenyra finds it amusing to watch it unfold. But for not witnessing your presence for so long, she rather feels a little hurt and apprehensive of your attachment to the Hand’s daughter. If your mere attendance brought such delight, then your words brought an abundance of warmth and tenderness. “Nyra!”

Finally, the Princess of Dragonstone looks up, feeling slightly closed off from your welcome. Yet when she lays her velvet eyes on you, she can’t help but feel you are forgiven. Your expression was gentle and serene. “Princess,” Your name feels light off her lips as it always did. You playfully roll your eyes before releasing your grip on Alicent to hold onto Rhaenyra’s hands. They were inviting and delicate. 

“I missed you,” You whine, dramatically, dragging out the last part as though you haven’t seen each other in months. When really, it has been less than a month. The most you have visited were a full three days, staying overnight in the guest's bedrooms. It was when your father had an important mission to relay with the lords he chose to stay longer. You, on the other hand, wanted a sleepover. And by now, you should have a bedroom, personalized for whenever you wish to come to visit. You have on many occasions to irk your father and mother’s minds.

“The last time we spoke you were whisked away by your father,” She scoffs lightly which earns a questionable raised brow from Alicent. Your expression does not falter at her offense. “even though you said we would meet again.” Petty and stubborn were the words you describe Rhaenyra Targaryen. She was rather protective and loyal to the people closest to her. You importantly, she greatly values you. And weeks ago, you promised her, however, things took a turn with your father and you had to abide. 

“And we have,” You grin, lovingly, holding her hands up to your chest. It was a subtle sign of an apology and care. You carried your promise, even if it had taken weeks to fulfill because of interpersonal matters. But you are here now, in front of her, your energetic personality never failing. “I have great news.” 

The silvery-haired princess seemed to take your understated gesture sincerely as she closed the gap between you two. Curiosity caught her gaze as her lavender orbs did not move away from your own. “Well, what is it?” Suddenly you’re aware you’ve kept a tight grip on Rhaenyra as she allowed you to trap both her hands. The close intimacy is acknowledged by you when you try not to break away your gaze from hers. Alicent seemed visibly bothered by it but you are not facing her to know. 

The wind whistles in anticipation, and the Weirwood tree heaves and blows the dead leaves off of its branches. The luscious green fields dance back and forth in little tiny unison. The scent of dirt and fresh mint is present. As you inhale deeply before revealing, “I claimed a dragon.” 

A moment of silence before a heaved gasp came from the Hightower princess. 

“Congratulations!” 

You can feel the butterflies float up to your chest when you see both of the girl's expressions in a state of happiness and revelation. You give an animated smile, “Thank you!”

“Are you joking?” You can see on Rhaenyra’s face, she is still in shock which morphs into pleasure and ecstasy. 

You shake your head enthusiastically, and repeatedly, shaking both you and the Princess in a hop. “No!”

“Oh thank the gods!” Your cousin blurts, embracing you in a well-deserved embrace. Her arms coil around your back with a squeeze. The encouragement both Rhaenyra and Alicent had given you was something you cherished dearly. For the longest time, you blame yourself for not being able to claim a dragon. No egg would hatch or a wild dragon would approach you. You studied and performed all the ways to encounter them. Yet none had prevailed and up until recently, you felt exasperated on the idea of bonding with a dragon. You were extremely jealous of Laenor and Rhaenyra for their impeccable bond. You and Laena longed for it for your entire lives, it made you moody and neglectful. 

Therefore their support had kept you least tolerable. Your mother and father were understanding and patient with your fits. Even King Viserys and Queen Aemma sometimes consoled you that one day you would claim a dragon. Whichever dragon you did not care for, you knew your companion was out there. 

“Which dragon did you claim?” The brunette girl comes to your side, eager and curious to know what of your new beast. 

“Yes, which one did you claim?” Your silver-haired cousin urges, shaking your hands back and forth. 

You felt like a bubble waiting to pop with excitement. You wanted all the streams and ribbons the castle could offer to be released for your accomplishment. You took a deep breath before letting out a slow exhale to calm your beating heart. “Vermithor.” 

In an instant, Rhaenyra’s face falls. “Vermithor.” 

“Yes, Vermithor!” You were blinded by the enthusiasm Alicent portrayed with her hands, clapping and squealing in awe at you. “Isn’t it wonderful?”

“Vermithor!” The Hand’s daughter takes your left hand and swirls her thumbs around your knuckles. “I’m so happy for you!” Again the call of your name is murmured frankly and in reverence. “One of the largest dragons alive in the world and you had claimed it!” 

Satisfaction filled your chest. Nothing could compare to the prideful looks your friends and family had for you on this day. It truly was something to celebrate something this spectacular. Not since Jaehaerys, your great grandfather rode the dragon. Your mother would surely want you to ride Vermithor immediately as he was still considered wild. But if Jaehaerys managed to tame the beast, you knew you could. 

She could not explain it. Rhaenyra had always thought highly of you. She would disparage you out of anything. You were too pure for her frustration. What is she angry about? The princess could not explain. But whenever she passed the corridors of the Keep or the chambers of her mother’s ladies in waiting, she would hear the praise and compliments for your achievement. My, haven't you heard? The youngest daughter of Corlys Velaryon claimed Vermithor! The dragon King Jaehaerys rode! It must be fate. 

To what end was it fated? Dragons chose their riders. It was unclear how the bonds between rider and dragon existed but it was something genuine. So it shouldn’t confuse her when she sees you when on Driftmark, practicing to fly with the Bronze Fury. You struggled the first few times. She recalls those moments well, laughing and teasing you to no end of the amount of times you fell into the mud. Mounting on a dragon was a gradual adjustment. As she stared into the view of the ocean shore and deep gray-blue waters, you and your dragon were by the shorelines, attempting to be in sync with one another. A few feet from you was Rhaenys. As commanding and benevolent she was to you and not to her. 

Rhaenys Targaryen was quick-witted. She never had a great relationship with the Queen who Never Was. But in contrast, she was soft to you and held untainted remorse for her youngest child. Meleys was beside her rider, cooing and staring at you and Vermithor in inquiry. Much similar to her companion, Rhaenys said something Rhaenyra could not understand before watching you shake your head in disbelief. Vermithor was a grueling and deadly creature. The fact that you were young did not change its attention. It croaks and cranes its neck down for you to climb on its upper back. 

A saddle was neatly strapped on the beast. It must take ages to put on. Vermithor was known for his savage behavior. Yet if you were present with him, she deems he would have been docile to take care of. 

“Why are you pouting?” 

It was the late evening on Driftmark when she proposed a walk with you along the beach line. It was the many hobbies you both enjoyed in your homeland. Salt and sea were everywhere as opposed to her home, King’s Landing filled with endless brick walls and dust. The island is peaceful and serene when there are no fishing ships in the water. Rhaenyra can never be tired of the view and the sea salt air Driftmark supplies. It’s refreshing and so calm. 

“I’m not pouting.” The Princess of Dragonstone argues, her off tone marks it remarkable that her fickle state of mind. She should know better. You know her well, more than most of her maids and sometimes father. 

“You are,” The corners of your lips curve as you kick a few clumps of sand off the ground. “I’ve noticed since coming here, you’ve been…distant.” A personality all of your siblings share is your tenderness. Laena had a graceful heart and Laenor a compassionate one. Yours was resilient. You held onto things for far too long and you’re incredibly devoted to the people you love. You become easily attached to things, people, and the attention. Can she blame you? For a long time, you felt ridiculed and ashamed for your lack of a dragon. Your sadness must be more out of sympathy than Laena’s. By the time your sister claimed Vhagar, you were left as an outcast. 

The Realm’s Delights huffs, crossing her arms behind her back. “Seasick I suppose,” In truth, she never was seasick. Rhaenyra had traveled to Driftmark many times to be immune to the sickness. She knew it was a weak lie, one you would catch easily. But she did not like being confronted on whatever was on your mind. 

“Nonsense,” You jest, before stomping both your feet firmly into the brown sugar sand. Your stance makes the princess stop. “I know you dislike Vermithor.” 

She looks at you, astonished. “What?” 

You push further into the dirt until your heels are engulfed. “I can see it, Rhaenyra. You do not like him.”  Your assumption makes her head spin. Because in what world would she have any disregard against a dragon? Rhaenyra adored all dragons the same. They were a part of her family’s legacy. But she figures you must’ve seen her sometimes glare in the direction of your dragon to believe she had no love for the Bronze Fury. 

The silver-haired girl shakes her head. “No, it’s not that.” She did not want to explain this to you. Feeling ashamed and embarrassed at her feelings, Rhaenyra deems you unfit to hear such nonsense. “It’s more childish than that.”

Your head quirks sideways. You looked confused as your eyebrows rose as well. She can feel the winds pick up as the tides come toward you both. Its cold water brushes past your feet but you ignore it completely. “How so?” 

Must she explain at such a time? “I must admit, for the past few days, I’ve been feeling remorseful.” She quipped, finding the freezing chill of the sea comforting for this kind of conversation. “I’m sure you’ve seen me grow bitter, even resentful towards you and Vermithor. For that I apologize but- it’s a small feeling.” 

“You feel resentful towards me and Verm?” She can see your eyes flicker, as you contemplate and allow your mind to take in her words. Your loose hair is down, you’re gorgeous. Even in your night clothes and were of the absence of jewelry and pretty colors. 

“Was,” She reaffirms, unable to look you in the eye. Rhaenyra feels ashamed for feeling this way. She does not want to hurt your feelings. “The attention, the people, they spoke of you for days about what you have done, claiming King Jaehaerys dragon. All everyone wanted to do was talk about you and how you proved yourself to become the greatest rider.” The more she rambles, the hot tears flood her vision. She does not seem weak to you. She was spilling her truth to you, she had to let it out. 

You held a calm expression. “But I’m not the greatest rider,” Yes, you were not. Your bond was still young. You still struggled with communicating with Vermithor sometimes daily. How can you be considered the greatest even when you struggled to mount your dragon? 

“That is what the people say,” Accidently your cousin snaps but quickly regains her composure. She looks at her feet and the sand below. It was as if she pleaded for forgiveness. There is nothing to forgive, you’re angry. You’d say but she continues. “I was sick and tired of it all. Even my father spoke highly of you and it offended me. Why do I feel this way? I should be happy for you!” The mist around you clouds the floor. It’s sombrous and cool to touch. Everything Rhaenyra had held back was gone and it felt somewhat cathartic. She knows you must’ve felt hurt by her words, she was harsh.

She was afraid to touch you. But you did not care, gripping her forearm suddenly. Rhaenyra’s gaze finally breaks and stares at you, wide-eyed. Her tear-filled eyes shattered your heart, fully aware of her fragile condition. “I don’t blame you for what you feel, Rhaenyra. I too felt the same way when Laena claimed Vhagar, do you remember it? I was restless, unable to sleep at night - why couldn't I do what she had done.” The Princess of Dragonstone does not pull away from your grasp but simply gazes at your quivering lips. “I grew to be resentful of my sister. My heart grew dark and left people in danger. I regret feeling this way towards her now because of it. Do you understand?” 

The expression on your face said it all as she observed. The strained look flashed before you as you recounted the painful memories. In the days after Laena’s bond, you were cruel and cold. You spoke less to your family, ashamed and poisoned by jealousy. You would snap at the sailors more often and drive them into more dangerous scenarios to spite them. Your pettiness was revolting to watch, your father, Corlys growing instantly tired of your immature tantrums for something you could not control. He would cry out to you about how ignorant your actions were and then dismiss your privileges to sailing his ships. All while your mother felt she could do nothing to stop you in your frustration. She watched from a distance as her husband criticized you openly for your infuriating flaws, making it known to all you had gone too far. 

Slow but surely, when you stepped closer to her gave you the courage to tell her what needed to be heard. “I cannot change what you feel, but if you wish for me to leave, then please tell me.” You huffed in pain as your cold fingers traced along her arm and then moved to her hands. In some ways like this, you were fragile like porcelain. Sometimes Rhaenyra forgot you were younger than her. And now she felt like the childish one. 

“No, I—” She gulps, her fear evident. She didn't want to lose you as well. “Please don’t go.”

Your eye-opening conversation marked the beginning of a new chapter in your life. Connecting with the Bronze Fury required some time to adapt to both yourself and those around you. As the newest rider, you felt the world embracing you. However, what you cherished most was the experience of riding. You hailed from Old Valyria, with the blood of the Dragon in your veins. Riding with Vermithor became a daily routine, a privilege you savored. It was the most incredible gift you could have received.

Rhaenyra slowly became accepting of it as well. You can tell by the way her lips curl when you mount off of your dragon, that she was proud of you. You were a dragon rider! Now, you and she could soar through the skies for eternity if you wished. It was a dream come true, and you were overjoyed that she had forgiven you.

When you were above the skies, it was breathtaking. No view from below could compare to the ones over the clouds. You admit now why you found Rhaenyra’s obsession with flying to be so addicting. It was. When you’re up there, it feels as though nothing matters but you and the pale blue heavens. Vermithor would always groan in his grumpy way to show affection. He enjoyed riding above, you’ve felt his calm heartbeat and knew he too felt as relaxed as you did. When Rhaenyra joined you, which was a regular occurrence, you two would race. Up and down the clouds, like both of you danced in between the midst.

She looked dashing in her rider’s uniform. Black leather, plastered to resemble dragon scales alongside matching gloves. You resembled a familiar approach, having bronze leather strapped all over to stimulate Vermithor’s charming scales. You reminisced that he even once nudged at you from behind as a sign of appreciation for it.

Vermithor, the ruthless wid dragon growing soft because of you. You always had your chance to mention it to him before riding as a reminder of your sincere relationship. As a rider and dragon, the two of you bonded over adventure and tricks. You loved exploring the faraway lands to only encourage the Bronze Fury more driven to fly. 

But there were also moments when you were reminded of how reckless you could be with him. On the morning of your uncle’s name day, you convinced Rhaenyra to fly out to the Estermount Sea, close to the Triarchy of Essos. At first, the princess urged you of the danger, the Triarchy were pirates who paraded in raiding others for fun. Additionally, they had been targets of your father’s ships, disrupting trade. Yet you dismissed her pleas and pursued with an eager grin. 

The first few moments entering the sea territory were quiet. Both of you were mindful of the harsh waves there and how foggy it was similar to the Stormlands. But Rhaenyra persisted with her worries when you wanted to challenge her to dive down close to the sea. 

“We shouldn’t be here!” Her lilac eyes were defined with anxiousness as the princess held her dragon’s reins tightly. However you were indifferent, all too casual in uncharted areas. 

“We’re fine! We’re high enough in the sky!” you shout, a broad grin stretching across your face as you gaze at the small islands of Essos below. They look both foreign and beautiful. You’ve never ventured this far from home before.

But that was the last moment of calm you experienced. Suddenly, a harpoon appeared out of nowhere, narrowly missing you and Vermithor by the shoulder. The weapon moved with such speed and force that you had no time to process what was happening. Rhaenyra saw it clearly—she watched as the massive arrow zipped past you, inches away from your body, before plunging into the sea below. Someone had attempted to attack you. The worst followed: the harpoon's impact sent you and Vermithor into a chaotic frenzy. You leaped as your dragon swerved violently, causing you to be thrown from your saddle. For a moment, your body was there, and then it wasn’t.

The princess screamed in desperation, urgently commanding Syrax to dive into the water in an attempt to catch your falling body. Your dragon was beside hers, plummeting and speeding towards the sea floor as you descended. With a whoosh, Vermithor swooped in at the last moment, grabbing you from a fatal plunge. His claws, though sharp, gripped you with surprising gentleness, and you stared in terror as he held you safely.

The memory was deeply distressing. Your hair was now disheveled and tangled from the fall. Tears streamed down your cheeks, leaving your skin glistening and drenched. Rhaenyra could only sob with relief, feeling utterly exhausted and wishing it were all just a nightmare. Yet it was all too real. She felt Syrax’s comforting purr in response to her discomfort. Her father and yours would have been shouting endlessly about this.

Despite everything, all she could remember was the devastated look on your face.

It was madness. Jacaerys would tell her, her son parading around her room as they waited for all of the Targaryen bastards to arrive. Here she was, Rhaenyra Targaryen, in Dragonstone, pursuing the inevitable. The idea of recruiting Dragon Seeds was bizarre but what choice did she have? There was no one left in her family who could claim one. Distant Houses with the blood of Valyria were risky. She had to sacrifice one of her knights to do it. Perhaps this was the only way to win the war. 

Years without your presence brought Rhaenyra sorrow and time to reflect on herself. It had been long since she was gifted to speak your name so openly. Everyone knew of her relationship with you. The princess cherished you deeply and with your absence, left the Realm soulfully longing. Rhaenys despises her because of it. She wondered if part of the princess's resentment was directly tied towards you or the fact she was given the title of heir or both. Yet after Alicent’s son had taken her throne, Rhaenys stood by her side, as did her husband. 

Meeting all of the Targaryen bastards was daunting at first. Rhaenyra knew many infidelities were common for any lord to allow their seed to spread. To witness so many of them in a room made her all the more encouraged to believe her plan would succeed. It must, it should. She could feel all of their eyes focus entirely on her like a beacon of hope. They believed what they were doing was right to protect the realm. And for that, she will use it to attain. 

The Dragonpit had never felt so cold or so secure. It was secluded within a murky cave, miles tall and wide. It’s humid, water drips everywhere as the Black Queen strides down onto the platform where the dragon would be summoned. Forty or so Dragon Seeds followed her, paranoid and trembling about what was to come. She would have to believe in the gods, Rhaenyra sighed. If there is a strategy better than this, she would take it. But Alicent’s son had taken something from her by force and for that, she could not comply. 

“Come forward, Vermithor.” Her accent revealed her fluency in the High Vayrlian language. Rhaenyra readied herself for the beast. Seconds of silence loomed over all those in the Dragonpit like a neverending time bomb. The wait was excruciating yet the inevitable was daunting to witness. Out of the shadows comes a growl, which causes a few of the Dragon seeds to slightly panic. But the Queen knew better. And Vermithor as well.

He looms, towering over the cockpit like a living nightmare. His crooked teeth glowed an intimidating appearance for all, and the simmer of his bronze scales shined. “Obey! Stay calm, Vermithor!” Commanded by Rhaenyra as she stares up at the beast, unafraid. She holds an imposing scowl before witnessing the Bronze Fury lower his snout. The Black Queen reaches out of her hand, cautiously and slowly. 

Her hand makes contact with his snout and calmly Rhaenyra recognizes the sense of calm Vermithor had with her whenever you were around. It felt as though he resembled your presence and familiarity. This intuition puts a warm smile on her face. 

[fanficapologist]

Of Dragons and Maelstroms

Themes and Warnings: slow burn, enemies to lovers, blood, violence, explicit language, sexual violence, period-typical misogyny, sexual themes, smut, tension, marriage, jealousy, pregnancy, childbirth, miscarriage, attempted sexual assault, breastfeeding, major character death, divergent timelines

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

Chapter Ninety-Two

Another moon passed, and the newly formed Green Council set to work. The war dragged on with little progress, victories and losses balancing each other out in a frustrating stalemate that infuriated the one-eyed king. Aemond’s impatience grew as he stared at the painted table, the board littered with pieces representing the forces in play. More green pieces than black dotted the map, but much of the realm remained torn, loyalty frayed and uncertain.

The Dragonseeds, Ulf the White and Hugh Hammer, had successfully settled in Tumbleton, effectively turning the entirety of the Reach green, aiding Prince Daeron in his efforts. Their presence should have been a triumph, but Aemond’s satisfaction was tempered by disdain; he hated relying on bastards to do his work. Their success felt like a slight, a reminder that those of tainted blood could somehow become dragonlords, flit about the Realm and claim power for themselves.

As pieces moved across the painted table, representing shifts in allegiances and battle outcomes, Aemond’s frustration mounted. Despite the victories, the stalemate gnawed at him, his desire for decisive action clashing with the reality of war. The council, composed of seasoned men who understood the delicate balance of power, remained level-headed. They knew when to stoke Aemond’s lust for violence, guiding him towards calculated strikes, and when to dampen it, cautioning him against rash decisions that could jeopardize their position.

Grand Maester Vaegon settled into the council seamlessly, his presence a reminder of the tangled web of familial ties and political necessity. Though whispers circulated about his relation to Maera, no one dared to address it openly, their shared blood acknowledged only in hushed tones behind closed doors. The council meetings carried on, his insights woven into the fabric of their strategies.

For Maera, it was an ongoing frustration that she agreed with nearly everything Vaegon suggested. His advice on keeping the smallfolk content, his recommendations on army placements, and his lessons from past experiences all proved invaluable. Despite the lingering bitterness over his abandonment of his blood, she couldn't deny his contributions. While she didn't regret allowing him to stay, Maera made a point to stay far out of his way, refraining from directly addressing him during meetings. It was a silent truce, for the sake of the Realm.

The junior Maesters had declared the Queen fit to return to the marriage bed, a milestone in her recovery. Though Aemond was undoubtedly informed, he did not push the matter, nor did he acknowledge the passionate kiss they had shared weeks prior. Their routine continued unaltered. The family spent time together for a few hours each day, and the couple interacted during council meetings, their relationship a careful balance of duty and unspoken understanding. It was a delicate arrangement, but it worked for all involved.

Being declared healed from childbirth was a significant milestone for Maera, not only signaling her readiness to resume her duty of producing an heir, but also allowing her to become more actively involved in the war effort. Since resuming her daily rides, Maera recognized the critical role Ēbrion could play in securing victory for the Greens. His presence in mainland Westeros was essential.

One day, Maera entered the council chamber with a newfound determination. After the initial points of discussion were addressed, she rose from her seat beside her husband and walked purposefully around the painted table. She picked up a green dragon figure representing Ēbrion, its significance not lost on anyone in the room.

���I am ready to return to the battlefield,” Maera declared, her voice steady and resolute. “Dragons are an essential part of winning this war, and as a rider, my place is on the war front.”

She turned her gaze to Kings Landing on the painted table, noting the countless dragon figures surrounding it. Despite the Blacks having a greater number of dragons, Maera and Aemond possessed the largest and most powerful ones. The strategic advantage their dragons provided was undeniable, and her decision to return to the front was a pivotal step toward securing their victory.

Lord Unwin leaned forward, his finger tapping the painted table for emphasis. “Kings Landing is but a small part of Westeros,” he pointed out, his voice carrying a measured tone. “Although the Blacks hold it now, the rest of the Realm is not firmly behind them.”

The Hand, Lord Criston Cole, nodded in agreement. “We need to ensure the Blacks are surrounded before we launch a full-scale attack,” he added, his gaze moving from Unwin to the rest of the council. “Otherwise, we risk spreading our forces too thin and leaving our own territories vulnerable.”

Maera sighed, her eyes scanning the pieces scattered across the lit table. The intricacies of war strategy weighed heavily on her mind. “Is there still conflict in the Riverlands?” she asked, her voice tinged with frustration as she attempted to place her dragon piece back on the table.

“No.”

Before she could set it down, Aemond quickly jumped to his feet. He moved around the table to stand beside her, his hand reaching out to touch hers, still holding the dragon piece. His fingers brushing against hers sent a shiver down her spine. “It’s too risky,” he stated firmly, his eye locking onto hers. “I will not have you return there.”

Maera clenched her jaw, the urge to argue rising within her, but she quickly realized his concern came from a place of protection. She conceded with a nod, her resolve softening.

Aemond gently moved her hand, guiding it to place the piece in the Stormlands. “The Queen will occupy Wendwater and Felwood, on the edge of the Crownlands,” he explained to the room, his voice authoritative. “This position will allow her to deter any invasions south.”

The council members murmured their assent, the strategy taking shape in their minds. Maera stood beside Aemond, the weight of their decisions pressing upon her. Yet, she felt a renewed sense of purpose, her determination to see their cause through to victory undiminished.

The elder Lord Bryndemere, his hand fiddling with his quill, broke the strategic discussion with a comment that hung heavy in the air. "Perhaps it is time for the Stormlands to get used to a dragon being present," he remarked, his voice carrying a hint of challenge. The room turned to look at him, and the Master of Ships grinned, elaborating, "After all, when Princess Aemara becomes the wife of my grandson, her dragon will accompany her to Evenfall."

An awkward silence encompassed the room. It was not an offhanded comment; it was a statement with a question as the undercurrent: is the pact we made on your wedding day going to be honored? The tension was palpable, the weight of the unspoken query hanging in the air like a storm cloud.

There was an audible scoff from the table, but Maera was unsure which mouth it came from. The silence stretched, becoming almost unbearable. All council members looked to Aemond, including herself, to await his reply. Her pulse quickened with anticipation; they had not discussed this matter since the night of his coronation.

Aemond’s expression was unreadable as he looked the Lord up and down, a hum of acknowledgment escaping his lips. Another tense moment of silence followed. Maera’s fingers twitched nervously at her side, her eyes darting between the faces around the table.

Finally, Aemond broke the silence. “You should order your stonemasons to begin their work on a dragonpit, my Lord,” he stated, his voice even and measured. Maera arched a brow at him, surprised by his seemingly casual remark. He then added, “Sȳndor could grow to be as large as Vhagar.”

The room collectively exhaled, the tension easing slightly. Maera’s fingers stopped their nervous movements as she processed the implications of Aemond’s words. The council members’ gazes shifted away from Aemond, returning to their discussions, the moment of unease fading into the background.

The royal couple returned to their seats at the head of the table. Maera let out a breath she did not know she had been holding as she settled into her chair. Her heart was still racing from the tension, but a sense of relief washed over her.

He had listened to her, about the impact breaking the oath would have. It wasn't just a matter of political strategy; it was about trust and honor. She felt a deep sense of relief, knowing that her counsel was not only heeded, but valued. The decision reaffirmed her belief in their partnership, not just as King and Queen, but as a husband and wife working together.

While the discussions around them continued, Maera glanced at her husband. He was engaged in conversation with the council members, his expression serious. Then, as if sensing her gaze, Aemond turned and met her eyes. A smile tugged at the corner of his lips, and Maera found herself smiling back at him. In that shared moment, she felt a renewed bond, a silent acknowledgment of their unity and mutual respect.

As the weeks went on, Maera found a sense of fulfillment patrolling on Ēbrion. Flying over the border of the Crownlands and Stormlands, Maera marveled at the diverse terrain and scenery below. Rolling hills dotted with ancient forests gave way to vast plains, and winding rivers cut through the land like silver ribbons. The coastlines were rugged and majestic, with waves crashing against the cliffs, while the air was crisp and filled with the scents of pine and sea salt.

On dragonback, she felt free. Aemara was now going longer between feeds, which allowed Maera a few precious hours each day to just be. She was a mother first and always would be, but she knew she was more than that. The time in the air gave her space to think, to breathe.

So far, there were no issues over the border. Maera had spotted smaller dragons flying over King’s Landing, but none had approached her. Each day, when she returned from her patrols, she reported her findings to Aemond. They would discuss the day’s events briefly before she retired to her chambers, where she could shed the weight of her duties and spend time with her daughter.

Landing back at the Dragonmount, the massive blue and black beast stomped into the cavern, each footfall echoing through the vast space. Maera spotted her brother, Faran, now her sworn sword, waiting at the tunnel entrance.

Faran stood resplendent in his Kingsguard armor and pure white cloak, the embodiment of duty and honor. He looked up at his sister as the beast approached, his eyes unwavering. But when Ēbrion growled, the deep, rumbling sound filling the cavern, Faran stumbled backward slightly, his grip tightening on his sword.

As Ēbrion settled beside the cliff side, he let out a gigantic roar, so loud it reverberated off the walls of the cave, causing small rocks to fall from the edges. Faran covered his ears, wincing at the deafening sound, while Maera chuckled at her brother's reaction.

“Scared, brother?” She called down to him in a mocking tone. With a graceful leap, Maera dismounted from Ēbrion, her feet landing lightly on the cliff edge. She patted the dragon's massive side, feeling the familiar, reassuring warmth beneath her hand.

Faran’s lips twitched into a half-smile as his younger sister approached him. “It’s wise to fear a beast as large as Rain House itself,” he replied, his tone light but respectful.

“Do you want to say hello to him?” Maera offered, glancing back at Ēbrion, who was now the focus of the Dragon Keepers’ efforts. They struggled to command the colossal beast further into the volcano tunnels, and Ēbrion snapped at them slightly, causing one of the keepers to stumble back.

Faran visibly gulped, his eyes wide. “I think I’ll keep my distance, thank you.”

Maera chuckled softly, patting her brother on the back before they turned to walk through the tunnel system. The flickering torchlight cast dancing shadows on the stone walls as they made their way into the castle corridors, their footsteps echoing in the quiet. The air was filled with the muted sounds of servants hurrying about their duties, the occasional clang of armor, and the whispers of courtiers discussing the latest news from the front.

As they walked, Maera and Faran enjoyed each other’s company, the weight of their respective duties momentarily lifted. “So, how are you finding life as a Kingsguard?”

Faran shrugged nonchalantly, a playful glint in his eyes. “It’s relatively easy. All I do is follow my little sister around like a bad smell.”

Maera nudged him playfully with her elbow, a smile tugging at her lips. “Is that so?”

“Well,” Faran continued, a hint of seriousness creeping into his voice, “you could no doubt defend yourself anyway. But I haven’t seen you train with a sword since I arrived.”

The Queen’s smile faltered, and she shifted uncomfortably, her fingers grazing the scars on her arms as if to hide them. He was right. She hadn’t touched a sword since arriving at Dragonstone. The incident with Alys at Harrenhall had left her feeling nauseated at the sight of weapons, a newfound awareness of mortality weighing heavily on her mind. The scars on her arms and legs from the blade were constant reminders of the damage that could be done.

She shook her head, trying to dismiss his concern. “I’ve simply been too busy.”

Faran stopped and turned to her, crossing his arms, raising a brow as his tone shifted to a playful challenge. “Yes of course, my Queen. So busy with your duties of writing diplomatic letters, cooing over your daughter and…painting.” He made a dramatic gesture with his hands, mimicking an artist at work.

Maera rolled her eyes, a reluctant smile breaking through. “I am very good at painting, thank you!”

“I do not dispute that, sister,” Faran teased, though his voice held a note of genuine affection.“But I do miss the feral little creature you were back home.”

She silently agreed, a wistful smile crossing her face. A part of her longed to return to the days when she was the young Lady of Rain House, before she had flowered. She remembered mucking around in the courtyard with her brothers, playing with her younger siblings in the nursery. It was a simpler time, filled with laughter and light-hearted mischief.

Faran jested once more, dramatically declaring, “I don’t know. Maybe you have finally become ladylike as our dearly departed father wished.”

Maera stopped and smirked at her older brother. “Even though I haven’t picked up a sword in some time, I could still beat you.”

Faran laughed hard, the sound echoing through the corridor. “Do you wish to bet on that statement?”

For a moment, Maera became nervous. Her brother was no easy foe and had never gone easy on her in the courtyard, even when they were children. She folded her arms and asked, “Would you not be forsaking your vows if you harmed me?”

Faran shoved her playfully, a grin on his face. “Ahh, what’s a bit of treason between family?”

The challenge settled in the air, and although initially hesitant, the old version of herself relished in the thought of sparring with her brother once more. Her eyes sparkled with a mixture of excitement and determination. “You’re on.”

With a shared look of anticipation, the pair scampered off to the courtyard, their footsteps quickening with each step. The corridors of Dragonstone faded behind them as they rushed toward the training grounds.

That evening, a large copper tub had brought into the chambers and placed next to the lit hearth, the flickering flames casting a warm, golden glow across the room. The space was dimly lit by an array of candles, their soft light creating a soothing ambiance. Shadows danced on the stone walls, playing off the rich tapestries and delicate sketches that adorned the room.

The bath was filled with steaming water, its surface dotted with fragrant petals of chamomile and rose, the scent wafting around the room and adding to the calming ambiance. As the Queen stepped into the bath, the water’s warmth seeped into her skin, easing the tension in her muscles. She sank deeper, the water rising to her shoulders, and let out a contented sigh.

Her thoughts drifted back to the day’s sparring session with Faran, a faint smile playing on her lips. He had bested her that day, her nerves no doubt playing a part in his victory. But she noted that after a while, her muscles began to remember their old training. She could dodge and even lodge counterattacks. Although she didn’t beat him, she resolved to do so next time.

Maera reached for a sponge and began to wash away the grime of the day, the water turning cloudy as it cleansed her skin. She noticed the blooms of new bruises coating her arms and legs, the shades of blue and green reminiscent of her days when she sparred as a girl. She brought the soap bar over her skin, washing gently, mindful of the tender spots.

Her gaze drifted down to her left shoulder and then her left thigh beneath the water, the deep scars etched into her skin. Yet today, after sparring with Faran, they did not seem so big, and she was glad for it. The familiar ache from the old wound had been replaced by the more immediate soreness of the day’s exertions, and Maera welcomed the pain.

Relaxing against the edge of the tub, the Queen watched the activity around the room unfold in a soothing, almost hypnotic manner. The attendants moved quietly, their footsteps muffled by the thick rugs underfoot, ensuring that the calming atmosphere remained undisturbed.

Servants efficiently made the bed, smoothing out the rich, dark green covers embroidered with gold thread, a symbol of the house she now belonged to. They laid out her nightclothes, a soft silk gown in the darkest shade of black, and added wood to the hearth, coaxing the flames to burn brighter and warmer. The linens in Aemara’s cradle were changed, the fresh fabric tucked in with care.

In a corner of the room, a nursemaid gently rocked the baby Princess, who was bundled in soft blankets. Aemara gurgled happily, her wide eyes following her small dragon, Syndor, now the size of a small dog, as she made her mischievous way around the room. The little dragon, her black scales gleaming in the candlelight, was attempting to steal some meat from the dining table, her tiny claws clicking on the wooden surface. The sight brought a tender smile to Maera’s lips, the simple, innocent antics of the dragon reminding her of the joys and wonders of new life.

On the other side of the room, Maera observed her new Ladies in Waiting complete their duties. The four women had been in her service for a few weeks, and it was clear everyone was still getting used to each other’s rhythms and routines. Each of the women was respectful, and Maera had picked up on each of their little quirks.

Lady Swyft, the daughter of Lord Swyft and younger sister of the man who once vied for Maera’s hand, had been put in charge of the royal wardrobe. Her passion for needlework made her well-suited for the role of ordering fabrics and employing seamstresses. However, one thing Maera did note about the young girl was that she was incredibly clumsy. Lady Swyft constantly stumbled or knocked things over, always apologizing profusely afterward. Maera did not mind and was glad for the girl’s company, finding her earnestness endearing.

One person who did mind, however, was the older Lady Vance, the wife of the elder Lord Vance, who had been rejected from sitting on the Small Council, despite having served Aemond at Harrenhal. Maera knew that taking this woman on was a political necessity. As stern as Lady Vance was, she became soft as silk when she looked at Aemara. The older woman was an experienced mother and grandmother, and although the nursemaids were in charge of the physical care of the Princess, it was Lady Vance who gave orders to them. Her firm yet gentle touch ensured that Aemara received the best care, and Maera could not help but appreciate the woman’s presence, even if it was for political reasons.

Lady Fossoway, widow to the late Lord Fossoway, was seated at a desk, diligently noting down a list of items needed to celebrate the festival of the Mother. She had organized for Maera to leave the castle to visit the Sept and present offerings to the Mother, as well as gifts for the smallfolk. The thoughtful planning further strengthened the relationship between the people and the crown, which was desperately needed when the Realm was divided. Maera appreciated Lady Fossoway’s piety and dedication, but what she found most endearing was the lady’s rare, boisterous laugh, which was loud and not in the slightest bit ladylike. It was a stark contrast to her usual demeanor, and Maera liked her all the more for it.

Nearby, Lady Tarth, wife to Lord Edwin Tarth and mother of his son—Aemara’s future husband—was engrossed in her duties as the Queen’s secretary. She was adept at methodical thinking when answering queries and had beautiful handwriting. Her love for the arts made her a pleasant companion for Maera, and they often enjoyed partaking in artistic pursuits together. The young women also shared the highs and lows of motherhood, creating a bond over their shared experiences. Maera had even permitted Lady Tarth to bring her son to court, and while the toddler scarcely showed interest in Aemara, Maera believed that if the pair grew up together, it would solidify their bonds and make for a happy future marriage.

The Queen felt a sense of gratitude for their support, knowing that these women, despite their quirks and backgrounds, contributed to the smooth running of her household. The rhythmic sounds of their work and the occasional quiet conversation added to the serene atmosphere, allowing Maera a moment of peace and reflection.

As Maera stepped out of the bath, the warmth of the copper tub still lingering on her skin, she was enveloped by the soft, gentle hands of her maids. They dried her off in front of a tall mirror, and as she caught her reflection, a wave of mixed emotions washed over her. She noticed not just the bruises dotting her arms and legs but also how much her body had changed since giving birth.

She looked softer and rounder, with purple and blue stretch marks etched across her stomach and hips. Her breasts, now fuller and heavier, seemed to change shape hourly due to the milk, a reminder of the life she was nourishing. It was a body she did not entirely recognise, one that spoke of motherhood but also of vulnerability.

The servants slipped her into a black nightgown, the fabric loose-fitting and enveloping her in a comforting embrace against the chill of the room. As they finished dressing her, her hair was combed with care and left loose, falling in a beautiful blend of brown and silver curls that framed her face and cascaded down her back.

The nursemaid approached, cradling baby Aemara in her arms. She passed the infant to Maera, who settled into a comfortable chair to nurse her daughter. The baby latched on eagerly, and Maera watched her with a serene smile, the bond between mother and child palpable.

While Maera nursed, Lady Tarth approached with a pile of correspondence, her expression apologetic. “Your Grace, I thought these ones were best left to you,” she said softly, holding out the letters.

Lady Vance nearly batted the poor girl away, her stern voice cutting through the quiet. “A mother should not be disturbed whilst nursing, especially with her duties. The stress could transfer to the baby.” Lady Tarth rolled her eyes, clearly used to the older woman’s strict views.

From across the room, Lady Fossoway called out in her boisterous manner, “Our Queen is strong and can manage both!” Her laughter echoed warmly, bringing a smile to Maera’s lips.

Young Lady Swyft, ever eager to be helpful, brought Maera a cup of herbal tea. The girl smiled down at baby Aemara, her eyes full of curiosity. Meekly, she asked, “Your Grace, why have you not used a wet nurse?”

Before Maera could answer, Lady Vance scoffed, her tone full of disdain. “What better milk is there for a Princess than that of a Queen?”

As Lady Vance launched into a lengthy rant about her own experiences nursing her children many years ago, recounting tales of how she had insisted on doing it herself to ensure the best for her offspring, Maera found her mind drifting. She quietly thanked Lady Tarth and Lady Swyft for their help that day, appreciating their presence and support amidst the cacophony.

Lady Fossoway, standing nearby, approached Maera with a piece of parchment in her hand, silently showing her the list of items she had noted down for the upcoming festival. Maera nodded in understanding and gratitude, her smile wide as she recognized the effort Lady Fossoway had put into ensuring the event would be a success.

Just as Lady Vance moved onto the part of her impassioned speech about the amount of milk she single-handedly produced, Maera decided it was time to take control of the situation. With a firm but gentle tone, she interrupted the flow of conversation. “Thank you, everyone,” she said, raising her voice slightly to carry over Lady Vance’s words. “But I think it’s best we all get our rest. We have a busy day at the festival tomorrow afternoon.”

The ladies and servants exchanged glances before curtsying deeply, their faces reflecting a mix of respect and relief. They quietly filed out, the sound of rustling skirts fading as they exited the chamber. Maera felt a wave of calm wash over her as the door closed behind them, leaving her alone with her daughter and the small black dragon, who had perched on a nearby windowsill, her head tilted in curiosity as the beast stared out towards the sea and stars.

Cradling Aemara gently in her arms, the Queen rocked her back and forth in a slow, soothing rhythm. The little Princess, full and content after her feeding, began to drift off almost immediately, her tiny eyelids fluttering as sleep overtook her. Maera smiled down at her daughter, feeling the warmth of maternal love fill her heart.

She continued rocking her for a few moments longer, savoring the peace that this quiet time with Aemara brought her. Finally, she rose from her seat and carefully placed the baby in her crib, tucking the soft blanket around her. Aemara let out a small sigh, her breath steady as she settled into a deep, restful sleep.

Returning to her desk, Maera glanced at the stack of parchment waiting for her attention. She sighed softly, knowing the work that lay ahead. Despite the growing fatigue in her bones, she pulled the pile closer and began sifting through the documents, separating them into two distinct groups.

The first pile contained matters of state—tedious but necessary: requests from lords and ladies, petitions from the smallfolk, and missives from allies across Westeros seeking counsel or favor. The second pile was more personal, letters from friends and family, messages she would prefer to linger over but could not prioritize just yet.

Maera set to work on the first pile, dipping her quill into the inkpot and carefully crafting her replies. Her hand moved fluidly across the parchment as she granted patronage, offered advice on court positions for various Ladies, and addressed the concerns of her allies with thoughtful precision. The monotonous task required her full attention, and she found herself lost in the intricacies of diplomacy and duty. One letter after another was completed, sealed with wax, and set aside.

After what felt like an eternity, Maera finally placed her quill down, massaging the stiffness from her fingers. She looked at the remaining pieces of parchment on her desk and was relieved to see that only four letters remained. These, she knew, were of a more personal nature, and she allowed herself a moment of anticipation before picking up the first one, the wax stamped with the outline of linked chains.

To my Queen and dear younger sister,

I hope this letter finds you in good health and high spirits. It feels as though an eternity has passed since I last saw you, and I offer my sincerest congratulations on the birth of your daughter. I hope the birth was easy.

My training at the citadel has been both challenging and rewarding. The Order requires much of us, both in mind and body, but I find that each day brings new knowledge and a deeper understanding of the world.

Regarding your letter about Maester Vaegon, I can tell you a great deal. He was one of my mentors during my early days in training, and I came to know him well, though not without effort. He is a stern man, one who demands excellence and precision in all things. At first, his silence and strict demeanor made him difficult to approach. Yet, as time passed, I found myself drawn to his unwavering dedication and the wisdom he so effortlessly embodied.

Maester Vaegon, despite his reserve, is a man of great knowledge, and there is no subject within the Citadel's library that he has not studied deeply. It was known amongst the Order that he did not speak much of his upbringing, but from his name alone, it is clear that he hails from the Targaryen lineage. Yet, unlike many who might boast of such a heritage, he carried it with humility, allowing his work and knowledge to be his only testament.

You are indeed fortunate to have such a man in your service, sister. Your Grand Maester will serve you with the same diligence and wisdom that has earned him the respect of the Citadel. His counsel will be invaluable, and I have no doubt that he will be a stalwart advisor in the days to come.

Please convey my regards to him, though I suspect he might not remember me amidst the countless novices he has trained over the years. Nevertheless, I hold him in the highest esteem, as I hold you, dear Maera. Until we meet again, may the gods watch over you and your family.

Your devoted brother,

Cedric

The Queen pondered the words upon the parchment. Cedric had always been the quieter, more introspective of her brothers, but his gentleness belied a sharp mind and a keen sense of character.

Her thoughts drifted back to the time Cedric had warned her about Ser Reginald Penrose. The knight had seemed charming and honorable when he first visited Rain House to ask for her hand. Yet, Cedric had seen something beneath the surface, something dark. He had urged her to be cautious, to trust her instincts over what was presented to her. And he had been right.

She trusted her brother implicitly, and as she placed the letter aside, she made a mental note to heed his advice about Maester Vaegon, whatever the future held.

The second letter caught her attention next. The parchment was rough, torn at the edges, and stamped with a variety of Essosi markings. It bore the signs of a hurried correspondence, likely handled by many hands before it reached her. It was from Dermot, who remained in Essos with young Prince Viserys, Rhaenyra’s youngest son, in his care.

The boy’s silver hair, so distinct and easily recognizable, had drawn too much attention, forcing Dermot to move north with the child. Dermot’s words were filled with concern, and Maera could feel the weight of his responsibility through the letter.

She quickly penned a reply, her words firm and resolute. She urged her brother to continue keeping Viserys safe at all costs and reassured him that when the time was right, she would send for them both. The boy was a valuable asset in this game of thrones, and his safety was paramount. With a sigh, she sealed the letter and set it aside, her mind already turning to the next task.

The third letter bore the seal of Rain House, the sight of which tugged at Maera’s heartstrings. She unfolded it with a mix of anticipation and dread. It was from her brother Gwyn, and it spoke of their sister Wynni’s well-being. The news was not good.

Maera,

I hope this letter finds you in the strength and resolve that have always defined you. As I write, my heart is heavy with the matters of our family, and though I hesitate to burden you, I know that you must be aware of what transpires here. Our sister is not as she once was. Since the tragedy that befell her husband, she has been adrift in a sea of grief and anger.

As her twin, I have always felt a deep connection with her, yet even I struggle now to reach her. I know that you, too, must feel the weight of this rift. You and Wynni were always so close—closer, perhaps, than she and I ever were. It is painful to see how that bond has been strained, perhaps even broken, by the events that have transpired.

I understand, as I hope Wynni one day will, why Lord Alan Tarly met his fate. You were protecting yourself and your child, and there was no other choice to be made. The circumstances were dire, and I do not blame you for what you did. The truth, however, is that Wynni’s mind has been twisted since she married into House Tarly. I am not sure why she did not write to any of us during her marriage, but I suspect her new family had something to with that. House Tarly are not known for their warmth or compassion.

Wynni’s grief is profound, but I sense that much of her anger is misplaced. Perhaps it is easier for her to blame you, her beloved sister, than to face the reality of her marriage and the role her husband’s family played in shaping her despair, or the harm he attempted to cause you.

I believe, with all my heart, that if she were to see you again, if she could look into your eyes and feel the love that has always existed between you, it might begin to mend the wounds that now fester. But I must be honest, Maera—Wynni is not yet ready for such a reunion. She shies away from any mention of you, and her heart is still closed to the possibility of forgiveness.

I do not know how long this darkness will hold her, but I will continue to stay by her side, to reach out to her, even if she does not reach back. I ask that you be patient, though I know it must be hard, and that you trust that time, and perhaps a change of heart, will bring Wynni back to us.

May the gods grant you peace in this difficult time, and may they watch over us all.

Your loving brother,

Gwyn

Her sister’s suffering hitting her with full force. Maera thought of her own Ladies in Waiting, how they had each found purpose and camaraderie in their service. Perhaps Wynni could find the same, surrounded by other noblewomen who might help her heal. The thought of Wynni joining her in Dragonstone, finding a new path, was appealing.

The Queen resolved that whilst she would not force Wynni to come to Dragonstone, she would extend the invitation, with no expectations. Perhaps, just perhaps, it could be the start of Wynni finding herself again. But until then, Maera could only wait, and hope.

Just as Maera was about to set the letter down, her eyes caught a small note scrawled at the bottom in Gwyn’s familiar handwriting.

P.S. I have been thinking about how strange noble families can be. When I marry Lord Edwin’s daughter, not only will little Aemara be my niece, but she’ll also become my sister-in-law. It’s amusing how our bloodlines and alliances twist and turn, binding us in such intricate ways. Only in noble families could such a thing be considered normal.

The absurdity of the thought brought a small smile to Maera’s lips, a brief reprieve from the heaviness of her thoughts. If her younger brother thought that was strange, she could not help but wonder about what he thought of all the incestuous marriages within House Targaryen.

With a lighter heart, Maera picked up her quill and began to write her reply. She thanked Gwyn for his letter, offering gentle encouragement and a hint of her own longing to see Wynni happy again. And as she finished the note, she couldn’t help but add a playful response to Gwyn’s jest, thankful for the small moment of humor that had brightened her evening.

Maera’s gaze fell on the final letter, its seal bearing the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen. Her first thought was that it must be from Daeron, Aemond’s younger brother. She hadn’t exchanged many words with the young prince, their paths rarely crossing, but the prospect of hearing from him was welcome.

She carefully broke the seal, but as soon as she unfolded the parchment, it became clear that this was no ordinary letter. The page was a chaotic mess, torn in places, with ink splotched carelessly across it. The writing varied wildly in shape and size, with some lines intricately penned, others barely legible, and more still aggressively scribbled out. The text itself was a jumbled mix of normal phrases interspersed with nonsensical ones that defied comprehension. And amidst the confusion, one thing stood out with heartbreaking clarity: the letter was from Helaena.

The page shook in Maera’s trembling hands as she struggled to make sense of the gibberish before her. Her vision blurred as tears welled up, spilling over and tracing paths down her cheeks. Each disjointed word, each frantic stroke of the quill, was a painful testament to the fragile state of Helaena’s mind.

Maera

It has been so long since I have seen you. I hope you are content back at Rain House. I am sorry Aemond upset you. I miss you, it is too loud here

Have you seen the twins and Maelor? No one comes to my chambers anymore. No one tells me anything

THE RATS ARE KEEPING ME AWAKE AT NIGHT. I FEAR THEY WILL CHASE EVERYONE OUT OF THE CASTLE

Rhaenyra sits upon the throne, her blood staining the swords.

The skies are full of dragons. You burned the hatchling, didn’t you? The river was indeed harsh and nearly drowned you.

WHERE ARE MY CHILDREN? MY HUSBAND? MY MOTHER? WHERE ARE YOU?!

I cannot stand this for much longer

One flower to bloom, two buds cut down, one seedling unearthed

Helaena, once a gentle soul with a kind heart, had been driven to madness, her mind fractured beyond repair. The Queen’s thoughts spiraled as she remembered that Helaena and their mother, Alicent, were still captives of the Blacks in King’s Landing. Aemond and Maera had no way of knowing how they were being treated, no certainty about their well-being. All they had was the grim assurance that they were alive. But this letter, this desperate cry for help, was evidence of a fate worse than death.

Maera’s heart ached with an unbearable sadness, the tears falling freely now as she clutched the letter to her chest. The helplessness, the uncertainty, and the pain of it all threatened to overwhelm her. For all the power they wielded, all the dragons they commanded, she was powerless to save Helaena from the horrors that had consumed her mind. And that knowledge, more than anything, filled Maera with a despair.

Even though Helaena’s letter was a tangled mess of words and disjointed thoughts, Maera knew her old friend well. Helaena had always seen the world differently, her mind a labyrinth of visions and dreams that only she could navigate. What seemed like gibberish on the page might hold some hidden meaning, a truth that would only reveal itself in time. Maera couldn’t dismiss the letter outright; there was something in it, a plea or perhaps information about the Blacks, that she had to uncover.

But she knew she couldn’t decipher it alone. Rising from her seat, Maera tiptoed to the chamber doors, her movements careful and silent to avoid waking Aemara, who was still peacefully asleep. She cracked the door open and peeked her head out into the dimly lit corridor. The guard stationed outside snapped to attention, and Maera asked him quietly to summon the nursemaid.

Within moments, the nursemaid arrived, her eyes wide with curiosity and concern at being called so late. Maera gently requested that she stay in the chambers with Aemara until she returned. The nursemaid nodded without hesitation, stepping inside and immediately moving to check on the sleeping princess.

As Maera turned to leave, the maid’s voice stopped her. “Where are you going, Your Grace?”

Pausing in the doorway, Maera glanced back, the crumpled parchment still clutched in her hand. “I’m going to see my husband.”

Notes: ok, lot of plot points, a lot of contact, just general waffle that will be important later on, but I had to get it down 🤣 anyway, next she visits Aemond so, errm, how do we think that will go?

Tags: @0eessirk8 @magicseahorse @blue-serendipity @abecerra611 @saltedcaramelpretzel @marvelescvpe @watercolorskyy @shesjustanothergeek @thelastemzy @kckt88 @darylandbethfanforever9

Thank you so much for reading! Comments, feedback, likes, and reblogs are greatly appreciated 🖤

[middle-earth-mythopoeia]

There are about a million reasons why I love Faramir and Éowyn’s relationship and why I think it’s one of the most romantic relationships that Tolkien wrote, but do you want to know what isn’t talked about enough?

‘Do not scorn pity that is the gift of a gentle heart, Éowyn! But I do not offer you my pity. For you are a lady high and valiant and have yourself won renown that shall not be forgotten; and you are a lady beautiful, I deem, beyond even the words of the Elven-tongue to tell. And I love you. Once I pitied your sorrow. But now, were you sorrowless, without fear or any lack, were you the blissful Queen of Gondor, still I would love you. Éowyn, do you not love me?’

A lot has already been said about Faramir’s confession that he would still love her if she were the Queen of Gondor—and rightly so, because he’s basically saying he’s so hopelessly in love that nothing could ever change his feelings—but what REALLY does it for me, even more than that, is Faramir saying that she is VALIANT. He admires her bravery and her accomplishments in battle, and he says she has won RENOWN. Yes!!! YES!!!!!!!!!

Look, part of the reason Éowyn doesn’t want pity is that she doesn’t want to be looked down upon, and that’s what she associates with being pitied. But this isn’t really about another person’s pity—this is about how Éowyn sees herself. All her life, she’s been held back from participating in battle and from doing great deeds. In her conversation with Aragorn at Edoras, in one of my favorite scenes in the book, she delivers these searing lines: ‘All your words are but to say: you are a woman, and your part is in the house. But when the men have died in battle and honour, you have leave to be burned in the house, for the men will need it no more. But I am of the House of Eorl and not a serving-woman. I can ride and wield blade, and I do not fear either pain or death.’ Aragorn asks, ‘What do you fear, lady?’ And Éowyn replies: ‘A cage. To stay behind bars, until use and old age accept them, and all chance of doing great deeds is gone beyond recall or desire.’

But at the Battle of the Pelennor Fields, she DOES great deeds! She and Merry slay the Witch-king of Angmar, Sauron’s MOST POWERFUL SERVANT. When you think about the power of fear that the Nazgûl had over most mortals, it’s absolutely astounding how brave this was for them to do. But even afterwards, Éowyn doesn’t appear to know the value of what she’s done. Part of this may be her grief for Théoden, and part of it may be the Black Breath, but the point is she doesn’t know what she has achieved. Because in the Houses of Healing, she says to Faramir, ‘I wish to ride to war like my brother Éomer, or better like Théoden the king, for he died and has both honour and peace.’ Éowyn still does not believe she has won honor—and so she does not have peace.

To this Faramir says, ‘It is too late, lady, to follow the Captains, even if you had the strength. But death in battle may come to us all yet, willing or unwilling. You will be better prepared to face it in your own manner, if while there is still time you do as the Healer commanded. You and I, we must endure with patience the hours of waiting.’ It’s important that Faramir doesn’t tell her she’s wrong for wanting to go to battle, only that she must heal, and battle may still come for them yet—and he says WE must wait. Éowyn didn’t want to be left behind to wait for the men to return, but with her and Faramir both waiting, it no longer has that meaning.

This is all important context for the confession. Because days later, in the most romantic conversation of all time, Faramir says these magic words: ‘For you are a lady high and valiant and have yourself won renown that shall not be forgotten.’ LISTEN TO ME, IT IS SO IMPORTANT THAT HE SAYS THIS! THIS IS EXACTLY WHAT ÉOWYN NEEDED TO HEAR. It’s the FIRST THING HE SAYS IN THE SPEECH! Before he says she’s beautiful, before he says he loves her, he tells her she is valiant.

This is it. This is why this scene is peak romance to me. Because Éowyn desired to do great deeds and to win honor in battle, and she actually HAS DONE SO, but she doesn’t know it. And Faramir understands her, and not only that, he ADMIRES HER! ‘For you are a lady high and valiant and have yourself won renown that shall not be forgotten.’ I don’t know about you, but that line ALONE would make me fall in love.

[herbirdglitter]

Reading return of the king for the first time. Cannot believe they left the bit from the books out of the movies where Aragorn is like

“you can’t come with me because you promised you’d stay here and govern the people” and eowyn’s like “you’re just saying that because I’m a woman and you think a woman’s place is in the home. You think we should all sit here while the men go off to battle and only bother doing anything when the battle is already lost and there’s no point anymore. Well I can fight and ride as well as any man and I fear neither death nor pain etc.”

And then Aragorn’s like “yeah but you gotta stay because you promised and also you keep telling me not to go to the paths of the dead and yet you yourself want glory in battle so, hypocrite much?” And eowyn’s like “no asshole, actually I was encouraging you to go seek death and glory in a sensible manner, fighting in a battle that actually makes sense instead of riding to your death. Also literally everyone else is going with you because they love you, and I can’t? What’s that about?” And Aragorn’s like “you promised you’d stay idk” and ditches

And it is so iconic but we only got snatches of it and now im disappointed.

Also really funny how Aragorn had no comeback for the “you’re just saying that because I’m a woman and my place is in the home” bit. Probably why they didn’t include it. Still funny

[princessrhaellatargaryen]

A Midnight Rescue

“You’re safe now, Princess, I have you. You’re safe.”

Warnings: blood, death, murder, kidnapping.

Rhaella was woken by a calloused hand covering her mouth. Eyes wide, she frantically searched for who was responsible and found two cloaked figures towering above her.

“Are you sure it’s the right one? All these Targaryen bitches look the same,” whispered the one not holding his hand over her mouth. He instead held a blade to Rhaella’s throat, she was able to see it winking up at her out of the corner of her eye.

“Positive. He said she’d be in these rooms, with silver ‘air and purple eyes,” replied the one whose hand was covering her mouth. “We followed the map true and I see silver ‘air and purple eyes.”

“I dunno, her eyes look kinda blue,” the man holding the knife. Rhaella slowly reached out for the book next to her on the bed while they were distracted with their bickering over the exact shade of her eyes and chucked it at the one with the knife on her throat. “Oi!” he cried, releasing the knife and clutching his bleeding forehead.

Rhaella bit down on the other man’s hand and he cried out in pain. Blood dripping from her mouth, she rolled over to the other side of the bed and bolted for the door. She managed to get it open but her relief was short lived as her feet slipped on something and came crashing down. Horror coursed through her as she realized what the cause of her fall was: blood. The guard posted outside the door had been slain.

Rhaella was pulled to her feet sharply by her hair, pulling a cry from her lips. She blindly kicked out and scratched around her in a desperate attempt to subdue her attackers. A groan of pain came from behind her but Rhaella felt a sharp pain splinter from her jaw. She was pulled against the chest of one of the men, blade at her throat once more, though it was no longer gently resting on her skin.

“Fucking bitch broke my nose!” cried the other man across from her, his hands cradling his face as blood dripped from between his fingers.

“Tie her up so she can’t do it again, idiot,” the one holding her said, the blade cutting into the delicate skin of Rhaella’s neck. Blood dribbled down her chest to join the blood of the dead guard, which marred the fine white linen of her nightgown.

In the dying light of the fire, Rhaella helplessly watched as the man with the now broken nose roughly tied her hands together, the coarse rope soaking up the blood that coated her wrists. He grabbed a blanket draped over one of the armchairs across from the fireplace and threw it over her head and shoulders. The man behind her moved the knife from her throat and dug it into her side.

“Now we’re going to walk outta ‘ere nice and quiet like. You make a sound, bitch, and I gut you like I did your man out there, yeah?” he growled into Rhaella’s ear. Heart thundering in her chest, she nodded shakily. “Good, now walk.” He prodded her forward.

Rhaella followed the man with the broken nose, her eyes trained on the center of his back as they left the room, carefully avoiding the massacred body of the guard at her feet. His blood squelched through her toes and left a crimson trail behind them as she was led to an unknown fate.

The Red Keep was still and quieter than she’d ever seen it. Torches were lit but everyone was abed, as Rhaella should have been. She had fallen asleep in her mother’s bed, waiting for her to return from saying goodnight to the younger children. Rhaella had been engrossed in a tome about the fall of Old Valyria, given to her by her grandsire, the King. Her father was out riding with the older boys, teaching them how to fly their dragons at night. As Rhaella had yet to claim a dragon, she was not invited. So, she instead came to her mother’s chambers, waiting for her, and read until she fell asleep.

These men were no doubt hoping to find the heir to the throne, the Princess Rhaenyra, asleep in her chambers instead of her eldest daughter. However, as one of them had pointed out, the Targaryen women did look very similar. Both had long white hair, but where her mother’s eyes were lilac, Rhaella’s were periwinkle. An incredibly subtle difference, difficult to make out in the light of a dying fire. Due to a case of mistaken identity, Rhaella was now about to pay the price of being the heir to the Seven Kingdoms.

The blood had now dried on the bottom of Rhaella’s feet, no longer leaving a trail of footprints behind them. Any hope of someone following that trail and finding her within the walls of the Red Keep were gone. Tears pricked at her eyes and rolled down her cheeks, mingling with the dried blood there. Rhaella thought in the back of her mind that she was more blood than person at this point, covered in the blood of two people, not even including herself.

Their trek through the Keep had been quiet and uneventful, strange, given the amount of Kingsguard supposedly required to be on duty during the Hour of the Owl. It was almost as if someone had plucked each of the guards from their stations, purposefully ensuring that their path be free from deterrents.

Rhaella knew that once they left the Red Keep and entered the gardens, she would have one last chance to escape. One last chance to fight back. She desperately looked for a guard, but none were to be found. Steeling herself for further pain, she took a steadying breath and rammed her elbow into the gut of the man behind her.

His blade pinched her side, but Rhaella sprinted, pulling up her bloodied nightgown so as not to get tangled in her legs. She screamed as she ran, taking sharp turns through the hedges in an attempt to lose the two men.

Rhaella chanced a look behind her and was relieved when she did not see anyone on her trail until she ran into a hard body.

“No! You will not take me! Help! Please! Someone help!” Rhaella screamed in terror, hammering her bound fists on the body in front of her.

“Princess! What in the Seven Hells has happened?” asked a familiar voice. Rhaella gasped and looked up. The piercing stare of her uncle Aemond greeted her. She sagged against him in relief, tears freely flowing down her face. His hands grasped her shoulders as he assessed, in shock, the sight in front of him.

Rhaella’s hair was unbound, falling around her in messy waves, the white strands caked in blood in some places. Her lip was split and a bruise was forming on her jaw. Tears trailed through dried blood around her mouth, which had dripped down her chin. Her neck had a slice across it, which had drawn more blood. The fine white linen of her nightgown was absolutely soaked in blood, Aemond unsure if it was hers or not.

Approaching footsteps drew him out of his shock and assessment as two cloaked men rounded a tall shrub.

“Oh shit, that’s the Prince!” the one with the knife swore, shoving the other in front of him as he fled. Aemond sprang into action.

Steel sang as he drew his sword and pursued them, easily cutting down one and following the other around the shrub. Rhaella grasped the pillar next to her and slid down, the adrenaline leaving her body as quickly as it came. She blankly stared at the man Aemond had killed, watching him as blood seeped out from him. So much blood on this night.

Aemond returned at some point, though how much time had passed, Rhaella was unsure. He sheathed his blade and knelt down in front of her, the moonlight glinting off his hair. Concern was etched on his face as his lips moved, but no sound came out. At least, Rhaella did not think so. He gently cupped her face and repeated himself.

“Princess, are you injured anywhere else? Can you stand?” he asked, his brow furrowed. Rhaella barely shook her head, knowing her legs no longer worked. Aemond nodded and carefully lifted her arms over his head and scooped her up gently against his chest. He rose and carried her back inside the Red Keep, stepping over the body of one of her captors. Where the other was, Rhaella neither knew nor cared.

She clung to Aemond, burying her face in his shoulder, shuddering breaths shaking her shoulders. His thumb gently rubbed her arm as he climbed the stairs.

“You’re safe now, Princess, I have you. You’re safe,” he reassured her. Rhaella shakily nodded and pressed herself closer into his arms, if possible. He was warm and smelled of spice and leather, which helped Rhaella ground herself. Safe. She was safe. Aemond had her. Safe.

He rounded a corner and they were greeted by the panicked, near hysterical sounds of a crowd.

“Send out a search party! I want the Princess found!” commanded Daemon.

“At once, my Prince,” replied Ser Westerling. “Ser Arryk, Ser Erryk, with me. We follow the blood trail and from there we-“ he was interrupted by a sharp cry.

“Rhaella!” Rhaenyra ran over to her and Aemond, her dressing gown billowing out behind her. “Thank the gods! What happened? Are you hurt?” she questioned, helping Rhaella to her feet. Rhaella’s arms were still around Aemond’s neck, his hands steadying her on her waist.

“She’s covered in blood! What did you do to her?” Daemon sharply questioned, approaching Aemond, his hand going to Dark Sister.

Rhaenyra’s hands were investigating the cause of the blood on Rhaella’s nightgown and her touch snapped Rhaella out of her daze. With a broken cry, she removed her still-bound wrists from around Aemond’s neck and collapsed in her mother’s arms, sobbing.

“Shhh, sweet girl, I’m here. Your mother is here,” Rhaenyra said into Rhaella’s hair, kissing the top of her head, her arms wrapped around her trembling frame.

“I won’t ask you a third time, Princeling, what the fuck happened to my daughter?” Daemon demanded, drawing Dark Sister. Aemond drew his own sword in response, ready to defend himself.

“I was simply out for a walk in the gardens when the Princess found me. She was running from two captors, one of whom is now dead, the other is incapacitated behind the statue of the nymphs. Go and see for yourself, uncle. No harm fell upon her from my own hand,” Aemond replied, his eye trained on Daemon. Rhaella, sniffed, fresh tears rolling down her cheeks as she broke away from her mother and stood in front of Aemond.

“What he says is true, father,” her bound hands in front of her. Aemond sheathed his sword and gently got to work, untying the rough rope from her raw wrists. Rhaella relayed the story to the crowd, noticing everyone who stood around her, intently listening. Not only were her parents there, but also Jace, Luke, Alicent, Aegon, Helaena, Viserys, Rhaenys, Corlys, Otto, Laena, and Laenor, in addition to several members of the Kingsguard.

“I ran through the gardens and ran into him,” Rhaella finished. “He saved me. Go into the gardens and see for yourself. He did not lie. If it weren’t for him, gods know where I’d be now. I’d have met whatever fate they intended for you, mother.”

At that, Rhaenyra’s gaze snapped to Rhaella’s, the latter finally noticing her tear-stained cheeks and puffy eyes.

“This was an attack meant for the heir to the throne,” Daemon said, turning to Viserys. “For your daughter, brother.” Viserys, looking more aware than he had in ages, set his jaw and looked to the few members of the Small Council that were present.

“I want the remaining attacker questioned at once. I want to know who hired them and how they got in my fucking hall!” he shouted, turning to look at the knights of the Kingsguard around them. “Ser Rion’s death should have been prevented and my granddaughter should have been safe in her mother’s bed! I want answers before we break fast in a few hours time. I want an increased presence of the Kingsguard surrounding my family at all times. This is unacceptable!”

Ser Westerling nodded. “I take full responsibility, my King, and will thoroughly investigate as to how they went through the Red Keep undetected. I vow to have answers for you shortly, your grace,” he promised, bowing his head. “Ser Criston, Arryk, escort the members of the Royal Family back to their chambers. I want their rooms cleared before they enter,” he ordered, nodding to the two guards. They nodded, ushering everyone to follow them.

“Ser Erryk, Rickon, with me. We go to the gardens to retrieve the remaining attacker and question him. The rest of you, I want you patrolling the corridors, looking for how those vermin got in the Red Keep.” Everyone went their separate ways, Rhaenyra wrapped an arm around Rhaella and attempted to guide her back into her chambers.

“Nononononono,” Rhaella moaned, planting her feet firmly. She could not get any closer to Ser Rion’s body. The pool of blood surrounding him flickered in the torch light, the evidence of her fall clear in the disturbed puddle.

“To your chambers then, my love,” Rhaenyra said, seamlessly turning around and walking Rhaella away from his body. “We will fetch the Maester and get you cleaned up. Daemon will you-“ she started, but was interrupted by Aemond.

“I will fetch him, Princess,” he said quietly. Rhaenyra nodded and continued walking with her arm wrapped securely around Rhaella. Daemon stayed behind with Otto and Corlys to investigate the body while everyone else was escorted to their rooms. One by one, they left the party, giving Rhaella their good wishes and love, thankful that she was safe and that no mortal harm had come upon her until it was just Rhaella and Rhaenyra with Ser Criston and Ser Arryk. They approached the doors to Rhaella’s chambers and Ser Criston held out a hand to stop them from entering.

“Let us clear the room before you enter, your highnesses,” he said, nodding to Ser Arryk. Rhaenyra held Rhaella while they swept the room, checking behind curtains and in the dark corners of the room before beckoning them inside. Rhaenyra ushered Rhaella into a chair before pouring water from the pitcher on the chest of drawers into the wash basin, The two guards excused themselves after stoking the fire, giving Rhaenyra more light to work in.

Her mother gently wiped the blood off her face, taking care to avoid the split in her lip and the cut in her neck. She wordlessly worked, cleaning the blood off Rhaella’s chest and arms. There was a knock at the door.

“Come,” Rhaenyra said, wringing the water out of the cloth she was using to clean her daughter. One of the Maesters entered followed by Aemond. Upon seeing him again, Rhaella stood on wobbly legs and approached him.

“Thank you, Aemond,” she said, leaning up to press a soft kiss to his cheek. Her lip stung at the contact but she ignored it. He looked down at her and nodded.

“No thanks necessary, Princess,” he replied quietly. Rhaella put a hand on his arm.

“You have my gratitude regardless. I dread to think of what would have happened if I had not found you out in the gardens. I can never repay you, uncle,” she said, looking up at him.

“You will never have to,” he said. Aemond bowed his head at Rhaenyra before bowing his head to Rhaella. “Goodnight, Princess.”

“Thank you, brother,” Rhaenyra said, escorting Rhaella to the Maester. Rhaella watched as Aemond left, the flash of silver hair disappearing as the doors closed behind him.

Rhaella was poked and prodded by the Maester and her mother, the former determining that any wounds she had suffered were non-fatal and bandaged them quickly. Rhaenyra helped Rhaella dress in a clean nightgown and guided her to bed. Rhaella watched as the Maester left and her mother climbed into bed next to her, her arms immediately encircling Rhaella. Sobs wracked her body and Rhaella barely registered the tears that fell on the top of her head from her mother.

“I thank the gods that you have returned to me, my darling Ella. I thank each and every one,” said Rhaenyra tearfully, kissing the top of her daughter’s head and squeezing her tightly. Rhaella was glad for the pressure as it aided in soothing her shaking body. Over the next several minutes, or hours, Rhaella eventually drifted off to sleep in her mother’s arms, repeating Aemond’s words over in her mind. Safe. She was safe.

[artficlly]

a dish served cold (mini series - part two)

Wild West Marvel AU

outlaw!bucky x reader after the murder of your pa, you go on a journey to find justice. fate brings you to crimson junction for a reason, and that reason is bucky barnes. 

Warnings: enemies to lovers, forced proximity, sexual tension, guns, knives, violence, mention of death of a parent, mention of gambling, mention of sex work, creepy men, period typical attitudes, outlaw bucky, protective bucky, bucky has issues, mention of robbery & crimes, mention of police (law), mention of bounty hunters, mention of flooding & drought, no use of y/n, lmk if i've missed anything

Word Count: 4.1k

A/N: chapter two!! please let me know if you're enjoying this wild ride so far!! if you're enjoying the western au stuff i have two one-shots (me & the devil and king of pentacles) that you should check out!! they are linked on my main masterlist <3 if you'd like a tag list let me know. sorry for any typos - not proof read.

main masterlist | series masterlist

If the town of Crimson Junction had thought the pack of unruly travellers had reached their peak of restlessness, they were sorely wrong. The locals were now truly at their wits end. Two afternoons had passed, and chaos had descended. Men turned to drink to quell their boredom and sin followed as it always did. Brawls had broke out in mass, the hotel in ruins as rooms were used as makeshift whorehouses and gambling dens. You were kept up all night as the screaming, laughter, and moaning ensued around you. Violence, indulgence, and wickedness ran rampant through the streets. You had grown to expect nothing less of the once sleepy town. 

The noise did not particularly bother you. You were kept up most nights regardless, tossing and turning at the thought of Barnes. Your dreams would replay the scene from the saloon, a moving picture beneath your eyelids. In your dream, you would beam at him, fluttering your eyelashes, while the outlaw watched on with his cold, blue eyes. He would stalk towards you, his callused hand stroking down your cheek. The dream you would lean into his touch, nuzzling his palm. Then he would wrap his hand around your throat, gripping you tightly. You would struggle, breathlessly clawing at him. His expression would be blank. Unphased.

You would awake, drenched in a cold sweat as breathless as in the dream. 

Even when you were awake, you’d think of him still. His visage was so clear in your mind that it drove you to near insanity. He clung to you like smoke, your thoughts utterly consumed by him. You’d recall how his knuckles grew white or how his jaw clenched. You’d stare up at the ceiling, watching the sun rise and fall. You’d trace the patterns on the wallpaper and the creases on the sheets. 

In the room beside you, the bed would squeak and bang. The force was so powerful and loud that the walls shook. Your hands would ghost across your bare skin, along your thighs, waist, and collarbone. Still, you’d think of him, Barnes. How long had he plagued your thoughts and your life? How long would he haunt you still? Was he the ghost, or were you? Permanently intertwined never to know a day of peace until your work was done. 

The next time your mind wandered to him, your finger tracing the contour of your lower lip, you bit down hard on that finger until you swore you could taste blood. 

—

When the news of a meeting made the rounds, you were relieved. The flowery wallpaper in your room was growing rather nauseating to stare at. A break from your slow spiral into lunacy was welcome news. Fresh air, you decided, would do you well, even if a rather suffocating and sticky heat had descended upon the canyons now that the rains had passed. 

The mud had begun to dry in the midday sun, a thick skin developing and some sections cracking. The dry weather was a good omen for once. You didn’t think Crimson Junction had ever prayed for the sun to return. The pastor announced that the roads were predicted to be cleared by the end of the week, and the entire crowd breathed a sigh of relief. You couldn’t help but think it was the most civil you had seen them in your short stay. Maybe it was that natural reaction of fearing God and therefore his preachers. Though, after all you had witnessed, you were surprised the small town even had a church. It was even stranger that it seemed Crimson Junction was led by one, as there was no other authority present.

Not even a sheriff's office. 

That did seem rather convenient. 

The pastor spoke of his gratitude for the travellers patience and his admiration for the workers and survivors. You did not find his words particularly interesting, no matter how heartfelt they were. You had spent countless Sundays in church; it was instilled within you to zone out at the droning words of a preacher. You had been a good girl, yes, but never a good Christian. Hands tightly clasped together and chin high, your eyes had remained locked onto the back of a familiar head. 

Barnes stood mingled within the crowd; you could see him well from your vantage point on the wooden porch of the general store. You stood alongside the other ladies who didn’t want to join the men crowded in the mud. You couldn’t help but notice how Barnes also did not seem to care for heartfelt speeches; instead, his attention was swayed away. You might have thought him to be bored of pastors and the almighty house of God, but you watched as his head repeatedly tilted in the direction of a small group of men who were huddled in front of an alley. The longer you watched the outlaw eye these men, the more you realised that the group of men eyed him back in return. 

The men looked intimidating, dressed in black, and armed to the teeth. Well-polished guns were slung over their backs, bandoliers over their chests, and hair slicked back as they snickered between each other in a cloud of smoke. Their grins were vicious, bearing their teeth like wild dogs. 

As the crowd dispersed, you moved with it. Through the layers of bodies, you watched as Barnes quietly dipped away in the direction of the stables and away from the group of men. He viewed them as a threat. Your curiosity peaked. The outlaw had always presented himself as untouchable, stone-like…an unmoveable force. It had never occurred to you that the most dangerous predator in the room might be prey to something bigger. 

As soon as you were sure that there was enough distance, you followed the smoke quietly and discreetly, listening to their distant conversation. The pack of men paused around the corner of the alley, half standing in the street. The rough stone wall snagged against your clothing as you pressed your back flush against the surface. You inched closer to the end of the alley, your ears perking as you listened closely.

“I reckon he’ll be headed further west, tryna disappear into the desert.” One man spoke.

“How ya know he ain’t goin’ up north to join up with that buddy o’ his?” Said another.

“Nah, last I heard, he was doubling back east to throw off the scent.”

Your brows furrowed at their words, and you sucked in a sharp breath. A part of you was paranoid that the men might hear your breathing, or perhaps even your thundering heart. Your nails dug into the wall, the stone indenting into your palms. Were they foolish enough to publicly speak their plans, unaware of how their voices carried? That indicated arrogance. Bigger fish, indeed. 

Your moment of thought was short-lived.

There was a slight rustle in your left ear, a shift in the air. With quick and calculated hands, you shifted your weight, your hand darting to your boot like a viper striking flesh. Within a split second, you had a small blade in your palm, the metal angled to harm as you drove it forward. The man next to you had no time to react, instead freezing in place as you pressed the blade against his throat. 

It took a few seconds for the two of you to process, your eyebrows knitting into a frown as you realised who had slid up beside you. Barnes. When had he sneaked up behind you? 

“Woah there, darlin’.” The outlaw grumbled lowly, lifting his hands in surrender. You held steady, scanning his face as you calculated your next move. You were a fool to think the outlaw would not notice you. A supposed simple girl and bride-to-be should not be stalking a group of dangerous individuals. It did raise the question of how long he had been watching you and assessing your character. Had he grown suspicious so easily after all the precautions and lies? 

“Apologies. You startled me.” You slipped back, taking a large step within eyesight of the street. The group of men had now walked away, a cloud of smoke in tow. You watched as they sauntered into the saloon. Releasing a sharp breath and relaxing your shoulders, you straightened your spine. Giving Bucky a convincing smile, you acted as if nothing had happened. 

“I can see that. And I can see ya weren’t jokin’ about bein’ able to handle yerself in these parts.” The outlaw huffed, his hands lowering, and his fingers twitched around his belt line. Monitoring him warily, you were ready to react to the slightest indication that he might draw. “But I’m beginnin’ to think ya weren’t too forthcomin’ about who ya really are in the saloon the other night.”

You angle your head at him, jaw tightening. You hoped you hadn’t wasted weeks of travel and planning for it all to be thrown away due to your misguised decision to play investigator. Your fist squeezed around your blade then, nostrils flaring as you allowed an intrusive, violent thought to flicker through your mind. This place, this evil place, and it’s vile people were already beginning to corrupt you. With a sigh, you tuck the knife back into your boot. “I don’t see how that’s any of your business, Mister.”

With your knife visibly out of sight, Barnes relaxes a little. His gaze swept over you, inspecting every detail of your outfit, before finally resting on your face. "Nah, it’s not… Just… don’t know why you’d be lookin’ to pick a fight with a group’a men like that.”

You viewed those men as competition, but you knew Barnes would not like your answer. So, you held your tongue, lifting your skirts as you turned to leave. The wooden boards squelched under your weight as you stepped further into the street. You’d never thought you would have missed the sand and dust, but you were beginning to find that you much preferred it to mud. 

“Y’know, if you’ve got a price on yer head… and I ain’t sayin’ you got one but rather… a hypothetical, if I may. If you were runnin’ from something, I wouldn’t be worryin’ about those boys back there. They're lookin’ for bigger fish to fry than yerself. I suspect they would not take a second look in yer direction, ‘least not all dressed up like a proper lady like you is. You had me fooled, that’s for sure.” 

Just as you had suspected. No wonder he had turned tail at the sight of them. You glanced over at him, observing as he kept up pace with you as you walked towards the hotel. “And what would you know of bounty hunters, Mr. Clark?”

He perked up at your words and let out a low whistle. “Best I not tell you, Miss.”

You smiled at that, then caught yourself. And idiot you were to find him somewhat charming, and an idiot you would continue to be if you were distracted. 

“Where’d a lady like yerself learn to arm herself with a knife?” Barnes seemed unnerved by your silence, instead filling it with a question. Uncharacteristic of him, at least from what you had interpreted from his nature so far. A change from his attitude in the saloon, that was for sure. 

“My Pa taught me,” you hummed in response. You couldn’t help but let a small, warm smile cross your lips at the thought of him. He had been a hardy man, always covered in sweat and ash. Still, the two of you had been close. He had always shown you respect and kindness, no matter your differences. “He and my Ma, well, they raised me to be a wife. My Ma wanted to set me up for a good life and hoped I would marry well.”

Your eyes cast over to the outlaw, who still followed your lead down the sunken street. He was enraptured by your words; his icy eyes locked onto your side profile. You continued your story, smile still tugging at the corners of your lips. “It was always about holdin’ one's posture straight, being charmin’ and pleasin’ to the eye. Cookin’, sewin’, washin’ and all that. My Pa, he said it was all well and good that I could balance books on my head while descendin’ a set of stairs or tap out a melody on a pianoforte, but it could only get one so far in life. Much to my Ma's horror, he taught me to handle a knife and guns too.”

Barnes was quiet, running his tongue over his bottom lip. You found yourself wondering if he had caring parents or if they had been strict and cruel. Were they still alive? Did they weep within every time they saw his face plastered on a bounty board? 

“Why ain’t your daddy escortin’ you now?” The outlaw finally spoke up, a cruel snip to his tone. 

Your eyes darted away from him, and your smile was replaced by a frown. “He’s dead.”

His steps falter, as if momentarily taken aback. 

“Oh–” is all he manages, stumbling over his words. His brows furrow. “I–I’m–”

“He was shot.” You cut over him. Taking a sharp, deep breath, you turn your head to look at him fully. You offer him a sympathetic look, then catch yourself. As if he were the one who needed comforting. “He was a blacksmith. I have no other male relatives, and of course my Ma and I can’t do the work to run the business.”

“That’s why yer marryin’.” Barnes states, his voice sounds thick and he is unable to catch your eye. There was a sense of guilt that seemed to engulf his very being, as if your story momentarily summoned old ghosts. Haunted. 

You were glad to see him squirm. 

“Yes.” You reply, shoulders lifting in a weak shrug. “We sold the forge, but we can’t access the money. My savings—our savings—will be for my husband to handle once we are married. I will send funds back to my Ma, and all will be well again.”

“I’m sorry.” The outlaw offers, brows still drawn inward, crowsfeet etched into his skin. “That’s hard.”

You tilt your head in contemplation, then offer a simple reply. “That’s life.”

It was strange to think how easy it was to pretend you were comfortable with your position. That would had simply… come to terms with your new life. It was easy to put on a play and show the world what they wanted. A woman in complete control, despite the misfortune that had followed her. 

The outlaw was right to feel unnerved by your casual disposition, because deep down, grief and rage boiled within you.

Pausing at a gap in the wooden boards, you raised your skirts in order to cross. Before you could walk into the mud, Barnes had circled around you. He offers a calloused hand, which you hesitantly took. With a strange gentleness to his grip, he guides you across the small gap onto the next row of wooden boards. 

“Well, I hope they find the bastard who shot him.” He offers. 

You almost laugh at the irony. Your head dips to hide the amused expression that slips past, strands of hair falling across your face. Barnes seems to interpret your actions as sorrow, as if the mention of your father had left you overcome with emotions. You do not protest as he shamefully leads you directly to the hotel porch, pausing to escort you up the slippery steps. 

“I hope so too.” You finally reply, your voice low, and drop his hand. Stepping into the hotel, you do not allow him time to speak another word.

—

A gentleman outlaw, or maybe he was an outlaw who happened to be a gentleman. You pondered this for a while as the heat beat down, leaving a thin layer of sweat across your body. Your horse swayed beneath you, hooves steady, as she navigated the desert terrain with ease. She was a piece of home; melancholy would linger in your gut whenever you breathed in her scent. Your fingers twisted through the mare’s mane, lacing together like a tightly woven braid. It was a problem to weigh, for sure. Could a gentleman be an outlaw? And what defines a gentleman? You knew of many supposed gentlemen who fell pray to indulgence, too many drinks, whores, and gambling. Gentlemen who reeked of desperation, sullen and shallow creatures. You had known gentlemen to be cruel, to be kind, to be ignorant, or even to be fools. In your mind, you could see no difference between a gentleman and an outlaw, because both could be evil as equally as they could be kind. 

Barnes had shown you kindness, yet he was a killer. He was an outlaw; that was printed as a fact, but could he be a gentleman too? You had always been taught to believe things in the world worked a certain way, ticking perfectly on time like a clock. Every second, the world would bring good things to good people and rain wrath upon those who sinned. But that illusion had been shattered many months ago when you were thrown into the world of men, unprotected and blind. Outlaw and gentleman, one in the same. It worried you.  

You had travelled no more than five miles from Crimson Juction before dismounting your horse. 

The roads had opened up early in the morning, giving you time to gather supplies, saddle your horse, and leave town unbothered. Your remaining time in the small crossroads town had been without event, sticking to your rooms and steering clear of drunk men and dangerous outlaws. Sometimes you sat at your window, watching the town move on with their days below you. You told yourself it was entertainment, a form of people watching, not a pathetic attempt to catch a glimpse of the dark-haired and broad-chested outlaw. 

You ran a hand across your mare's chestnut coat, leaning down as you traced your hand down to her fetlock. You squeezed her leg, clicking your tongue as a quick instruction for her to lift her hoof. You placed it solidly between your thighs, pushing your skirts out of the way. Blowing a loose strand of hair from your face, you squinted down at the dirt-packed hoof. Your index finger traced the metal shoe with your finger, feeling each divet of the nails.

The crunch of rock was what alerted you to his presence first, whipping your head around to see Barnes atop his horse, armed with one of his distant looks. You smiled and pretended to look pleasantly surprised, wondering if he truly believed you had not noticed him tailing you for the past two miles. Dropping the hoof, you praised your mare with a quick pat on her muscled shoulder. 

“Have you come to be my knight in shinin’ armour again?” You asked the outlaw, raising a hand to your brow, blocking the light from the sun. 

“Depends.” Barnes grunted, sliding from his saddle. “Somethin’ wrong with yer horse?”

You sigh, rubbing the sweat from your forehead. You twist around to look back at your mare, your skirts twirling around you as you motion towards her hoof. “She was limpin’, poor girl. I think her shoe is loose.”

“I can take a look, if’chu want?” Bucky offered. He was still as foreboding as you had remembered, his stature taller than and his build wider. The sleeves of his buttoned-up shirt were rolled up to the elbow, revealing toned forearms kissed by the sun. 

“Oh. Could you? I would be grateful.” Your hand comes to rest on your chest, and the outlaw grunts with a shrug. You step out of his way as he advances towards your mare, whispering to her quietly as he takes her hoof in his large palms to inspect. 

You watch him, wondering if he was blinded by the sun or simply by you. He hadn’t once stopped to ask questions before putting himself in such a vunrable position, nor did his eyes drift towards the rifle tucked neatly into your saddle. How funny it was that he did not enquire why you were travelling alone on horseback, when mere days before you had told him your husband-to-be had paid for your safe arrival by coach. 

“I don’t think there's anythin’ wrong with the shoe. Maybe there's a rock or somethin’ under all that dirt.” He mused and pressed his thumbs inward to see if your mare jerked in reaction. Still, not once did he look up, and not once did he question his safety. He did not seem to notice as you silently slid up besides your mare, tugging the rifle from the saddle.

You held your breath as you circled back around, the wooden stock of the gun placed firmly against your shoulder as you aimed the barrel at his head. 

“Are yer sure she was limpin’? Maybe it’s the other side.” The outlaw muses, engrossed in his own thoughts.

“You could check if you like, Mr. Barnes.” You reply, your voice as sweet as ever. 

It takes him a moment to click. He shakes his head, then freezes. “I ain’t never said my name was Barnes.”

You hold steady, digging your boots into the soil as Bucky slowly straightens up. His back faces you, and you can picture his muscled back beneath. Somehow the outlaw appeared more foreboding while collected and calm. He gradually turned. Maybe he had made himself smaller in your previous meetings so as not to scare you. Your heart thumped wildly, sweat slicking along your palms. He met your gaze, careful and slow, as his body faced you, hands raised in a quiet surrender. 

You had to pray you weren’t being overconfident in your approach, or this could go very badly. 

“I knew your name long before we met.” Your hands remained still, and the gun remained aimed. You observe him through the sights as he arches an eyebrow. 

“Did I do somethin’ to you?” There was an unexpected anguish in his voice that hit you solidly in the gut. Your jaw clenches and your teeth grit as you remain silent. You had practiced this moment in your mind countless times, orchestrating your every movement and perfectly articulating your feelings and your story. But your jaw remained wired shut, any plans thwarted, because you were horrified to find you were teetering on the edge of sobbing. 

“You know, I thought we was startin’ to become friends.” He speaks up once more, daring to take a step forward. You hiss through your teeth, striding towards him to ram the barrel into his chest.

“Drop your guns. Slowly.” You instruct. 

There is a long instant of silence between the two of you, only the slight howl of the wind through the vast rock canyons. His movements slowed once more, and his hands hesitantly dropped to his belt. Your finger ghosts over the trigger as he carefully removes his guns, dropping them to the ground with a soft thud. 

With one sweep of your foot, you kick the two pistols away, backing off a few paces. With a tut, you motion for him to step further away from the horses. He turns away from you, walking in the direction you indicated. With a sigh, he speaks up, cutting through the tense silence. “We can talk about this, ya know. Before you go puttin’ a bullet in me, sweetheart.” 

You glare at him before huffing. “Get on the ground, lay on your stomach or I’ll shoot.” 

Only as his body lay flat on the ground did you drop your aim. Still eyeing him, you back up towards your horse and grab the rope looped around the horn of your saddle. Your heartbeat nearly deafened you as you fumbled with the length, nerves beginning to show. You didn’t know what he made of you or what he thought you were. But now there were real stakes at hand—no opportunities to mess up. 

Perhaps you were too preoccupied by those thoughts, or maybe your pulse had truly made you deaf. You didn’t notice the cloud of dust or the pounding of hooves until it was too late. 

Abandoning the rope, you gripped your rifle once more, aiming it at the small group of men who had appeared from the canyons. Chest heaving, you watched as the leader smiled, his slicked-back hair obscured beneath a wide-brimmed hat. Spitting on the ground, he looked between you and Barnes, who remained on the ground, but his head was turned to watch. 

“Good catch, Miss. Too bad I’m gonna have to take him off yer hands.” 

PART THREE

[saurongorthaur9]

The Truth That Binds

Rating: M

Summary: As Halbrand heals from his wound, he and Galadriel grow closer, and Galadriel makes a confession of hope that turns into one of love. But Halbrand insists that Galadriel make him a promise: a promise to remember a truth that will bind her for all time. My first Haladriel/Saurondriel fic!

Also available to read on AO3

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The light that danced on the Glanduin that morning was a silver brighter than burnished elven steel, the trees across the river were a display of every shade of green, and the lupins that grew along the path were the most beautiful purples and blues, an ocean of color that wrapped around Galadriel from every side. The air from the west was wholesome and fresh, and despite the new whispers of war from the south, Galadriel felt a deeper peace than she had known for a thousand years. And her heart told her that she owed that newfound peace to the man walking companionably by her side.

Halbrand had been instructed by his healers to take a daily walk along the banks of the Glanduin to regain his strength after his close brush with death. Already, the deathly pallor that had clung to his cheeks during their ride to Eregion had retreated, the red-brown luster of his hair had returned, and he stood straight and tall once again. Galadriel attested his swift recovery from the terrible wound to the strength and nobility of his will, yet more proof that he truly was a king of Men.

She glanced at him, her eyes fondly tracing the profile that she had grown to know so well in these past months since their chance meeting upon the sea. Most mornings she accompanied him on his walk, having little else to do while awaiting the High King's arrival, and though she and Halbrand rarely spoke on those occasions, it did not seem to Galadriel that they needed to. Never before had she met another being whose very soul seemed to be so attuned to hers. Ever since the battle and that quiet moment afterwards beside him in the forest, she felt somehow bound to him in a way she could not yet name, and new thoughts and feelings stirred deep inside her every time their eyes met, filling all her being – body and soul – with licking flames. Yet, even so, she could not help but notice that for the last several days, Halbrand's thoughts seemed to be turned elsewhere, to concerns veiled from her mind, yet she could guess that his thoughts strayed to his people in the south, homeless and adrift, and the orcs filling the land that he should be ruling.

They reached a point in the trail where the path wove into a shaded glen. It was quiet and isolated, hidden by the ring of linden and beech trees from the tall towers of the city. In the middle of the grove was an elegant wooden bench, surrounded by the sweet-smelling lupins. It had become a wordless custom between them to linger a while here, watching the river flow lazily by as they basked in one another's company.

For a while they became lost in the companionable silence, surrounded by the murmur of wind in the trees all around and the soft lap of water along the bank. But then Halbrand breathed a deep sigh. "It truly is beautiful here," he murmured.

Galadriel looked at him. There was awe in his gaze, but also a longing, and beneath that, something akin to hunger that flickered deep in his green eyes. She looked around at the aestival loveliness of their surroundings, and her mouth twisted slightly. "You should see Lindon," she replied in the same quiet tone that he had used.

He shot her a look, eyebrow raised. "Is that an invitation, Galadriel?" he asked, and there was a note of a familiar teasing tone in his voice that made warmth rise in Galadriel's chest.

Her own gaze was steady and serious. "No," she said. "But with the new threat of Adar and the orcs in the south, it may be that my High King will wish to ally himself with the King of the Southlands. In that case, you may very well see the heart of elvendom in Middle-earth."

"I think I should like that," he answered, his voice distant.

"To see my family's home or to ally your people to mine?" she asked.

He didn't answer, but he gazed across the river silently, his body strangely still.

Galadriel followed his gaze out across the water. "You worry for your people, do you not?" she said softly. "Now that your wound is healing and your body grows strong again, you will leave Eregion and return to them soon." As she said the words, she felt the heaviness of them and the shortness of time sink into her heart. She had known that such must come to pass and that the day that their paths finally diverged could not be staved off forever. Her soul felt full of a thousand thoughts and emotions that she could not bring herself to admit. Yet, the silence between them screamed at her to say something.

"Halbrand," she said quietly.

He turned his eyes to her, the intensity of his full gaze settling on her face.

"Halbrand," she said again, and his name on her lips felt like a prayer. "I do not truly think you know all that you have done for me."

His lips twisted into that familiar wry smile. "I'm the one with a crown and a people again because of you," he said.

"Yes," she acknowledged solemnly, "but you have given me just as much." Her eyes wandered across the river once again, to the swaying trees on the distant bank. "For a thousand years, I had been driven by naught but by a desire for vengeance and a creeping dread that freezes the very heart. But hope? Hope was something I believed had died inside me with my brother and my cousins and all else whom I lost in the War." Her fingers wound around the dagger hilt at her belt, the touch of it more familiar than anything else in her world. "Deep down, I do not know if I truly wished to find Sauron and finally end his evil, for if I did, what else would I have to live for? My vengeance would be put to rest, and then there would be nothing."

She could feel his gaze on her, and she turned back to him. "I cannot explain it, but your presence has filled a gaping hole in my soul that I did not know could ever be mended." She stuttered, aware of how vulnerable and intimate were the words she spoke, but it was as if a fire were lit now in her heart and she could not let it burn out or a part of her would wither. "Halbrand, when I leapt from that ship, I do not know what it was I sought. But I found in you that which I did not think to seek: purpose, and with it again…hope."

Her fingers sought his and grasped his hand. The burning inside her was growing, and she needed him to understand. "For a millennia, all that my heart sought was death and destruction – of evil, yes, but death and destruction still. I needed to know that I had more left to me than seeking to destroy, that I could also seek to build and to grow and to mend." She felt tears forming upon her lashes, threatening to spill down her narrow cheeks. "I needed to know that I could seek life beyond my endless quest for death." She squeezed his hand. "You gave me that, Halbrand, and it shall ever be in my heart, whether you are at my side or on a distant shore of Middle-earth."

She felt as if she were sinking into his eyes, and through his eyes into the depths of his being. She brought up her hand and gently stroked her fingertips over the rough stubble of his cheeks and let them brush through the edges of his brown locks. Her other hand trembled in his.

He lifted his own hand, mirroring her, and she felt his calloused blacksmith fingers brushing along her cheekbones and slipping deep into her hair. His gaze remained locked with hers, the intensity of their stares perfectly matched.

The heat had settled deep in Galadriel's stomach, burning, burning. As if of their own accord, her eyes darted momentarily down to the curve of his lips then back up to his eyes. As brief as the moment was, however, Halbrand saw. "Galadriel," he said softly, and there was something like a quiet warning in his voice.

Somehow, their bodies had drawn closer, she did not know how. But now they sat so close together that her leg was all but brushing his and their still-joined hands rested in the minute gap between their hips.

For a moment, doubt seized her, thoughts of duties and her place among elvenkind and the distance that would soon separate her and the King of the Southlands. But she was Galadriel, daughter of the golden house of Finarfin, and it was not for others to decide how she wove her own fate. She leaned forward.

To her surprise, Halbrand stopped her.

"Galadriel," he said again, her name both a reverence and a warning. "Are you sure you want this?"

She tilted her chin proudly, her voice strong again. "I have walked Middle-earth since the first sunrise," she said, "and in that time, I have pursued that which I desired and let no Man or Elf stop me."

There it was again: that wry smile that danced at the corners of his lips and formed soft crow's feet at the corners of his eyes. "That is something to which I can readily attest," he answered. "Even when I first saw you upon that raft, I knew you were someone who chose her own path." His eyes grew briefly distant, lost to either thought or memory, but when they focused on her again, they burned with a new intensity. His fingers tightened in her hand.

"Galadriel," he said. "Tell me, do you love me?"

Her gaze did not waver and her chin remained tilted, confident and strong. "Yes," she answered simply.

His lips tightened, but she could not tell what emotion it was that danced behind the light of his eyes. "Do you love me, Galadriel? Not the King of the Southlands. Not the blacksmith of Númenor. Not the man who saved your life? But me? Do you truly love who I am?"

She could tell the question was intensely important to him, that it touched something that gnawed at the very core of his soul. She cupped his cheek, re-teaching her fingers how to be tender after fighting for so long. "Yes, Halbrand, I love you," she answered. "Not for your armies and your kingdoms, not for any debt owed, but for you."

He reached up and took her hand from his face and held both her hands tightly in his lap. His stare seemed to be boring a hole straight through her to her soul. "Can you promise me something, Galadriel?" he asked. "I need you to make me a promise."

For a moment, Galadriel hesitated, knowing with intimate pain the price that could come with an oath. Yet her resolve hardened at the strange agony she saw on his face as he waited for her answer. "What is it that you would have me promise?"

He kept hold of her hands tightly. "I ask only that you promise to remember this moment and what I am about to tell you." He adjusted himself on the bench to face her entirely, his leg pressing flush against hers. "There may come a day when you doubt what I am about to say, when you wonder if I told you the truth. And I tell you, Galadriel, this is the truth. Whatever else you may come to believe, remember that in this moment, I told you the truth."

His fingers seemed to burn against her skin, even as his eyes seemed to burn against her face. "Galadriel, whatever else you may ever believe about me, whatever else about me you may someday learn, I need you to know that I have not been false with you. This, Galadriel, this…" He lifted her hand and placed it against his chest over his heart. "…this is real. This is who I am, truly me. I have worn no mask in your presence. I need you to promise me that you will always remember that I told you this and that it was the truth."

She did not understand, but she understood that this promise was more important to him than anything he had ever asked of her before. She spread her fingers over his heart. "I promise," she said steadily. "I promise to remember for all time, Halbrand."

Finally, he relaxed, and his fingers around her hand were gentle once again. His shoulders eased, as if a great weight had suddenly fallen from them. For a moment, Galadriel thought she felt something brush against her mind, like a fellow powerful will, but she dismissed it as a part of her own complicated thoughts, for only her people and powers higher than they could touch minds in such a manner.

"Are you content?" she asked.

"Yes," he sighed. "Yes, I am content."

"Then shall I pursue what I desire?"

The smirk that crossed his lips this time was playful and mischievous, and his eyes glimmered.

Galadriel reach up and twined her fingers through his hair, and then she pressed her lips to his.

It was as if colors that she had never before conceived of burst into being and sensations of which she had never dreamed were birthed inside of her, light and time and darkness across eons converging upon one another in this one moment and place. Galadriel kissed him with the fire of the Noldor and the pain of the last three thousand years and the hope that he had brought back into her life. Inside her and all around her, a Song seemed to rise and reverberate, as if the Great Music at the heart of all existence was blossoming into life.

For a moment, Halbrand's lips were still against hers, almost as though he couldn't believe the kiss was real, but then with a surge of passion and fierce hunger, he lifted his hands to bury them deep in her hair on either side of her face, and at the same time kissed her back with ravening desire. He kissed her as if he were lost in the shadows of the deepest caves in the heart of the Hithaeglir and she was the only light that could guide him back home. He kissed her as if he were a starving man and she the only feast that could sate him. He kissed her as if this were his one and only chance and he might never touch her again.

His stubble tickled pleasantly against her cheeks, but his lips were soft and clever against hers. His fingers carded deeply through her hair, and she shivered with involuntary pleasure as they stroked along the sensitive curve and taper of her pointed ears. At the same time, his lips parted, needing more than a superficial touch, and she felt the silky glide of his tongue over her lower lip as a reverberation that trembled all the way down to her core.

Her own response was immediate. She seized a handful of his hair and pulled him flush against her, parting her own lips in both an invitation and a claim, twining her tongue around his. Momentarily, he seemed caught off guard by her boldness, but then she felt his lips twist against hers into a smirk and he was kissing her back with the exact same abandon, refusing to let her throw him off.

There was too much distance between them, still too much. They were turned towards each other on the bench, their legs brushing together, but it was not enough. Skillful and graceful as any move she might have made on the battlefield, she kept her lips crushed against his as she pushed herself up and pivoted in a single movement, landing squarely in his lap, with her knees pressed against his hips on either side. He grunted in brief surprise, which made her smile, but then he was back to ravaging her with his mouth. His right hand remained buried in her long golden hair, cupping her cheek, but his other hand began to explore down her lithe form, gliding over her shoulders, then down her back, and finally over the swell of her hips and backside, where it settled, warm and firm, holding her body to himself.

She pressed her chest to him, leaning fully against him, and wrapped one arm about his broad shoulders. Her other hand explored every texture and feature of the face she had come to know so well by sight, seeking to memorize every line and angle. His tangled hair tickled against the back of her knuckles. He smelled of blacksmith iron and sweet wood smoke and the herbal ointments that the healers had used on his broken body. She remembered sitting next to him during those harrowing first few nights in Eregion, when it had been unclear if the souring of his wound ran too deep even for elvish medicine. She remembered further back to the days spent riding from the ruined Southlands and those long dark nights when she had forced both herself and the two steeds past the point normal endurance, terrified that if she stopped for even the briefest respite that Halbrand's life would be the cost, a price for which she would never forgive herself. She remembered how each stride of her horse's gallop had reverberated with the pounding of her heart when she had looked back on the final stretch of the ride to see Halbrand slumped motionless over his saddle and her devastating fear that she had lost this man with his charming smirk and his enigmatic eyes just when she was beginning to realize how much he meant to her.

But she had not lost him. They had survived, both of them, through the storm on the raft and through the battle against the orcs and through the torment of the fire mountain and through the fear and pain of their long ride to Eregion. He was safe, and he was hers at last.

As if his mind were at one with hers, he rose suddenly, lips still passionately pressed to hers, holding her slender body easily in his arms. She felt him stepping forward then bending, and the next thing she knew, he was laying her down in the fragrant grass and he himself was bent over her, his arms planted on either side of her head and his knees at her hips. Finally, he pulled his lips from hers in a slow, tantalizing caress and stared down at her, awe and lust mingling in his green eyes at the sight of her laid out beneath him with her shining golden hair pooled about her in the lush green grass. She stared up at him, undaunted but utterly mesmerized by the rugged, handsome king blocking out the sunlight from her view and casting her in shadows upon the ground.

"Galadriel," he whispered, as one might say the names of the Valar.

She cupped his cheek tenderly. "My king," she whispered back. "Oh, Halbrand."

He dipped forward to pull a long, lingering kiss from her lips, which sent shivers of liquid pleasure dancing down Galadriel's body. But now his hands were busy about her waist, loosening her belt and the elven silks in which she was draped. Heat steadily rose in Galadriel's chest, her breathing quickening rapidly. Her own fingers darted to his waist, undoing the leather belt clasped about his trim middle. She tugged at the bothersome fabric of his tunic, fingers desperate for skin, and he shrugged fluidly, helping her to free himself of the garment which he discarded on the grass beside them, leaving his broad chest bare.

Galadriel gazed up at him in ardent fascination then reached out a hand to place her palm flat against his chest. Thick coarse hair scratched against her skin. His breathing was quick, and she could feel his heart pulsing wildly.

But then he was bending over her again, and she felt her belt slip free under his fingers. In a moment of pure instinct, her hand darted out to stop him, and they froze, both their hands resting over the hilt of her brother's dagger.

She stared up wide-eyed into his face, frozen with sudden dread, and he stared down at her, still and quiet while he waited for her to face that dread. Her lips trembled. But then she slowly drew her hand away, giving him silent permission to continue.

Softly and almost reverently, he slipped the belt off her body and laid it, with the dagger, gently on top of his tunic. Just as gently, he ran his fingertips down her arm in a soft reassurance that made her heart tremble. But then his lips parted and just like that his passion was back, and he was tugging at the dress encasing her body. Eagerly, he pulled it off of her, allowing it to join his tunic in the grass, and leaving her utterly unclothed to his gaze.

The touch of the grass and wind and the sunlight felt strange against her naked flesh, but a sense of calm and peace wrapped all around her. Everything about this moment – both the laying aside of her dagger and her nakedness in that serene glen – felt so right, pieces of a puzzle coming together that she had waited years to find. She felt no fear or shame, only the intense burning in her core of how right this moment felt, of how right he felt.

His gaze said it all. He stared at her as if he could devour her with his eyes, his gaze sweeping down her entire body with reverence and hunger, from her white shoulders and breasts down to the bare curve of her hips and thighs and the golden curls between her legs. There was no need for him to speak, for his eyes said everything, and Galadriel reveled in the glory of her king's worshipful gaze.

With a quick, almost desperate movement, he freed himself of his trousers then stretched his own lean naked body over hers.

She gasped heavily at the sudden sensation of all of him, his heat and his weight, pressed down upon her own body. But he gave her no time to consider everything that was happening, for his lips descended upon her again, this time pressing everywhere he could reach. She arched her back, baring her throat, as his mouth found her pulse, first sucking with his lips, then scraping gently with his teeth, then laving with the flat of his tongue, drawing soft keening sounds from her lips. Her core pulsed and burned. Every inch of her yearned for him.

Down his lips strayed, and she wrapped her arm tight around his shoulder, caressing the lines of his muscles on his powerful back. Her other hand tangled in his hair, keeping his face pressed to her skin and silently encouraging his worshipful attention. He kissed along her shoulder, then along her collarbone, his hands dancing as skillfully along her body as she had seen him handle steel in the Númenorean forge. He shaped her pleasure just as expertly as he had shaped the armor she wore into battle. Her heart was pounding so hard that she knew he must be able to feel it.

He hand glided back up to her ribs where he cupped her breast easily, squeezing gently. His palm felt so large over her soft flesh, and she trembled all over, another soft sound escaping her that turned into a helpless whine as his clever fingers began to toy with her hardened nipple. He rolled the sensitive rosy nub between his thumb and forefingers, drawing out sensations that spiked all the way through Galadriel's body. Her back instinctively arched further, pressing herself into his hand, and his other palm slipped beneath her, resting against the exposed small of her back to support her frame.

Without warning, he lowered his mouth to her other breast, sucking her nipple in between his lips suddenly and causing her to gasp and squirm beneath him. His tongue played with her, causing her to whine and rub her thighs together with the building need. And then, curse his impudence, she felt the smirk of his lips against her breast and she knew he was pleased at the reaction he was dragging out of her. Well, if that was the way her roguish king was going to play…

He nearly choked as her own slender fingers grasped him firmly between his legs, and now it was her turn to smirk at the truly delightful whimper that he released into the world. His head fell back, his eyelids drooping languidly, his mouth hanging open, the long line of his throat exposed. As she began to stroke him, his fingers knotted tightly in the grass at her side and his body convulsed beautifully above her with pleasure.

Then his eyes snapped back open, piercing down upon her suddenly and fiercely. For a moment, it seemed that a light came on behind the veneer of his eyes, a flame as bright and consuming as the fire mountain that had devastated his Southlands. His hands grasped her hips and their eyes locked. The very air around them seemed to take a deep, shuddering breath of anticipation.

Galadriel's head fell back, hair spilling wildly around her, as Halbrand joined their bodies together as one. All around, it seemed there was a rainbow of light, more brilliant and beautiful than anything she had ever seen. Time and the expanse of Eä itself wheeled around them, but they were untouched by it, lost in their own universe where two bodies moved together in perfect harmony and two souls clung to each other for understanding that only the other could give. Their lips met again, and they kissed and wept crystal tears that mingled on each other's cheeks, and when Galadriel's pleasure crested and crashed about her, she grasped wildly at his shoulders and cried out his name, and when he followed her shortly after, he buried his face in the golden pool of her hair and panted raggedly as their heartbeats gradually slowed against one another's breasts.

Afterwards, he wrapped her in his arms and tugged her gently to his own body, and she rested her head on his chest as soft warmth and contentment and a peace like nothing she had ever known settled all around her like a blanket woven of down. The circle of blue sky above them and the ring of trees sang with the Music of which the world was made. Halbrand hummed deep in his throat, a strange tune that Galadriel assumed must be some song of the Southlands but at the same time, it was oddly familiar to her, as if she had heard it sometime in her distant past. Her hand gently stroked the ragged red scar on his side, and she thanked whatever fate it had been that brought them together on that raft all those months ago.

~o~o~o~

Less than a month later, Galadriel confronted Halbrand with a scroll of lineage in her hand, only a little ways down the bank from the place where they had joined body and soul, and she saw his familiar warm eyes turn cold and ancient and terrible. There, he offered to make her his queen for all time, and she had placed her dagger against his throat and refused him, even as it tore her soul in half to do so.

And there, on the bank of the Glanduin, only a few days later, she came across the glade of fragrant lupins where her abhorred enemy had laid her down so tenderly in the grass and given all of himself to her, even as he had also taken everything from her. She fell to her knees there in the grass, wrapping her arms about herself, and sobbed until her throat was ragged and no more tears would come.

She wept from the pain of betrayal and horror, she wept for the loss of her dear friend and companion, she wept for the knowledge that never again would she feel the peace and the understanding that she had only known in his presence, and she wept from the part of her that now yearned for him with an aching need that could never again be sated. All around her, the sunlight on the water and the shadowing trees and the lupins seemed to have lost all their luster, plunging her into a world wrapped only in hues of grey.

And there, in the grey and the silence, she remembered his voice and his fingers in her hair and the promise he had made her swear to him: that she would remember the truth he had told her, that the man she had loved had been real. It was that knowledge that pained her more than anything else and dragged from her the most bitter tears. It was the truth that would bind her in sorrow and shame and pain until the last days of her elven years were finally spent.

It was the truth that she had looked directly into the soul of her greatest Enemy and desperately loved what she found there.

[feral-childs-word]

"I love you"

🪷 Lovesick prince x warlord reader

🌺 Warning- kidnaping, blood, menton of sex

🪷 I love men ❤️❤️

🌺 This was a fast because I got sick and tired of the fact I had to stare at this work for a long time and it honestly pisses me off so badly.

being a prince was hard. Especially being the first son of a king from a rich kingdom.

Kaiden was the first born of his 4 siblings. But as a first born his greed was greater. Wanting the attention and riches just for him.

His family is arrogant mainly like himself because of the riches they possess.

Everything was perfect for Kaiden

Until you came into the picture.

The warlord of a faraway kingdom. People say you were born with the gift of dragons blood running in your veins. Others say you possess the power of a demon. But they were just rumors.

Kaiden heard of you how could he not? People speak of you like you were some god giving hope and a life for the poor and helpless. But for the rich you were like a mad dog spilling blood just for the fun of it.

Kaiden couldn't think of anything else at the moment you toward him. The blood of the soldiers that dared to come across you now dripping and drying slowly on your armor.

The places he used to enjoy now engulfed in flames that danced in the night sky.

Your army cheering while they hunt like they were rabid dogs also drinking and eating the food that they refused to burn goes to waste.

Finding out that the others the rich and the royals locked themselves in a large cell made with gold hiding from the bloodshed and punishment. Leaving only Kaiden behind to fend for himself.

Know matter how he screamed begged and kicked it was all in death's ears to you as you dragged him away from the place he calls home.

During his time with you to the kingdom that was yours up from the mountains in the north. He rather say it was enjoyable.

The men are polite and kind to him asking him if he needed anything like their mother's were the ones that raised them and not their fathers.

They offer him food and water time to time not minding that they are giving a portion of their food.

But you on the other hand. You were so sweet it made his heart flutter unlike any man he was asked out before.

You were absolutely handsome. Your face when you took your blood coated helmet was magnificent to see while on the bumpy horse ride. Kaiden looked at every inch of your face. To each big and small scars to the structure of your face seeing how your face structure was perfect.

But Kaiden was stubborn and refused to admit he was in love. But he sometimes couldn't resist.

Like one day while in the deep woods in the north it was winter time that day and everything was freezing and the snow was slowly falling. Your men and yourself didn't mind the cold but Kaiden living in such a warm area he didn't need to be worried about getting cold up until now. So being the gentleman you are despite being a feral beast in the field gave him your coat.

For you it was a decent size coat but for Kaiden it was fucking huge. Engulfing him the moment you place it in his shoulders.

It smelled so nice. Like pine wood and the first smell of winter for some odd reason. Surprisingly it wasn't a metallic smell of blood or something else.

Clutching on that coat like it was his last life. His head swooned from the kind gesture.

He still wears that coat to this day.

Least to say Kaiden was awe struck once seeing your kingdom.

It was beautiful, lovely, and alive. Little children running across the street not caring for the world. Farmers working on the fields or their cattle for the upcoming winter.

Ladies carrying fruits, pastries, and other things to their loved ones or the ones not holding anything returning from work or just watching their child play.

It was so much more lively unlike his. He remembers how poor and desperate his people were. Begging for anything to survive. Yet his father paid no attention to any of them and drank himself drunk.

Once inside your castle he was surprised how there weren't many servants. Only a few maids and butlers.

But he found out later that it was because of an issue that happened a couple months back.

Kaiden didn't mind. He was to in-love with you to care about the rumors and whispers. he already saw how sweet you were.

He didn't mind if he was married to you which was only so his father could give what you wanted which his father was still refusing like always.

Kaiden not caring for his kingdom anymore. He was ecstatic hearing the news that he was marrying you. Like this was all planned before hand.

The maids cleaning him up and dressing him in such a pretty wedding dress and dazzling makeup. He felt beautiful like those princesses in those fairytale books.

His pretty black hair pinned up into a braided bun. The makeup showing how beautiful he truly was and his white gown decorated in dazzling white opals and diamonds with patters that were hand made.

Now he truly felt like a wife as he walked down the aisle. The dukes, duchess, and even your men were there watching him walk down the aisle. While you were standing there with the priest.

The love was stronger for Kaiden when he looked at you while the priest was talking. Even when you placed that beautiful handcrafted ring on his finger and the plain ring on your finger. And especially when you both shared a kiss when everything was said.

Now Kaiden was dubbed queen of the land not a prince anymore.

And he felt pride in that despite being kidnapped and forced to leave his hometown.

He gets anything he wants

All the riches, the food, clothes, and all the outings, and even the sex!

No matter what or the circumstance he will always be by his husband's side even when he has to get his soft hands dirty if someone dares to try to take his lover away.

[inthedayswhenlandswerefew]

Now I’m Covered In You [Chapter 3: Blood Moon]

Series summary: Aemond is a prince of England. You are married to his brother. The Wars of the Roses are about to begin, and you have failed to fulfill your one crucial responsibility: to give the Greens a line of legitimate heirs. Will you survive the demands of your family back in Navarre, the schemes of the Duke of Hightower, the scandals of your dissolute husband, the growing animosity of Daemon Targaryen…and your own realization of a forbidden love?

Series title is a lyric from: Ivy by Taylor Swift.

Series warnings: Language, sexual content (18+), dubious consent, miscarriage, pregnancy, childbirth, violence, warfare, murder, alcoholism, sexism, infidelity, illness, death, only vaguely historically accurate, lots of horses!

Word count: 6.2k.

Link to chapter list (and all my writing): HERE.

Taglist: @borikenlove @myspotofcraziness @ipostwhatifeel @teenagecriminalmastermind @quartzs-posts @tclegane @poohxlove @narwhal-swimmingintheocean @chainsawsangel @itsabby15 @serrhaewin @padfooteyes @arcielee @travelingmypassion @what-is-originality @burningcoffeetimetravel @blackdreamspeaks @anditsmywholeheart @aemcndtargaryen @jvpit3rs @sarcastic-halfling-princess @flowerpotmage @ladylannisterxo @thelittleswanao3 @elsolario @tinykryptonitewerewolf @girlwith-thepearlearring​ @minttea07 @trifoliumviridi @deltamoon666 @mariahossain​

Let me know if you’d like to be added! 💜

“I wish you could join us,” Nico says, almost sulks, snow catching in her hair. She’s riding a gorgeous white mare that the Duke of Hightower purchased for her. He’s in no hurry to gift you a horse. King Viserys—epochs ago, on your wedding day, on the blood-orange July afternoon when you looked into Aegon’s glassy, shadow-ringed eyes and knew exactly what sorts of demons you’d be sharing your life with—once promised you an Andalucian for each child you gave your husband. He hasn’t mentioned it since. It’s slipped his mind, most likely; that’s what happens to the king’s notions that concern the Greens. They stumble around in his skull for a while, find a window, jump from the ledge and free-fall into oblivion.

You smile up at Nico with your feet planted firmly on the ground like fertile roots and a hand resting on your belly. Five months along, over halfway there, farther than you’ve ever been before. The season is winter, but you feel like spring. You feel like blossoms unfurling, like ivy scaling walls of frozen stone. “Next year, with any luck.”

“But what if I’m with child by then?”

“Then you’ll get to return the favor and gallantly wave me off as I gallop into the distance, a vision of Boudicca herself.”

“Didn’t that story end with mass murder and suicide?”

“Nico, not everything needs to be said out loud.”

She laughs, raucous and jarring. Horses’ ears go back; crows take flight from stripped trees. It’s Christmas, and that means it’s also boar hunting season. The feast tonight will require a boar’s head to be served—a tradition that dates back to ancient Norse pagans, to faiths of earth and thunder and sea—and the court has assembled to procure one, the men armed with spears, the women riding along to cheer them on, hounds braying and circling agitatedly, servants sprinting around with jugs of wine. “Alas,” Nico says. “I cannot help it. I am Italian.”

Then she reels her mare around and trots off to join the hunting party. Once not so long ago, you had no true friends here. Now you have at least one. Two, if you count Aemond…although you can’t decide if Aemond is a friend. Sometimes he feels like less, other times much more. He grows close and then is far away again, a tide that’s always a few hours from receding. You watch Nico depart with hardly any heartache. Your relative incapacitation will be finished soon enough, your position vindicated. The clock is ticking.

Daeron compliments you as he canters by on Tessarion, heavy hooves leaving impact craters in the snow: “Princess, that’s a lovely gown.” Lavender, purple, the color of royalty, a declaration of your own worth. That’s not something you can rely upon others giving you. You’re between worlds at the moment: neither fully Navarran nor English, not an outsider nor a future queen.

“Thank you, brother. Good luck!”

Daemon reins up beside you, peering down with glittering dark eyes. When anyone ventures too close to Caraxes—whether horse or human—he snaps at them like a wolf. Surely there is no beast better suited to its master. “I think you’d look better covered in red. Isn’t that the color of your people, Navarre?”

“Prince Daemon,” you purr, one hand still on your belly, your victory in progress. “Enjoy the hunt. I know you get restless when you haven’t murdered anything in a while.”

He should quip back, but he doesn’t. He just grins, his gaze locked on yours; and his grin stretches wider until it sends a bolt down your spine like cold lightning. You have the sudden, dreadful impression that there’s a joke you aren’t in on. “You have no idea.”

Caraxes squeals and jerks back his head as Vhagar shoves between you, massive withers and haunches making space where none existed before. Caraxes nips Vhagar’s shoulder, drawing blood; Vhagar snorts in reply, a low rumble like a storm. Caraxes retreats, ears flattened, but Daemon pitches you one last crooked smirk as he leaves, a threat, an oath.

“Perhaps we should serve Daemon’s head at dinner,” Aemond says.

“He certainly looks like a pig to me.”

“You aren’t too disappointed, I hope. To have to stay behind.”

You smile, petting Vhagar’s silky muzzle. She has a white blaze down the front of her face, white stockings like patches of snow on rich spring soil. “It’s temporary.” What was Aemond like on my wedding day? You try to remember. All you can conjure is a vision of him staring at the floor as you linked your trembling hands with Aegon’s and the priest spoke, as if the match was so ill-fated he could not bear to witness it. It took you a year to learn that he didn’t disapprove of you after all. Something else weighed on him that day, something else dragged down his eyes like an anchor moors a ship.

Aegon passes you both on Sunfyre. “I’ll bring you back something, wife!” he vows, swaying drunkenly in the saddle, his chaotic silver hair shagging in his eyes. Fortunately, Sunfyre seems aware of his rider’s limitations; his steps are lithe and cautious, almost timid. His coat is a river of gold beneath grey skies. When Aegon urges the horse to go faster, Sunfyre ignores him.

You turn back to Aemond and raise an eyebrow. “Make sure he doesn’t break his neck?”

“As always.” And then Aemond is gone too.

The king will not join the hunt. He is getting too old for it—although no one would say that aloud—and Queen Alicent, ever-sacrificial, is staying behind in the palace with him, overseeing preparations for the feast. The other royals vanish into the forest: Daeron and Nico, Aemond and Aegon, Daemon and Baela and Rhaena, Jace and Luke, trailed by the rest of the cast of characters, Blacks and Greens alike. Joanna Montford was replaced by Agnes Stafford, who was replaced by Sibylla Beaufort, who was replaced by Cecily Chaucer. There is no shortage of young women whose fathers are rabid to push them into the bed of the man they call the heir to the throne. A servant brings you a cup of apple cider, and you sip it as snowflakes melt into the fur of your coat.

“It’s not personal,” Rhaenyra says. You whirl to see her and Syrax; they have appeared like ghosts, both pale and ethereal, both fearsome without being malevolent. “Prince Daemon’s taunts, I mean. Any of our antagonism. Distrust that swells into hated.” Her hair is long, loose, strands of ivory in the wind. Her eyes—clear water, cool and stoic—flick down to your belly and then back up to your face. She’s a lot like Aemond, you think, seeing the extent of their resemblance for the first time.

“It feels very personal.”

“I could have liked you in a different life,” Rhaenyra counters, like parrying swords. “You have just enough ruthlessness in you. A river, but not a sea. You thirst for freedom. You wear chains called obligation. But when my father named me heir, he painted a target on my back. Even if I renounced my claim, there would always be men willing to take up arms for me. I would always be a threat to Alicent and her children. Just by breathing, just by having blood hot in my veins. Either I will be queen…or I will forever be at the mercy of the Greens. Would you trust your life to the Duke of Hightower, if you were standing between Aegon and the throne?”

“No,” you admit. You can barely bring yourself to trust the Duke now…and you’re on his side.

“And so we are destined to be mortal enemies.” Rhaenyra shrugs; no great loss, she means. “I only wanted you to know that it would have been just the same if you had been sent to England from Portugal, or Sicily, or Castile, or Bohemia, or Genoa, or Naples, or France, or anywhere else for that matter. It’s not about who you are. It’s about what you’ve married into.”

And then she takes off on Syrax, joining her uncle-husband and her eldest sons in the forest, dissolving into a gnarl of branches like tangled threads. You retreat back inside Westminster Palace to do what you do best: watching, wondering, waiting for the future to decide to arrive.

~~~~~~~~~~

When the hunting party returns hours later, Prince Aegon is empty-handed. He’s also soaked to the skin. Water drips from his face, begins to freeze in his hair. He shivers and gripes as servants throw blankets over his shoulders and usher him away towards his bedchamber to be warmed in a bath cloudy with herbs and steam and rose petals. Cecily Chaucer hurries after them, her lovely brows knitted together with girlish concern. Of all Aegon’s mistresses, you like Cecily the best. She’s insatiable; she keeps him so busy that he rarely totters into your bed to paw at you before being reminded that you have been temporarily exempted from your marital duties.

“He fell into a stream,” Nico informs you, in equal parts disapproving and amused. “Aemond and Daeron fished him out like a trout.”

Your eyes scan the group: shaking snow from their hats and their coats, congratulating each other on obstacles jumped and animals killed, Prince Daemon accepting applause from his fellow Blacks for being the attendee to slaughter the requisite boar. A good omen for their side, surely. Servants carry the gigantic, bloodied carcass off to be prepared by the cooks. But one face is missing from the crowd. “Where’s Aemond?”

“Oh,” Nico recalls as she yanks off her gloves by the fingers. “He has something for you.”

“For me?”

“In the courtyard,” she says. Daeron approaches to collect her, taking her hand and kissing the back of it, his large blue eyes bright and adoring. He’s gentler than his brothers, more content, less complicated. And he’s proud of being a Targaryen. He’s growing out his white-blond hair; it’s already longer than Aegon’s. “I think you’ll find it…” Nico grins mischievously. “Perfectly bearable.”

You trudge out to the courtyard through the mounting snow, cold wind tearing at your hair and clawing pieces of it out from under your hat. Aemond is the only other person there…and he’s elbow-deep in a colossal black-furred monster. There is a pile of entrails on the snow beside him glistening like rubies, garnets, rosalines, wine. Servants ferry away bowls full of offal: a lung here, a rope of intestines there.

“What is that?”

Aemond stands and waves at it cavalierly, drops of blood flinging from his leather gloves. “A bear.”

“What am I supposed to do with a bear?”

“It’ll make a fine rug for your bedchamber. You can place it by the fireplace and lie on it on cold nights. Read your books, do your embroidery.”

“It was bold of you to assume you’d be able to find me a Christmas present on Christmas day. Not much room for error.”

“This isn’t your Christmas present.”

“Then what’s the occasion?”

“Congratulations.” He glances at your belly, rounded out like ripening fruit with his brother’s child. A stain of blood like fever rushes into his cheeks. He blushes very rarely, and only ever around you. No one else seems to know that he’s capable of it. “For being over halfway there. It must bring you great relief.”

“Yes, I suppose the Duke of Hightower won’t get to ship me back to Navarre now. In a crate, like an animal that couldn’t be tamed.”

“What a waste that would be.”

You shrug, stepping closer, though mindful not to squash any bear organs beneath your shoes. “I wouldn’t mind being sent home if there was anything for me to go back to.”

Aemond stares at you, alarmed. “You haven’t grown attached to anything here? In nearly a year and a half?”

“Well…there are a few things,” you say, smiling at him. Aemond smiles back. His long silvery hair is secured in a single thick braid, his gaze curious. You try not to imagine what is under his eyepatch; that strikes you as something he wouldn’t want you to think about.

“Vhagar,” Aemond teases.

You laugh. “Yes, mostly Vhagar.” You look up at the grey sky, thick with clouds like steel. “But I miss my family. I miss the heat, the mountains, castles and cathedrals the color of golden sand. I miss riding horses and sparring with my brothers. I miss being understood, being loved. In Navarre I was alive. But in England…ever since I arrived here…it’s like I’m locked up waiting for someone to let me out. But the prison is my own flesh.”

Aemond studies you. “It’s not for much longer,” he says at last, soft and solemn. “And I would change it if I could.”

“In any case, I really can’t go back, I think. It wouldn’t be like it was before. My siblings are marrying and spreading out across Europe. My parents are getting older. And if my husband discarded me for being incapable of producing children, no one else would ever want me. I’d never have my own household. I’d be doomed to be a spinster, forever dependent upon the charity of my parents or my siblings. Either that or in a nunnery. Although, truthfully, Navarre has some beautiful nunneries.”

“You’d make a terrible nun.”

“Because I’m too vicious or too lustful?”

“Vicious, without a doubt. Lustful…I don’t feel qualified to speak on.”

“Depends on who’s in front of me, I suppose.”

You contemplate each other across the gutted bear carcass, snowflakes filling up the space between you instead of words. Again, Aemond’s cheeks flood red. When he wrings his hands together, you notice that they’re shaking. His hair is sopping; beads of melted snow pool along the edge of his jaw, slither down his throat. He could catch his death out here.

You go to him, pull off a glove, and press your bare palm against his forehead and then his cheek: the scarred one, the ruined one. “You’re burning up, Aemond,” you say, worried. “Are you alright—?”

“Fine.” He shies away from your touch. But then, without thinking, he moves to tuck an escaped lock of hair back underneath your hat. As his thumb grazes your face, you feel the warm stripe of bear blood that he inadvertently marks you with. “Goddamn, I’m so sorry—”

“No, that’s perfect.” You smile up at him. “You know I secretly favor red.”

“Princess?” Nico calls from the doorway, and you cross the courtyard to meet her. “You’re still out here? You’re missing a riveting game of Tric-Trac—” She cuts off, her eyes going wide as they skate across your cheeks. “Sweet Jesus, how’d you get blood all over your face?”

You glimpse back at Aemond as you answer. “Carelessness.”

~~~~~~~~~~

You’re weaving ribbons the color of evergreens into Nico’s hair when he comes into your bedchamber, carrying a long thin box made of pink ivory wood.

“Oh, marvelous!” Nico trills, clapping her hands. “What’s inside?”

“Poems, I hope,” you say.

“I hate to disappoint you,” Aemond replies placidly. Half of his hair is pulled back from his face, the rest flowing freely. He’s wearing a dark, rich, jade-like color, just like Nico is, just like the Duke of Hightower and Alicent and Daeron will be. Someone has probably even stuffed Aegon into something green. You are the lone nonconformist in a deep purple like the skin of a plum. In truth, you can’t win. People will gossip no matter what you wear. Red makes them think of what Daemon calls you, of the wasted blood you’ve spilled. Green makes them speak of how you’ve yet to serve their faction properly. Black is out of the question. At least when they see you in purple, your name gets to live in the same sentence as the word royalty.

“Well?” Nico prompts eagerly. “Open it!”

You look at her, apologetic. So does Aemond.

“Oh,” she realizes, then sighs theatrically. “Alright. I understand. I’ll deport myself now. Ciao.”

Only when she’s closed the door behind her does Aemond open the box. The lining inside is crimson velvet. It cradles a sword. You gasp and lift the weapon out of the box by its hilt, then pull off the scabbard. It is lightweight, silvery, perfect. You can see your own reflection in the polished steel. There are shallow engravings down the length of the blade: mountain ranges, twisted oak trees, bridges and cathedrals, the flag of Navarre. You can only see them when you tilt the sword to catch the rage-orange glow from the fireplace.

“I had it custom made for you,” Aemond says, abruptly nervous. “So it wouldn’t be too heavy or too long. The hilt should fit your grasp precisely. I took one of your gloves for measurements.”

“A thief.” You marvel at the sword, twirling it a few times. The blade cuts through the air, soundless, seamless. “Aemond, this is…this is so far beyond what I deserve. Thank you, thank you, thank you.”

“It’s part pleasure, part necessity. You might actually need to protect yourself one day.”

“It’s a shame I’ll only be able to bully you with it under the surreptitious cover of darkness.”

“Just until Aegon is king. He wouldn’t care, I don’t think. He wouldn’t forbid you from training.” He gestures to the blade. “And the engravings are—”

“All things from home.” You beam at him. “From Navarre.”

“That’s what the common people call you, you know. The Princess from Navarre.”

You glide the sword back into its scabbard and return it to the box. “They must hate me. For failing to secure the succession.”

“I wouldn’t assume that.”

You take the pink ivory wood box from Aemond’s hands and place it in the chest at the foot of your bed, your preferred spot for squirreling away valuables. And then you lift out Aemond’s present: a vast tapestry that he helps you unfold to reveal the design of.

“It’s incredible!” he exclaims. “It must have taken you ages!”

“Well, all I’m allowed to do currently is needlework, so I’ve done a lot of needlework. I made one for Aegon too, although I’m not sure what his hobbies are besides drinking and fucking Cecily Chaucer. So his tapestry is mostly landscapes.” You point to various scenes on Aemond’s. “There’s King Arthur and Guinevere…and Sir Lancelot, arriving to ruin them. There’s Beowulf battling Grendel’s mother. There’s Robin Hood…there’s the Rollright Stones and Stonehenge…and in the middle is Saint George slaying a dragon. I made the dragon black, with little white whiskers if you look very closely. And I’ve named him Daemon.”

“They’re from the stories I told you,” Aemond says quietly, examining the tapestry. “On that afternoon back in July. When we took Vhagar out together for the first time.”

“It must have been memorable.” You smile. “And then the border is ivy and roses, mostly green, of course…except for one little red rose I added down here in the bottom corner. And that’s—”

“That’s you,” Aemond says. “Red like Navarre.”

“Yes.” Your voice is suddenly wistful, a little sad. “You’ve made me like the sound of that word again.”

“What? Navarre?”

You nod. “Hushed, gentle…” Reverent? Awed? Protected? Cherished? “Like a prayer. Like a poem.”

You help Aemond refold the tapestry, avoiding his eye. The only sounds are the crackling of the fireplace and the muffled echo of violins and lutes through the palace halls. Outside the window hovers a blood moon, a ruby in onyx, a drop of fury in an ocean of void. He takes his Christmas gift back to his own bedchamber, and then he returns to escort you to the feast.

“Oh, darling,” Alicent says when you sit down beside her at the high table. There are sprigs of holly in her hair, but her dark eyes are glazed and melancholy. They often are. Sir Criston Cole—a knight whose family are vassals of the Duke of Hightower—is her shadow, peering watchfully around the Great Hall. “Be sure to eat plenty of boar…and bread…very good for the baby. But no fish! And not too many vegetables. Here, let me get you some of your apple cider…” Alicent waves to a servant, and they promptly fetch you a full cup.

King Viserys gives you a distracted nod but no other acknowledgement. He is deep in conversation with Jace; Luke is gawping, mildly disturbed, at the severed boar’s head that adorns the table, cherries shoved into the sockets where its eyes were this morning. Rhaena offers you a kind, demure smile. Baela glares at you as she sips her wine. She’s the most war-worthy of any of the Black children; you imagine that Daemon will have a sword and armor waiting for her when the bloodbath begins. Surely she’d inflict more damage than either of Rhaenyra’s docile, dark-haired sons, like skittish lapdogs always looking around for someone to tell them where it’s alright to sit. Baela’s Arabian, Moondancer, is small but remarkably swift and agile. She’s the best jumper of any of the royal horses.

Far from the table, in the midst of dancing nobles, Daemon and Rhaenyra are enmeshed in whispers and caresses: he tilts up her chin, she grasps the small of his back. You feel a yearning, a hollowness beneath where your ribs circle your heart and lungs like a halo. Without thinking, you glance to Aemond. He’s been looking at you too; he pretends he wasn’t and begins sawing through a slab of boar meat with a serrated knife. Daeron is asking him about sparring techniques. The Duke of Hightower is parading Aegon around the hall to pay his respects to the nobility of Southern England, men who will kill and be killed for him one day before too long. Aegon is bleary-eyed and bungling, tripping over his own feet; the Duke is practically dragging him around from his scruff like a kitten.

“Sweetheart, will you dance with me?” Queen Alicent asks Nico, who immediately leaps up from her chair.

“Of course, Your Majesty! It would be my pleasure. It’s a shame that the king cannot join us. It must be difficult having a husband so much older than you are. Nearly your father’s age!”

Everyone at the table stops what they’re doing and gapes at her.

“Oh,” Nico begins haltingly, mortified. “Oh dear. I should not have said that. I cannot express the depths of my remorse.”

King Viserys booms out a laugh, and then Nico is smiling again. “Go on,” he tells her. “Enjoy the festivities. Keep the queen entertained when I cannot.”

As Nico and Queen Alicent descend to join the dance, you remain where you are, where you always are: on the outskirts, inside the glass bowl. But not for much longer, you think gratefully, running your palm over the swell of your belly. You eat as much as you can, but you don’t have much of an appetite. Your hips and ankles ache, your body forever adjusting to a never-before-known burden; there is torsion like a sailor’s knot in your lower spine. When the discomfort refuses to abate, you excuse yourself from the table and make slow, meandering laps around the fringes of the Great Hall, draining cup after cup of apple cider as servants bring them to you. The Duke of Hightower casts you a stern warning of a frown before he resumes wrangling Aegon. Aemond, still at the high table talking to Daeron, follows you with one intent blue eye.

“You can’t honestly believe he’d make a good king,” Daemon says, materializing out of the crowd like a bat at twilight. Enormous Scottish deerhounds—Christmas gifts from King Corlys and Queen Rhaenys beyond England’s northern border—trail after him, growling at you. Daemon flicks his strange, deep-set eyes towards Aegon. “He’s a drunk. He’s an embarrassment. He has no athletic prowess whatsoever. I’m sure you can confirm that from firsthand experience.”

“I can confirm that he hasn’t murdered his first wife yet, surely an attribute by anyone’s calculation.” You watch the Duke tow Aegon from one exchange to another, and for the first time, you wonder what sort of man Aegon would have been without the weight of the throne on his back.

“But of course, it wouldn’t actually be Aegon ruling if the Greens won. It would be Otto…and Alicent…and Aemond.”

Daemon puts great emphasis on this last name. You turn to him, startled.

“Oh, forgive me, have I said something that gets under your skin? Or…rather…into it?”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

Daemon grins, baring his teeth like fangs. “Of course you don’t,” he says. “Tell me, would you happen to know who Otto is planning on marrying him to? I’ve heard rumblings.”

“Someone with parents who have ample soldiers and equipment with which to mutilate you, surely.”

“Helene of Austria.”

“Helene?” The breath evaporates from your lungs, vanishes like brief winter daylight. “The daughter of the Holy Roman Emperor?” It’s an immensely powerful match. It’s a match so ambitious it has rarely even been suggested. You summon triumph to your voice, an arrogant glint to your eyes. “This is very bad news for you.”

“And for you too, I think.”

He knows, you think, terror-stricken, aware you aren’t doing enough to hide it. That I desire my husband’s brother. That I want Aemond. That maybe I even love him. You try to fling some flippant retort at Daemon; you cannot find one, it’s like scratching your fingertips along the bottom of an empty box. Victorious, he swigs his wine and begins to saunter away, panting Scottish deerhounds on his heels. And then you call after him: “It didn’t get you far, did it?”

Daemon halts mid-step and slowly—very slowly—turns back to you. “What?”

“All that Targaryen blood. All that bone-white hair and ferocity, charisma and swordsmanship. King Viserys still chose to reject you as his heir. He still doesn’t trust you to advise him. He still denied you his daughter’s hand in marriage, and you were spineless enough to let him. You left her alone to suffer first. With a husband who couldn’t satisfy her, with a lover who could only give her bastards. And now you expect the world to forget who you’ve always been: reckless, savage, deeply selfish. All those things you stalk around here so proud of are worthless, because you’ll never have what you really want. You’ll never have the throne. And neither will Rhaenyra. You are the same as I am, Daemon. I am an asset and yet a curse to Aegon; you helped win the North for Rhaenyra, but the South will never yield to you. They will fight you with everything they have, every man and horse and blade. But there is one difference between us. When I bear Aegon a son, my curse will be lifted. You will never stop endangering Rhaenyra, her cause, her inheritance, her children, her life. And if she burns, it will be at least half because of you.”

You’ve never seen him truly angry before, you realize now; you’ve never seen him without the undeniable upper hand. His grip rests on the hilt of his sword. “I should—”

“Go on,” you dare him in a fierce whisper, your fingers closing around his wrist. “Slay Aegon’s wife and child in front of all the court. It’s the kindest thing you could do for the Greens. Make yourself more enemies, win us more friends. Everyone suspects that you are a beast already. Prove them right.”

Daemon rips his hand out of yours. “Happy Christmas, Navarre,” he hisses. “If fate is just, it will be your last.” And then he storms away from you, Rhaenyra meeting him at the other end of the hall and speaking with him there—conspiring? inquiring? scolding?—in urgent whispers.

Nico pushes through the throngs of dancing nobles to reach you. “Are you alright?” she asks, a palm laid on your shoulder.

“Fine.” Helene, you think, rubbing the aching curve of your back with one hand, sipping apple cider with the other. They’re both trembling. Beautiful, wealthy, coveted Helene.

“Are you sure? You don’t look good. What did that bleached weasel have to say…?”

But you can’t hear her, because the pain in your spine is now reaching like poison through veins to spread across your belly, to tighten, to clamp down, to gnash with steel teeth like needles, like knives. Your cup tumbles out of your gasp, spilling apple cider across the floor. You yelp in pure shock at how unexpectedly the pain comes. And then you begin to understand what it means. “No,” you plead in a whisper. You stagger backwards until you hit the wall. “No, no, no…”

“What?” Nico asks frantically. People are beginning to notice; heads spin in your direction. Tears are springing from your eyes. Blood is snaking down your legs, slick and hot on the velveteen inside of your thighs. Soon they’ll all be able to see it: your agony, your ruin. The Greens, the Blacks. The Duke of Hightower, Prince Daemon.

Nico doesn’t understand. You don’t know how to tell her. I’ve killed another child. I’ve failed again. You can feel Aegon crawling back into your bed. You can see letters from your mother—so proud at last, so full of praise—shredding themselves into dust. And then it flashes like cannon fire in your mind, not just the loss of an heir but the loss of a life: a name that will never be given, a voice that will never be heard, steps that will never leave imprints in sand or soil or snow.

I have to get out of here. How am I going to—?

An arm circles around your waist, strong, shielding, taking as much of your weight as it can. “Walk with me,” Aemond says. And then he half-carries you through the nearest door and down a passageway, Nico struggling to keep up, chatter exploding at the feast you left behind.

As soon as you cross the threshold into your bedchamber, as soon as you are out of sight of ill-intentioned observers, you collapse to the floor. Your palms and knees bruise against wood; a wail tears from your throat. “Not again,” you sob. “Aemond, I can’t do this again, I can’t—”

Nico says: “Are you sure it’s a…?”

Aemond is kneeling on the floor beside you. He’s helping you pull back the hem of your gown. You see it on his face before you see it on your own skin: there’s blood, a lot of blood, too much for it to be anything but lethal to the child. It’s all over his hands and his clothes; it’s all over the floorboards.

“Oh God,” Nico moans, covering her mouth with both hands. “Oh…oh my God…”

“Get the physicians,” Aemond tells her. “Speak to no one else. Go now. Go!”

Nico rushes out of the room. You can’t stop sobbing. The pain is excruciating, not waves but one continuous, saw-toothed twisting, a feeling like being gutted, like you’re a slaughtered bear and someone has their fingers raking around inside your womb.

Aemond is trying to pull you to your feet. “Come on, I’ll help you get into bed—”

“Aemond, I can’t.”

“Yes you can—”

“I can’t!” you cry out, weeping helplessly. Then he stops trying to lift you and instead sinks down to join you on the floor. You clutch wildly at him—at his forearms and his shoulders and his long silvery hair—and he doesn’t flinch away. He draws you into him, his hands staining you with blood everywhere they land. You don’t care; you don’t want him to stop. You bury yourself in the warmth of his chest, his arms around you like the border of the moon, like a ring.

“Shh,” he soothes through your hair. “Shh, shh. I’m here. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

“Please don’t leave me. Please stay.”

“I’ll stay,” Aemond says, his voice hoarse. “Of course I’ll stay.”

~~~~~~~~~~

Scenes like fragments of a dream, things that later you aren’t sure were real:

The physicians and midwives delivering your dead child, Aemond tilting a cup of strong wine against your lips. Your ladies washing blood off you with dripping rags as Aemond stands with the physicians in the doorway. They think you’re asleep, but you’re not; you’re not awake either. You’re halfway here and halfway not. Parts of the room are foggy, others are as clear as glass, as still water. A physician is telling Aemond that the child was a boy, perfect in every way except the one that matters most. He doesn’t breathe and never will. Too early, too small, beautiful and doomed.

“Don’t tell her that,” Aemond is saying. “Don’t tell her anything unless she asks.”

Now it’s later—two minutes, two hours, it doesn’t matter—and he’s dragging someone into your bedchamber. They’re fighting him, they’re trying to cling to the doorframe so he can’t force them inside.

“Get in there,” Aemond growls.

Aegon replies: “I don’t know what to say to her, what the hell do I say—?”

Your husband is at your bedside, undoubtedly miserable but not in a way that makes you feel like he sees you. There is the scent of wine and sweat drenched with perfume, lemon and lavender. “I’m sorry,” you murmur like a faint wind.

“It was not your fault, wife.” Aegon’s eyes are bloodshot, his shoulders hanging low and limp. “It is a great tragedy, but it was not your fault.” And then he glances at Aemond to make sure he’s done the right thing.

Now your husband is gone, and Aemond is holding a cool cloth to your forehead. He speaks in little more than a whisper. “Tell me what you’re thinking.”

“Just send me back to Navarre,” you say weakly. “I can’t do this. Talk to the Duke. He’ll get the marriage annulled. I know he will. He can find another wife for Aegon, another alliance. He’ll be glad to be rid of me.”

“You aren’t going anywhere.”

“I’m ruined. I’m worthless. Just send me home.”

“You are home,” Aemond insists.

You watch the firelight as it flickers over him, smooth skin, brutal scar. “What happens next?”

“You’ll try again.”

“There’s no point, Aemond.”

“Look at me,” he commands, cradling your face with his hands. “You’ll try again. And again, if you have to. But you will have children. I know you will.”

His voice is breaking. His eye is glistening, tortured. This is how the father should be. This is how Aegon should be. “Aemond, why are you so hurt by this?”

“Because you are suffering,” he says. “And because they’re pieces of you.”

You lose sight of him, float for a while, return again thinking of Aegon and the Duke of Hightower and Daemon and Rhaenyra. “No one here really knows me. No one loves me.”

Aemond is standing beside your bed. “Nico loves you.”

You gaze listlessly up at him and say nothing.

“Aegon loves you, I believe,” Aemond continues, but he won’t meet your eyes. “In his own way.”

Still, you look at him. Still, Aemond doesn’t look back.

Say it, you think, desperate, aching, tears biting in your eyes. Say that you love me too. Even if it’s just as a sister, an ally, a friend. Please, Aemond, just fucking say it.

He doesn’t say it. Maybe he leaves, maybe you are submerged in unconsciousness, maybe both. The memory dissolves around the edges until it is a pool of star-flecked obsidian like the night sky.

But this next part you know with certainty was real, because it is something you can touch, like a millennium-old relic from Egypt or Athens or Babylon. You wake in the morning to find three items on your nightstand: a cup of apple cider, a cup of strong bitter wine for the pain, and a single piece of parchment folded and tied with a red ribbon. You blink confoundedly at it for a while as muted winter sunlight seeps in through the windows, not being able to make sense of it. And then you open the parchment. Aemond has written at the top of the page in his hectic, uneven letters: Ivy. You read his words and all the anguish that went into them—smudges from his own fingerprints, wayward drips of black ink—like falling down the rungs of a ladder.

Scream into me, I’ll be the jar for your fury; I’m starving

for anything that tastes like you. I’ve been counting the lines

on your knuckles, the boards of the floor, wondering if you’ve

figured out that I’d wear fractures and bruises like amethysts

if it means you’d touch me. For seventeen months you’ve been

the ivy on my walls, vines like the needle-width legs of a spider

carving out my past, every last notch and shadow—splitting ribs,

scraping marrow—until there’s no part of me left that can remember

a time other than this, your voice and your wit and the scraps of you

I’ve stitched into me. Ask me what I burn for and I’ll whisper like

the dawn: you growing over my skin until I’m covered, tendrils

twisting down to the bone, everything I was before

ash and myth beneath your hands.

[queenmarytudor]

Mary I's Fight For The Throne

20th July - Mary is victorious

Having heard of Robert Dudley proclaiming Jane queen in Kings Lynn, Mary sends "requiring them to apprehend the Lord Robert and also to lie in wait for the like apprehension of the Duke, if it shall happen him flee, as it is suspected he will do" following Mary's proclamation for his arrest on the 18th. 1

The Earl of Oxford finally arrives at Framlingham "with a large force of men whom he had quickly been able to gather at the moment of his desertion of the duke." 2

Still wanting more men, Mary and her Council decide to "discharge all manner of gaols [...] within the counties of Norfolk and Suffolk" 3, while 500 are appointed to attend upon Mary at all times to guard her from harm. 4

In the afternoon her troops are mustered in two separate companies led by the Earl of Sussex and Lord Thomas Wentworth, where "the standards were unfurled and the military colours set up; everyone armed themselves fully as if about to meet the enemy. The infantry made ready their pikes, the cavalry brandished lances, the archer bent his bow, and girded on his quiver; the harquebusier filled his weapon with powder, inserted its leaden ball and set his match burning." 5

At 4pm, Mary rides out from Framlingham castle on a white horse, and "gave warning in an order that no harquebusier should fire his gun, nor any archer release his arrow until her majesty had inspected the army. When this order was given, such was the respect that everyone felt for their sovereign that no harquebusier nor archer fired after the command; but the soldiers bowed low to the ground and awaited their beloved mistress's arrival." 6

On foot, Mary walks around the two divisions of her army for 3 hours, "speaking to them with exceptional kindness and with an approach so wonderfully relaxed as can scarcely be described, in consideration of their esteem for their sovereign, that she completely won everyone's affections." 7

After she finishes inspecting her troops, the cavalry put on a rousing display as they "streamed forth and beat and trod the ground with such a thunderous noise and spread so widely through the field that it seemed like one enemy in pursuit of another." 8

Returning to the castle, a delighted Mary discovers the "most welcome news, scarcely to be hoped for, that Northumberland had abandoned hope of success because of the continual desertions of his supporters, and on 19th July had likewise taken flight from Bury in the middle of the night." 9

The Earl of Arundel and Marquis of Winchester arrive to confirm the news, and reveal that the Privy Council have proclaimed her Queen in London. They go to their knees with a "dagger turned towards [their] stomachs in recognition of [their] offence and submission to the penalty deserved." 10

They also bring a letter wrote by the Privy Council following their proclamation a day prior:

Our bounden duties most humbly remembered to your excellent Majesty, it may like the same to understand that we your most humble faithful and obedient subjects, having always (God we take to witness) remained your Highness’ true and humble subjects in our hearts ever since the death of our late sovereign lord and master your Highness’ brother, whom God pardon; and seeing hitherto no possibility to utter our determination herein, without great destruction and bloodshed both of our selves and others till this time, have this day proclaimed in your City of London, your Majesty to be our true natural Sovereign liege lady and Queen, most humbly beseeching your Majesty to pardon and remit our former infirmities, and most graciously to accept our meanings, which have been ever to serve your Highness truly, and so shall remain with all our powers and forces to the effusion of our blood, as these bearers our very good lords the earl of Arundel and Lord Paget can, and be ready more particularly to declare; to whom it pay please your excellent Majesty to give firm credence; and thus we do and shall daily pray to Almighty God for the preservation of your most royal person long to reign over us, from your Majesties City of London, this day of XIX July, the first year of your most prosperous reign. 11

Mary gladly accepts their submission.

While Mary was inspecting her army, Northumberland had proclaimed her queen in Cambridge and retreated to the house of Sir John Cheke. The Mayor, discovering this, "attended by a large force drawn from both town and gown, had the duke's lodging surrounded and watched on all sides to stop him leaving or escaping." 12

Now, Mary sends Henry Jerningham and Northumberland's former ally the Earl of Arundel to arrest him. 13

Meanwhile...

Jane Grey, Guildford Dudley and the Duchess of Northumberland are detained in the Tower as prisoners. 14

The Bishop of London flees the city after his sermons. 15

Sources:

1.Acts of the Privy Council, Vol 4

2. Vita Mariae Angliae Reginae of Robert Wingfield

3. Acts of the Privy Council, Vol 4

4. Acts of the Privy Council, Vol 4

5. Vita Mariae Angliae Reginae of Robert Wingfield

6. Vita Mariae Angliae Reginae of Robert Wingfield

7. Vita Mariae Angliae Reginae of Robert Wingfield

8. Vita Mariae Angliae Reginae of Robert Wingfield

9. Vita Mariae Angliae Reginae of Robert Wingfield

10. Spanish State Papers, 22nd July 1553

11. Memorials of the Most Reverend Father in God, Thomas Cranmer, sometime Lord Archbishop of Canterbury

12. Vita Mariae Angliae Reginae of Robert Wingfield

13. Vita Mariae Angliae Reginae of Robert Wingfield

14. Spanish State Papers, 22nd July 1553

15. Spanish State Papers, 22nd July 1553

[lobotomyconnoisseur]

Ephemeral

Capitano x gender neutral reader

Currently: Chapter 4

(Wattpad link on chapter 1 at the very bottom)

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

You both return to palace grounds after a while of conversion and riding. You were met with chaos. Guards and servants alike scrambling around emitting a consistent hum of panicked chatter; it’s the loudest you’ve ever heard the main halls be. And you can’t catch any words through your panic.

You freeze, a sinking feeling settling in your stomach. Capitano puts a hand on your shoulder and gives it a squeeze.

“What’s happening?”

You ask.

Capitano looks ahead at the commotion unflinchingly.

“… Let me accompany you to your quarters.”

“Capitano…”

You’re confused, panicked, but you don’t refuse, opting for silence.

He moves his hand to your back and guides you to your room. His pace is faster than usual. You get to your room and he opens the door for you, and stays in the doorway, resting a hand on the door.

You look back at him, brows furrowed in suspicion.

“What happened?”

“I’m sorry, (name).”

He sighs.

“They were coming too close to getting rid of you… it had to be done.”

“You… are they?

“They’re gone.”

You feel stunned. Confused. Your only family was dead.

You planned to do it yourself, to be rid of them before they got rid of you, so why do you feel… loss?

The time you spent with Capitano made you forget about the world around you both. Made you forget that your family meant for Capitano to send you to your doom. The madhouse. But was it right to kill them? You scold yourself for thinking like that. For having sympathy for dead men.

“That’s why you were late.”

You state, hoping that by saying things aloud… that it’d come together more quickly.

“Get in.”

He does as you command and shuts the door behind him gently.

You look up at him.

“How? How did it happen? Did anyone see you?

He responds, voice monotonous.

“After you left for the stables, your father and brother wanted to discuss a few final details in their plan. This time they knew to hide, they were supposedly having private tea time together and I was in the stables with you. We met in the old wing of the palace and it was there I took their lives. Nobody saw me come in or out of the room or palace.”

You huff in disbelief.

“Nobody heard either? Did they not scream?”

“I didn’t give them the chance. Your ascent to the throne has come prematurely… but I had no choice. We have no time to spare, let us discuss the next part of the plan.”

You nod.

He continues to drone on.

“We need to come up with an adequate speech to address the common people and nobles first of all. You will need to begin preparing yourself for the coronation.”

You already hate this.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The days passed by slowly and painfully, full of procedures, diplomacy, and responsibilities. Dealing with the nobles and their doubts about you was ridiculously hard, but so was the amount of foreign relationships you had to maintain.

Capitano had taught you how to hide your emotions better, and it somehow came naturally. You wonder if you could keep it up under pressure.

The Khaenri’ahn princess had left straight away after the assassination of the crown prince and king. It would be odd for her to stay anyways. About that. Their deaths were ruled as an assassination carried out by some rebelling nobles. Those nobles happened to be your father and brothers most loyal dogs… closest to them both and the most easy to frame. Those royal bootlickers would have been a thorn to your side anyways- their loyalty was only reserved for the king and his planned heir.

You felt exhausted by your duties and could only hope this wasn’t how it was going to be from now on.

Capitano guided you every step of the way; he had become your personal knight after the previous events. Nothing much happened in between you two during this time, and you began to wonder if you were imagining things previously.

The speech went well and so far the nation was stable. You had been recognized by most as the monarch. You finally had the power you desired for so many years… it feels bleak but you’d never go back to the way you were.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You didn’t see this coming. You should have, but you didn’t.

“It’s time for me to go. You’ve proven yourself capable. I’m proud of you.”

His voice is warm but you don’t feel the warmth.

Capitano was leaving. He said you were finally capable enough to go on by yourself. Like a hatchling ready to fly out of the nest- you couldn’t help but want to break your own wings. You should have felt accomplished but it made you wish you were hopeless. So that he’d never leave. You bite your tongue for thinking that way, it’s foolish to want his prescence instead of the crown. Capitano isn’t just some guy. But the crown isn’t just some hat. It’s power itself.

You catch yourself wishing you could turn back time again, despite the logical side of you howling in terror at your unreasonableness.

You can’t stop the thoughts coming. Of course he’d want to leave- it’s his home and you were just a chess piece in his mission. Everything he did for you was for his nation.

You notice you’ve been silent for far too long and only manage a nod.

Capitano sighs and puts a hand on your shoulder, your expression is hard to read, but the look in your eyes makes it obvious.

“I’m sorry (name).”

You want to slap him more than anything right now. He didn’t do anything wrong. But that fact makes it somehow worse. You want to be mad at him- to feel anything else other than sadness.

“It’s fine. When are you leaving?”

You do your best to keep your voice monotone, you’ve gotten better at it ever since ascending to the throne.

Capitano knows it’s not fine… but he doesn’t want to make this harder.

“I’ve received urgent orders for my return to Khaenri’ah… I leave tonight.”

You feel sick to your stomach. That soon? You only have a few hours left with him. After that you’d doubt you’ll ever see him again. What would the people think if you were caught speaking or searching for a Khaenri’ahn knight? Speaking to him would compromise the secrecy of what happened. You have a strong feeling he wouldn’t pick you over the nation he swore to serve. That’s not the type of man he is.

The rest of the conversation seems tense and strained. Only a measly two hours left. You're powerless against that. He has faith in you at the very least and does his best to reassure you of your abilities. It shocks you. Does he really think that’s what you are most bothered about?

You decide to ask about the honest reason for his sudden departure.

”Capitano, what could possibly warrant such haste?”

”I’m afraid I cannot share much about my nation due to your standing as monarch of (nation).”

Ouch. That stung for some reason… it’s as if he distanced himself out of nowhere. Is that all you two are now? But now that you think about it, he has been more professional ever since your coronation.

“Ah. I understand.”

You refuse to show him your true feelings. He hides and pushes you away now all of a sudden? Two can play at that game.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You greatly regret your bitter attitude once he leaves. You couldn’t help but want to hug him and ask him if you’d ever see him again… but it was too late for that, and your pride was too great.

He once said he’d rather have you in his grasp instead of a sword, what a lie.

You felt resentful and foolish. In stories knights save princesses and their kingdoms slaying villains, all while staying ever loyal to their homes.

Capitano is a knight.

This is not his nation, not his home, and you are not the princess in the story. He was going back to his home with his princess.

Would he have stayed if you acted like some damsel in distress?

You remember the fairytale about a knight saving a princess from a tyrant. The tyrant killed the princess’s fiancé and imprisoned her, but the knight fought the tyrant and went against orders to save her.

Who was who?

[latenightcinephile]

Film #918: 'Lawrence of Arabia', dir. David Lean, 1962.

Like many of David Lean's epic films, Lawrence of Arabia has had an enduring legacy, with its depictions of the desert landscape so impactful that almost every subsequent desert film is indebted to it in some regard. From Dune to The Lion King, the cinematic imagination of the desert has been set by this particular film. What interests me about the film is the way in which this visual style sets the tone for the film's themes - to me, Lawrence of Arabia is a film about identity, and how it is sculpted, and the sculpting of identity requires an extreme environment.

During the First World War, T. E. Lawrence (Peter O'Toole) is scouted for an undercover mission to determine the intentions and allegiances of the Iraqi Prince Faisal (Alec Guinness). Faisal intends to overthrow the Turkish regime, but Lawrence encourages him over time to engage in this attack in a way that is aligned with the British intentions in the region. Despite Lawrence's orders to make his assessments quietly, Lawrence is too outspoken, a quality which intrigues Faisal and further distances Lawrence from the British generals. Lawrence's first encounters with the Prince's commander, Sherif Ali (Omar Sharif), are antagonistic, and Ali is particularly doubtful when Lawrence conceives of a plan to attack the fortified port of Aqaba by riding across a punishing desert. Lawrence seemingly works a miracle by rescuing one of the Arab men, who was left behind while crossing the desert, but when this same man kills another in a blood feud, Lawrence executes him himself, rather than risk his strategy. The attack on Aqaba is successful, and Lawrence returns to Cairo to inform his superiors, who tactfully assure him that the British do not intend to annex parts of Arabia (despite the existence of a treaty which plans precisely that).

Lawrence continues with guerrilla tactics against the Turks, but seems to increasingly buy into his own hero complex. During an undercover mission, Lawrence is captured by the Turkish Bey, who humiliates Lawrence - Lawrence is in disguise, but the suspicious Bey asks where he is from. No longer feeling like he has a purpose, and anxious about the aspects of his personality he has discovered, Lawrence returns to the British forces, but is immediately encouraged to join in the British capture of Damascus. Unlike his prior groups, who were committed to the cause of Arab independence and have been alienated by Lawrence's recklessness, Lawrence instead hires violent mercenaries. Despite Ali's protestations, this ragtag battalion engages in the slaughter of injured Turkish troops who are in retreat. Lawrence's army arrives in Damascus and conquers the city before the British arrive. A broken Lawrence attempts to unite the arguing forces, but is abandoned by them all, including Ali. He is recalled to Britain where, no longer useful to anybody in the war effort, he retires until his death in 1935.

The thing that first made me think about the themes of identity in Lawrence of Arabia was a short biography of Lawrence in the Robert Aldrich book Gay Lives, where the author acknowledges that most of what we think we know about Lawrence comes from his own writings in books such as The Seven Pillars of Wisdom. This makes any attempt to tell Lawrence's story a little suspect from the beginning, as we can easily believe that Lawrence's own story embellishes and burnishes the events that he was involved in. To its credit, the film deftly sidesteps any hagiography. Instead, it goes in the other direction, portraying Lawrence as an egomaniac and as someone who finds himself buying into his own mythology. Even in the historical record, there is no denying the charismatic power that Lawrence held, and O'Toole's performance exaggerates this in a number of subtle ways - his youthful glee at just how much he is doing early in the film means that every scene is made more buoyant (which only makes his descent into difficulty and eventual despair more pronounced). Some of this is also completely coincidental: one way to make the 5-foot-5 Lawrence seem larger-than-life would be to cast the 6-foot-2 O'Toole to play him, but I can't imagine that was a deliberate choice on the part of Lean. The potential differences between how Lawrence portrays himself in his writing, and who he really was and what he did, means that the film has a complicated task ahead of it. It must mine that gap for the contradictions in T. E. Lawrence, which are precisely the contradictions that can't easily be articulated in a screenplay. Very few people will deliver monologues in which they explain the differences between their presentation and their true self, and definitely not in the 1910s. So the film has to find a visual language in which to convey these ideas.

Taking out the specifics of Lawrence's life, this film has one consistent thematic through-line: the desert is the place where identity can be lost and the place where it can be found. From the very beginning of the film, it is clear that Lawrence doesn't fit comfortably within the strictures of his British identity. This is not just limited to the British army, but also seen in the distant and ambivalent way the attendees of his funeral speak about him. One of his enduring personality traits is his independence in dealing with the Arabs - he takes pains to specify to Prince Faisal and Ali that he is providing his own advice, not the advice of the British Army, and often seeks reassurance from his military superiors that he is not deceiving his Arab friends. When he is given specific orders, recommendations, or told that something is impossible, he frequently ignores this advice. As the Lawrence 'of Arabia', though, he is given permission to indulge these more reckless endeavours and tactics. Even in this, he finds it possible to go beyond what those familiar with the Arabian desert claim can be done, such as when he goes into the desert alone to retrieve the fallen man. He is rewarded for this with a white robe that he clearly adores - not only is it far more convenient than his former outfit, which unavoidably marks him out as a foreigner, but it represents the extent to which he has been accepted into a new culture, and the degree to which he embodies that culture's values. This security is short-lived, however. His triumph in rescuing Gasim, Prince Faisal's fallen man, immediately comes back to haunt him. Executing Gasim is the honourable thing to do, and it has the far more immediate benefit of allowing Lawrence's strategy to attack Aqaba to continue. On the other hand, it apparently awakens a bloodlust that Lawrence finds uncomfortable, and one that he will later cite to his superiors as evidence that he should be discharged. By going into the desert, he has been able to shed his ill-fitting identity and find one that suits him better. Like many experiences of cultural immersion, the process is uncomfortable, and forces Lawrence to face for the first time his violent desires. In England, he has never had to even consider whether these desires exist - there is no place in British society where they could be contemplated. Lawrence discovers himself in Arabia, and doesn't like what he finds.

A modern viewer has the opportunity to go even further. The accuracy of the film to Lawrence's life is mostly irrelevant - Lean's film presents us a character and invites us to analyse them. From a contemporary perspective I am inclined to ascribe to Lawrence some of the worst colonial traits. His white robes mark him out as an obvious interloper within the Arab world, even though they have been bestowed upon him as a mark of belonging. He seeks to immerse himself completely in this new culture, one that he feels at home in, but the film also presents him as being an egotist, and as such being quite proud of his successes. He has become an Arab, and gained their acceptance, but his ability to move back and forth between Arabia and the British Empire, however imperfect, makes him appear to be an improvement over either culture. "No Arab loves the desert," Ali tells him, but Lawrence does seem to love the desert - does that make him an improvement? Somehow, this man born in Wales rides into the desert and performs untold heroic feats, and the film provides no explanation for how he accomplishes them. It's merely that he believes in himself. And that self-belief is almost certainly a relic of a stern British imperialism that leads him to believe he can continue to defy the odds.

In order for the desert to be a place where identity can be lost and gained, Lean's film sets it apart in an impressive way, using all the techniques of the epic genre to astonish the viewer. Where Lean has always succeeded in his epics is the employment of the astonishing. Throughout the film there are many sequences that rely on the spectacle of film production - of amassing a large number of extras, building a large and impressive set, or conducting a tremendous stunt on camera - but some of the most powerful moments of spectacle here are the ones that consist of pointing the camera at something big or impressive that nobody thinks to point a camera at. The sun rises in real time, hypnotically: first a straight line of orange over the horizon, as thin as a hair, and then it grows.Lawrence and his guide ride on camels that appear as tiny specks in the distance. When Lawrence looks through his binoculars at a caravan in the distance, the caravan is still just a row of tiny specks in the distance. It's a powerful technique for showing just how sparse this region really is, and how for most of his time here, Lawrence is truly alone with himself.

At nearly four hours, Lawrence of Arabia is not the most approachable of films, but then epics seldom are. Rather than tell a basic biography of its subject, the film instead tries to encompass a number of different and sometimes contradictory perspectives on who T. E. Lawrence was. At times, it presents such an unvarnished view of this man that it feels less like a biopic and more like a rebuttal. There are hints here of the deeper recesses of Lawrence, including his supposed queer identity and his fascination with masochism. In a shorter or choppier film, one steered with a less skillful hand, these hints would be unsettling - the contradictions would feel like mistakes or clumsiness, rather than different aspects of the one figure. But Lean has one of the most skillful hands in the business, and he lets these hints slip back and forth within the film, so that we're aware of them if we choose to be, but never distracted by them. If nothing else, Lawrence of Arabia is a showcase of how to weave themes into a film. Fortunately, it's a lot more than just that.

[gemsofgreece]

The Black Rider: Nikolaos Plastiras

Colonel Nikólaos Plastiras (1883 - 1953) was a general and politician, who served twice as the Prime Minister of Greece. He was a politically conflicting or, even, confusing leader who however was very popular at his time. Contemporary historiography evaluates Plastiras as neither a particularly competent politician nor perceptive enough for such a position, however historians agree he was a rare example of a prominent man being very notable for his sense of honour, lawfulness and temperance.

Plastiras fought in the Macedonian Struggle, the Balkan Wars, the National Defense Movement (against the King), World War I, alongside the Allies in the war of the Red and the White Army in Ukraine. Due to his distinction in battle, he earned the name "Ο Μαύρος Καβαλάρης" (O Mávros Kavaláris), "the Black Rider".

Source: mixanitouxronou.gr

In 1922, Plastiras' Regiment was transferred to Smyrna (Izmir) during the Greco-Turkish War. Plastiras was the only anti-King officer that was not dismissed from the army, simply because his Regiment threatened they wouldn't fight under any other commander. While the war ended with Greece's defeat, Plastiras was singled out and called by the Turks as "Kara Biber" (Black Pepper) and his Regiment as "Şeytanın Askerleri" (the Satan's Army).

After the defeat, Plastiras along with Colonel Stylianos Gonatas and Commander Phokas organized the September 1922 Revolution which led to King Constantine I's resignation and the return of the exiled politician Eleftherios Venizelos. His most controversial moment was the "Trial of the Six" (Η Δίκη των Έξι) were six officers were deemed as the major culprits of the disastrous war for Greece, partly due to their blind devotion to the King and their contempt against the popularity of Venizelos. They were condemned to death.

Once, his brother, Giorgos Plastiras, 60 years old at that point, asked for a job in a FIX beer factory. Hearing his surname, they asked him whether he was related to the PM. His brother admitted it but begged them to keep it a secret from him. They agreed and hired him immediately. However, as it happens, a few days later it was all over the news. Plastiras, furious, called his brother to his house and scolded him for getting a job relying on the family name. He counter-proposed that if his brother had financial issues, he should stay with him and share the food.

Plastiras was chronically ill and he lived in a tiny house in Mets (unthinkable for a politician and twice PM). Once, somebody suggested to set up a landline phone for him. Plastiras refused. "How do you even suggest this? Greece will be in poverty while I get to enjoy my phone!?"

Plastiras adopted five orphans from men who fell in battle. He never married and had no biological children.

One night of August 1922, during the Greek army's retreat from Asia Minor, the soldiers were so exhausted that they all fell asleep. When they woke up the next morning, they saw Plastiras on his horse, guarding them. They asked him, "Sir, you - our commander - are standing guard over us?!". Plastiras replied; "I am riding and I am well rested. You travel on foot and carry the supplies. If I don't protect you, then who ought to?"

The publisher of two prominent to this day newspapers (ΒΗΜΑ and ΝΕΑ) once gifted an expensive golden pen to Plastiras. Plastiras refused the gift. When his secretary argued that the publisher might get offended, Plastiras insisted. "I do not need to sign in gold. My little pen is enough. I don't want gifts. For those who make gifts often expect 'gifts in return' (=implied he suspected bribery)".

Plastiras was once visited by Queen Frederica of Greece (daughter-in-law of the king he so fought). She was shocked by the state of his humble home. She asked him why he was sleeping in a cheap camp bed. Plastiras replied that he was used to it since his military days and that many people in the country lived in far worse conditions after all.

Nikolaos Plastiras slept with three frames on the wall over his bed; an icon of Saint Nicholas (his namesake), a painting of French Revolutionists in 1789 and an image of Eleftherios Venizelos!

Plastiras' will to an adopted daughter included the following, which were all his possessions at the time of his death: 216 drachmas, a 10 dollar bill and a note reading "All for Greece". There was also a military receipt charging him with 8 drachmas for a bed he'd lost during the wars. The receipt was accompanied with the amount of money required, with Plastira's requirement to be granted to the public sector, so that he wouldn't die "owing to the Fatherland".

Plastiras was a centrist who often collaborated with liberals and leftists at a time the left was tragically marginalised, at least to the degree that didn’t threaten his own position much. He was likely Venizelos' ultimate fanboy, he was a fierce anti-royalist and loathed the dictatorship of Metaxas. He tried to prevent the Civil War but failed. He was the first one to use the term "Civil War" at a time when others still called it "bandit war", to put the entire blame on the communists. During the war, Plastiras condemned both the Left and the Right for their actions which led to "kin killing kin". As a politician, Plastiras was a pacifist wishing for the unity of the Greek people, but he did not succeed much.

After his death, his body was found to have 27 sword scars and 9 wounds from bullets. His heart was removed and preserved. It was wrapped in a Greek flag and sent to his homeland, Karditsa, as was his wish. His heart is in the Folk Museum of Karditsa.

His heart is kept in a golden capsule in the museum.

Tavropós lake, the lake of Karditsa and a famous artificial lake of Thessaly, was attributed to him. Once, Plastiras was visiting his home Karditsa during severe rainfalls that caused destructive floods in the region. Plastiras looked at the flooded region and said: "This place will become a lake someday". The project for the creation of the lake started a few years later. The lake's actual name is Lake of Tavropós but it is best known as Plastiras' Lake.

Plastiras Lake

[goddessofroyalty]

Someone asked for more Blood for Blood verse porn on the last chapter. So take a sneak peak as I figure out what other scene/s I want to include in the chapter when I post on AO3.

Fandom: House of the Dragon

Pairing: Aemond/Lucerys

Tags: omegaverse, mentioned-mpreg, uncle-nephew incest, background canon-typically violence

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

Luke has Arrax saddled as soon as he receives word that the shadow of Vhagar is over the city.  

Changing into his riding gear and taking to the skies to meet his husband and mate. Arrax flying above Aemond’s mount so Luke has a chance at seeing him past the she-dragon's size.  

Aemond’s hair is messier than Luke has ever seen it and his clothes are dirty, all evidence that he has been in a battle. But Luke just knows that it had been a victorious one – Aemond wouldn’t have returned until he claimed a victory.  

It doesn’t stop his guilt at sending Aemond alone to crush the attacks. But his grandfather had strictly forbidden him to go, it only after the party had been of off that he had admitted it was for fear that Aemond would kill him and claim it was the enemy. That the alpha would use their young child to take Driftmark for himself when the King died.  

Aemond looks up at him and tilts his head in a silent instruction to follow. Vhagar bowing as she turns to head towards the beaches.  

Luke directs Arrax to follow. Perhaps he is being foolish in it, but if he were to go missing all suspicions would be on his uncle.  

Aemond brings Vhagar down in the water as Luke lands Arrax on the beach. Luke sliding off and landing on the sand, resting a hand on Arrax’ side as he waits for the sound of Aemond’s footsteps hitting sand as well.  

“They’re all dead,” Aemond says with the kind of glee that Luke feels shouldn’t be applied to the deaths of others, pirates they may be. “My first kills an army who stood against us.”  

“We must inform Corlys of your victory.” The Lord of the Tides will be relieved to know the matter is settled and they do not need to send more men out to keep their routes open.  

“We will,” Aemond says, grabbing hold of Luke’s hips. The smell of fire and blood almost masking his scent. “But first.”  

The kiss he gives Luke is almost scary in its intensity. His grip tightening around Luke until they are all too quickly tumbling onto the sand. Aemond’s leg is sliding between Luke’s, his hardness pressing against Luke’s hip as his hands start working on unlacing Luke’s outer clothes.  

“I’m not in heat,” Luke manages to get out even as Aemond presses kisses along his throat. Because that seems to matter to his mate, the only times they lie together being when there is a chance of a child resulting. Luke’s attempts at offering out of it early in their marriage being embarrassingly fobbed off until he stopped even bothering.  

“I’ll get you wet enough,” Aemond promises, before sucking at Luke’s scent gland where he originally bit down to mark them as mates.  

They’re going to fuck on the beach with their dragons as their witness.  

Luke almost breaks out in a laugh at the realization. Daemond would be proud. Alicent would be horrified.  

“What about the sand?” Luke has no plans of being rubbed raw by it in the places his clothes normally protect.  

Aemond draws back, holding himself up on his arms and looking down at Luke like he doesn’t understand what he means.  

Before Luke has a chance to explain his alpha lets out a huff. Getting up off him and unclasping his cloak, lying it down on the beach and gesturing to it.  

“Is that adequate for you my Lord Strong or do you want to return to your chambers and your bed?” Aemond asks. The idea of even how they would get to said chambers in such a state a mortifying one. And that was before Luke dared to even think of how they would explain to his grandfather that, while, yes, the campaign Aemond had been sent on had been successful a full report would have to wait until that night or perhaps even the morning.  

“Yes, it’s adequate enough,” Luke manages, awkwardly shuffling over so he is sitting on the cloak. He takes off his outer clothes as well for good measure, leaving himself just in his underthings.  

That seems to please Aemond who is back on him almost as soon as he’s settled on the cloak. Pushing off his own outer clothes as he mouths and gropes at Luke.  

Aemond ducks down to tug off Luke’s breaches and toss them to the side with their outer clothes. Pushing up Luke’s undershirt so he can suck at Luke’s hip bones, long fingers tracing a path down to Luke’s hardening member before running behind it, softly prodding at Luke’s entrance.  

Aemond makes an unhappy grunt and Luke knows it's because he isn’t getting as wet as fast as he can with the help of his heat.  

He knows he should say it doesn’t matter, his mate and husband clearly want him and it is his duty to give his alpha what he wants. Not even as heir to the Driftmark seat can he avoid those responsibilities as omega.  

When Aemond draws his fingers back he almost does. Because he doesn’t want to ruin this moment of Aemond coming to him out of heat. Doesn’t want the feeling of being the failure in his marriage, even if his mother had made sure he knew that if his husband was going to stray, he would no matter what Luke did or did not do.  

“Shit-” Luke says instead. His member suddenly surrounded by Aemond’s mouth. The alpha’s hands on his hips to prevent him from bucking up at it. “Oh fuck.”  

Aemond grunts in response but doesn’t stop even as Luke reaches down to tug the long silver hair out of its tie and bury his hands in it in an attempt to hold on and not lose his mind to the sensation.  

He would almost swear Aemond had sent him into heat with it alone from the warmth that spreads through his body.  

Long fingers sliding along his entrance again startles him out of the haze. This time though, two slide in with only slight resistance. And that is lost quickly once they crook inside him turning his vision black.  

“I must be in heat,” Luke gasps out when Aemond releases his member. Returning to pressing kisses against the bare skin of Luke’s lower stomach.  

“You’re not,” Aemond says, his face suddenly back in Luke’s vision even as he presses a third finger in. His tone entirely too smug. “But you are as wet as you are in it.”  

Luke can’t help but laugh at it. It’s not inaccurate but it is strange for someone to say aloud.  

He shakes his head when Aemond’s expression twists at it. Arms coming to wrap around his alpha’s neck.

“You can fuck me now.” He should be ready enough even without a heat to ease the way. “If you want to that is.”  

Aemond leans down to press a quick kiss against Luke’s eye before drawing his fingers out. Luke’s wetness cold against his skin where Aemond grabs at his thighs to pull them up and over his lap to angle him how he wants before thrusting in.  

It’s not as easy as when Luke is in heat. His body not as naturally lax. But he is wet enough that it goes in easily enough, Aemond’s hips flushed against his without any real pain.  

There’s barely a moment before Aemond is thrusting. Quickly finding a fast pace that has Luke with little option but to cling to him. Letting out little moans in response to Aemond’s grunts.  

Long wet fingers find his member again and all too quickly Luke finds himself spilling between them.  

He feels Aemond thickening inside him and knows what it means.  

“Don’t knot!” Not only does Luke not know how enjoyable a knot will be without a heat to help his body with it he doesn’t want to be locked together until it goes down. Especially not on a beach where someone will eventually come looking for him.  

Aemond curses, pulling out enough that he doesn’t swell inside even if his seed still mostly makes it in, leaking out as soon as he fully pulls out and collapses next to Luke on the cloak. It’s probably best if they just have one of their dragons burn the thing rather than try and explain the stains it will now have.  

“We should not stay here much longer,” Luke says because people will be looking for him, especially after Vhagar was seen over town and then both she and Arrax have not been seen. It wouldn’t do for people to find them like this.  

“Of course,” Aemond says, standing up and tucking himself back into his breaches. Picking up his outer clothes and starting to get dressed.  

He looks over at Luke with a raised eyebrow when Luke doesn’t immediately follow suit.  

“Help me up.” It’s not that Luke needs the help. He can get up perfectly well on his own. But there’s a part of him that enjoys getting Aemond to do things for him.  

Aemond rolls his eyes at it but comes and offers his hands. Tugging Luke up with probably more force than necessary but Luke only laughs at it.  

“You are a child at times,” Aemond mutters as he returns to getting himself dressed.  

“We have a child,” Luke reminds.